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nullicaput · 23 days ago

Text

firsts, seconds, and thirds. II

Pairings: Geum Seong-je x Reader, Wolf Keum x Reader

Tags: Minor College AU, Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Language and Profanities, Seong-je being mentally unstable

Summary: In a world where soulmates exist, you found yourself rejecting yours when you learned who it was.

Word count: 2801

previous chapter.

The next time you saw Wolf was at the cybercafe near your university.

You had no plans to enter it and rent a computer there because it was a notorious hangout place for lowlifes and such, but you needed to access the internet and the library computer was down again. The fee was expensive, but hey, it was the only one that was walking-distance away from your spot.

"Punks nowadays are pretty scary, eh?"

Upon hearing the two men beside you, seated on cubicle twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth, talk, you increased the volume of the music that was playing on your phone via wireless earphones. It did slightly hurt you to listen to music so loudly, but this pair of players really had no sense of simple cybercafe etiquette, and you need to concentrate with the output you were doing for a course.

How insufferable.

"Kindergarten pretending to be gangsters."

And here they were, already old yet still playing games in a spot were only youngsters were supposed to be. You were not shaming them for their hobbies and interests; you were shaming them for criticizing someone while being no good themselves.

Another press in your volume keys, and you wished for them to shut up already. You were tapping the keys of the keyboard when suddenly, the monitor shook. They all rattled.

"What the fuck?" you mouthed.

You snapped your head to the two men, given that only the three of you were using the computers in the cubicle lane.

Shit.

Wolf was there, wearing his own university uniform over a printed black shirt and his face ever-so paintingesque, smashing the man's face onto the keyboard. He looked over to the other one wearing a green vest.

And then at you.

At that moment, you could physically perceive the weight of his eyes boring into your soul. That weight only increased when he grinned that usual innocent, gummy smile of his with eyes so sharp it could cut your throat.

He scoffed and went back to his seat—which you did not know he occupied in the first place—like nothing had happened.

Quickly, you finished typing and transfer the file to your phone. Without glancing back, you left.

While walking, you saw from afar your unwanted admirer sitting by the gates with his patched up face and bandaged head. It appeared that he did not notice you, so you do the smartest thing you could have done at that time—you went straight to the nearest convenience store.

You waited for him to go away, and you glanced at his location from time to time as you did. The sun was already setting, but you would need to attend your only class for the day so you could not go home just yet.

You bought some food and a drink to pass time, reading their nutrition chart as if you were indeed interested about what a patch of unhealthy, salty chips, sweet bread, and a bottle of artificially flavored soda can offer you.

"Will this be all?" the cashier asked you.

You picked three pieces of lollipop from the point-of-sale display and have him ring it with the first three items.

You and your oral fixation.

You paid for your items and went outside. You sat on one of the benches there and opened your food, your eyes never leaving the creep. You also checked your phone for messages from your class representative announcing the room where the class will be held at, but there were none.

"Too sweet." You stuck your tongue out a bit. "Sugar bread."

You downed your drink and let the fizz burn your throat. With a newly opened lollipop in your hand, you anxiously watched the invasive species pace around the entrance of your university. Even when you were not near to him, you could clearly see the change in his movements the longer you refused to make your presence known.

"It's already six-thirty." You cursed. "When is he gonna go inside?"

It was like he knew your schedule. Maybe he did; you were block mates, after all.

A person sat beside you too closely for your liking, and when you tilted your head to see who it was, it was Mister Head-Basher scrutinizing you like you were a specimen. He was holding a stick of cigarette in between his middle and index fingers, flicking the ashes whenever the tip becomes gray.

"You."

One.

Two.

You casted your vision down.

"You really don't talk," he derided.

He moved toward you, and the bastard—

The bastard puffed smoke in your face.

"You gonna puke, senior?"

You coughed. Of course, you did.

Still, you kept quiet and uttered no word.

"Lollipops, at your grown age?"

He leaned down more, and opened his mouth. He plucked the sweet treat from your hand with his teeth. He rotated his head mockingly, provoking you to do something—anything—about it.

You did not.

"Mhm," he hummed as he trudged the path he came from. "That's it. Keep quiet like the coward, little cunt you are."

Maniacal asshat.

Just when you thought that he would not be anywhere anymore, you were proven wrong immediately.

After that, you would find him standing close to the gates like a guard dog, jacket slung on his left shoulder and shirt still colored and inappropriate for school wear. You minded his existence not, because it was the sole reason that you were being left alone for days now, able to go home without the threat of someone tailing you while you come home to the pathetic excuse of a rental residential space.

"Senior," he said, like it was an endearment.

His purple hair had splatters of blood on some of the strands, while his face was painted with large streaks of the crimson liquid. The corner of his lower lip was split, and there was even trace of trickle—it was messily wiped to be considered cleaned off. His usually expressionless face—aside from the times he looked so euphoric while beating the life out of someone—was replaced with a pleasant smile. Too small to be obvious but stretched out enough to be picked up by your eyes, especially when he was a meter close to you.

"Hwangmo told me that you always bring a small first aid kit with you." He held out his hand. "Patch me up."

One.

Two.

Instead of complying to his word, you gave him the entire kit and walked ahead.

"Why don't you talk to me?" He blocked the way. "You talk with others. Is this your method to get my attention?"

You merely looked at him from his head to his feet, eyes filled with contempt mixed bewilderment.

The slight upturn of your lips was just like his—sardonic and suggestive—and he desired to do nothing with it except from wipe it off. In your silence, he wanted to pry the words out of your pretty mouth. He wanted to grab you by the jaw and shove his slender fingers into your soft, flush throat to claw the truth out of you.

"Are you hiding something from me?"

Just when he was about to touch you, he stopped halfway and clicked his tongue. He hissed, mumbling about his skin burning again. He pulled his collar, seething in pain and discomfort. His attention diverted from you to his strange predicament.

Once more, you were safe.

Today was rather peaceful.

Your little stalker was sick and had no other option but to take an absence in order not to transmit his influenza to other students and staff, so you were enjoying your day alone inside the safe haven called your school. Since Wolf was not a part of the university, you were saved from his unwelcome company.

Table filled with spiral notebooks, you reviewed your past lectures without rush.

"Why is Filmography even part of core courses?" you softly complained, the sound of your pencil scratching the paper answering you. "It's not like it has to do anything with my program."

"Then, drop the fuck out."

You stiffened.

"You drank three cans of coffee?" He touched the empty cans one by one, feeling the lingering chill the metals had. "Tough cookie."

Like usual, you just stared at him for two seconds before going back to your task.

"Hello, senior." He picked on of the printed notes and read it. "Never took you for someone smart."

Wolf, who was enrolled in another university, was sitting on the seat across from you at the student lounge with such disposition one would think he actually belonged with the students like you.

However, you need not ask him how he managed to enter your university without guards asking him.

Your school was not the best—and in all honesty, it was even borderline the worst one to study in—because anyone could get in as long as they were wearing a lace. The four guards at their stall could not care less even if someone was not wearing uniforms, or if they were unfamiliar. Seeing that he was wearing Hwangmo's identification card with the real owner's face replaced with Wolf's picture, you already pieced together how he ended up in the same area with you without raising a pair of eyebrows or two.

"[Name]," a stranger called softly, snatching your attention from your notes.

"Hey," you said, offering a seat. "Got no classes for today?"

"I just finished the last one."

You beamed, as though the sun itself went down to shine behind you. Your grin silenced Wolf, keeping him from interrupting your chat.

In Wolf's eyes—or in anyone's eyes, for that matter—your appearance was average at best.

You were a person who is not ugly, but you were also not the type to turn heads when you walked. Your height was the average, and by how you studied, he could assume that your grades were just at the middle ground. You were the type of person that would not be remembered even if you were to talk to them, because you were painfully unremarkable.

So, for Wolf, it was a shock that he found himself stunned seeing you practically glow as you smiled and exchange pleasantries with your friend.

Damn.

He could now understand why that little punk chose to stalk you.

"You should come with us," your friend whined while standing up to go. "We never got to see you after graduation."

You also rose to hug them, even kissing their cheek as you bid goodbye. You sat back down, that lovely smile vanishing.

"You should smile like that when you're with me," Wolf finally said. "Makes me jealous."

One.

Two.

You snorted, concluding that if he were not as wild as he was, you would possibly liked being his friend, just like how you enjoy his underling's company.

"Do you like clean guys like him?"

Guys with soft fingertips and knuckles devoid of any wounds because they never settle fights with their fists—or maybe, they never even had to fight someone because conflicts were resolved through peaceful, verbal means. Guys whose lungs and livers are not black due to substances. Guys who have never sullied their uniforms with their opponents' and their own blood. Guys who do not use profanities in their sentences, and instead fills them with deep-meaning terms that could never be understood unless one were to use a thick-assed dictionary while talking to them.

"Do you?" he asked again.

Much to his dismay, you nodded.

"Senior, you're evil."

The night was uncomfortably hot, and you could even feel the residual heat from the sun permeating through your thick shirt.

It was exactly five days after that surprisingly peaceful one-sided dialogue, and you have finally saved a bit of money to hang out with your friend at the the mall. Deciding that the time was not enough to fully catch up, they suggested staying over at your flat for a few hours.

"Motherfucker!" a man shouted from the end of the alleyway.

"Look at those guys." Your friend squinted their eyes. "A brawl?"

"That's not a brawl." You pulled them, wanting nothing but to go home safely and intact. "Come on."

"We should call for help."

"Yeah, right."

"[Name]."

"What now?"

"One of them was staring at you," your friend gasped, causing you to petrify. "Isn't that the one who was sitting with you last time?"

Mechanically turning your head to where your friend wanted you, you gazed at Wolf; this time, it was three seconds long.

"Shit."

"[Name]."

"Let's go."

"I think he needs something from you."

Wolf was not a friendly soul.

During your stay as a tenant of the apartment complex whose actual owner you did not know, you have known more when you were not close to him—when Hwangmo was merely narrating what has transpired during their errands using vague wordingsm in order not to sound suspicious to a normal citizen like you.

You were extremely aware of what he was capable of, and once, you have even witnessed it first hand. He does not fight the way a simple thug would. If anything, he was a simple thug to begin with.

Life intertwined with the underground, spending money that that was not originally theirs, knuckles more than bruised, their own blood mixing with their foe turned victims—Wolf was not a thug. He was a young criminal let loose to go rampage along the streets of his self-proclaimed territory.

It was idiotic of you to think that that surprisingly peaceful one-sided dialogue could be an indication of him capable of being non-violent, of being quiet—capable of being not himself.

Wolf would not change just for the likes of you. He would not be kind just to please you. He would not stop being the way he is just to see you safe.

Because Wolf was the danger himself.

You knew that there was no way in hell that he could mingle with your life without you being forced to accept him, and without him being forced to accept you.

"I said, let's go."

You pulled them again, yanking them by the hand just to ensure they were following you as you look for another path to take to reach home.

You did not hear from him after that brief eye contact. He did not come over Hwangmo's flat, and he did not guard the gates like you secretly hoped for. For those three days that he was gone, you could feel the looming presence of your stalker inching closer and closer the longer you were left unprotected by the greater evil himself, Wolf.

Tonight was no different, and you were left conflicted whether you should feel thankful that he was gone or not.

You were currently at the second floor of the complex, thanking your legs that you have survived this trek without falling on your head. College was tough, especially when there are minor courses, like Physical Education, acting as though they were the only thing students were taking.

Seriously, they take more time and require more effort than the major courses that your program requires you to pass.

You grunted with each step you took, your muscles reaching the point of spasms.

"What's up?"

You jolted upon hearing that voice, your soul almost leaving your body.

Wolf had his body against the balustrade of the staircase, his hair being gently blown by the wind above. He was not wearing his lenses and, right now, was staring so where faraway. He was wearing his orange jacket, and he looked a little too pissed off for your liking.

He raised a hand—you flinched.

Instead of laughing like you thought he would do, he just said, "Acting all scared and shit."

He inserted his hand inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a box of cigarettes and a lighter. Expertly, he lit the stick up without letting the wind extinguish it. He inhaled the chemical-laden smoke and hummed to himself a tune in which you were unfamiliar with.

"I feel hot," he stated, his eyes still not meeting yours. "Happens whenever you're here."

You knew that symptom, and you were the reason.

It appears that, unlike you, he was not used to the specific heat that the soulmate shit causes those pairs that have not been officially connected yet.

You wished to keep it that way.

"Yeah, keep being quiet." He flicked the whole stick before puffing the smoke out. "You better make sure I don't find out what you're hiding from me, hm?"

Your eyes slowly fell from his hand to his shoes—soiled with blood.

"Because the moment I find that shit out and I didn't like it—" He chuckled, now gazing at you. "—Hide."

next chapter.

tag section.

@pookynknowntranger @hoshzz @wagawana @iquietone @yuuuumii @ruruyiin @kunikei

#geum seong je x reader #wolf keum x reader #x reader #x yn #alternate universe #x y/n #x you #weak hero webtoon #weak hero class two #weak hero x reader #soulmates #college #fanfic #wolf keum #geum seong je

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theonottsbxtch · 3 months ago

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MARNE LA VALLEE | MV1

an: so everybody look at @luvstappen and BLAME HER FOR THIS PAINFUL ANGST. kidding, this is something that will discuss some very sensitive topics and is based off a film i recently watched called vermiglio. please read the warnings before reading this. i had a lot of fun attempting to write this in the style of a cold film, i hope you guys like this as much as i loved writing it.

wc: 10k

PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS: Mentions of war, death, suicide, murder, childloss? please tread with caution when reading.

THE WAR HAD MADE GHOSTS of men long before their bodies were laid to rest. Max knew this well. He had seen it in the trenches, in the hollowed eyes of soldiers who spoke in murmurs of home but carried death in their pockets. He had seen it in the streets of his own country, where hunger and fear clung to the air like fog. He had felt it in himself, that slow erosion of self, until he was no more than a name in a ledger, a rifle in trembling hands.

So he ran.

The border was not easy to cross, but desperation is its own kind of compass. He walked where roads would betray him, hid in barns where the straw was damp and the air thick with rot. He slept little, ate less. It was not death he feared, it was capture, the weight of another man’s orders pressing against his back, the certainty that the next bullet would be his own.

And then, the village.

It was small, forgotten, crouched in the hills of Le Grand Est called Marne La Vallee where the war was a distant, bitter echo. There were soldiers, but few. There was hardship, but it had not yet hollowed out the land. Smoke curled from chimneys. Bread still cooled on windowsills. It was a place that had learned to survive, not by fighting, but by waiting.

She found him first. Or perhaps he found her. A moment, a glance, a silent understanding. The village did not ask questions, nor did she.

It was enough. For now, it was enough.

Charles was the first to welcome him in.

It was not kindness, not entirely, there was a wariness in his gaze, a careful assessment in the way he looked Max over, as if measuring whether he could be trusted. But Charles knew war. He had fought in it, had carried it home in his bones, had felt it unravel him from the inside until they’d sent him back, useless to the cause. His hands still shook when he held a cup of tea too long. His knee still stiffened in the cold. He knew what war did to a man.

And so he let Max stay.

Arthur was different.

Arthur had wanted to fight. He had watched men go off to war with their heads held high, had watched them march into something greater than themselves, and he had burned with the need to stand among them. But he had been too young. Too young to enlist, too young to do his part. Instead, he had been left behind to mend fences and stack firewood, to listen to wireless reports and write letters to boys who would never write back.

Now, he looked at Max with something colder than contempt.

A deserter. A coward.

He did not say it outright, not in those first days, but Max could feel it in the way Arthur’s gaze lingered too long, in the way his jaw tightened when he entered a room. Charles would speak to Max with quiet acceptance, a nod towards a seat by the fire, a mumbled instruction on where to find work. But Arthur? Arthur would let the silence stretch, would make a show of stacking wood in the yard with twice the force necessary, would scoff under his breath whenever Max turned away.

Still, the village did not send him off.

There was work to be done, and Max had hands enough to do it. He fixed shutters that had been rattled loose by winter winds, patched roofs before the rains came, carried sacks of flour to and from the mill without complaint. The old men who sat outside the bakery in the morning watched him with quiet curiosity; the women at the well spoke in hushed voices, glancing his way, assessing.

He knew what they saw. A foreigner, a man without a country, a man who had walked away from a war that had not yet walked away from him.

But she did not look at him like that.

She did not ask him why he had left, nor what he had left behind. She did not probe at the wounds he had carefully bound. Instead, she let him exist in the quiet spaces between things. When he passed her in the fields, she would smile. When she brought water to the men working, she would set a cup down beside him without a word. And when, one evening, Charles invited him to sit at their table, she did not flinch, did not look away, did not question why a man like him should be given a place among them.

Arthur, however, did.

"You’ve seen no trenches," Arthur said that night, the words slipping from his mouth like something bitter. "You’ve never fired a shot."

Charles exhaled sharply, setting his knife down. "That’s enough."

But Arthur did not stop. He leaned forward, fingers curled around the edge of the table, eyes burning. "Did you even try?"

Max did not answer.

He had learned, long ago, that there were no right words. No defence he could give that would not be spat back at him. He had tried once, had spoken of the men he had seen with their bodies torn apart, of the cold, of the hunger, of the way the fear had made his hands useless on the rifle. He had spoken of the moment he had realised he could not do it, could not march to a death that was not his own, could not fight for a cause that felt as distant as the stars.

And yet, to men like Arthur, there was no excuse.

Cowardice had no poetry to it.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then Charles reached for his glass, took a slow sip, and spoke without looking up.

"You don’t know what war is, Arthur. You think you do. But you don’t."

Arthur’s throat worked, his knuckles white against the wood. He pushed back from the table without another word, chair scraping against the floor, and left the room.

Max did not move.

She did not look at him with pity. She did not look at him with judgment.

She simply passed him the bread.

The days folded into one another, each passing like the slow turn of a page. Max worked where hands were needed, mending, lifting, carrying. He moved through the village as a man untethered, neither fully belonging nor entirely cast out. Charles treated him as one of their own, offering him work where he could, speaking to him in the steady, measured tones of a man who had seen too much to care for past grievances. Arthur remained distant, his contempt quiet but unwavering.

And she watched.

It was not a watchfulness of suspicion, nor one of curiosity. It was something quieter, something that did not press or pry. She passed him in the fields, nodded to him when he carried grain from the mill, handed him bread and water without ceremony. They spoke little at first. But when they did, it was in French, hers slow and careful, his rough and uneven.

"Tu n’es pas d’ici," she remarked once, not as a question but as a truth. You’re not from here.

"Non."

She did not ask where home was. Perhaps she knew better than to ask a man who no longer had one.

It was Charles who first noticed. "You speak it well," he said one evening, as they worked side by side repairing a fence post. "Better than most who pass through."

Max nodded. "I learnt young."

"And yet, you don’t write it."

The words were said simply, without malice, but Max still felt them land like something sharp-edged.

The realisation had come quietly, as all things did in small villages where news travelled fast. The baker’s wife had frowned when he hesitated over the chalkboard list of rations. The old priest had watched him too long when he signed his name with careful, deliberate strokes, each letter slow, uncertain. And Charles, observant as ever, had noticed the way Max never reached for a newspaper, the way he did not write down numbers when counting grain, the way his silence stretched a little too long whenever someone pointed to a letter, expecting recognition.

She had noticed too.

It was her father’s school that took in men like him. Grown men who had spent their lives in fields instead of classrooms, who had worked with their hands instead of books. The village saw no shame in it. After all, the war had stolen more than lives; it had stolen time, stolen youth, stolen the years where learning had been a luxury few could afford.

Still, when Charles first suggested it, Max hesitated.

It was one thing to be a deserter. It was another to be a fool.

"Come if you want," Charles said with a shrug. "Don’t if you don’t."

It was a choice left in the air between them, one Max let sit for days.

Then, one evening, he found himself at the threshold of the school, hands curling into fists at his sides. The room was dimly lit, warm despite the chill outside, the low murmur of voices filling the space. Other men sat hunched over desks, brows furrowed, chalk dust settling over rough hands. And at the front of the room stood her father, spectacles perched at the end of his nose, patience carved into his very stance.

She was there too, stacking books at the back of the room, moving with the quiet ease of someone who belonged in such a place. She glanced up when she saw him, and something unreadable flickered in her gaze. But she did not question why he was there.

She only nodded.

And so he stayed.

The lessons were slow. The letters did not come easily to him, twisting and blurring on the page, refusing to settle into meaning. But she was there in the evenings, sitting near enough that he could hear the scratch of her pen against paper, the murmur of her voice as she recited passages under her breath. When he struggled, her father guided him with quiet patience, tracing letters with a steady hand, never once letting frustration slip into his tone.

One evening, as the others filed out, Max remained behind, frowning at a page of words that refused to yield. She approached, glancing at the paper.

"C’est difficile?" You find it difficult?

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Toujours." Always

A pause. Then, she reached for his chalk, her fingers brushing against his for the briefest moment. She wrote a word slowly, deliberately.

"Espoir."

Hope.

She tapped the page lightly. "C’est un bon mot à apprendre." It’s a good word to learn.

He looked at her then, and something settled between them, not a shift, not yet, but the quiet understanding of two people who did not need words to fill the space between them.

The days stretched into weeks, and still, Max stayed.

Autumn thickened into winter, the air sharp with frost, the village settling into the quiet rhythm of survival. Wood was stacked high against the cold. Bread was made in careful measure. And at night, in the dim light of the schoolhouse, Max traced letters onto paper, his fingers stiff and unsteady, his breath curling in the chill of the room.

She was there more often now.

She did not hover, nor offer help unasked, but he felt her presence like something steady, something sure. Sometimes, when the lesson was done and the others had gone, she would remain behind, tidying books, straightening chairs. And sometimes, when neither of them spoke, it did not feel like silence at all.

It was on one such evening, when the lamps burned low and the snow had begun to fall in slow, drifting flakes, that he found her beside him at the desk, her sleeves pushed to her elbows, ink staining her fingertips.

"You’re improving," she said, glancing at the words he had written.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Not fast enough."

She picked up the chalk, tapping it against the wood. "Then don’t rush."

There was something about the way she said it. Steady. Certain. As though she knew him well enough to understand that patience did not come easily to him.

He did not answer. Instead, he let his gaze linger on her hands, on the curve of her wrist, the delicate smudge of graphite along her knuckles. She noticed, of course. She always noticed. But she did not look away.

The space between them had narrowed, almost imperceptibly.

She was close enough that he could see the flecks of ink on her skin, the way her breath caught, just slightly, when he lifted his gaze to hers. He had seen war, had seen death, had seen the way the world could collapse in a moment. But this, this was something different.

A risk of another kind.

He moved first. Or perhaps she did. A breath. A shift. A closing of space. And then, before thought could intervene, before hesitation could creep in, he pressed his lips to hers.

It was not urgent. Not desperate. It was slow, deliberate, as though neither of them quite believed they had reached this moment. Her fingers curled, just slightly, against the desk. His hand found the edge of the chair, steadying himself against the sudden, impossible certainty of her.

And when they pulled apart, there was no rush to speak. No need to fill the quiet.

She only touched her fingers lightly to his, her thumb brushing over the calloused ridge of his knuckle, and in that touch, he understood.

They were married in the spring.

It was a small ceremony, the kind that did not require grand declarations or elaborate arrangements. The village gathered in quiet understanding, some watching with knowing smiles, others with wary curiosity. Charles clapped Max on the back with a gruff nod, his approval unspoken but present all the same. Arthur stood stiffly at the back, arms folded, eyes dark with something Max could not quite place, but he did not object. Not aloud.

When she took his hands in hers, when vows were spoken in soft, steady voices, Max did not think of the past, nor of the war that had shaped him.

He thought only of her.

The days moved forward, indifferent to the weight of war.

Max worked as he always had, his hands shaping the world into something steady. Fixing shutters that rattled in the wind, mending the fences that winter had broken, stacking wood for the months ahead. The village still stood in the shadow of the war, but here, in the quiet rhythm of daily life, there was something that felt like peace.

She was at the heart of it.

Their marriage was not one of grand gestures or endless declarations. It was built in small moments—the brush of her hand against his as she passed him a bowl at supper, the way her head rested against his shoulder when sleep found her, the unspoken understanding that tethered them together. It was not a love that demanded to be seen. It was a love that simply was.

And now, it was growing.

She told him on a morning where the birds chirped in the trees beside the house, her hands curled around a cup of tea, the warmth chasing away the cold. She did not say the words at first, only reached for his hand and placed it gently over the curve of her stomach, a touch so light it could have been mistaken for nothing at all.

But he understood.

The breath left him all at once. He had not expected it—not now, not yet—but the weight of it settled in his chest, something fragile and terrifying and impossibly real.

He had not known what it was to belong somewhere, not truly. But here, in this quiet moment, with her beneath his hands and their child growing between them, he thought perhaps he did.

The war lingered still.

Men returned home in pieces. Some missing limbs, others missing something far worse. News came in whispers, names passed from mouth to mouth, a tally of those who would not be coming back. But in the village, life carried on. It had to. The cows still needed milking, the fields still needed tending. The earth did not stop for grief.

Max continued his lessons in the evenings. He was improving now, the letters less foreign beneath his fingers, the words coming with greater ease. When he wrote, she watched, sometimes offering corrections, sometimes only smiling to herself, as if pleased by the quiet determination that kept him at his desk.

Her father still oversaw the lessons, but now he looked at Max differently. Less like an outsider, more like something known. And yet, there was something else beneath it.

Something Max did not understand.

Not until he heard the conversation.

It was late, the schoolhouse quiet but for the faint rustling of papers. Max had stepped outside, breathing in the cool night air, when he heard them—her father and Charles, their voices low, serious.

"He should go back," her father was saying.

Max stilled.

"You think he would leave her now?" Charles’s voice was wary.

"He must," her father said. "His mother will believe him dead. He has a duty to her, if nothing else." A pause. "And perhaps, then he can come back to her."

Max did not move.

"Do you think he would?" Charles asked.

Her father sighed. "I don’t know."

The words settled, heavy and uncertain.

And then, before Max could think to step back, the door opened behind him.

She stood there, her breath caught in her throat, one hand resting against the curve of her stomach, her expression unreadable.

She had heard.

The war was ending.

And now, for the first time, the question hung between them. When it was over, would he leave?

The day he left, the air was thick with the weight of something unspoken.

Summer had begun to break through the last of spring’s cold hold, the frost fully retreating from the fields, the earth softening beneath cautious footsteps. Life stirred in the village—buds on trees, the hum of bees, the slow return of warmth. And yet, for her, the world felt caught between seasons, hovering in the space between what was and what would be.

Max was leaving.

Not forever. Not truly.

She knew this.

And yet, as she stood at the threshold of her home, watching him pull his coat tighter against the morning chill, she felt the ache of it settle deep in her bones.

"I will write to you," he said, his voice quiet but certain. "A long letter. Every word I can give you. They will be my words."

She nodded, her hands resting against the curve of her stomach, their child shifting beneath her fingers. "I will hold you to that."

Max exhaled, a small, unsteady breath, before reaching for her hand. His fingers curled around hers, rough and calloused, warm even in the cold. He had never been a man of many words, but she did not need them.

She had always understood him.

Charles stood by the cart, his expression unreadable. He had insisted on going with Max, though no one had asked it of him. It was his way, she supposed, a quiet kind of loyalty, the kind that did not need to be spoken aloud.

Arthur had said nothing. He had only stood at the doorway that morning, watching, arms crossed tightly over his chest. And then, without a word, he had turned away.

She did not go to the station.

She could not bear to watch the train take him from her.

Instead, she stood in the doorway of their home, the house still smelling of woodsmoke and morning bread, and watched as he climbed into the cart beside Charles.

Max turned back only once.

Their eyes met across the distance, something unbreakable passing between them.

And then, he was gone.

Two weeks passed, and the silence began to weigh on her like the heavy stillness before a storm.

At first, she had told herself it was only natural. The letters would come when they could, after all. Max was in Belgium now, a place torn by war and time, and perhaps the roads were not as kind as they once had been. Or perhaps he simply needed time to gather his thoughts, to find the right words. She had told herself this again and again, but with each passing day, the empty space between the world she had built and the world he now occupied seemed to grow.

She had not heard from him.

Not even once.

The doubt began to settle in her bones, thin and insidious, like a quiet chill that grew colder the longer it was ignored. She tried to shake it off, to tell herself there was nothing to fear, but every morning, when she stepped out into the quiet of her home, there was only the faint echo of absence, the ache of his absence in every corner. The house had once felt full of him, full of the promise of their future, but now it felt still, as if waiting for a sound that would not come.

And still, no letter.

It was late afternoon when her little cousin, Madeleine, arrived. She always had a way of filling up a room, her chatter endless and her laughter a steady hum of cheerfulness that cut through even the darkest of moods. Today, though, there was something else in her eyes. A glint of excitement, perhaps, or the way her footsteps seemed to bounce off the earth with a new energy.

"Don’t you look miserable?" Madeleine teased as she pushed the door open, all wide eyes and bright smiles.

She gave a small, strained smile in return. "I’m not miserable."

Madeleine raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking over the half-empty room, the quiet that hung in the air like a thick veil. She knew. Madeleine always knew when something was wrong, even when she pretended not to. "You’re missing him, aren’t you?"

Her cousin had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things, and she didn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise.

"I haven’t heard from him," she confessed, her voice tight, though she did not allow herself to dwell on it. "It’s been two weeks."

Madeleine frowned, then instantly brightened. "He’ll write soon enough, I’m sure of it." She tossed her bag onto the table and gave a determined little nod. "And even if he doesn’t, you’ve got me to keep you company."

The words were meant to comfort, but her cousin’s cheerful voice only highlighted the hollow ache she was trying to ignore. Still, she appreciated it.

Madeleine grabbed a chair and swung it around to face her. "So, tell me. Have you decided what to name the baby yet?"

The mention of the baby made her pause. For a moment, the weight of everything else faded, and she felt a warmth spread through her chest, a quiet reminder that there was something to look forward to, something that would grow despite the world’s many uncertainties.

"I don’t know," she said after a pause. "I’ve been thinking about it, but... I don’t know."

Madeleine looked at her with wide, eager eyes. "Well, I think you should name it something strong. A name like... Jacques, or Henri."

"Henri," she repeated softly, turning the name over in her mind. "Yes. That’s a strong name."

Madeleine’s eyes lit up. "Henri! Yes! And for a girl..." She looked up at the ceiling as if searching for the perfect answer. "Marie. It’s a classic, isn’t it? Marie Henriette."

She couldn’t help but laugh at her cousin’s enthusiasm. "Marie Henriette, you say?"

Madeleine grinned. "Yes. Very elegant."

Her laughter softened, but the edges of her worry still lingered. She had not expected to feel the absence of Max so acutely, not in the way she did now. She had thought, foolishly, that time and distance would not matter. But it did. It mattered more than she had ever known.

"You’ll get your letter," Madeleine added, sensing the shift in her mood. "And when you do, you can tell me all about the baby names. I’ll be here to help pick, of course."

Her cousin’s light-hearted chatter, so simple and full of life, was a balm she hadn’t known she needed. And for a brief moment, it felt like everything was okay again—like they could sit there, in the warmth of her home, and dream of names and futures and things that were still far from certain.

But just as the afternoon sun began to dip, casting long shadows through the house, the door opened again.

Arthur.

He stepped inside, his gaze flicking to the two of them, his expression unreadable. She hadn’t seen much of him in recent days. He’d kept his distance, ever since Max had left, as though he had quietly decided that his presence no longer mattered in their little world.

He had always been like that, closed off, his thoughts hidden behind that wall he never let anyone cross. But today, something felt different. There was a quiet tension in the air, a shift that she couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t speak right away, instead giving a curt nod to Madeleine, who was still sitting across from her with her bright, inquisitive eyes.

"Have you heard from him?" Arthur asked, his voice soft but heavy with something—concern? Or was it guilt?

She shook her head, the ache returning with the question. "No. Not yet."

Arthur paused, his eyes flicking to her stomach, then back to her face. "He’ll write. If he knows what’s good for him." The words were blunt, but they didn’t carry the usual edge of bitterness.

Madeleine, sensing something unspoken between them, stood up, stretching dramatically. "Well, I’m off, then. Don’t sit in the dark and pull faces, the minute the wind passes you’ll hate that your faces stay stuck like that!" She gave them both a quick, knowing smile before grabbing her bag again. "Remember, Marie Henriette."

And with that, she was gone, leaving behind only the soft sound of the door closing and the heavy silence that followed.

Arthur lingered, still standing near the threshold, his gaze turned toward the floor. Then, quietly, almost as if the words hurt him too, he spoke again.

"You’ll hear from him soon."

She nodded, though she wasn’t sure she believed it. The silence was a bitter thing now, one that seemed to stretch longer with every passing day. But she didn’t say it aloud. Instead, she simply let the quiet sit, holding onto the hope that perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn’t the absence of letters that hurt most—, but the absence of the man who had promised to write them.

A week passed, and the silence was suffocating.

She had told herself it would be different, that he would write, that he would return soon, that everything would fall back into place. But the days bled into one another, each one heavy with the unanswered questions that hung in the air. Her thoughts, once clear, had turned into a constant murmur, a nagging hum at the back of her mind that she could not escape.

Still, she waited. Still, she hoped.

But as the days wore on, the silence between them seemed to grow louder, more oppressive. It was now nearly a week since Madeleine’s visit, and still no word.

She had tried to keep busy, to do the things she knew she needed to do, to care for the house, to tend to the garden, to keep the world turning despite the weight in her chest. But every moment without a letter from Max felt like an eternity, and every hour without him felt like a piece of herself slowly slipping away.

It was late in the afternoon when she heard it.The distant sound of hooves against the dirt road.

At first, she thought it was a trick of the wind, a memory of sounds past. But then it came again, unmistakable, the rattle of a chariot’s wheels, the rhythmic pounding of horses' hooves, a sound she knew well.

Her heart leapt in her chest.

Max.

It had to be Max. She knew it. He was coming back to her.

Without thinking, without hesitation, she ran downstairs. Her breath quickened with the anticipation, her pulse racing in her throat. She was halfway to the door when she saw him—or, at least, she thought she did.

But when the door swung open, her eyes met Charles’s somber face instead.

Her heart dropped.

Charles.

He stood in the doorway, his expression grim, his coat heavy with the weight of the journey. He didn’t smile, didn’t even look at her the way he usually did, with that familiar, steady warmth.

Behind her, Arthur appeared, his face unreadable, his movements stiff. He had heard the chariot, too, had followed her down the stairs with the same hope. But when he saw the look on Charles’s face, he fell silent, his shoulders tight.

Charles stepped inside, his eyes meeting hers briefly, before he looked away. He didn’t say a word at first, but in his hand, he held a single item. A newspaper, folded in half.

She reached for it, her hands trembling as she took it from him.

Her eyes flicked to the front page, and for a moment, her mind couldn’t quite process the words that stared back at her. The letters blurred, and the ink seemed to swim before her. But there they were, the headlines clear and cold: Max Verstappen, Dead at 28—Killed by His Wife in a Tragic Act of Honour.

She blinked, her breath catching in her throat.

The article went on to describe the unthinkable. How Max had returned to Belgium after having deserted his post in the war, how he had started a new life in the Grand Est of France, had taken a wife, and had gotten her pregnant. And then, the piece de resistance—the final, damning words.

His first wife had found out. In a fit of rage, in a jealous fury, she had killed him. A matter of dishonour, they wrote, a wife who could not tolerate the shame of her husband’s new life, of his betrayal.

She read it again.

And again.

But the words didn’t change. They were the same.

Max was dead.

The life they had built together, the love they had shared, it was gone. The future they had planned for. It had never existed at all.

And then it hit her. The reality of it. The finality of it.

She screamed.

A raw, guttural cry of pain that tore through her chest like a knife. The paper slipped from her fingers, falling to the floor as she sank to her knees, her body trembling with the force of the scream that had escaped her lips.

Charles moved quickly, kneeling beside her, his arms wrapping around her. His strong hands held her tight, steadying her against the overwhelming storm of grief that had overtaken her.

And then, as if the world had stopped, Arthur was there too.

His arms around her, just as Charles’s had been.

The two men, so different in many ways, but here they were, their presence a quiet support, their strength a solace. But still, no words came. There was nothing to say.

She cried.

She cried for the man she had loved. For the man she had lost. For the future they would never share. For the baby that would never know his father.

She cried for the unfairness of it all. For the way the world had turned so cruel, so unforgiving.

And in that moment, she wasn’t sure if the tears would ever stop, or if she wanted them to. She didn’t know if she could bear this loss, this betrayal of the life she had dreamed of.

But Arthur’s arms tightened around her, and Charles’s hand pressed against her back, and she let herself sink into them, into the grief, into the feeling of being held by something that wasn’t quite enough to mend what had been broken.

She would never be the same again.

Time passed, but she did not follow it.

Days bled into nights, seasons shifted, but she remained unmoved, caught in the static of grief. The world outside carried on as though nothing had changed, but inside her, everything had unravelled.

She did not cry anymore. There was no use in it. Tears did nothing, solved nothing, brought no one back. And so, she stopped speaking, too.

Words were hollow things, useless things. They sat heavy in her throat, unwelcome. She let them wither away, let silence take their place. It was easier this way.

She left the house not long after that day. Left behind the ghosts of what once was, the warmth of home now foreign to her. Charles had tried to stop her, had begged her to stay, but she had only looked at him—empty, silent—and he had understood. Or maybe he hadn't, but he let her go anyway.

She moved into the school.

It was cold there, unfeeling. The walls held no memories of Max, no scent of him in the blankets, no echo of his voice in the halls. That was what she needed.

She did not sleep in a bed. She made a place for herself beneath the desks, curled beneath the wood like a child hiding from the world. Some nights, she sat upright against the bookshelves, staring at nothing until her body gave in to exhaustion.

She barely ate.

Food had no taste, no purpose. Her father left things for her. Bread, soup, fruit. But they would sit untouched for days until mould took them, and only then would she move them aside. Hunger gnawed at her, but she welcomed it. Let it consume her from the inside out.

She wandered through each day in a haze, drifting like a ghost through empty corridors. The sound of children’s laughter filtered in from the classrooms, but it never reached her. She did not teach, did not speak, did not live.

And she avoided Arthur.

She could not look at him.

There was something in his eyes, something that had been there from the start. A knowing. An unspoken I told you so that he never voiced but that sat between them like an unbearable weight.

Arthur had known. Somehow, he had always known.

And she hated him for it.

She hated that he had seen what she had not. Hated that he had been right. Hated that, in some way, he had been waiting for this, for Max to fail her. And now he was watching her crumble beneath the truth of it.

She was afraid of him, of what he saw when he looked at her now, nothing but a woman broken by her own blindness, by a love that had never been real.

She did not know how long she had been like this. Time was nothing now.

But one night, as the rain pounded against the school’s windows and the wind howled through the cracks in the walls, there was a sound at the door.

A soft knock.

She did not move.

Then another. Firmer.

Still, she did not answer.

And then the door opened.

She knew it was him before she saw him.

Arthur.

He stepped inside, his coat dripping from the rain, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. He did not speak right away. He only stood there, staring at her, taking in the wreckage she had become.

She sat curled beneath one of the desks, her knees drawn to her chest, her hair tangled, her skin pale and hollow.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

And then, finally, Arthur exhaled, a slow, measured breath.

“This isn’t living,” he said.

She flinched. The words were soft, but they landed like a blow.

Still, she said nothing.

Arthur took a slow step forward, then another, until he was standing just before her. He crouched down, levelling his gaze with hers.

"You think this is what he would’ve wanted?"

She clenched her jaw, her throat burning.

He sighed, shaking his head. "No. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to disappear into yourself. You don’t get to do this to your child. You are still here. And you—" He stopped himself, his jaw tightening, his fists clenching at his sides. "You are not alone, no matter how much you wish to be."

She let out a slow breath, her shoulders curling inward. She wished he would leave. She wished he would stop looking at her like that—like he still saw her, even when she was nothing but fragments of who she once was.

When she did not answer, Arthur’s voice dropped, quieter this time.

"Come home."

Home.

The word felt foreign, like something from another life.

She looked away, her eyes burning, her body trembling with exhaustion, with hunger, with grief.

Arthur did not move. He only waited.

And for the first time in weeks, she felt something other than numbness.

It was not hope. Not yet.

But it was something.

Arthur did not leave.

The first night, she had ignored him. She had curled beneath the desk as she always did, her back to him, willing herself to disappear into the silence. But he had not moved.

She had thought, perhaps, that he would go home, that the rain and the cold and the weight of her grief would drive him away. But when she awoke in the grey hush of dawn, stiff and aching, he was still there, sat against the door, arms crossed, head tilted back, eyes closed but alert beneath his furrowed brow.

The second night, she had tried to tell him to go.

She had managed only a whisper "pars" but her voice was thin, barely there, swallowed up by the emptiness of the school.

Arthur had only looked at her.

"Nan," he had said simply.

And that was that.

Days passed in a slow, painful blur. He did not speak much. He did not force her to eat, though he left bread and water where she could reach them. He did not drag her home, though he could have. He only stayed, a quiet presence in the corner, as though he had decided that if she was going to waste away, he would not let her do it alone.

And then—

The pain came like fire.

It was deep and sudden, tearing through her as she lay curled on the wooden floor. At first, she thought it was nothing, another wave of exhaustion, another punishment from a body she had long neglected.

But then it came again. And again.

Stronger. Closer.

She gasped, her hands gripping the floorboards. A fresh wave of pain seized her, and a sharp cry escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Arthur stirred.

She did not see him move, but suddenly he was beside her, crouching at her side, his hands hovering over her as though he was afraid to touch her.

"What is it?" His voice was sharper now, edged with something unfamiliar, something like fear.

She could not answer.

The pain stole her breath, locked her inside her own body. And then it dawned on her, with a slow, creeping horror—

It was time.

She wasn’t ready.

"No," she whispered, her breath hitching. "Not yet."

Arthur swore under his breath. Then he was up, grabbing his coat, already halfway to the door.

"Stay awake," he ordered, his voice clipped, urgent. "I’ll be back."

And then he was gone.

The minutes that followed stretched into something unbearable. She curled in on herself, sweat slick on her skin, pain rolling over her in relentless waves. The schoolhouse blurred, the candlelight flickering, the world tilting.

Then the door burst open again, and there were hands on her, familiar, steady hands, voices murmuring, lifting her, guiding her through the storm of it.

Her father’s house was warm. Too warm. She had not been inside it for so long that it felt foreign to her now, the walls too close, the air thick with the smell of lavender and candlewax.

Then her mother. Her aunt. Hands pressing against her clammy skin, gentle voices cooing words she could not hear.

She barely saw Arthur, but she knew he was there. A shadow in the doorway, pacing.

Time twisted.

Pain consumed everything.

She heard them tell her to push.

"Non."

She clenched her teeth, shook her head.

"You have to, ma fille." Her mother’s voice was gentle, pleading.

"No."

She could not.

If she did, it would be real.

If she did, Max would still be gone.

If she did, nothing would change.

Hands gripped hers. Soft, warm, trembling.

Charles.

She hadn’t even realised he was there, hadn’t noticed him come to her side.

"I know," he murmured. "I know it hurts. But you have to."

Her breath shuddered. Her body trembled.

And then, with the last of her strength, she did.

A cry pierced the room.

Small, desperate, new.

And just like that, it was over.

She fell back, her body drained, her mind floating somewhere beyond reach.

She did not want to look.

She did not want to see.

But then there was a weight against her chest, a warmth, a softness.

And she saw her.

Blonde curls, wet with birth. A small, perfect nose. Eyes squeezed shut opening briefly to show crystal blue eyes, lips parted in a wail of protest.

She could barely breathe.

Max.

The child was Max.

His mouth, his cheeks, his eyes, his shape.

Something inside her cracked.

She turned her head away.

Someone took the baby from her, and she did not stop them.

She did not want to see.

She did not want to feel.

She closed her eyes.

And let the world fade to black.

Time passed.

The world carried on, but she remained untouched by it. Days slipped into nights, and the child, her child, grew.

But not by her hands.

She kept away from the girl.

Her mother took care of her, cooing to her in hushed lullabies, stroking the blonde curls that were not hers. Arthur, too, had taken to the child in his quiet, steady way. She caught glimpses of him sometimes, holding the girl with a carefulness she had never seen from him before, as if she were something fragile, something precious.

She did not ask what they had named her.

She did not want to know.

The days were dull, empty things. She drifted through them like a ghost, neither living nor dead, lost in the spaces between.

And then one evening, the weight of it all became too much.

The house was suffocating. The candlelight too warm, the sounds of laughter, not hers, too distant, too cruel. She could not bear to be inside those walls any longer, where Max’s absence clung to every corner, where his daughter existed in a world he would never see.

So she walked.

She did not know where she was going, only that she needed to move, to be away, to escape the skin that felt too tight around her bones.

It was cold outside. The wind gnawed at her as she walked through the empty streets, as her feet carried her further than they ever had before.

And then she saw it.

The bridge.

She stopped at the edge, looking out over the water below.

It was dark, the river black and endless beneath her. The wind howled through the trees, rattling the wooden beams of the bridge, but she did not feel it. She did not feel anything at all.

She stepped forward.

Sat down on the ledge.

Her feet dangled over the edge, the fabric of her dress fluttering in the wind.

She thought, briefly, of how easy it would be.

How quiet.

How peaceful.

A step. A fall. And then—nothing.

She closed her eyes.

Breathed.

And then—

Arms wrapped around her from behind.

Strong, desperate, shaking.

A gasp broke the silence, a choked, ragged sound, and then a voice—low, broken, breathless.

"Nan."

Arthur.

His grip was iron. He pulled her back, dragged her from the edge, his hands clutching at her like she might slip away, like if he just held tight enough, he could stop the world from taking her.

He turned her to him, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath uneven, his body trembling.

And then, something she had never seen before.

Arthur cried.

He let out a sob, raw and shuddering, and held onto her as if she were the last thing tethering him to the earth.

"Please," he whispered, his voice thick with grief. "Please don’t."

She did not move.

She did not cry.

She only sat there, numb, hollow, weightless in his arms.

And as the wind howled around them, as Arthur clung to her with everything he had, she wondered—

Why did he care so much when she felt like nothing at all?

Arthur did not let go of her that night.

Even as she sat there, silent in his arms, distant and detached, he held her as though she might slip away again if he loosened his grip. His breath was unsteady against her hair, his fingers tight around her wrists.

And then, without a word, he pulled her up.

He carried her home through the dark streets, his arms steady, his jaw clenched. She did not protest. She did not have the strength.

When they reached the house, he did not hand her off to her mother, nor did he let her retreat into the shadows where she had been dwelling for so long. He led her up the stairs himself, into her room, and sat her down on the edge of the bed.

She felt the mattress dip beneath her weight, but she did not move.

Arthur knelt before her, unfastened her shoes with careful hands, and pulled the blankets up over her shoulders. She let him.

Then, he pulled up a chair, placed it in the corner of the room, and sat.

Watching.

Waiting.

He did not speak.

She turned onto her side, curling into herself, staring blankly at the wall. The room was heavy with the sound of his breathing, slow and deliberate, as if he were grounding himself with it.

Sleep did not come easily. But eventually, the exhaustion took her, dragging her into the depths of a dreamless slumber.

When she woke, the sun was already high in the sky.

Arthur was still there.

He had not moved from his chair, though his eyes were no longer fixed on her. Instead, he sat forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor with an unreadable expression.

She did not speak.

He did.

"Lève-toi." Get up.

His voice was quiet but firm.

She blinked, sluggish with sleep, confusion flickering across her hollow features.

He stood, stretching out the stiffness in his limbs, and turned to face her.

"On part." We’re leaving.

Her brows knitted slightly.

She hadn’t left the house in days—properly left.

But Arthur wasn’t looking for a fight. He didn’t offer explanations, nor did he wait for her to question him. He left the room, and she was left with little choice but to follow.

She dressed slowly, without urgency, and when she finally made her way downstairs, he was already waiting by the door.

The journey was quiet.

Arthur did not tell her where they were going, and she did not ask. The train ride stretched on for hours, the countryside rolling past in a blur of greens and greys.

She watched the window, detached, her hands resting in her lap.

Arthur did not look at her. He sat beside her, arms crossed, gaze set ahead, his body still as stone.

It wasn’t until the train began to slow that she finally saw it.

A sign.

Hasselt.

Her breath hitched.

She froze.

Her pulse hammered in her throat, a cold, sharp dread settling in her stomach.

She turned to Arthur then, her first real movement in hours, her lips parting—

But he did not give her the chance to speak.

He took her by the wrist, guiding her off the train with steady, unyielding hands.

Outside, the air was cool, crisp with the lingering bite of winter. Arthur wasted no time in finding a caddy, speaking to the driver in low, firm tones before helping her in.

She did not protest.

She barely breathed.

The carriage ride was long.

The silence sat thick between them.

And then—

The caddy stopped.

She knew before she even looked where they were.

Graveyard gates loomed before them, iron and ivy-clad, weathered by time. Beyond them, rows of headstones stretched into the distance, names carved into stone, lives reduced to mere dates.

Her stomach twisted.

Arthur stepped out first.

He turned to her, his gaze unreadable.

"Vas-y," he said. Go in

She did not move.

Arthur’s jaw tightened, but his voice softened.

"C’est le moment.” It is time

She swallowed hard.

Her hands curled into fists, nails pressing into her palms.

The weight of his words settled over her like a stone.

It is time.

To face what she had spent so long running from.

To look upon the grave of the man who had lied to her.

To stand before the earth that had swallowed him whole.

Her breath trembled.

She stepped forward.

And walked through the gates.

The grave was unremarkable.

A simple stone, weathered by wind and time, standing among countless others. His name was carved into it, the letters etched deep, final, unchanging.

Her breath shuddered.

She had not cried since that day. Since the newspaper. Since Charles caught her before she could collapse under the weight of it all.

But now, here, standing before the cold earth where he lay, something inside her cracked.

Tears welled in her eyes, thick and hot, blurring the words on the stone.

"Max."

It was the first time she had spoken his name in months.

She fell to her knees.

The grief struck her like a storm. Wild, relentless. Sobs tore from her chest, raw and unrestrained, pouring out all that had been festering inside her for so long.

She clutched at the dirt, her nails digging into the damp earth as if she could pull him back from it, as if she could unbury what had already been lost.

He was gone.

He had always been gone.

Yet now, for the first time, she felt it.

The weight of it. The finality of it.

And it shattered her.

She did not hear the footsteps at first.

Not until they stopped just behind her.

Slowly, she turned her head.

A woman stood there, watching her with sombre eyes.

She was not much older than her, perhaps the same age. Dark dress, fair hair tucked neatly beneath a scarf. There was something exhausted in the way she held herself, something heavy in her presence.

But it was not her that caught her breath.

It was the child at her side.

Small. Fragile. Barely past toddler years.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes.

Eyes that she knew.

A sickening realisation twisted in her gut.

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked from the child to the woman, her mind reeling, piecing together a truth she had not been prepared to face.

The woman’s lips parted.

"Je suis désolée." I’m sorry.

The accent was off. The words clumsy, unnatural.

She had not spoken French for long.

Her throat tightened.

"Why," she croaked, her voice hoarse from crying, "would you be sorry? He left you to fend for yourself and I took him from you."

The woman exhaled sharply, something bitter in the sound.

"Your only crime," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "was falling in love with a man who was not honest with you."

The words struck like a blade, but there was no malice in them.

Only truth.

She should have hated her.

Should have despised the woman who had killed the man she had loved.

But she didn’t.

Because she knew—she knew.

She had seen the truth in that newspaper.

Max had not been the man she thought he was.

He had belonged to someone else.

Her hands trembled as she wiped her damp cheeks, her breath still uneven, but her words came steady.

The air between them grew still.

The woman looked at her for a long moment, as if searching her face for something she could not name.

Then, silently, she reached into her coat.

Pulled out a stack of letters.

She held them out.

"Il t’a écrit." He wrote to you.

She stared at the bundle, her chest tightening. The pages were worn, the edges curled and soft with use.

"On his journey back to Hasselt." The woman’s voice wavered slightly, as though she were speaking of something that still pained her. "He never wrote to me."

Her fingers closed around the letters hesitantly, as if they might disappear the moment she touched them.

"He couldn’t even spell his family name when he left," the woman murmured, something almost wry in her voice.

She swallowed thickly.

Of course.

He could not write.

She had spent months teaching him, watching him fumble with letters, struggle to form words.

"I suppose," the woman said, a quiet sigh in her voice, "he truly loved you."

Her breath shuddered.

She did not know what to say.

Did not know how to respond to a truth that should have comforted her, yet only made the loss feel sharper.

So she did not speak at all.

She only clutched the letters to her chest—

And let the weight of them settle into her bones.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken.

The wind moved through the graveyard, rustling the brittle grass and carrying with it the distant toll of a church bell.

She clutched the letters tightly, as if they were the last pieces of him she would ever hold, but her gaze had fallen to the child standing beside the woman.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes.

Max’s face, staring back at her with quiet curiosity.

She swallowed, her throat raw.

"Comment tu t’appelles?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The boy blinked at her, tilting his head slightly. His lips parted, his voice small, yet eerily familiar—

"Emilian."

The breath left her lungs.

It wasn’t just his eyes, his hair—it was his voice too. The same soft lilt, the same gentle way Max had once spoken to her in the quiet of the night.

She felt the weight of it press against her ribs, tightening around her heart.

The woman exhaled, a sound almost bitter, almost tired.

"For a while," she murmured, her gaze fixed on the child, "I couldn’t look at Emilian without seeing Max."

Her fingers curled slightly.

"I hated him." A pause. "Myself. Everything."

The words landed like a blow.

Her breath caught.

Her mind spun, twisting, unravelling, until the truth struck her with brutal clarity—

It was exactly what she had been doing.

To her daughter.

To the child with his eyes.

She had kept away, had let others raise her, because every time she looked at her, it was not just her daughter she saw.

It was him.

And she had hated her for it.

Her stomach twisted, her grip on the letters trembling slightly.

The woman’s words echoed in her head, reverberating through the hollow spaces she had carved out of herself.

She had not even asked for her own daughter’s name.

She had not wanted to know.

A sharp pang of shame coiled in her chest, cold and unforgiving.

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Because for the first time in months—

She did not know who she was grieving.

She did not know how long she satthere, rooted to the earth, the weight of the past pressing down on her like an unforgiving tide.

The woman and the boy lingered a moment longer, then turned away, disappearing into the quiet streets of Hasselt.

She remained, clutching the letters, staring at Max’s name carved into the stone.

She was not sure what she had expected to find here. Closure, perhaps. Answers.

But all she had found was herself, reflected back in the grief of another.

And for the first time, she did not run from it.

She let it settle, let it ache.

Then, slowly, finally, she turned away.

Arthur was waiting just beyond the gates.

He had not paced, had not fidgeted. He had simply stood there, arms crossed, eyes fixed ahead, as though he had always known she would return to him.

When she saw him, something in her crumbled.

She moved to him without thinking, closing the distance between them in a few short strides.

And then she was in his arms.

Arthur stiffened for the briefest moment, as if caught off guard, but then his grip tightened, his arms locking around her.

She pressed her face into his chest, the sobs wracking through her once more, but this time they did not tear her apart.

Arthur said nothing.

He only held her.

Not as he had that night on the bridge, when he had caught her from the edge of the abyss—when he had held on as though she might slip through his fingers.

But as a brother does.

Steady. Constant.

As though he had been waiting for her to come back.

The train rocked gently beneath them, the countryside rolling past in a blur of muted greens and greys.

Arthur sat across from her, his gaze fixed on the window, arms folded.

For a long while, neither of them spoke.

Then, at last, she did.

"I’m going to Paris."

Arthur’s brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

She exhaled, her hands smoothing over the letters resting in her lap. "In the week. I’ll find work—maybe in one of the grand houses, a governess, a maid—something with a rich family." She swallowed. "And I’ll come home on the weekends. To her."

Arthur’s eyes flickered to her then.

"I will raise her." The words came steadier than she expected. "I will be her mother."

For a moment, Arthur said nothing.

Then, a slow breath left him.

And he nodded.

"Je suis heureux de te retrouver, sœur." I’m glad to have you back, sister.

A lump formed in her throat.

She turned to the window, blinking hard.

Outside, the world blurred past, shifting, changing.

She was not the same girl who had arrived in Hasselt.

And when she returned home—

She would not be the same girl who had left.

The months that followed were slow and unsteady, like learning how to walk again after a great fall.

She found work in Paris, just as she had planned. A grand house, high windows, polished floors that never scuffed beneath hurried footsteps. She was a governess to the children of a family so rich they barely saw them, her days spent teaching soft-spoken boys their letters, combing through tangled curls, buttoning coats that would never feel the bite of winter.

It was a quiet life, a measured one. And yet, it was not hers.

Hers was the life waiting for her beyond the city, in a house worn by time and war, in the arms of a child she was learning to love.

She returned each weekend, stepping off the train with a bag heavy on her shoulder and the weight of the world lighter in her chest.

On the weekends she could not come, Charles brought her daughter to her. He never let her miss more than a week, never let the distance stretch too wide between them. He would arrive at the door of the grand house, his cap pulled low, her daughter bundled against the cold, and the moment she saw her, everything else fell away.

Arthur was the one who raised her in the days between. He never spoke of it, never boasted, never asked for thanks. But he was there, always there. Holding her daughter's small hands as she took her first steps, lifting her onto his shoulders when she refused to walk, murmuring stories into her ear when the night grew too dark.

At first, she had been afraid. Afraid that when her daughter looked at her, she would see the ghost of a man who had lied to them both.

But she did not.

She saw her mother.

And that was enough.

She did not let her daughter suffer the sins of her father.

She let her be her own.

And though grief lingered, though it always would, in some quiet corner of her heart, it no longer held her captive.

One evening, as she sat in the schoolhouse, letters spread before her, candlelight flickering against the ink, she thought of Max.

Not as he had been. Not as the man she had once loved, nor the man she had lost.

But simply as someone who had passed through her life.

Someone who had given her something more than pain.

Something that would outlast him.

She dipped her pen in ink, her fingers steady.

And for the first time in her life.

She wrote his name without shaking.

THE END.

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hana-no-seiiki · 2 years ago

Text

WHAT’S UP DANGER?

— [ CH 01 ] WITH GREAT ABILITY COMES GREAT ACCOUNTABILITY

pairings: yandere! various (batfam, spiderverse) x miles morales! reader

tw/cw: no yandere themes for this chapter, characters get aged up later on but are teens to young adults now, reader is gender neutral but characters refer to them with masculine terms (hijo, man, dude), spoilers for spiderverse movies. but ofc since this is a crossover it won’t be completely the same.

status: unedited

[masterlist] [next]

REPLY TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST

“Mama, stop you’re covering me with your saliva—!” You groaned as you made a half-assed attempt at pushing your mother away.

It was the first day of your attendance at Gotham Visions and you weren’t the least bit nervous. Not at all. Totally. It wasn’t as if you were just thrusted into this situation with no choice whatsoever in addition to the pressure of your family’s wholeass livelihood on your shoulder. No. You were completely cool with this situation. In fact, you were so cool that you’re almost late to your first day of classes.

“But you look so adorable, mi hijo!” Your mother rubbed her face all over yours, messing up whatever you decided to put on.

“Papa what are you doing? Arrest this woman at once, for gross misconduct or whatever—“

“You do look adorable, and if I do I’d have to be fair and arrest you for vandalism.”

You freeze at your father’s not so subtle call out, before swiftly slithering away from your mother’s bear-like grip.

“Augh! I’m going to be late! Hasta luego!”

It was August. The start of a new school year for you. A new life away from your family and friends.

Gotham Visions University. A campus filled with elitists; fancy rich people. The cream of the crop. Your future school. Being a scholar there would have been fine, amazing even! If it wasn’t something you won through a lottery. You felt like a thief, an imposter. Going to a school for prodigies and rich kids as an average old joe is one thing, going to a school for prodigies and rich kid as a poor lottery student is another.

“[Y/N]! How you doing man? Lookin fancy. The uniform so fits ya.” A kid hangs his arm around you. If you were being completely honest you weren’t sure about his name, but you hung out often for basketball and other activities around the neighborhood. With the amount of people that knew you around the community, it was difficult keeping all those faces in your head so you often covered it up with nicknames.

“Psh. See ya next friday for shawarma?” You winked, cringing a little inside for your actions.

But to your utter surprise, the kid in turn blushes before giving you a massive grin. “You bet. My treat!”

And just a few seconds afterwards, he hits you at the back of the head before leaving, “Hey! Ow.”

“[Y/N]! Good luck on school dude! We’ll miss ya! Don’t be a stranger okay? We’re still friends even if he isn’t here.” He waves you goodbye before returning to your mutual posse of friends.

You wave back at them, your expression slowly turning into a solemn one. “I’ll miss ya guys too.”

Grabbing your trusty wireless headphones, you make your way down the block. Sticking random name-tags you drew this morning to distract yourself from the overflowing anxiety in your system.

Unfortunately, it never is a good idea to be so distracted when walking by yourself.

“Contra!” You hissed as your body hit the pavement. No doubt ruining your uniform that your mother painstakingly agonized over getting perfect and neat for your first day.

Then, the sound of a police siren entered your ears.

Can your day get any worse?

“What did I tell you about not looking both sides twice before crossing the streets?”

Your father’s sermon began.

This . . . was going to be a long ride.

“That I shouldn’t do it.” You replied, completely uninterested in the conversation and looking out from the window.

“You’re lucky it was me y’know! What if some deranged man decided to run you over?”

Your faced smooshed on your hand as your elbow rested on the window sill. “I’d send my cop of a father after them then.”

“Don’t act cute with me [Y/N].”

“But it works oh, so, well.”

Your father sighed, “It does.”

“But with great ability comes great accountability!

“Yeah yeah, that isn’t how the saying goes! . . . It was my bad it won’t happen ag…” Right as you were about to tune out of the interaction with your father once more you notice a bunch of people looking towards your direction.

People you knew.

And now they were taking pictures.

“Wow, aren’t you the popular kid?”

“Mier — Can’t you run the red light or shout at them or something? My poor privacy is being invaded!” You desperately tried to hide yourself with your hands but to no avail. The sounds of clicking only grow louder, and your father’s pace on the car slower.

“Yeah yeah~ not this cop.”

“Papa!”

Suddenly, the attention is ripped off of you as a loud crashing noise resounds from above. “Woah.”

Your dad flicked his tongue in annoyance as he checked the damages. “Those vigilantes! Red Hood is one thing, but that Spider-man partner of his. I swear. He just swings by without a care in the world. I just got this repaired last week!”

“I think he saved you from having to get yourself fixed as well. You know, in a hospital. The place with all the bills that just tears holes into your wallet.” You checked the situation outside, confirming the lack of interest in your situation as people crowded spider-man’s fight. “And myself from a mob too. That man’s a whole multitasker and a half.”

“If you ever get a sibling, remind me not to teach them cheek.”

“That if depends on you, yknow.” You gave your dad the smuggest grin you can muster.

Hey, if he’s going to make you face hell for the next few years you might as well give him a portion of it while you had the time.

The car halts, signaling your arrival at the aforementioned hell. “Study well. Our future depends on you, [Y/N]. Love ya.”

“I know.” You groaned, struggling a little to pull your baggage outside of the vehicle and leaving as soon as you got it secured within your grasp.

You are only able to take a few steps when your dad interrupts with the police car’s loudspeaker.

“Where’s my ‘I love you too, papa’ huh?”

“Papa! Seriously?” You screeched, unimaginably embarrassed beyond belief.

“I love you.”

“Right in front of my future peers?”

“I loovveee youuu.”

“On the first day of class?!”

“Mwah mwah—“

“I LOVE YOU TOO!” You relented. Making a sharp turn from facing the originator of your future bully’s material, towards the entrance of Gotham Visions.

Once you get in you make an attempt to greet the people there, but is cut off by their mocking voices referring and imitating the situation earlier.

The embarrassment fills you up once more and you fail to notice your path intersecting with another.

Directly bumping into people seriously knocks the wind out of a dude. That’s probably why those people in those ‘mangas’ he always made you read fell in love at first sight. They were just so light-headed that they couldn’t think clearly.

“P-pretty girl—“

“It’s nice to meet you too.” said pretty girl as she steadied your form. Noticeably less affected by the impact “You’re quite the looker yourself.”

“Ack, sorry! I just get nervous around- yeah.”

She giggled. Oh lord, even her laugh was pretty. “Lovely papa you got there.”

“Augh, you don’t have to remind me.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, slowly regaining your balance.

The bell rings. The real hell has officially begun.

Once pretty girl made sure you were alright, she began running off.

Wow, even the way she ran was pretty.

“W-w-wait, what’s your name?”

“Gwen!”

You sighed as left you behind in the crowd of students.

This wasn’t so bad, you thought. You made one acquaintance at the very least. Maybe your new life at this school would be better.

Your new life at Gotham Visions was, in fact, not getting better.

You were fumbling through the motions like a newborn thrown to the wolves. If you hadn’t built a relatively tight knit friendship with Gwen you were sure you would have ran away by now.

Everyone always ignored you when you greeted them. Your dormmate didn’t even see you as someone worthy to interact with and would often stay awake at ungodly hours doing whatever the hell he was doing on his laptop while you suffered from his ‘background music.’ Your parents only ever talked to you about academics when it was the last thing you wanted on your mind at weekends. You were always, always late to class.

You were practically falling apart at the seams.

You just . . . wanted everything to end. But you couldn’t bring yourself to defy your parents and so you brought it up to your studies. Purposely failing exams so you’d be kicked out soon enough.

“A zero. How terrible. A few more of those and you’ll have to kick me out huh?” You looked at your Physics teacher with a loosely smug look on your face. You hated Physics, the sciences and mathematics the most out of all subjects. Everything second you spent learning about it could have been spent drawing or doing something you actually adored.

You shrugged, “Maybe I’m just not right for this school.”

“If a person wearing a blindfold picked the answers on a multiple choice exam at random do you know what score they would get?”

“. . . Around 25%?”

“That’s right!” She flicked her pen towards you face before pressing the butt end of it to your paper.

“The only way they would get all the answers wrong . . . “ She then twirls around, marking your grade from 0 to 100 by placing the respective numbers to each side. “Is to know which answers are right.

“You’re trying to quit, and I’m not going to let you.” The smug look only your face slowly dissipates and transfers to her own visage. “Now I know you’ll probably try to worm yourself out of this which is why I’m calling in back-up.”

“Wayne.” The woman moved her gaze to your classmate. A strained smile on her lips as she stared him down.

You didn’t know the billionaire’s son that well, or any of your peers but Gwen for that matter. Just that he was as stuck up as his gelled up hair. Always sneering at you whenever you had to sit beside him with those uncannily pretty green eyes of his. You thought that it may have been your smell or something. Maybe he could tell how poor you are in comparison by your scent. But judging by the fact that he was just as much of a loner as you were if not more, you’re beginning to think otherwise.

“I’m assigning you two an essay, not on physics but on yourselves. What kind of person you want to be. I know you two are quite different in terms of personality and backgrounds, but I have a feeling it’ll all work out.” She walked behind the two of you, roughly placing her hands on both of your shoulders before squeezing you closer together. “And no, Damian. I’ll know if you decide to finish it all yourself. Don’t test me.”

“You two are dismissed!”

Damian takes one look at you and you can tell he’s listed a thousand things he disliked about you already. He re-secured his backpack prior to giving you one, heftily stern warning. “Listen, we’re going to meet at my house this weekend. 6pm. Don’t be late.”

“Sure! Where’s your . . .” and before you could even complete your question, he was gone. Just like that. “. . .house. . .”

You grabbed your own belongings with a moan; betting that the trust fund kid’s own probably costed a hundred if not a thousand more times than yours.

You swiftly go to your room. Mind completely empty and disassociated before an idea crosses your head.

You dial in the numbers on your phone before you could even think properly.

“Hey, Unc. Mind if I come over?”

No matter where you went. The route to your Uncle Aaron’s house was always in the back of your head. He was your true home. The only man who understood you — who made the effort to understand you.

You spot him on his couch, looking as cool and swag as ever with his legs spread a little bit apart. He laughed as you smooshed your face to his window before opening it and letting you tumble into his abode.

You lazily dropped the bag you brought filled with spray paint.

He patted your head and massaged your scalp, the stress you felt already noticed and acknowledged. “Sup little dude. You lookin’ down. Is this about . . .”

“What? No. I’ve already moved on—“You shook your head. In all honesty, the only good part about Gotham Visions was that it kept you distracted from grief. But before you could continue you spot a familiar image settled in a frame. Emotions started crashing down upon you like a tidal wave. “You . . . kept the picture.”

Aaron rubbed his thumb across your cheek as your eyes began watering, “You know I can bring you over to visit him. It’s pretty close by y’know.”

“I- I think I’m good. I came here to just chill out, y’know?”

“Let’s go, I know a spot we can let some of that pent up art juice out.”

A smile. A real one. Not one you forced on yourself whenever you met with your classmates, Gwen or your parents started to make a reprise on your face. You almost don’t remember the last time you did it because of your emotions and not due of the façade of being okay.

“See ya.”

You take one last look at the photo before rushing out with your uncle.

“Mig.”

PLEASE MAKE SURE THAT YOU CAN BE TAGGED BEFORE REQUESTING TO BE ADDED.

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foone · 7 months ago

Text

Your robot girlfriend has to power down to replace her backup battery. The regular batteries are easy to swap while she's online, but that small JR2035 battery that keeps her config saved and clock ticking is way buried inside her chassis.

She holds her chest open as wide as she can pull, and you flip her power switch. The light literally leaves her eyes as the OLEDs power down. Holding the flashlight in your teeth, you reach in with a hand and a flat-blade screwdriver (your last spudger snapped when you were fixing her hand servos last week).

With a soft snap, her backup battery bounces out and ricochets down her torse. You swear and let it end up on the floor, as you carefully reach up to insert the replacement coin cell. It takes a couple fumbling tries, but you get it in, and the right way around too as a special bonus.

You extract yourself from her internals, and plug the diagnostic screen into one of her internal UDMI ports. The switch is flipped with a satisfying clunk, and the display pops to life. Boot messages start streaming by, then it pauses with a softly blinking error:

BIOS settings cleared, please enter setup.

You hit a key on a nearby wireless keyboard, and the bios opens up, all white-on-blue plain text because your GF is, to use a highly technical retrorobotics term, a bit of a MILF.

You set up the basic options for her to boot. She can fine tune this later. You just need her to get running enough to do that. You tell it what kind of hard drive she uses, how many floppy drives she has, pronouns and orientation, etc. You hit F7 to save and reboot and you spot it: the date.

Current Time: 00:04

Current Date: 1970-01-01

Damn it, you're always forgetting to set the date in these things! She's already booting, you can see the spinning logo in her eyes. Ah well. You can reboot her and fix it, or maybe it'll auto-set from the network? You can't remember if that'll work.

The logo leaves her screen. You see that finger twitch of her final boot up, and her irises reappear and quickly focus. Her hair starts to blink in as the holoprojectors spin up, and she starts to sit up.

"Hey... I swapped the battery, how are you feeling?"

She gets that smile where her eyes go big. Her holos blink and her clothes change, and half an instant later, her hair.

The music system in your living room switches over to a sweet bassline.

Disco?

You turn as she stands up, and starts doing the Staying Alive dance. She's got the white leisuresuit, and an afro that seems to be growing by the second.

well you can tell by the way I use my walk, I'm a woman's bot, no time to talk!

Ahh. 1970.

#robot girls #robotgirls #My writing

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fairiesreturningtotheshadows · 5 days ago

Text

Harry Price (1881-1948) was a British psychic and a paranormal researcher whose reputation reached extraordinary peaks because of his passion for unmasking fraud.

Already in his adolescence he was interested in the affairs of the beyond, and wrote a theatrical work on a case of Poltergeist in a Shropshire farm, England [see: the 8 phases of the polytergeist activity]. In a few years, the interest of public opinion attracted thanks to a very curious discovery, space telegraphy [Space-Telegraph], something like a primal wireless communication that theoretically worked perfectly, but when it was tried to put it into practice it was a failure. In his autobiography: Search for truth (Search for Truth), Harry Price states that the experiment was not entirely negative, since it served to prove that his idea did not work at all. Around 1908 he was interested in archeology, quite successful, since he managed to get several Roman currencies, axes and utensillos in the Sussex region, whose authenticity was confirmed by the antiquarium society [Society of Antiquaries]. But what really interested Harry Price were the paranormal phenomena, and there he directed his efforts since then.

For his arduous work as an unmasking of prodigies [who concealed his desire to find genuine wonders] he began his studies in occultism. In 1922 he joined the Magic Circle [Magic Circle], with a net esoteric cut, and then got fully into the study of traditional magic and prestidigitation. With these weapons he launched ghosts and fraudulent mediums.

He obtained his first success as a paranormal researcher at the end of 1922, when he was photographed by William Hope next to a spirit [see above]. The strange thing is not due to photography, but to the previous agreement between Harry Price and the Spirit, in which the latter promised to pose for the photo.

In 1923 Harry Price made a formal request to the University of London to create a psychic research department. The institution responded favorably, and Harry Price headed the working group [although without belonging to the Academic Staff], which would finally absorb the departments of the National Laboratory of Psychic Studies [National Laboratory of Psychical Research]. Harry Price, the famous ghost hunter, and Harry Houdini, skillful unmasking of fraudulent wonders, attests to spiritualist sessions where the diners had to make great physical efforts so as not to be evicted from their seats by the sudden movements of the speakers (see: when something invisible touches you)

William Hope, the Paranormal photographer, denounces that the speakers are animated by an invisible and undoubtedly intelligent force, with which it is possible to establish a communication code to talk with her (see: something called me by my name)

For example, a blow means yes and two strokes no (see: a blow: "Yes"; two blows: "no"; three blows: "Let me enter"). There were also random combinations that required the fine interpretation of exegetes that alluded to perfectly natural emissions and sound polyuses in a closed enclosure.

Daniel Dunglas Home, the great levitator of his time, witnessed paranormal phenomena of incredible size, such as the total levitation of the table and its diners. Others denounce light, phosphorescent appearances, invisible and lvid hands that pinch the ladies, wind bursts, objects that materialized and even the appearance of ectoplasm from different medium holes (see: what are the spirits made?)

Most of the charlatans of the time attribute these paranormal phenomena to the activity of triggered entities. A rationalist minority suspects the presence of unknown psychic, individual or group forces, acting in unison on the table (see: spirits and "charged environments"))

Already at the end of the 19th century there was a true fever around the speakers, which in honor of the truth did little justice in their name, since they rarely spoke.

The spiritualist Allan Kardec was perhaps the first to establish an orderly communication code, for which he managed to record messages of deep skepticism even in probably dead people. To know something more about this code we recommend reading his work The Book of Spirits (Le Liv re des Spiro).

There is no culture in the world that has been safe from the undesirable presence of the dead that rise from their graves to feed with the blood of the living. This allows us to reason that nigromance: the art of invoking the dead and returning them to life, or non -death, rather, was a rather lucrative trade.

In the first place, naturally, the body should be exhumed. He was later beheaded and one of his feet was amputated. Finally, the pi

El espejo gotico blogger

#goth #gothic #gothgoth #goth aesthetic #dark #horror #uncertainty #visualization #presence #spiritualist #the deadly six #undefinided #flesh and bone

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callmemickey · 2 years ago

Text

Pepsi Cola

synopsis: Simon is on his break, but that doesn’t mean you stop working. After a full two weeks of mandatory overtime to complete a project, you were exhausted, absolutely beat. Simon’s been home for a few weeks and was starting to feel guilty. Watching you come home so tired you pass out on the couch? It was frustrating seeing you so drained. Well… it’s Friday night, and you’re sooo exhausted, love - why don’t you lie down and let Simon help you relax?

content: afab, porn w a plot, smut (GET YA PUSSY ATE!!!, fingering, overstim), not fluff?per se but he loves u.

word count: ~3.6k I think idk

notes: Title named after Cola by Lana Del Rey hayyyy iykyk

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Your keys felt so heavy in your hand as you attempted to fish them out of your deep, cluttered purse. They were tangled on something, and with an infuriated grunt, you yanked terribly hard, jerking them violently out of the thralls of your corded headphones. You really needed to switch to wireless. You fumbled them momentarily in your hand, trying to find your house key as the small porch light was your only guide, the sky dark like navy ink. “Fuck,” you mumbled, finally finding the key and opening the front door.

Soft, warm lights lit up the entryway, beckoning you to enter the fortress of comfort, an escape from the throes of responsibilities and existing. A groan left your lips as you closed the heavy door and locked it. The house smelled delicious like a home cooked meal, reminding you that Simon saved you dinner for when you came home. Your stomach growled, eager. “I’m home.” Your voice was loud and filled with fatigue as you called out to your fiancé, always making sure to signal that it was you and not someone breaking in.

You’ll never forget when you tried to surprise him one time. When you got into the living room, presumably as quiet as the dead, he had grabbed you and flipped you onto the couch. “You’re lucky I knew that was you. Wanna know what’d I do if you were a thieving little mouse?” You said yes, and later told him you’ll need to break in more often as he was putting his shirt back on, his back covered with red hot stripes from your fresh manicure.

You walked down the hallway, kicking off your high heels, shuffling towards the living room, your pantyhose helping you glide across the hardwood floors as lifting your feet felt nigh impossible. Simon, ever attentive, met you in the hallway before you could even get into the living room. “Ah, love, you must be exhausted.” His tone was soft, calming, and understanding. The energy that poured from you was prickly and sharp at best, cannibalistic at worst, because while he wanted to generously touch your arm, he was worried for his.

Your purse dropped unceremoniously from your shoulder and onto the floor as you trudged over to the couch. “This week has been terrible,” you grumbled as you plopped chest first onto the cushions, “so much overtime to get a project done for the shareholders. As if it’s my fault that budgets were cut.” Your voice was muffled in the fabric.

The couch sunk by your feet as you felt Simon’s hand gingerly begin to rub your toes, arches, and heels. His thumbs gently but firmly pressing into the swollen, tired flesh of your foot elicited a moan of relief from you. “C’mon, Y/N, why don’t you go wash up? I have your dinner in the oven - I’ll get it started. Let’s go.” His voice was still delicate, supportive.

Simon ushered you up and you sighed, giving a small nod in agreement.

You went into the bathroom and stripped off your clothes. You knew what you were getting into when you were promoted to senior marketing manager, but recently you wished you had better foresight. You turned on the shower, hoping that the hotter the water, the more likely it will boil and burn off any trace of this week happening. As you washed your hair and body, you thanked whatever god allowed for Hell Week to be over. When you felt you were thoroughly cleansed from files, papers, and way too many sticky notes, you ended your shower, wanting to forget the sound of telephones ringing and keyboards clacking.

With a towel wrapped around your body and hair, you stepped out of the bathroom and sighed, the hot, fragrant steam spilling over into the cool bedroom, licking the air. You took the towel off of your head, gently squeezing water out of your hair as you walked to the dresser. You opened your underwear drawer with your hand, humming at your options.

“Feelin’ better?” Simon’s voice purred from the doorway. You looked over and saw him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed - and they briefly rippled with a flex, as if he were holding back. You did a double take, glancing from his feet up at his face. His eyes were half-lidded and a small half smirk sat on his lips. You knew that look. He was ravenous.

“Yeah. Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” You asked before attempting to divert your attention back to the drawer.

“Like what?” He uncrossed his arms, strolling over to you, towering high above. You looked up at Simon’s face.

“Like that!” You couldn’t help but giggle as he buried his face against your neck, sniffing your smooth skin, inhaling the floral scent of your body wash so deep, letting it etch in his memory like carving stone.

He molded his body against yours, hands gripping deeply at your waist, fingers pressed into the plush towel. Your hands reached to wrap around his neck. His warm lips began to leave deep, hot trails against your skin, causing you to sigh in satisfaction. Simon kept your bodies tight together, lips trailing up to your ear. He nibbled at your earlobe, sucking gently at the flesh before biting at the shell, creating a surge of pleasure to pool in your core. You whimpered, hips bucking against his jeans. Your chest heaved in shallow sighs while he continued teasing you, breathing hot puffs against your ear, letting goose bumps sweep across your skin.

“Let me take care of you.” His voice was a hot whisper, and what he gave to you was not a suggestion, but a demand.

“Mmm, you don’t have to baby,” you purred softly, a tame deferment, placidly defying him.

You tested the waters and he called your bluff. He squeezed at your waist, a little firmer than you thought he would. His voice was a low growl, “Take off your towel and lie on the bed.”

Your body began to hum on the same frequency as his, his jeans becoming incredibly firm against your stomach. Simon pulled away, his half-lidded eyes darkening as they swirled with an insatiable drive. Your breath hitched in your chest, your stomach flipping as your cunt twitched in need.

You paused for too long. A hand left your waist and came down hard on your ass and gripped the fat flesh. You yelped more so at the sudden action than the sting. “And what do you say?” He asked, and your arousal caused you to feel your cheeks flush hot.

Your chest heaved. “Yes, sir.” Your voice was quiet, and he smiled.

“Thas my good girl, so god damn beautiful and smart. Go on then, let me see those gorgeous tits.” He moved his hands away from your ass and waist.

Your stomach flipped again, but you obliged, loosening the towel and letting it fall to the floor. Simon took a deep inhale, exhaling sharply as he eyed your body, and right now he looked like he desperately needed to sink his cock into you, but that wasn’t really part of his plan tonight.

He inhaled one more time, blinking himself back to reality as he gave your ass pleasant tap with just enough force to get it to jiggle. “Fuckin’ hell, Y/N, get your arse on that bed now.” He was at the point of fully commanding you around, but you were okay with that, and you would do anything he ever asked of you. Anything for your wonderful fiancé.

“Yes, sir.” You said coyly, causing his lips to twitch back into a smirk. You felt yourself melt a little while you walked over to the bed, plopping down on the edge.

Simon walked over to you, so unbelievably tall while you were sitting down. Heat pooled down to your stomach when you glanced down at his jeans. You looked back up at him, licking your bottom lip absentmindedly. He smiled, sighing. “Not tonight, love.” He scolded lovingly.

“Later?” You asked.

He paused, thinking for a moment before nodding. “Later,” he agreed, letting you win - which caused you to smile mischievously.

Simon leaned down to you, grabbing you by your waist and tossing you up higher onto the bed. You yelped with a smile, giggling as you fell down on your back, bouncing softly on the down blanket. Simon’s lips came down against yours, giving you little to no time to adjust. His hands, gentle on the naked flesh of your waist, whispered ghostly touches up your sides before eventually cupping your breasts. Your moans were lost in his mouth as his fingers squeezed and rubbed at your nipples, your hands finding themselves lost in his hair. You squeezed his hips with your thighs, your cunt swollen, begging and weeping for his abuse.

He moved his lips down to your neck, kissing, sucking, and gently biting you. Simon moved a hand from your breast and used it as leverage next to your head while the other hand slid down your front, tickling your sensitive skin, roaming over your stomach and mound. His fingers dipped down between your folds, pressing into your wet heat. You let out a pathetic whimper at the contact alone, raising it into a moan as his fingers rubbed slow circles against your clit.

“Ah, yeah? You like that, Y/N?” He purred against your neck before pulling away to see your reaction. You bit your lower lip and nodded feverishly at him, eyebrows furrowed. Simon smiled, your wet hair sticking to your face, providing a cool relief to the heat that swarmed your body like a furnace.

“Ye-yeah, yes- yes, sir,” you managed to gasp out. His smile turned into a smirk as he felt your cunt twitching. As if answering your unspoken prayers, his two digits dipped and pushed into your needy hole. A gasp was ripped from you, jaw dropping slightly at the sudden filling of your cunt.

“God, already so wet - my girl has the best fucking pussy.” He gave a small thrust, causing you to moan gently and buck your hips. “Oh, the things I’d do just to have my cock buried in you,” he growled before gently pumping his fingers.

Your tits bounced as his digits softly fucked into you, fingers curling up and rocking your hips, pressing into that spot that had your eyes rolling back. Your grip left his hair and soon grasped desperately onto his back, causing him to groan while your nails dug at him. “Ha, ah, harder,” you gasped as your hips bucked against his hand.

Simon smiled. “Yeah? You wanna cum on my fingers, don’tcha baby?” He asked, your cunt twitching embarrassingly at his words.

“Yes- yes, sir, please!” You whined.

“Hold on, love,” he sighed before rocking his fingers into you at an ungodly pace.

Your voice raised pitch before becoming lost in your throat, your head thrown back and eyes gone. All that filled the room was the sounds of your juices squelching against his fast moving digits. The silence was soon cut, moans finally finding their way out of you. Your fingernails dragged frantically at his back, as if you were fighting to stay grounded. Your cunt constricted harshly around his fingers, trapping him.

Your orgasm ripped through you, your hips bucked against his fingers and your thighs squeezed at his hips. Like a cool tidal wave poured over you, a chill ran down your back as your body surged with pleasure, leaving you crying out Simon’s name. He chuckled softly with a gentle voice, “Ahhh, thas my good girl, huh?” His voice was like a warm blanket of clouds, helping you down from your dizzying high. He pulled his fingers out and gave a small slap to your pussy, causing you to whine and your hips to stutter as he teased the tender flesh.

“Jesus, Simon,” you whimpered, your head still swimming in the aftershocks of pleasure.

He chuckled at your reaction while planting kisses down your neck and collarbone, stopping at your breasts to lope a nipple into his mouth. You let out a throaty groan as his teeth pulled at the sensitive, hardened bud. Your nails that raked at his back moved back up to his hair, the pads of your fingers pressing firmly into his scalp as his locks slid and tightened betweens your digits. The sensation had him sighing against your mounds.

He released your breast from his mouth, his teeth squeezing at your nipple before fully letting go, causing you to let out a small yelp. Simon began to kiss down your chest and the expanse of your stomach. He placed deep kisses at your hips before heading towards the simmering heat of your cunt - sticky, wet, and begging. He looped his arm under your thigh, hand holding your hip to keep you in place.

Simon’s lips pressed against your swollen clit, causing you to gasp harshly. His tongue, flat and hot, slid up your folds, extracting a long moan from you, and in response he moaned. “I’ve been waiting all night for this,” he hummed against your cunt, the vibrations of his voice driving straight to your core.

You groaned, your hips grinding against him in response which caused him to chuckle against you. “O-oh God, Simon!” You cried at the overwhelming stimulation, your legs shaking at his persistence as he buried his mouth into your cunt.

Simon lapped at you hungrily like a man dehydrated, drinking at your sloppy pussy as if he’d never be able to go back down on you again. It was gluttony and pure greed. He had commented before about how he hopes his manner of passing is drowning while you straddle his face. You laughed and said maybe one day! He didn’t think your joking demeanor was appropriate, and how he meant every word with serious intent. Whenever he’s being deployed on a mission, he always assures you he won’t die, because you’re the only one that could take him out. Of course, you didn’t truly understand the depth of his conviction.

Simon’s teeth gently nibbled and helped to create a suction around your clit, his dampened fingers once again finding your hole and pushing in. You let out a loud moan, your hips driving against his face, his nose pressing onto your mound as he did everything he could to keep you two attached, connected. He moved his head to match with your movements, keeping his mouth glued flat to your pussy, and any attempt to pull yourself away from him would prove futile.

Your fiancé has a wonderfully keen gift of being a giver. He was always so incredibly selfless with you, which could get almost aggravating as he was certain on making sure that your needs were met first. This attitude carried over to the bedroom. He could give you fifty orgasms and beg to give you fifty more while never even taking his shirt off.

What he loves, besides bringing you pleasure you’ve never experienced before, is seeing you lost in passion. Watching your face twist as he stretches you with an additional finger, your eyes rolling back as he hits that sweet spot, your hips grinding as you chase after your orgasm, your back arching and legs shaking as the euphoria and bliss crash over and through you. Simon got off by simply being the source of your arousal, and he savored unraveling you thread by thread before you’re bare before him.

That’s what he loved.

Your pleasure brimmed to the top, the lip, before finally pouring over. Your hands gripped tight at his scalp, legs tightened around his head as your back arched, head thrown back. Your cunt tightened deliciously around his pumping digits, his tongue still swirling around your clit as he rode out your orgasm. “F-Fuck, Simon!” You cried, moaning loudly, still holding onto him as the high came to slow, but he didn’t stop.

He continued to pump and lap at your clit, causing you to squeal in overstimulation, legs beginning to shake as a concoction of pleasure and pain pulsed through your core with every pass of his tongue. “I can’t- ah! Simon, please!” You sobbed, begging him to stop. A harsh groan left you, your body trying to shake him away as he kept his mouth to you. It wasn’t fair - it was too much. You were starting to burnout, your body sore and barely able to keep up. Regardless of your exhaustion, another orgasm was in the horizon, slowly reaching it’s peak before ultimately falling into a frenzied bliss.

“You gonna cum again, baby?” Simon mumbled against your sex, the vibrations causing you to groan roughly as your hands moved from his head to the sheets, grasping them with a white-knuckled grip, back arched impossibly high as you tried to wriggle away. You nodded frantically at his question, your body squirming and tossing with no ability to stop or control it as he pushed you to your limits.

You never doubt that Simon can bring you another orgasm in quick succession - he’s proven that true multiple times, almost every time, especially now. Your poor clit, though, was bullied and battered, the bundle of nerves crying out in both pain and pleasure. But it was a slave to Simon. Even during the loneliest of nights, months in bed by yourself, you could never make yourself feel how he makes you feel. It was maddening, and frankly unfair, but it made the intimate times with him all the more exhilarating and mind numbing. What makes it better is that no one but Simon has been able to bring you into such a state of ecstasy.

Simon’s free hand, still wrapped around your thigh and holding onto your hip, held you so tightly in place he pinched at your skin. You were going to bruise there, you knew, but you didn’t really care. Even though it was like edged like a razor, your release was fast approaching with no stops. You panted heavily, loudly, your body involuntarily writhing as the pleasure tipped you over the scale. His tongue dragged hot and firm against your clit, his fingers still thrusting and rubbing the spongy spot inside your cunt as the muscle enclosed and clamped around him, unforgiving.

“Oh, God!” You cried loudly, tears pricking at your eyes as you used a hand to cover your face.

Your orgasm came fast and sharp. His onslaught was staggering and unrelenting, and it brought an end that was piercing, sudden. A scream was ripped from you as the pleasure came like a heavy punch, borderline painful. It was a surge of electricity that ripped through your core, shocking your nerves and forcing your body to briefly tense… but it all dissipated almost immediately. Your mind and body crashed.

Your back collapsed onto the bed and Simon’s fingers slid out of your clenching cunt, his mouth pulling away from your swollen, angry clit. A moan of relief fell out of your mouth as Simon crawled atop you, a hand pushing the hair out of your face as he planted his lips onto yours, kissing you deeply and fully. Your juices had coated his lips in abundance, and you tasted yourself as his tongue slipped into your mouth. His tongue was slick, and he made sure that you entire mouth was coated with yourself.

He pulled back, allowing you the space to sit up, delirious, face hot and wet from sweat. Simon stifled a laughter behind a tightly pursed mouth. “What.” Your tone strained with trying to demand an answer, but it was hoarse from your yelling and crying.

He shook his head, his eyes fluttering. “Your hair, love.”

Your hands shakily went to your hair, feeling it messy and sticking up at odd angles. “Ah.” You nodded, trying to run your fingers through to flatten it out.

Simon preemptively got up to the bathroom and came out with a brush, taking a seat behind you as he silently began brushing out your hair, starting at the ends. You two took the moment quietly, slowly, and embraced just being in each other’s presence. The session was hot and heavy, and having Simon nearby, gently brushing out your vicious knots, was soothing on your frazzled nerves, like aloe on a sunburn. “You feelin’ good, babe?” He asked in a quiet tone.

You hummed. “Yeah, but that last one was really intense.” You commented, eyebrows briefly furrowed as the third orgasm continued to make your body shudder. His hands suddenly wrapped deep in your hair at the base of your scalp, and with a gentle tug, he pulled your head back to look at him, causing you to gasp quickly.

“Were you able to handle it?” His brown eyes bore into you, and you gave a restrained nod, almost forgetting that his hand was keeping your head steady.

Your voice was meek and small, “Yes, sir.”

Simon smiled, kissing your forehead. “That’s my girl,” he purred, gingerly releasing your head and putting the brush on the nightstand. He gave you a kiss on the top of your head as he stood up, commenting about checking on dinner.

You noticed his cock was rock solid in his jeans, pressing and straining against the denim so tight it must’ve hurt. God, you wanted to return the favor more than you could possibly put into words. He noticed your gaze and his hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head upwards so your eyes met his.

“Later, like we agreed.” His voice was low, firm, and painfully arousing. Literally. Your clit throbbed with both the need to be doted on and to also be left alone for a long, long time. “Get dressed. I’ll be in the kitchen.” With that, Simon left you to your own devices in the bedroom.

You got up out of bed, inhaling sharply through your nose at the feeling of your beaten cunt being squeezed between your legs. You hobbled to the dresser, resuming your original task. Underwear. Grabbing a random pair, along with pajama shorts and a shirt, you found yourself comfortable and ready for the night, making sure to slide on your robe so you didn’t get chilly.

The evening progressed. You sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, eating your dinner while Simon sat on the couch behind you, running his fingers through your hair, lazily braiding your locks as a movie played on the television. Your lovely fiancé also made sure you were planted on the softest, fluffiest pillow he could find. When you were finished, he made you sit on the couch while he cleaned up, coming back just to delicately massage your feet. It was tender, romantic, thoughtful. Simon wasn’t a very… physically affectionate partner, so these moments when he just wanted to be with you, to touch you, well, you really tried to get as much as you could.

When he was finished, his hands slid up your smooth calves towards your thighs, beckoning you to cuddle closer - to which you did. You hopped across the couch where the back of your legs were draped over his thighs, nestling your body in close to his, letting him wrap his large arm around your shoulders to keep you close. Oh, you couldn’t even put into words how peaceful being wrapped up in his arms made you feel. Warm, secure, safe. His other hand sat on your thigh, his veins and tendons prominent, titillating, twisting around his forearms, making the black ink of his tattoo dance. What was even hotter was seeing these veins and tendons flex and and tighten as his hands gripped the sheets or headboard as he fucked you to nirvana, until nothing but prayers and begging for God spilled and tumbled from your mouth in an indistinguishable slur.

“Why so nice tonight?” You asked him in a quiet voice, looking up at him while resting your head against his chest.

Without hesitation, he looked down at you. “Do I need a reason?” Your stomach fluttered, heat spreading to your face. You shook your head. “You’ve been stressed and working late this week. Least I could do,” he explained regardless and shrugged, rubbing the fresh stubble on his jaw.

Simon’s been back for a month, and you’ve been so busy you feel like you’ve barely seen him. He gets up extremely early to see you before work, make you breakfast and coffee, and prepare your lunch. All day he makes sure the house is clean and chores are done, opting to even overhaul the landscaping in the front yard - something you’ve been too busy to do. At night, he always waits for you to come home, dinner ready if you haven’t eaten. He makes sure you’re showered and taken care of before starting the whole routine again in the morning. You didn’t necessarily feel less than or that you’re lacking in the relationship, but it was infuriating not being able to take care of your fiancé while he has worked tirelessly to keep the world from blowing up.

But that wasn’t wholly true, was it? Sure, you felt that way, having openly admitted your insecurities to him, but Simon has always been genuine and adamant in letting you know that you’re doing so much more when you don’t have to. While he loves that you’re on your corporate grind, he’s made it clear that if you told him you never wanted to lift your hand again, you wouldn’t. Of course, with weeks, and honestly, months like these, you get closer and closer to considering to take him up on his offer. Then you could be that sweet, doting housewife, eager for her husband to come home from war.

“So,” you started, grabbing his attention and warm gaze, “is it later yet?”

#ouch my puthy!#cod mw2 #ghost smut #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you

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milykins · 7 months ago

Note

Ask for requests and ye shall receive! I'm not good at writing requests so bear with me lol. It's a silly Raph x reader scenario I've had in my head for a minute. It's the dead of winter and reader is going to the lair absolutely freezing 'cause its snowing out. Once reader gets there, they see Raph working out and looking very warm...it'd be a real shame it someone with freezing hands where to try to steal that body warmth >:3

Thank you for the ask! It was a fun prompt. I hope this is what you had in mind!

Raph×Reader

No warnings - rated E for everyone

Special thanks to @sophiacloud28 for beta reading this!

Cold Hands

Your fingers were numb. You couldn’t feel your face either. You haven’t for about fifteen minutes since you made the stupid decision to walk home from work. Miserably forcing your way through the snow, you were unsure if you still had feet or two large blocks of ice. You hated being cold, especially this cold. Mustering the effort you kept going, huffing out clouds of vapour. Only a few more minutes to the manhole cover.

With shaking fingers you hooked the metal tool for lifting it into the holes. “C’mon…” it seemed to take longer this time, adding to your frustration.

You slipped in before it was fully open. You could care less about the ping Donnie would get from leaving it ajar. It’s far too cold and your concern for hypothermia was outweighing everything.

You needed warmth and you had your sights set on your favourite bruiser.

The lair was surprisingly quiet. Good. There was only one person you wanted to see after that lovely walk.

Shaking the remaining snow from your coat, you threw it haphazardly on the nearest chair. Exposing your poor feet to the sudden warmth brought forth a gasp of discomfort. Your toes and fingers tingled like fire as your warmed blood worked through the frozen appendages.

The set temperature of the lair was not enough to really help you feel normal again. You needed him.

You located Raphael in the weight room. He appeared to be part-way through his workout, standing and facing away from you. He was grunting softly to himself, clearly associated with power-lifting a couple of massive weights. Despite how cold you were still, it was hard not to appreciate him for a moment. The way his muscles bunched and tensed. The rivulets of sweat from his efforts.

He'd once told how much weight he could curl and the amount was staggering. Around five hundred pounds effortlessly on a good day. The man certainly took his workouts seriously, that was for sure.

Watching how hot he looked, literally and figuratively, a devilish thought entered your mind. You shouldn’t, oh, but you were going to. This was perfect, and you knew he wouldn’t hear you.

Excitement building, you slowly approached, hands at the ready, craving that body heat only he could give. Without warning, you yanked his mask tails to get him right where you wanted him, placing those freezing hands of yours right where his neck met his carapace.

The sound that came out of Raph was nothing short of hilarious. It was a cross between a gasp and a cry, with in an expletive added in for good measure.

“Aaagh! The FUCK?!”

You firmly held your freezing hands in place while the dumbbells slipped from his, hitting the floor with a couple of two separate loud thumps. Thankfully, it was protected by a thick, rubber mat, or they would’ve left a couple of dents.

He turned his head sharply to look at you, eyes narrowing considerably that you’d interrupted his workout like this.

Smiling innocently, you just shrugged. “I… I was cold… and you looked so hot.”

Always a sucker for praise his bunched shoulders dropped and the hint of a smile was forming. You knew he couldn’t be too mad at you.

Removing his wireless headphones, he hung them on a spare hook and turned, taking your smaller hands in his massive ones. The warmth of them drawing a small sigh of relief from you.

“Cold, eh?” Looking at you finally, he noticed your still-flushed cheeks and echoes of melted snow in your eyelashes and hair.

“Baby, did you walk?” His expression quickly changed to one of concern. “Why didn’t ya Uber it?”

You gave him a half-hearted shrug with the decency to look a little ashamed. “The weather was too bad… I would’ve been waiting an hour, so I decided to bite the bullet and walk.”

Releasing one of your hands, he brushed his knuckles across your cheek, still able to feel to lingering chill. “Ya shoulda waited… this type of weather isn’t great for me. It’ll basically cause me to slow down and sleep. You, on the other hand, could lose a finger or somethin’.”

Eyes fluttering closed a moment, you leaned closer. You craved the heat radiating from his body. “I’m sorry…”

“I’m gonna rack these, hold on.” He turned, hefting those huge dumbbells onto a custom-made rack. “Half a workout it is. I gotta get you warmed up.”

You begin to protest. You hadn’t meant to interrupt him this much. “B-but, Raph, you don’t have to-.“

He silenced you with a kiss and slid his arms under your back and legs to draw you right up against his solid form. “I need a shower anyway.”

And that was that. He was already taking long strides to the bathroom. You shivered in excitement that had nothing to do with how cold you’d been. He was heading to the one with the huge walk-in shower that you adored. Unsurprisingly, you couldn’t find a single reason to argue with him.

“I guess a shower doesn’t sound so bad… as long as I have you to keep me company…” You wrapped your arms around him pulling yourself up just enough to squish your cold cheek against his warm one.

Raph shivered a little before moving on. “Oh, that’s something you never gotta worry about sweetheart… warming you up is my specialty. Plus, those ice picks you called hands were absolutely criminal.” You couldn’t help but laugh softly at that teasing smirk of his.

“So, I can’t steal your body heat when I’m cold?” You were really playing it up, sticking your bottom lip out and giving him those ‘eyes’.

He kissed your pout and chuckled low in his throat. “Maybe not when I’m doin’ curls, alright? Yer lucky I didn’t drop those damn weights on your feet.”

Laughing more, you nodded. “Deal, now undress me and get me in that shower.”

He growled softly as he brought you in. Closing and locking the door behind himself he was fully intent on a making good on that promise.

Things had never been hotter between the two of you.

End

Until the next ask! This is the first of three!

Taglist

@danceingfae @thelaundrybitch @iridescentflamingo @redsrooftopprincess @ninnosaurus

@the-cauldron-witch @thepinkpanther83 @avery73 @adebauchedsloth @sophiacloud28

@definitely-canon @scholastic-dragon @truffle-reblogs @fyreball66 @yorshie

Please ask if you'd like me to add you to the taglist

#tmnt #tmnt bayverse #bayverse raph #bayverse raph x reader #aged up characters #raphael #she's cold and needs him to warm her up #in more ways than one #tmnt x reader #answered asks #original writing

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xzaddyzanakinx · 1 year ago

Text

Not That Kind of Guy

Part Two: Stalker!Anakin Skywalker × femme reader series

Warnings: stalking, weirdo behavior, psychotic/delusional behavior, possessive/protective, sexism/misogyny, one-sided relationship, menstruation, sexual content, pervy behavior [eventual warning for smut; be sure to pay attention to future warnings in the series]

Info: Anakin loves you so much it hurts and he’s really fucking weird about it, but it’s okay since it’s love 💕 He’s a massive Perv [diary entries from Ani] MDNI 18+

Date:

June 13th

Anakin woke up in a wonderful mood this morning. Today was going to be a good day, a really really good day. It was Thursday and you were going to book club at the library, which mean you would be going out for coffee after and then you’d go visit your sister before your shift at the diner. That would give him an ample amount of time to install the necessary security equipment for your apartment.

He’d already set up the wireless connection and app that goes along with the cameras the moment the package was delivered. He’d had plenty of time to do that yesterday while you were in class. He was so relieved that he’d be able to check in whenever he needed to, just a click or two and he’d be able to see and hear the goings on in your apartment.

These little microcams were an absolute lifesaver in his opinion, not only were they the perfect size, they also had an extremely long battery life *and* the resolution was surprisingly good. It was definitely worth the extra cash to get a clear picture of your pretty face.

He practically skipped down the street to your apartment, typing the code into the keypad when he arrived. He made sure to wipe his feet on the rug at the entrance, he’d hate to track dirt into your neat little living space. He trekked up the stairs to your floor and couldn’t help the massive grin on his face as he unlocked your apartment door.

Boogie greeted him happily now, he’d made sure to feed her little treats every time he visited just to get on her good side. He’d actually become quiet fond of the little gal, he could see why you liked cats now.

They were soft and cute just like you. He wouldn’t be surprised if you purred too, and if you didn’t… well he could fix that.

He locked the door behind him and got to work. He was thankful you were short enough to need a step stool because that was really coming in handy. It made it so much easier to place the first camera in the trim above your front door. He made sure it had a good angle of your kitchenette and living room.

The next was installed in the opposite corner on top of the bookshelf that held the hoard of books you promised yourself that you’d read but hadn’t gotten around to yet. You were just a girl after all, stuff like that didn’t keep your attention very well. He thought his reading voice would hold your attention much better than your own inner voice.

Anakin smiled as he thought about which book he’d read to you first… you had quite the collection, but he had plenty of time to figure it out before the time came.

Now he had a great view of the couch and the hall leading to your bedroom and bathroom. He checked the first two cameras via the app and was pleasantly surprised to see just how perfect the resolution was. He knew it was good, but seeing it in your home like this? He’d feel right there with you every time he checked the live feed.

Your bedroom. The one place he still hadn’t allowed himself to enter, this was your private space and it felt wrong to invade that privacy. It was one thing to peek in occasionally but an entirely different thing to actually go inside.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open, the scent of you hitting him in the face had him weak in the knees. Anakin’s hands shook as he trailed his fingertips across the soft cotton sheets on your bed, you’d left it unmade.

He was already here… he might as well just try it out right?

No. No he can’t do that. If he lays down he’ll never get back up. His thoughts would eat him alive until he gave in and left a mess in your bed. Just a pillow then.

Oh… oh now he’s in trouble. Not only did he squeeze the pillow tightly and bury his face into its squishy middle to sniff every lingering bit of the smell of your shampoo… he did something very, very bad.

But it’s done now and he can’t take it back. Oh well, you won’t mind.

‘Back to work Anakin.’ He reminded himself and begrudgingly did exactly that.

He placed the third camera on the ceiling fan above your bed. Taking great care that the lens was completely covered.

He’s not that kind of guy.

He didn’t need to see what you did in bed… just hear it. You snored and Anakin just wanted to make sure you, ya know didn’t stop breathing or whatever in your sleep.

No other reason.

He took one glance over at the bathroom across the hall and really, really thought hard. He didn’t buy the fourth camera for your bathroom. He really didn’t.

He’s not that kind of guy.

He wouldn’t do that to you, but it was alright for him to think about it. Wasn’t it? Yeah. Yeah it’s okay to think about it.

With his handiwork finished he returned the step stool to it’s place under the kitchen sink and took a look around the place. It was homey, very cozy, very you.

You were alittle messy sometimes but that’s okay, so was he. Maybe he should clean up alittle. He smiled, proud of himself for thinking of it, and got to work. Just a quick run through of the kitchen and living room.

He couldn’t do *all* of your dishes, but he could certainly wash some silver ware and a cup or two to lessen the burden on you. So while he carefully washed and dried your favorite coffee mug, Anakin found himself sucking the spoon you’d used for your ice cream last night.

That’s good enough right? He’d licked it clean… you were going to use it again for ice cream tonight. He knew you would. Last month you ate ice cream for dinner the entire week of your period and you were doing the same this month. So he placed that spoon on top of the rest.

He vacuumed the kitchen and living room, your cat shed a lot and honestly Anakin should probably come vacuum for you more often because you’re not nearly as thorough as he is. He moved the couch and found at least two weeks worth of dust bunnies back there.

He knew it was difficult for you to juggle work, school and your personal life. You shouldn’t have to work, you should be able to stay home and lounge about after you’d cleaned house. He’d make sure you could do exactly that when the time was right.

Speaking of the time, he checked his watch and sighed. He should probably get going if he wanted to walk you to work.

On his way out he hurriedly placed the last camera in the stair well leading to the building’s entrance, that way he could familiarize himself with your neighbors and of course keep up to date with the door codes.

Diary Entry: June 14th

Those cameras I got for you are my new favorite thing.

It’s alittle unhealthy the way I check them as often as I do, but like they say, love makes people do crazy things.

I just can’t help it.

You’re so cute, I love the way you sing even if it’s really… not so great sometimes. But hey, not everyone is cut out for those high pitched vocals like that guy the one with the hair Kellin Quinn from that one song you really, really desperately want to hit the high note on. You’re amazing baby, but maybe don’t ever sing that one in public. Keep it at home just for me okay? Not everyone can appreciate your beautiful voice like I can.

You talk to your cat like she’s a person. Not even in a baby talk voice either, no, it’s more like she’s a girl from one of your college classes. You come home and tell her us your daily drama… it’s adorable.

I do however have a bone to pick with whoever Travis is. Travis can kick rocks. I can’t believe he did that to Amanda, and on her birthday? Unbelievable.

I think my favorite part of this new dynamic of ours is dinner time though. I even went to the corner store and got some cookie dough ice cream to eat with you. I felt like we were really there together, especially because I’m almost certain you used the spoon that I cleaned for you.

I’m so glad you have good taste in reality Tv as well. None of that Bachelor shit. No you like the juicy stuff. My kinda girl aren’t ya?

That Love is Blind show is truly one of the best reality shows I’ve watched in a while. But I had more fun listening to you laugh and shit talk those people. You’re fucking funny, it’s so cute.

Oh and guess what? I had a call with your super today! I’m next in line on the wait list for an apartment in your building baby. Hell yeah! It’s honestly really convenient, not only will I be right there whenever you need me, it’s closer to work so I can get home to you even quicker.

Diary Entry: June 18th

I’ve been alittle hesitant to tell you this sweetheart. I just feel real bad about it and I’m not great at sharing my feelings all the time. But I think it’s time I told you.

I just love you so much and I want to be with you all the time. Loving you from a distance is tolerable for now… but is it sustainable? No.

You’re a kind and understanding girl, sweet and caring, so I’m sure you’ll understand when I say that I *just couldn’t stop myself*. Your bed was so soft and the smell of you was so strong that I felt like I could drown in it. I hugged and kissed your pillow like my life depended on it but god… I found one strand of your pretty hair and that was just too much for me.

I’m sorry even though I don’t think you really mind all that much. Or if you do you’ve not said anything about it. It’s just… the fabric was so soft and you’re so pretty and I couldn’t help but think about what life would be like if I could come home to you in bed. Laying there with your pretty little eyes closed.

You’d look just like an angel. Peaceful and full of life, pink cheeks and smooth skin, warm and glowing.

So you can’t really blame me. You understand right? Really it’s your fault for being so damn perfect. But that’s really kind of an oxymoron isn’t it? You’re perfect so it can’t be your fault, but here we are.

Whoever is to be blamed, it doesn’t matter. What matters is: I’m sorry for tearing a hole in your favorite pillow.

Really and truly I’m sorry. I’ll fix it next time I stop by I promise. I just needed… something more you know? My hand just wasn’t good enough, too messy and wasteful. I needed to know that you’d be able to enjoy it too.

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking but you’ve slept alittle better these last few days haven’t you?

On second thought maybe I shouldn’t close up that hole. If me fucking your pillow and stuffing my cum into the fluffy filling helps you sleep better, well I’d be happy to oblige.

I’m not that kind of guy, I just made a mistake. But, I think you’ll thank me for it in the long run.

Your subconscious just lets you relax alittle more with me around doesn’t it? Even if it is just alittle bit of cum. You need a piece of me with you to feel safe and you don’t even realize it. My poor girl, I’ll make sure you sleep well for the rest of your life.

Eventually I’ll stuff you with my cum every night. Getting fucked to sleep sounds pretty good doesn’t it princess?

Diary Entry: June 24th

I hate to see you disappointed. Oh it just kills me inside angel.

I can’t even chide you for forgetting your debit card because it’s my fault for not making sure you put it back in your backpack after ordering those new shoes. I’m sorry sweetheart.

Don’t worry though. I’ve added a few extra bucks to your wallet, being a dollar short for coffee won’t ever be a problem again.

Realistically that barista was just doing her job and I know that, but the fact that anyone could possibly deny you something that you want is insane to me.

You’ll never have to go without your large vanilla iced coffee on laundry day ever again.

Especially after I saw how grumpy you get.

That little scowl on your face when your favorite washer/dryer were already being used. I would’ve marched over there and dumped out that old ladies wet clothes in the floor for you if you’d only asked.

But if I had then I wouldn’t have been able to enjoy watching you act like a brat out in public. I’ve never seen someone stare daggers through an elderly person like that before, you’re lucky she didn’t have a heart condition because damn that look could’ve killed her.

I’ll help you get that attitude under control soon enough princess. All you need is a good ass whoopin’ and a fat cock to tame you.

Note: Persil, those little blue shakies

PART THREE

Tag-List:

@wickedtactics @tsugumiholic @kingdomhate

@burnthecheshirewitch @exquisitcorpse @arzua10

@bby-imasociopath @depressed-kay @aliciaasky

@naty-1001 @mrsmikaelsxn @bunnylovesani

@ausskywalker @angelsadmired

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@starkiller419 @hearts4mitski4 @lethargic

@allhailbuckybarnes @shadowhuntyi

@mortalheartache @fallinlovewithevil

@sythethecarrot @chaoticantihero @vadersslut

@luvvfromme @anakinsbaee @doblasftcisco

@sweetcheesecakesblog @luvskywxlker

@angelsadmired @kaminokatie @anakin-pilled

@graveyard-stray @styleslytherin @chiaraanatra

@jediavengers @zapernz @lunalitva @salted-snailz

@queenofchaos99 @ellie-luvsfics @dazednstars141 @nico-velvet @rorysbrainrot @hopesworlld @1mawh0re @lonaah @t8lzw

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hapuchika · 5 months ago

Text

The Villian's Lair - Machiavellian Part 2

Warnings: aphrodisiac, diabolical pranks

Summary: Wanda and Natasha get to the Reader's Lair.

Series Masterlist Main Masterlist

X--X--X--X--X

Typically, an international criminal of your renown would have their base of operations on a secluded island or an anonymous fancy building. What the two female superheroes were not expecting was your base to be a dockyard with piles of shipping containers.

Natasha looks at the little note you had slipped into Wanda’s pocket when she passed out; it states the location and time along with a “Don’t be late ;)” on the other side.

They approached the rusty metal door, the only one that hadn’t been welded shut on the shipping crates that were on the ground. Wanda couldn’t help but crack a smile at the dirty welcome mat at the entrance.

They entered the crate only to find a fireman’s pole at the far end; there were signs that said “Come down if you want to catch me ;)” with obvious arrows pointing at the pole.

Natasha, gun in hand, walked closer. She attempted to peer at the bottom, but it was pitch black. Wanda stayed a few steps behind, ready for any surprise attack. Her magic was at her fingertips, waiting to be called forth.

Wanda and Nat shared a glance, debating whether the obvious trap was worth it. For all your faults, you had never used lethal force on either of them, despite having several opportunities to do so.

Wanda, feeling brave, stepped forward and grabbed the pole with one hand. She gave the ex-assassin a cautious smile and jumped down, clinging onto the poll.

She didn’t get far; the hole was only as deep as her shins. Wanda stared at Natasha, dumbfounded, who looked equally perplexed.

There was a slight static before a voice was heard chuckling.

“Oh wow, I can’t believe you actually fell for it! She had told me this would happen, but I expected more from you, at least, Natalia.”

The disembodied voice teased, It was certainly not your voice. The accent was similar, but the voice sounded younger… much younger.

“Alright, enough of these games. They’re expecting you… You don’t want to keep her waiting, do you?”

As soon as her statement ended, a slight glow filled the center of the space. A square platform with enough space for both of them.

The two wordlessly stepped on the platform and began their descent.

Within less than a minute, the wall in front of them opened to expose a lavish corridor.

They stepped forward, the decor catching them off guard. It was simple: wooden floors and gorgeous emerald walls.

They walked further down and entered what they presumed was the central living expanse, littered with cosy sofa cushions, a gorgeous fireplace and a coffee table.

Gun still in hand, Natasha peeked down the corridor on the right to see a singular door. Within the door, classical music could be heard.

Wanda decided to walk down the corridor on the left, entering the dining area.

There was an open kitchen; the stove had something being prepared on low heat while the oven had a delicious aroma wafting from within it.

Wanda glanced at the kitchen island, raising an eyebrow at the sight of two wine glasses, one of which was half-filled.

X—X—X—X—X

Natasha silently opened the door, making sure nobody was inside. She walked into your bedroom, surprised by how cozy it was. She quickly walked to your bedside where your phone was and placed a wireless cloning device, courtesy of Tony.

She looked around the room, placing listening devices strategically to ensure she had backups in case a few were found.

Once she was notified that your phone was done cloning, she left the room to join Wanda in the kitchen.

The spy lowly whistled at the decor, breathing in deeply at the food. Wanda nodded in agreement, wondering if she could grab a quick bite before the fight started.

The two flinched when classical music started playing, Wanda summoning her magic while Natasha cocked her gun, ready to bring you in.

They tensed as they heard your footsteps come down the hall.

Wanda’s mouth went dry as she took in the sight of you; your hair was wet, a few drops trailing their way between your exposed collarbones and into the hidden depths of your grey shirt.

Natasha, on the other hand, was avoiding looking at your neck entirely. She refused to acknowledge how your warm golden skin looked almost bronze in this lighting.

Your smirk informed the two of them that you were well aware of your effect on them. Wordlessly, you walked to the kitchen and turned off the stove.

You glanced at the heroes, your smirk widening as you realised they hadn’t moved an inch.

While you let the contents of the pan cool, you grab the bottle of wine and pour some into the empty glass, then offer it to Wanda.

She frowns at the glass, causing you to roll your eyes, take a sip, and hand it to her.

“I haven’t poisoned the wine, Wanda.” You say, a smirk returning on your features.

She takes a tentative sip, eyes widening at the taste.

“That’s… really good.” She says hesitantly.

Your smirk broadens into a smile. “I know.”

Natasha clears her throat, finally grabbing hold of herself. You glance at her while you walk back to the kitchen, your own glass of wine in hand.

“What are we doing here?” She asks.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” You quip, taking the rice out of the cooker and into a serving bowl.

“We’re here to bring you in, obviously”, she responds smoothly. “Are you going to come quietly, or do we need to use force?”

Despite really not wanting to, Wanda sets her glass of wine on the kitchen island and summons her magic, red whisps circling her hands. However, she is frozen mid-step when she hears you say, “I surrender; you can take me in.”

“But,” you continue, “How about some dinner first?”

Wanda glances at your food, her stomach grumbling at the sight and smell of it. Her cheeks flush when she catches you grinning, having heard her stomach’s protest.

The three of you make your way to the dining table where the plates are already laid out. Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Expecting this, were you?”

You shrug innocently, sitting down. Natasha rests her gun on the table, pointing it towards you.

You glance at her gun and look at her, unimpressed.

“Can't be too careful, given the company”, she says sweetly as she sits down.

Wanda lets out a snort, covering it up with a slight cough.

You sigh mockingly, “I suppose that’s fair. Maybe I should return the favour.”

The Spy’s grip on her gun tightens as you summon your daggers and rest them on the table. Wanda’s eyes widened a fraction but showed no fear, once again not feeling as though her life was in danger.

“Why are they different colours?” She asked curiously.

You look at her in surprise; she didn’t look afraid in the slightest. In fact, she looked completely at ease.

“They have different purposes,” you explained. “The dagger with the slight purple shine to it makes use of poisons; I used the serpent god’s blood. The red one? That deals with energy. That one was slightly more tricky to forge; I had to use fresh blood straight from the dragon king’s heart.”

“Which poisons?” Natasha asked, interested in the purple dagger.

You grinned as you watched her fill her plate with food, eyeing the serpent dagger with interest.

“All of them, every single one. All I do is tell the dagger what kind of poison I want, and it coats itself with it.”

Wanda frowned. “So you poisoned me earlier?”

You merely winked at her. “I learned early on that the definition of ‘poison’ is very loose. So what I gave you was something similar to a general anaesthetic.”

“And what about the shield agent?” Natasha enquired. “He had one of the most gruesome deaths I have ever seen”

Your smile dropped, anger and disgust filled your being.

“That shit stain got what he deserved, if you don’t believe me just ask hiswife and daughter” you seethed.

The witch was caught off guard by your fury, surprising even herself. She grabbed your hand gently and rubbed your knuckles.

All the anger in you seemed to quiet down in that moment.

The rest of the dinner continued with a slight interrogation disguised as idle conversation.

To their surprise, Wanda and Natasha found themselves relaxing and enjoying the meal.

Somewhere between the meal, you had offered Natasha a glass of bourbon, which she reluctantly accepted. Natasha was unable to stop her eyes from fluttering at the taste. It was… delectable.

By the end of the meal, the three of you were idly chatting about everything and nothing.

You leaned back in your chair, checking your watch.

“Going somewhere?” Natasha asked, sarcasm dripping from her.

“Not yet.” Came the mocking reply.

“Ae, can you get the antidote, please?” You called out.

A giggle could be heard from nowhere. “You sure? It hasn’t even kicked in yet; they have another 5 minutes.”

You nodded, not saying a word as two shot glasses with clear liquid appeared on the table.

“Did you.. poison us?” Wanda asked, looking almost hurt.

“Technically… no. What I put in your drinks was an aphrodasiac, quite an intense one at that. It hasn’t been activated yet; it will take effect in the next 5-7 minutes.” You said with a smirk.

“What you have in front of you is the antidote to that. I slipped it into your drinks. I give you this choice: take the antidote and arrest me… or… Don’t take the antidote, have the best night of your life, and then arrest me.

Silence filled the room.

Wanda stared at you, eyes wide and face flushed. Natasha reached for the shot glass but stopped.

“But.. but you..” Wanda stuttered.

You nodded. “I have taken it, too. If you choose not to, I shall suffer the consequences. If you choose yes, then all of us will have quite a night—one I don't think any of us will ever forget.”

“Well, " you ask, leaning back in your chair, “what will it be…?”

X--X--X--X--X

Do you think Wanda and Natasha should take the antidote?

Pls interact and let me know your thoughts and how it was!!

Hope you enjoyed ;)

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #wandanat x reader #scarlet witch #black widow #scarlet witch x reader #black widow x reader #Machiavellian universe

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 7 months ago

Text

Right This Way

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, age gap, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You get lost on a campus on your first day of college and a helpful stranger shows you around.

Characters: Steve Rogers

Note: this is the third of my autumn fics as decided by all of you!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You’ve leapt over one hurdle for the day but it won’t be the last. Your first lecture is done, but now you have to find your way to the second. Typically, you’d be on your way home. For years, you languished in part-time or sabbatical coverage but now, you have achieved regular faculty status. It might not be the school you hoped for, but these days, a job is a job.

You gather up your things as the class disburses. A few keeners come down to ask you about the midterm and you assure them it’s only day one. Full details will come soon. In the meantime, they can review the readings schedule.

You set your phone on the corner of the table as you search for your wireless mouse. You bring your own. You’ve had enough experience with neglected classroom equipment.

“Hey, Miss,” a deep voice rolls behind you and swings you around. A young man with golden hair, a square jaw, and a letterman jacket stands across the table. He is a factory-issue frat. You had your share of those in your own time as an underclassman; as a professor, they don’t often bother you unless they get an F. “Just wanted to chat about a few things I got this term.”

“Oh, sure,” you say as you reach for your phone. His eyes follow your hand. His cheek dimples.

“You on your way to Ford too? We can walk and talk if that’s easier?” He offers.

You’re not sure if you should take his eagerness as a good sign. At least he is mindful. At first glance, you don’t expect that.

“Um, if you don’t mind, I have my next class there,” you agree.

You hike up your bag and black the screen of your phone. You’re a bit embarrassed that he noticed the maps wide open on your phone. You’re still gearing your way around.

He waits patiently, bouncing in his brown leather Vans as you round the table. “Steve, by the way.” He offers his hand in an overly formal gesture. You know that brand of frat. They put on that gentleman act for the elders. It’s a charm you would’ve fallen for twenty years ago.

“Nice to meet you, Steve,” you shake his hand then continue to the door.

He hurries past you and pulls open the door ahead of you. Again, that overly helpful gesture twinges your suspicion. He must be asking for something big.

“So, I play baseball,” he begins as you set off down the hall. He quickly catches up, walking parallel with you. “And I just got my schedule. I can get coach t give you a call if you need but I’ll be out of town for a few classes...”

“Right, baseball,” you repeat. You’re not fighting the senate on this one. They prize their start athletes much higher than due dates. “I’m sure we can figure it out. Did you have your schedule with you?”

“Um, you know what, I don’t have it printed but I can email it,” he says.

Once more, he opens the door ahead of you. You step out into the early fall sun and descend the steps. It’s a quick conversation, it might be awkward to stick around.

“That works,” you agree. “I don’t want to keep you so if you want--”

“Nah, really, I’m headed in your direction,” he insists. “You do know where that is, right?”

You look at him. His blue eyes gleam. You peer around and shake your head, “that way?” You point.

He laughs, “no worries, professor, I got you.”

He puts his hand on your lower back and points in the opposite direction. You turn to move away from his touch. You blame the little club he’s joined in his youthful arrogance. They never do abide by the rules. After all, he is asking for exception, so why wouldn’t he overstep other barriers.

“So, you must be new,” he intones.

“Here, yeah,” you confirm.

“What else do you teach besides Renaissance history?”

“My specialty is medieval but I’ve taken on various subjects; ancient warfare, Victorian culture,” you rattle off. You know he doesn’t really care. For the jocks, classes are simply an afterthought. “What got you into this subject?”

“I like art,” he says. “Figured it wouldn’t be a bad elective.”

“I hope,” you reply. He points you around the curling path. You hesitate. You peeked at the map. This seems wrong but you did find the only dead end on campus earlier.

“You seem young for a prof,” he says.

You snort, “I don’t give extra credit for compliments.”

“I mean it,” he argues.

“Right,” you huff dryly. “Steve.”

He smirks as you glance at him, “wow, you got that professor voice down. ‘Steve’.” He mimics your tone and chuckles. You shuffle closer as you pass a group of young girls but he doesn’t seem to notice them.

“Like I said, it isn’t my first gig. Just new around here.”

“I think you’ll like it,” he intones. “Nice campus, nice people,” he preens. “A few profs pop by the parties even. Open invitation.”

It’s your turn to laugh, “oh, I’ve outgrown that.”

“Classy lady, I’m sure,” he agrees. You’re not sure if he’s complimenting you. “Well, what about back in the day?” He wordlessly gestures you along as he guides you. “You are party girl? Sow your wild oats?”

“That was a long time ago. It’s probably better left back then,” you deflect.

“Come on. I won’t judge. I’m a bit of a square myself. I’m the designated tidier. I pick up after all the drunks,” he snorts.

You hum. You don’t miss those days. Everything was so much more stressful. Not just classes but everything outside of it. Who to hang out with, what to where, where to go.

You slow as you look around again. You’re behind one of the large gray buildings but not too sure where. It’s a path lined with trees and abstract statues. They’re benches and an engraved stone wall memorial. You don’t see any buildings close by. Maybe it’s one of those at the other end.

“Told you, it’s a nice campus. Doesn’t seem like you’ve gotten to see much of it,” he says.

“Not yet,” you agree.

“It’s a short cut. Trust,” he says.

You nod and continue on. He turns towards the twisted metal owl and you go with him. You really don’t think he’s going the right way. You sneak your phone out of your pocket and press your thumb to the screen.

Suddenly, you’re nearly knocked off your feet at he bowls into you.

“Woah,” he collides with you so hard your phone falls onto the ground. “Shit-- I mean, holy cow. Sorry, miss. I tripped on--” He steadies you with a hand on your shoulder. “Did I--” He looks down at your phone on the stone path. “My bad.”

He scoops it up before you can and you recoil. Your eyes wander away from him and you examine your surroundings. The trees, the statue, it all blocks you off from the main path in an eerie way. You can hear the bird’s tweeting and the coeds chatting but you can’t see them.

“Damn,” Steve’s voice draws you back as dread simmers in your stomach. “I think it’s cracked.”

He walks ahead of you as he examines it. You trail him, “it’s fine. I can take it to the store and have them look--”

“I’m real sorry, professor,” he cradles the phone between his large hands. “I’m such an oaf. Bet I’m not gonna get that extension now, huh?”

“Everything’s okay, Steve. You can give me my phone,” you reach for him as he leads you into the shade of a large oak. “What are you doing?”

He pulls his arm back, aims, and throws your phone. It flies through the air as you gasp and lunge forward. What the hell?

His arm wraps around you from behind and he swings you back. You cry out but only for a split second before his palm smothers your mouth. He leans his body weight back and brings you down with him into the grass. What is he doing?

You struggle to get away. You grab at his arm hooked around you and claw at the grass with your other hand. You writhe and try to twist away from him. He follows you, crushing you to the grass beneath him. You wheeze as his weight forces the air from your lungs.

You flail both arms and sink your fingers into the dirt as you fight to drag yourself from under him. You can’t. He growls as he pulls his arm from under you and grips the back of your skull. He keeps your head twisted on your neck, clamping it between his large hands.

“Shut up,” he snarls. “Be good for me, professor, and this will all go quickly.”

You gurgle into his hand as your heart hitches. Why is he doing this? You said yes. You didn’t argue.

“I’m going to move my hand and you’re going to stay nice and quiet, aren’t you?”

You try to scream into his palm and he wrenches your head down into the ground. The grass is soft but the impact is enough to make your nose fuzzy. He hushes you.

“I mean it, alright? Shut your mouth or I’ll fill it with dirt,” he snarls.

You whimper and nod, puffing against his palm. Your body tenses before you slowly make yourself go limp. You lay your head against his hand and let your arms still. You raise your hands slightly to say, ‘see, I’m good’.

He huffs and slowly drags his hand away, smearing your spit across your cheek. You sniffle as your eyes prick and you inhale the scent of dirt. You can hardly breathe as your chest throbs and burns.

“Ah, don’t act so hard up,” he chuckles. “Bet you don’t get a lot of guys these days,” he pushes his knee between both of yours. “Sad, cause you don’t look half bad in this.”

He tugs your skirt up your legs as he shifts his weight around. The satin tickles your thighs and sends a shiver through you. You close your eyes, your forehead flush to the ground. You liked that skirt so much. You bought it just for your first day.

The thought stabs into your heart. You push your hands flat to the ground and brace yourself. Denial cords around you as terror clogs your throat. This can’t be happening but it is and all you can do is let it.

“Mm, not bad,” he rasps as he pushes between your thighs. “Come on, loosen up for me.”

He moves your slack legs apart and runs his fingers along the cotton of your panties. He purrs as he traces the edges along your ass and back again. He snakes his hand under you and presses against the fabric and feels your folds through the thin layer.

“I’m so goddamn hard right now, you have no idea,” he says.

You chuff out air. You try not to hear him, not to feel him. He slips his fingers beneath your panties and rubs your lips. He pets your head as he cooes in your ear.

“See, I’m being nice. Isn’t that nice? I know you wouldn’t be shaking like that if you didn’t like it.”

He rubs between your folds roughly as he presses his crotch against your ass. He rocks against you as he teases you. You scrunch your toes tightly as a tingle crawls along your thighs. No, please. You don’t want to feel anything.

He purrs as he continues to move his pelvis, breathing heavily behind your ear as he growls. He stretches his fingers along your cunt and delves into you. He pushes his hand further and curls his finger through your entrance.

The heel of his hand brushes against your clit as he moves. You whine as the coil winds around and around and around, tying up your guts in knots. You shudder and bring your hands to your hand, digging your nails into your scalp as you spasm. You cum, slickening his touch as a mortifying moan escapes between your lips.

He slides his fingers out of you. You groan. Your tears leak out and trickle onto the grass. He trails his hand around, leaving wetness along your shirt. He angles above you, pushing your knees apart with both of his. He splays you and tugs your panties to the crease of your thigh.

His zipper slices the moment. Your breath cramps in your chest as you hold it in. He guides his tip along your thighs. He feels you quiver, teasing and toying, as he rubs up and down your folds. He slides up by your cheeks and you clench. He laughs and traces back to your entrance.

He uses his thumb to push his tip through your resistance. You tighten around his intrusion and squeak out your breath. He shushes you and you swallow down a sob. He inches into you, his own exhale flowing over you like a cold storm.

He sinks in to his limit and you bury your toes into the dirt. You heave as he pulls back and thrusts in again. Your shoulders curl with tension and your spine locks. He pumps again and moans, petting your hair as he falls into a rhythm.

“God, you’re tight,” he grits. “I heard... well, I guess everyone lies.”

He runs his hand down the side of your head and beneath your forehead. He forces your head up and nuzzles your hair as he tilts into you. He puffs across your scalp.

“I didn’t see a ring,” he reaches up to clasp your hand, twining his fingers through yours as he continues to rut.

He keeps you like that, fucking you harder into the dirt. He lifts his hips, slamming them down so his zipper bites at you. He pounds at you relentlessly, shallow breaths mingling damply in the cool autumn breeze.

You open your eyes and stare across the grass. Your vision blurs around the tree trunks and wooden benches. Your grief and glazes over and drowns you in horror.

“Welcome to campus, prof,” he growls between nipping your ear. “Oh... and don’t worry about those missed classes. I didn’t make the team.”

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #fic #autumn #marvel #mcu #captain america #avengers

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