MONSTER MONDAY - NECROMANCER X F!READER
✦ WARNINGS: 18+・implied smut・death・drowning・paranoia・car accident・blood and bones・suicide・nightmares・gaslighting・mental breakdown・killing yourself over and over to force your boyfriend to admit he's a necromancer ✦ TAGS: happy ending・hurt/comfort・monster romance ✦ WORD COUNT: 3.6k
The first time, it’s the stairs.
Your foot catches, a stupid, careless kind of thing that happens when you’re texting and walking and thinking about what to make for dinner. One moment, you’re upright. The next, you’re falling forward, phone clattering away, hands grasping at nothing.
Your shoulder hits first—
(cra-ck)
—then your head—
(thud)
—then you’re tumbling, tumbling, tumbling, down the steps, each impact twisting your body and—
You feel the wet snap! of your neck, vision whiting out as you lose all sensation below your chin. It’s quick and sudden, but it doesn’t hurt.
(not in the way you thought dying would)
Then, you wake up on the couch.
Your boyfriend is there, leaning over you, his dark eyes full of equal parts worry and concern. The moment he realizes your eyes are open, he jumps to comfort you, voice so soft you almost don’t hear the nervous tremble. "Hey, hey, you’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“I didn’t—I fell. Down the stairs. I broke—”
“Shh,” he soothes. His hands, cold and gentle, cup your face, thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks. When did you start crying? “You’re safe now. Just breathe.”
But you can still feel the phantom sensation of each impact, your head trying to tilt back into that impossible angle.
You died. You know it with absolute certainty.
“Check—check my neck,” you beg through shallow breaths.
He does, fingers thorough but careful as he presses into your skin. You can see it in his eyes, the panic draining from his face as he finds nothing wrong. No break or bruises, not even a tender ache.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs, no trying to hide his relief. He pulls you toward him, and you fall into his chest willingly. “Everything’s okay. I’m here.”
He holds you for a long time, rocking you back and forth. His heart beats steady in your ears, the perpetual cold of him dulling your nerves. He strokes your back, pressing soft kisses to your hair.
“Maybe it was a bad dream?” he offers eventually, once you’ve settled enough to see reason.
You don’t answer, still not fully able to process what’s happened.
Later, when you have enough sense of your body to stand, you check the stairs. Everything is pristine. No scuff marks on the walls, no damage to the railing. Your phone sits charging peacefully on your nightstand, screen intact.
(like it never happened, except—you know it did—you know, you know, you know)
The second time, you drown.
You go to the lake alone; it’s something you do when you need to clear your head. The water is calm, the day is warm, and you’re a strong swimmer.
You’ve done this a hundred times.
You swim out to the middle of the lake, floating on your back, soaking in the sun, and watching clouds drift across the sky.
Your calf seizes, sudden and vicious, turning your muscles to stone. You gasp and go under, swallowing water, panic spiking as you try to stay afloat with one working leg.
(breathe—can’t—breathe—kick kick kick kick kick kick)
The cramp is too severe and you’re too far from shore. You try to call for help, but there’s no one for miles to hear you. You plead and you pray, water sloshing into your mouth as you slip under once again.
You fight. You fight so hard, but your body won’t cooperate. Water plugs your nose, filling your throat until it’s the only thing you can taste. You sink, watching the surface fade away as you descend into the depths.
(can’t breathe—can’t—drowningdrowninghelpsomeonepleasedrowningpleasedrowningsomeone)
Your chest spasms, water forcing its way into your lungs. It burns—god, does it burn—and you’re dying again, for real this time, dread swallowing you as much as the lake—
You wake up in bed.
Gasping, choking on your own breaths, but dry, dressed in your pajamas with your boyfriend beside you. He’s watching you intensely, brows knitted together as he spreads his palm over your chest.
(too alert—like he’s was already awake)
“Another one?” he whispers.
You nod, throat too tight to speak.
(you swallow and your saliva burns)
He pulls you close without another word, wrapping himself around you like he’s trying to shield you from whatever’s haunting your dreams. He smothers your face with light kisses, cooing reassurances.
“I’ve got you. Always. You’re safe with me.”
You burrow into him, trying to calm the trembling in your limbs.
The clock shines, 3am. You don’t remember coming home from the lake. You don’t remember anything after the water closed over your face.
“I—” you start, but he shushes you gently.
“Rest. We’ll talk in the morning if you want, but, right now…just let me hold you.”
So, you do. In the morning, you check your things. Your swimsuit is dry, folded in the top drawer of your dresser. Your towel is clean, and your car keys hang on the front door hook as if you never left the house.
There’s no water in your lungs, no lake smell on your skin.
(something is wrong)
When your boyfriend asks if you still want to talk, you shake your head. You smile and hug him and don’t speak at all.
(something is very wrong)
The third time, you’re in the car.
You’re driving to work, stopped at a red light, thinking about how your boyfriend has been extra attentive lately. His hands tend to linger when he touches you, like he’s trying to commit you to memory—
The truck hits you from behind.
There’s no warning, just the savage crunch of metal, the violent jerk forward-backward-forward, your seatbelt cutting into your chest, the airbag deploying too late, and your ribs are cracking, your sternum is caving, you can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t—
The steering wheel is in your chest.
You can see where it’s punched through, and there’s so much blood, everywhere, hot and wet, and you’re trying to scream but your lungs won’t work, your lungs are—
(ruined—destroyed—gone)
You blink, and you’re sitting in your car at the same red light with the radio playing the same song.
No truck behind you, no damage to your car.
No steering wheel in your chest.
Your hands won’t stop shaking. You pull over, fumbling for your phone, taking an extra few minutes to get feeling back in your fingers so you can call your boyfriend.
“Can you come get me?” you ask through haggard sobs, wheezing as you desperately try to pull air into your lungs.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course, I’ll be there soon.” He doesn’t ask where you are, but you send him your location, anyway. He arrives in ten minutes—he must’ve been speeding if he beat the twenty minutes your app predicted—and doesn’t ask questions. He takes one look at your swollen face, and helps you into his car to drive you home.
Once you’re on the couch, he brings you tea, waiting for the first few sips before settling beside you.
“I keep dying,” you finally say, once you can process words.
He nods, like he’s considering your words, then, “Tell me.”
You tell him everything. You tell him about the stairs, the lake, the car, sparing no detail about the fear and that you, without a doubt, died each time.
He takes your hand halfway through your description of drowning in the lake, massaging your palms with his thumbs. He doesn’t interrupt, waits for you to finish, and then a second longer before he tries to speak.
“That sounds…terrifying,” he says quietly. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”
“You…you believe me, don’t you?”
“I believe…you’re experiencing something real and frightening—” he brings your hands to his lips, kissing each of your knuckles, “—Whatever it is, I’m here. We’ll figure it out together.”
He holds you while you cry, stroking your hair until your sobs finally calm. He makes dinner while you rest, acting like everything is normal.
Like you didn’t just tell him you’ve died three times.
That night, he makes love to you slowly, reverently, like he’s afraid to break something so precious.
“I’ve got you,” he purrs against your skin. “Always.”
You want to believe him.
(you’re starting to suspect you shouldn’t)
The fourth time, you’re taking a shower while your boyfriend is at work, trying to feel normal and pretend that everything is fine—
Your foot slips.
It happens so fast. One moment you’re reaching for the soap, the next, your feet go out from under you on the wet porcelain. You twist, trying to catch yourself, but your hands find only air.
Your head hits the faucet.
You hear the crack before you feel it. Then, pain explodes through your skull, and you’re falling, collapsing into the tub, water running red around you—
(so much blood—can’t think—can’t see—can’t—)
Your vision fractures, pieces of the bathroom ceiling kaleidoscope above you. The water keeps running, washing your blood down the drain in pink swirls. You try to move, get up, anything, but nothing works.
Nothing works because you’re dying.
You can feel it this time—the exact moment your brain stops functioning properly, consciousness unraveling like a thread pulled too hard.
(this is it—again—always again)
You wake up in bed.
Your boyfriend isn’t home yet.
This time, you don’t tell him when he returns. You smile, eat dinner, act normal, and—
(something is very, very wrong)
—you start planning.
The fifth time, you make it look like an accident.
You wait until he’s at work.
You choose a building downtown—tall enough, and busy enough that someone will find you quickly. You take the elevator to the roof. The access door is locked, but it’s an old lock, easy to pick with a hairpin and some determination.
The wind hits you when you step out, cold and sharp.
You walk to the edge, peering down at the streets below. Everything’s so tiny from up here, people marching along the sidewalks like ants.
You don’t hesitate—don’t want to give yourself time to second guess—and step off into nothing.
The fall is longer than you expected. Wind rushing past, stomach dropping. You have too much time, so many sudden thoughts about impact and what happens to a body when it hits pavement from this height.
Then you hit the ground, and everything stops.
You wake up in bed.
Your boyfriend is home early, sitting beside you, watching.
“Hey,” he says softly, as soon as your eyes open. “You weren’t answering your phone. You scared me.”
(liar—you felt the concrete—you were dead)
“S-sorry,” you manage. “Must have have fallen asleep.”
“You look shaken. Are you feeling okay?”
“Fine. I’m just…tired.”
He watches you for a long moment. There’s a flash across his face, a brief narrowing of his eyes like he doesn’t fully believe you, before it disappears into that same gentle concern. He smiles and nods, “I’ll make some food. You rest.”
As soon as his back is turned, you check your body. No broken bones, no road rash, no evidence of the fall.
You stop telling him about the deaths, but you don’t stop dying.
The sixth time, you “accidentally” mix medications, swallowing whole bottles until you can’t swallow anymore.
The seventh time, you trip and crash into the closest mirror, but you “can’t find” the first-aid kit to treat the glass shards in your wrist.
The eighth time, you bump one of the knobs on your stove, “not noticing” the smell of gas as it fills your house.
The ninth time, you step into a crosswalk too soon, staring straight into the bus driver’s eyes.
Each time you wake up whole. Each time your boyfriend is there, concerned and caring.
(he knows—he must know—you’re certain he knows—he knows)
The nightmares start around the tenth death.
You dream of dying. What else is there? You’ve died so many times now the experiences blur together, but these dreams are…different. You dream of deaths that you’re sure haven’t happened yet.
Burning alive in a house fire.
Drowning in the ocean, pulled down by something with too many arms.
Choking on glass and metal and your own teeth.
Sometimes, in the dreams, you see him. He stands over you, hands glowing with something that looks like living shadow, begging you back, pulling you home.
You wake from these dreams gasping, and he’s always there, holding you, whispering that you’re safe.
(are you?)
Between the dreams, your days pass by in flashes. Walking past the stove and suddenly knowing what it feels like to burn. Looking at a bridge and remembering a fall that hasn’t happened.
You’re losing your mind.
(or you’ve already lost it)
The breakdown happens on a Thursday.
You’re sitting at the kitchen table while your boyfriend makes breakfast and the knife is right there.
(you know what that feels like—you’ve done it before—wrists cut—blood everywhere)
The flash hits you so hard you groan from the phantom pain.
Your boyfriend turns, concerned. “You okay?”
“No.” You know you’re the one speaking, you can feel the vibrations in your throat, but it’s not you. You haven’t been you for a long time. “No, I’m not okay. I’m—I’m dying. Over and over. I’m dying and coming back and I don’t know how and I can’t stop it and—”
“Hey, hey.” He abandons breakfast, crossing the kitchen in three quick steps to kneel beside your chair. “Breathe. You’re safe. You’re right here with me.”
“I’m not safe!” you shriek, shoving his hands away. “I’m never safe! I die and and I wake up and I die again and it keeps happening and—”
You shove past him, fist curling around the hilt of the knife.
Your boyfriend goes still.
“Baby,” he says carefully, hands raised as he slowly rises to his feet. “Put the knife down.”
“Why? So I can die some other way? So I can keep waking up over and over?” You’re crying now, hard, ugly tears. “What’s the point? What’s the fucking point of any of this?”
“The point is you’re alive. You’re here. You’re with me.”
He takes a step forward, and you press the blade to your neck. He stops, eyes darting between the knife and your face. You press harder, until you feel the break of skin, seething at him, “For how long? Until the next accident?”
“Don’t.” His voice breaks. “Please don’t.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“Because I love you! Because I can’t—I won’t lose you.”
“You keep saying that.” You glare at him, eerily calm despite how the knife digs further in with every word. “You keep saying you won’t lose me like…like you have control over it. Like it’s your choice.”
His breath catches, jaw clenching as though he’s trying to hold himself back from speaking.
“You do, don’t you?” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
You plunge the blade into your throat. Deeper and deeper, until you feel bone. The pain is blinding, and almost a relief.
“NO!” Your boyfriend lunges forward but it’s too late. Blood bubbles up, flowing hot and fast over the blade and your fingers. Every beat of your heart pushes more out, pumping your life onto the kitchen floor.
He catches you as you collapse, holding the knife in, trying to staunch the blood, but it’s not enough. It could never be enough with a cut this deep.
“It’s…okay,” you cough, blood pouring from your throat to coat your teeth. “Al…always wake….up.”
“Baby, please—”
“No…more…”
He crumbles, forehead pressed into your chest where your heartbeat staggers/ “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t let you go. I couldn’t—”
.
.
.
You’re aware of being moved.
Not in your body, but some deeper part of you that registers the change in temperature and atmosphere. You’re aware of being lifted, carried by the familiar cold of your boyfriend’s hands.
Down the stairs.
To the basement.
There’s a door you’ve never seen before, only appearing in full when he gets closer. He opens it with a word in a language that tastes like grave dirt.
The room beyond is lit entirely by candles. The walls are covered in symbols you don’t recognize, the floor marked with a deep red circle. Inside the circle—
A single rib bone.
You’re laid in the center, arranged carefully and quickly.
(as if he’s done this before)
“I’m sorry,” he cries. “I’m so sorry, but I…I’ve never been able to let you go.”
He sits, and he waits.
You—the aware part of you, the part that’s separate from the meat cooling on the floor—watch him. Watch his body tremble with horrible sobs.
(he loves you so much—so much it’s killed you—so much it’s brought you back)
Time passes. Your body finishes bleeding out, heart giving its final, struggling beat.
He begins.
The words are in that same, strange language painted on the walls. His hands move in patterns that leave trails of darkness in the air. He cuts his own palm, and lets his blood drip over your heart.
The symbols on the wall begin to glow.
The bone in the circle—your bone, from the first death, you somehow know—begins to hum, rattling against the floor.
You feel the pull, the call. His magic reaching into the void, into death itself, and dragging you back. —to your body, —to life, —to him.
You wake up gasping.
Your boyfriend is there, hands still glowing with that dark magic, covered in your blood and his. He looks exhausted, face swollen and eyes shining with terror.
“Welcome back,” he breathes, hands falling to his lap.
You stare at him, mouth opening and closing as you remember how to form words.
“How long—” you clear your throat, voice raw from stitching itself back together, “—How long have you been doing this?”
“Since the stairs,” he admits, eyes cast down. “I heard you fall, but by the time I got there you were already...Your neck was broken.”
“So you brought me back?”
“I didn’t know if it would work. I’ve studied the theory, but never—I’d never actually done it. But I couldn’t—” He takes a deep breathe, gathering the courage to meet your eyes and even more to reach into the circle and lay a hand over yours. “I couldn’t lose you. So, I tried, and…it worked.”
You look down at your joined hands, “And you’ve been doing it ever since?”
“Every time.” He slides his hand under yours, slowly lifting your hand to his lips. He waits, giving you time to pull away, but you don’t. “Every death, every accident, every—”
He pauses, glancing up from your hand to meet your frustrated stare. “But they weren’t accidents, were they?”
“Not all of them,” you sigh, free hand coming up to touch your throat. Perfectly smooth, no scars. “I had to test it. I had to know for sure.”
“I’m so sorry. I know it’s wrong. I know I’m hurting you, trapping you here, but I can’t stop. Even if you hate me, even if this destroys us, I’ll pull you back every time.”
You should be horrified.
You should be screaming, running, getting as far away from this man and his obsessive magic as you possibly can.
Instead, you think about his hands on you every time you woke. His voice soothing you through the nightmares. The way he’s looked at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth saving.
“The rib bone,” you say. “Is that from the first time?”
“I needed something of yours to anchor the spell. I had to make sure I could always find you, no matter how far death took you.”
“And…you’ll keep doing this? Forever?”
“Yes,” he says without an ounce of hesitation. “Until you look me in the eyes and tell me you’d rather stay dead than come back to me. Then I’ll let you go, but only then.”
You look at him, the blood on his hands, the magic crackling in the air around him. The desperate, pleading love in his eyes.
“No more secrets,” you say finally.
“No more secrets,” he agrees.
“If I die, you let me wake up…here—” you gesture at the ritual room. “—and you don’t try to brush it off as nightmares.”
“I promise.”
“And you…you have to make it worth coming back for.”
Something new crosses his eyes, fierce and possessive. “I can do that.”
He proves it right there in the circle of bone and candlelight. He strips you bare, makes you forget about death and pain and fear, and makes you remember why living—why coming back—is worth the cost.
When you come apart in his arms, whining so prettily, he holds you through it.
“See?” he smirks into your hickie-riddled neck. “Worth it.”
You don’t disagree.
Six months later, you die in a car accident. A real one this time, not one you orchestrated. Drunk driver. Nothing you could have done.
You feel the sudden impact, feel everything shatter as your soul slips from your body like water down a drain.
There, in the darkness, you feel his magic. His call reaches you in a matter of seconds, that desperate, devoted plea pulling you back toward existence.
You could resist it…let yourself drift into nothing, into the end…
You wake up in the ritual room. Your boyfriend is there, rib bone in his hands, and magic humming through the symbols on the walls.
“Welcome back,” he laughs, slightly out of breath.
“Glad to be back.” You pull him down into a kiss that tastes like life and death and all the spaces in-between.
Forever is a long time, but he kisses his way down your neck already working your shirt from your shoulders, and you think you can manage it.
