𝖊𝖕𝖍𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖑 [bsd x reader oneshots] ༉‧₊˚✧

𝗙𝗬𝗢𝗗𝗢𝗥┊THE EMPTY SPACE BESIDE ME「♜」

⇢ TAGS :| 𝗚𝗡!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥. 𝗛𝗨𝗥𝗧/𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗧, 𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗘𝗦, 𝗚𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗙/𝗠𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚, 𝗜𝗠𝗣𝗟𝗜𝗘𝗗/𝗥𝗘𝗙𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘𝗗 (𝗔𝗩𝗢𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗗) 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗛, 𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗜𝗟𝗘𝗥𝗦 (𝗕𝗦𝗗 𝗦5 𝗘𝗣 11), 𝗠𝗘𝗧𝗔𝗣𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗦 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗚𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗙, 𝗦𝗢𝗙𝗧!𝗙𝗬𝗢𝗗𝗢𝗥, 𝗨𝗦𝗔𝗚𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗥𝗨𝗦𝗦𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗡𝗜𝗖𝗞𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗘𝗦. NOT PROOFREAD.

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The sensation was numbing.

You had been molded into a perfect, hollow nesting doll—left forsaken atop bare sheets as malicious hands pried apart your skin. The presence consumed your every clouded thought; its static touch burnt into your skin. You shuddered at the sensations of shadowed tendrils worming their way around your body, squeezing at your throat as the stiffened air was stolen from your lungs. But despite your common sense pleading with your body to move—to do something, anything—you couldn't. You no longer cared. It was so much easier to let yourself be consumed, to succumb to the slow cementation of your heart as the dead weight fastened you to the mattress than to struggle with the inevitable.

But you had to know. You had to be sure.

You mustered the strength—either from desperation or conviction or perhaps a mixture of both—to twist your head, unconcerned with the ache in your muscles as the presence tried to continue to conceal itself. But as your eyes locked behind you, they widened as your stone heart cracked and tears instinctually welled in the corners of your eyes.

Nothing.

Nothing but the empty space in the bed beside you. The sheets remained tostled, the pillow bunched and abandoned, the space only a preserved display of the life that had occupied it nightly. Your hand tremoured on the perimeter of the raised comforter, reaching for the other that always grasped tight onto yours, but you were only met with cold fabric. No one had been there for a long time.

He hadn't been there for a long time.

And then, you woke up.

The remnants of the nightmare resided in the front of your mind as it lingered in a haze, convinced you remained the same reality as you grasped at the sheets beside you. Empty. You choked back a sob as those invisible tendrils twisted at your neck resigned to fate's baneful hands, but a distinct smell drew you from your weeping. The blanketed noises of a living kitchen echoed down the hall between the cracked door, muffled by the intentions of the man who dared not to wake you from your rest.

You raced to the kitchen; the thuds of your footsteps reverberated between thin walls as you practically tackled the man at the stove, tipping spices and rattling pans as you clung to his shirt, dampening the sound of your cries within the delicate fabric of his shirt.

He was quick to act, cupping your face as he wiped the tears from your eyes as he scanned your face in befuddled contemplation.

"Любимая?"

Your grip only tightened at the sound of his voice—you missed that voice so much. The rich tone of his accented voice always managed to calm you within seconds, regardless of the words spoken. Even at this moment, you found yourself grounded in your actual reality—not the clever creations of your malevolent mind.

"A nightmare?"

"It's nothing," you mumbled. Hearing him say it out loud made the entire situation feel so much more childish, and you resisted the urge to pull away out of embarrassment. "It's stupid."

He sighed. "I'm alive." You softened at the touch of his hand, fingers tracing your hairline in a blatant attempt to soothe your mind. A kiss was pressed to your temple as he guided you to rest against his shoulder. "And so are you."

He knew that the fruitless attempt on his life had created a fissure within your normally unshakable faith. Your touch had been airy, eyes distant even once he walked through the door, unable to grasp that he was indeed there until he physically stirred you out of your daze. It had been touch-and-go with you ever since, and the unfamiliar sensation of guilt churned his stomach, knowing that it had all been an element in his plan. No one could know he was alive—not even you.

He strayed from picturing your initial reaction at the news of his so-called death, attempting to cling to desperate hope when he knew that he had prepped his escape to fool even those who knew him best—but his mind easily conjured up a couple of images. And he knew, had he been in your place, that he wouldn't have stood a chance. That despite his stoicism and indifferent air, that his mind would've shattered at the loss.

This was so new to him, out of character. He didn't know precisely how to handle the broken pieces of your heart—the heart he broke on purpose. How do you appease someone who grieves over a life that wasn't lost? He couldn't find a proper answer in his painstaking late-night thoughts.

Your nightmares weren't a figment of a childish imagination. The fear of loss was entirely within the realm of reality, the possibility that the smallest part of a plan could go awry and be weaponized against him—he had known and planned for that. But he was truly confident that it was not within God's plan for these "accidents" to lead anywhere but a perfect conclusion. You were not of the same thought process, a juxtaposition to himself that he adored but cursed due to the anxiety you were left in. It was his sole duty to fulfill the will of God through any means—so how could your lives possibly end so soon?

There was work to be done, but soon even you would be free from the daily toils of fretting over life and mentality. You would both be able to live in a world where none of those problems exist, liberated to spend your days as you please.

You stood there, not bothered by the smell of burning food, as you nuzzled further into the warmth radiating off his skin. Your only focus was on the arms that wrapped around your waist, a much better captor compared to the tendrils of your nightmares, his fingers massaging into your back as nails raised goosebumps on stretches of your exposed skin.

He would wake you up. That was all that mattered.

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ೀ RUSSIAN TRANSLATION꒱‧

любимая = darling