#- threat. Is he haunted like the others- who knows?
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Vampire's Kiss | Chapter Three
Pairing | Vampire!Jungkook x Reader
Word Count | 4,4k
Warnings | +18, trouble for MC is not over, use of a dating app to look for someone, Jungkook is absolutely cute and sexy, kisses, fluff
⤷ Summary | Humans have finally unveiled and accepted the centuries-old existence of vampires, in a modern world people share their lives with these peculiar and mysterious creatures, but it is not all roses.
Will two souls belonging to such different species be able to be together?
➢ Author's Note | Hi, guys! ❤️
I apologize to all of you who have waited so long for chapter third to arrive, I'm really sorry, but life has been really hectic and I'm also working on many other stories, so I hope you enjoy the chapter now 😭💕
Let me know what you think, I always love your comments ❤️
Taglist: @katherine-kookie @peterstarkchrishiddleston @reallygenerouskoala @btsuga-d @angelicsmilesworld @jimincrystal @velvet-stardust2002 @ke1k029 @kylafox09 @pantara @takemeaway5402
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You're going to kill Park Jimin.
It's been a whole week since that party and you're still spinning in your head his words, which had the effect of making you even more depressed.
“In truth ... they specifically told me that they don't believe our relationship, they will only believe it when we go to their house for lunch.”
The idea of spending time with them again haunts you, Jimin had said one evening. One.
Yet, you still have to help him, because his parents did not see passion from both of you, you were blatantly fake in their opinion.
Well, kudos to Father and Mother Park, you certainly don't lack the nose like bloodhounds!
But why at their home of all places? Are they going to secretly feed you to their servants? You shudder just thinking about it. They are certainly up to something, Jimin repeats to you that you should stay calm, but it is easy for him to talk. You are nothing to them, just a dirt stain on their perfect son's shirt.
You must be eliminated somehow.
But the worst thing about all those days spent thinking and agonizing between you and you is the wrong idea that Jungkook may have gotten about you.
Shit, he's just a guy you met briefly at a party, so why can't you get him out of your head?
You always think back to the way he held you close, to his cautious and sweet look whenever he tried a more direct approach with you... and there they are, the damn butterflies! They don't leave you alone for a moment, your wormy little brain even dares to loop back his last words, before Jimin cursed Park ruined the atmosphere.
You roll over on the bed hugging your faithful stuffed animal you've been carrying around since childhood, gazing into his inane black eyes, you sigh.
“What should I do, Little Sunshine?” but the teddy bear, predictably, does not answer you.
He has left without deigning you another glance, perhaps seeing you there with Jimin he must have thought of who knows what, they know each other and must know of your best friend's reputation as a womanizer.
You violently plant a hand in your face, long ago to fuck Jimin it was enough to be his acquaintance, it wasn't necessary to get up to girlfriend status, you may have said Jimin is just a friend ... but in someone else's eyes there may still be a possibility that the two of you are some sort of fuck buddies.
Besides, why else would a human like you willingly accompany a vampire like Jimin?
You feel like screaming like crazy, you don't just do it because you sense your phone ringing in the darkness of the room.
You try to compose yourself, imagining it was a business call, but it turns out to belong to your best friend.
You stare at the phone screen with tears in your eyes almost.
<<Ellen!>> you shout, on the other side your friend whines, <<My sweetest Ellen! You called at just the right time>>.
<<You scream like that again and I'll block the phone in your face!>>.
You ignore her empty threat and begin to tell her what happened with Jimin and about the meeting with Jungkook, omitting nothing. By the end of the explanation you are out of breath and your eyes are glazed over, why do you have to feel that way about a stranger? What is happening to you.
<<Let me understand... Jimin asked you to be his fake girlfriend and this Jungkook, whom you described as more handsome than a normal vampire, flirted with you for at least half an hour or so and then left offended?>>.
You frown, <<He didn't flirt with me! He was just being nice...>>.
You hear a laugh stifled on the other end of the line, <<I used to say the same about Shawn and look at him now, chained to me in the sacred bond of marriage>> a smile escapes you… actually it doesn't sound bad.
<<What should I do?>> you ask more to yourself than to her.
<<Uhm... you said he works with Seokjin, right? Isn't Seokjin the creator of Vampire's Kiss? Maybe he's on that site too, try looking for him... and maybe contact him, they even created a very convenient app!>> you widen your eyes. Sure! That could work...
<<But what if he doesn't want to hear from me? I mean, he didn't leave on the best of terms, surely he must have thought of something strange>>.
<<Take your balls out and look for him! You said you felt something different next to him, right? Don't let such an opportunity pass you by, what you felt doesn't happen to everyone ... and for your sanity and mine too, put your mind at rest once and for all>>.
You nod, she has a point, then you hear her stifle a shriek.
<<Wait a minute! ... You said that just looking at him turned you on-!>> you close the call in half a second, redder than a tomato! There, that thing you might as well have avoided revealing it to her, even if it simply slipped out of your mouth without realizing it ... such a thing has never happened to you, neither with humans nor with vampires, that was a detail as embarrassing as it was surprising.
You make a decision and install Vampire's Kiss on your cell phone, the app's simple and intuitive screen allows you to enter your account right away, go to the purple heart with the magnifying glass and search for Jeon Jungkook.
The results are immediate and the search leads you to no less than five users, but only one is the one that immediately hits you like a bouquet of soft flowers in the middle of your face.
He is right there, posing for a photo taken in the middle of a summer day, not at all concerned about possible sunburn, and you smile instinctively at his caption, which is short and absolutely adorable.
So your impression was right, this is a good guy. You zoom in on the photo and look admiringly at the sunlight softly shining on him, he is also smiling and without thinking about it you take a screenshot, do you look crazy? Probably yes, but your chest tightens at the idea of not being able to see him every day.
It's really crazy... it's just a stranger.
But you and this stranger have one thing in common. The two of you are desperate for love, to the point of signing up for a dating site to find it, your finger trembling, undecided whether to press your purple heart to follow him and thus engage in conversation with him or just drop everything and move on from your lightning-fast meeting at the party.
You turn off the phone with a sigh. Even if you wanted to try, you are nothing compared to him. You would only have wasted his precious time.
“But seeing you there, under the moonlight, I-”
You shake your head violently, it's no use daydreaming, he didn't even finish the sentence. That only indicates one thing, that it was not meant for you two to continue the acquaintance, period.
Suddenly an annoying noise starts from your stomach, you cast a glance at the time -- 2:11 p.m., you haven't even had lunch and there is nothing edible in the fridge, in short, the typical life of a single career woman. But below the house there are several small stores open 24 hours a day that sell noodles and allow you to cook them immediately after purchase. Yes, you would have graciously taken advantage of their services, that is also the beauty of living in Korea, every place becomes home.
You turn on the light and look around for your shoes, heedless of the eyes burning at the sudden impact.
Next mission: don't starve.
You look thoughtfully at the shelf stuffed with packages of noodles, there are all flavors and colors, but maybe you'll have to buy some instant cook rice too to satiate your stomach more, and speaking of your stomach, you hear it growling once again.
Ungrateful, why doesn't it give you time to think?
You grab a packet of spicy chicken-flavored noodles on the fly, then reconsider -- better two.
Excited to eat, you jump merrily without looking over your shoulder, like the clueless fool that you are, you feel your head collide with something sharp and immediately see the stars in the middle of the convenience store, a stifled moan escapes your lips and you squeeze your eyes shut trying to chase that pain away, being interrupted by another unexpected moan of distress.
You turn back to the source and notice a boy behind you, head down, you can just make out a wonderful mass of dark, wavy hair.
You blanch, your own flushes of pain sidelined. Did you hurt him? Medical bills are fucking expensive.
"I-I'm sorry! Did I hurt you very much? I didn't want to, believe me."
The boy makes a strange noise, as if he has suddenly held his breath, then slowly his head rises and you find yourself going wide-eyed.
In front of you Jungkook in casual clothes and a jacket far larger than his own size is holding his chin with one hand.
“Gosh, you knocked me out,” he chuckles with difficulty, removes his hand and you see a red spot take shape on that area of smooth, soft skin, “I didn't think I'd find you here....”
You're frozen, you can't utter a single word, the only thing that assures you you're still alive is the slow pulsing of the bump on your head, but is this guy made of granite or what? A very sexy granite, of that there is no doubt.
"I didn't... I didn't think so either” for the simple fact that not even twenty minutes earlier you looked him up on a dating app, then clandestinely saved his picture like a poor desperate spinster.
"Are you okay? I think you were the one who got the hardest hit,” he asks worriedly, out of the corner of your eye you notice how his hand tries to rise, but he instantly lowers it, you gloss over the incident by waving yours away.
"No, absolutely! I'm fine, I'm so sorry, I'm stupid,” you mutter to yourself, feeling guilty.
You see him looking around carefully, “I'll get you some ice, wait here!” not even time to tell him to let it go, it vanishes in an instant.
You lower your eyes to the packages of noodles, “This happened because I never buy real food, right?”
You both find yourselves so seated face to face in front of the convenience store, you're uncomfortably pressing ice on what appears to be quite a bloody good bump. Jungkook just stares at you with that innocent look on his face, is he seriously a vampire?
You take the floor, trying to fill that uncomfortable silence, deliberately ignoring the palpitations of your heart, “Does it still hurt?” you point to his chin, which seems to have returned to normal coloring, in fact he denies it.
“It's okay, for us vampires pain is momentary, we heal quickly.”
Okay, now what?
There, meeting him was not some kind of miracle, but a curse.
"Um... you look different, I mean... with these clothes you look normal, no wait! I mean you look great even without clothes, No! T-those elegant clothes! But you look fabulous even like this, really!” you stumble over your own words and god, you want to hole up in some dirty hole on top of a remote mountain. You look great without clothes, really?!
“Hey, hey, don't worry, you look very good in your normal clothes too,” he smiles amused, then changes his expression, “Did you have a good time at the party when I left? I apologize for how I left you, I don't usually go to parties and I don't know how to behave,” he explains, his voice sounds colorless, different from the sweet voice he used before and even during your first meeting.
Something has been bothering him and you even know what it is, or at least you think so. You shouldn't worry about it, but you like him and want to clear it up.
You take a breath, “Jungkook, I don't know what you thought seeing me there with Jimin, but I assure you we're just friends, there's no romantic or ... well, sexual interest,” you just want to calm him down, but evidently your words have the opposite effect, because he whitens starting to gasp.
“Oh god, I made you feel like a lowlife, didn't I?” he puts his hands to his face shaking his head, “I'm just an idiot, you don't have to pay attention to me,” he complains with his forehead pressed against the surface of the table.
"You didn't make me feel like a lowlife! I just wanted to make it clear that I didn't lie to you, I was really there to accompany Jimin” maybe it's best not to specify the plan that brought you there that night.
But the boy continues to shake his head, at times in despair, “I never thought you had lied to me or anything...” he raises his eyes to you fearfully, “I was just... disappointed, your knight for the evening had returned and my company therefore no longer needed, that's it, I was disappointed and envious,” he chuckles exasperatedly, most likely at himself.
You feel the same pleasant grip on your heart as a smile makes its way across your features. Should you tell him?
Maybe it's not such a bad idea after all, you would have loved him even in case of rejection, he seems like a really good person.
“I'd like to tell you a secret...” you start by saying and immediately come back with a straight back, in his eyes you can glimpse ill-concealed curiosity, “I too felt disappointed... my real knight left that night, leaving me with one of his underlings,” you sigh sadly.
“That knight may have felt he was in over his head in that situation,” he says embarrassed, but you shake your head.
“He shouldn't have left me there, it's his duty to make sure I'm okay!” you don't know where all that courage came from, you just feel it's the right thing to do.
He tilts his head to the side, biting his lower lip with what you identify as a canine, the soft scarlet skin drooping under his pressure, but not tearing. Images and thoughts of what he could have done to you with those luscious lips of his leap into your head, adding to all the erotic dreams you've had over the past few nights, they always knocked treacherously, but you let them in willingly.
“Even this knight has a secret to confess” he leans toward you, enough to breathe your own air just inches away, you remain in awe of his deep irises, where you catch a vermilion flash, “Wasn't the moon beautiful that night” you begin to cough because of your own saliva, you didn't expect such a statement, not from someone like him toward someone like you. You beautiful? Is he really saying that? The darkness must have been to blame, the moon cannot be darkened by a mere human, he must have seen wrong.
But wait… vampires see in the dark as nocturnal predators, don't they?
A grin from him surprises you and you also understand the motivation behind it, after all, the rush of excitement your body undergoes is not ignorable. Now you also have confirmation that vampires perfectly sense a person's emotional and physical changes.
You try to compose yourself, bringing a lock of your hair behind your ear, he remains firm in his position.
“I like you, I've done nothing but think about you, do I have a chance?” his bluntness amazes you in no small part, he is showing much more courage than any other man who would have gone around us instead.
You swallow, not knowing what exactly to answer, so you try with resolving one of your doubts, “Y-You know I'm human, right?”
It seems a silly thing to ask, but it's very important to you that he knows what he's getting into, you two have different rhythms and abilities, you don't want him to feel stuck in a relationship too different from the ones he was used to with women of his own kind.
But his eyes soften, you feel you can also calm down.
“Of course, I knew right away...the sound of your heart beating is something I couldn't give up, your skin is warm and it warms mine,” he takes your hand between his, the ice falling to the ground from your shock. Doesn't he care about that? “Can we at least try?”
In that instant you realize that you cannot give up on him so easily, you nod contentedly as your eyes glaze over, incredulous that such a thing could have happened to you.
From that moment you continued to go out every day, especially at night hours, as he wrote in his profile on Vampire's Kiss, he loves to take walks under the dark sky and he also took his dog, Bam, with him from time to time. You, who usually prefer cats, found no difficulty in falling in love with that handsome, hyperactive dog, so similar to his daddy in both physique and character.
You and Jungkook are now hand in hand at the seashore, neither of you speaking, simply listening to the sound of the waves calmly crashing on the shoreline.
You see him lying comfortably on the sand, heedless of the grains that go to hide in every fold of his comfortable clothes, without much thought you follow his example.
It is nice to gaze at the stars like that, but turning your head in his direction you find yourself thinking that the best show is there by your side.
Unlike you, he has never looked away from you, you have literally found the boy of your dreams, “What is it?” you ask with a laugh in your voice, he doesn't answer right away, settling on his side.
“I feel a little confused,” he replies, frowning a little worriedly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I love this beach at night, but the only thing I can think about is you next to me, it's a little confusing to me, now whenever I come here without you, I'm sure I'll be thinking about you nonstop.”
You watch his face engulfed in darkness, yet you can make out the brightness of his eyes; he is a nocturnal predator, you lift yourself up on one arm to get a better look at him.
“Who says you'll come back here without me?”
He inhales sharply, “Don't say such things, don't make promises you can't keep, baby,” he hisses an inch from your face, he has never called you that. Sometimes you forget that he is an adult vampire, much older than you. You like being called that by him, with Jimin it's a game... with Jungkook it's something more intimate.
"Why, Jungkook... Have I been giving you a lot to think about these days?” you are literally talking on his lips, clenching a fistful of sand tightly, the urge to kiss him is becoming more and more pressing, but he shakes his head, pulling away suddenly.
“You always make me think a lot of things, but no ... you don't have anything to do with it, it's just that all my relationships have ended one way,” he laughs without humor, “That is, with a broken heart, mine. It's funny coming from a vampire who doesn't have a heart, isn't it? Or at least, not as alive as you humans',” he explains with a look up at the sky. No, you can't believe it, it's impossible that there is someone who can leave such a boy.
"Are you so convinced that this will also apply with me? If that's really the case, then why have we come to this point?” if he believes it will end badly, why the hell did he invite you on all these dates?
He shrugs, “I've never dated a human girl, I look good with you! I would never say otherwise, but...."
Sighing, “You're afraid,” you finish for him, “But you know what? I have never dated a vampire guy, yet I want to give myself and him a chance, even if it ends badly, with him now I want to think it will be okay."
Silence falls between you, you return with your back to the sand, unsure of what just happened.
Perhaps you have both gone too far in such a short time? Oh... maybe he wants more space for himself, that's why he talked about going to the beach alone, your lips begin to tremble.
“Jungkook... maybe I'd better go home,” you murmur, rising slightly again in search of your bag and shoes, but a hand on your arm stops you instantly.
"What? Why?” he stares at you like a lost puppy, unable to understand your intentions.
“Maybe I rushed you too much, I'm sorry,” you try to wriggle your arm still in his grip, but all you get from it is an imprecation from him that makes your eyes go wide, he has never cursed in front of you, and before you can say anything to him you see his figure descend entirely on you, just like the vampires in the old movies, with only one difference, at that moment he is not interested in your blood.
His moist lips make contact with yours without hesitation, you accept them willingly using your free arm to anchor yourself to his blemish-free neck, you close your eyelids inhaling his wonderful scent, crushing his weight on you as if your very life depended on it, he lets you do it by filling your lips with numerous small kisses in the mold, your heart threatens to melt under all that tenderness and you note with happiness the softness of his lips that taste like cherries, not resisting you lightly grasp a flap of his lower lip between your teeth, savoring it on your tongue.
His shoulders shake and he releases your arm from his grip so you can sink a hand into your hair, this encourages you to do the same with his, enjoying his little moan. Jungkook with an extra bit of resourcefulness deepens the kiss, tapping his tongue against the seam of your lips, which you open willingly to his passage.
You kiss him as you've never kissed in your life, in your chest a soft warmth pushes to bring you to accept him in his entirety, your eyes moisten from that almost suffocating instinct, it has an effect on you that you can't even imagine. It scares you a little, but that is bearable if it means keeping his taste alive on your lips.
He separates from you slowly, “I've been dying to do this,” he whispers an inch from your noses, you take a big breath.
“So it's okay?” you whisper, you don't want barriers between you two, it's hard enough to accept the fact that you are not yet an actual couple.
He brings his head to your chest, resting his ear exactly over your beating heart, then nods.
“I think I've lost hope, every woman I've had wanted different things from me, mainly money and sex, then there were the ones who wanted to own me in everything... I've just come to a dead end after all these years, it's not easy for me to open up now.”
Gently you stroke those locks from which only a sweet floral scent comes, “Jimin said you never attend parties like that.”
“It's not easy for me to stand by and watch couples who are doing much better than me,”he look up with huge eyes, almost as if you want to express something very obvious, “I'm a very envious guy, you know?” you burst out laughing, sounding like a child, and lean slightly toward him to print a tender kiss on the tip of his nose.
He looks surprised and awkward for a moment, then returns to hide his expression.
“I'm talking seriously, and you go and do things like that,” he mumbles, shrugging.
“You're so cute,” you whine, he lets out a grunt.
“A little human talking like that to a vampire much older than she is.”
A question mark the size of a house makes room in your mind, “I've been wondering this for a while... how old are you?”
You hear him smiling at you.
“S.e.c.r.e.t,” he punctuates nicely, before lifting himself up on his arms and planting another soft kiss on you, “I'll tell you my age, if we're good together.”
You arch an eyebrow, “On Vampire's Kiss you wrote twenty-five, so I already know how old you are,” you say in an offended tone.
He shakes his head, “Twenty-five years I've been living in Seoul, baby.... We vampires tend to fake our age so as not to scare you humans."
Oh dear. He always has an answer for everything!
“All right, how long would you be willing to make me wait?” he clearly pretends to think about it, his expression too theatrical, but you let him. You find that side of him really adorable and would never try to change it in any way.
“A hundred days, a hundred days and you'll know who you've decided to spend your life with,” he chuckles, wrinkling his nose, nodding in agreement.
“A hundred days.”
You both don't know each other very well yet, but already hearing him say such a sentence sent your heart to heaven, and the butterflies in your stomach to a valley in bloom.
How much more can you like Jeon Jungkook?
#bts#jungkook x reader#vampire jungkook x reader#bts smut#jungkook smut#bts au#bts fanfic#bts vampire au#bts vampire#bts fanfiction#bts imagine#jungkook imagine#jungkook fanfic#jungkook fanfiction#bts x reader#jungkook ff#bts x y/n#jungkook x y/n#jungkook fic#jungkook au#seokjin fanfic#namjoon fanfic#yoongi fanfic#hoseok fanfic#jimin fanfic#taehyung fanfic#bts au fanfic#jungkook au fanfic#jeon jungkook x reader#jeon jungkook x you
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What do you want to see in Jedi:Unknown title (jedi 3)? Could be gameplay, story, or anything related to the game.
In absolutely no order whatsoever, my Jedi 3 wishlist!
EVERYBODY LIVES. Do you HEAR ME, Respawn?!?!??! They get to live out their days on Tanalorr!!!!
While I'd love for Kata to not be Force-sensitive (Greez and BD will be outnumbered!), I don't think that'll happen, so I'd love it if they stuck with the theme so far that the Force doesn't belong solely to the Jedi, so Kata can choose her own path... maybe a more sisterly path... Or just a path that doesn't necessarily adhere to the Jedi way. Cal is so haunted by the Jedi's past (he spends most of Survivor exploring the Order's ruins after all), that I wonder if he'd even want to teach Kata how to be a Jedi of old.
Speaking of Kata, I really want her relationship with Cal to be more of a struggle. Regardless of her whole 'It changed Papa' line, she is still living with the man who murdered her father and the woman who helped him do it. I'm not interested in happy families because that's too easy.
There's a line in Survivor about how dangerous the leftover Raiders are, and we do see them fighting alongside the Brood, sooooo RAIDERS BROOD TEAM UP! And a final showdown with Sorc Tormo because Cal deserves to put an end to his nonsense once and for all.
Cal's ongoing struggle with the darkness. I don't want that to be the main focus of the game, but I want to see him finding his own way through. I know, I know, Cere told him to lead 'her' through the darkness, but how about he just takes five to check in on his own wellbeing?!
More psychometry too, especially now we know Cal can turn people's memories against them. Oh, and he can walk through someone's dreams because of his psychometry. I love how Survivor hinges on it at multiple points.
Logically, there has to be some kind of existential threat to Tanalorr or the Hidden Path in the next game... but not the kind that results in Cal sacrificing himself. Please, just ONCE, can we get a happy ending?!? Cal dying would make the other two games feel so pointless and empty.
No connections to anything Disney+ related because none of it is very good. YEAH, I SAID IT. Also, if you had Obi-Wan Kenobi showing up, he's really gonna overshadow Cal in his own damn game. Vader gets away with it because he's used really sparingly, but you start busting out Kenobis or Solos, we're gonna have a problem (or I am anyway).
A flashback in which Cere and Cal share a hug. I can't believe Survivor denied us T_T
Cal reaching a master's level of power in combat. They did such a good job developing his abilities in Survivor, so I'm sure they'll smash it in the next game too. What I'm saying is perfect bolt reflection with EVERY lightsaber, not just the double-bladed.
THE ZEFFO RETURN!!!! Okay, no, maybe not...
Greez gets to start his Pyloon's franchise.
No, seriously, Nightsister Kata is more interesting to me than Jedi Kata, so maybe Merrin gets to play the mentor (not happening, I know... SIGH)
Please please please don't let Cal's default clothing be more traditional. I don't like him in robes because they seem so at odd with his lifestyle and how athletic he is.
The son of the son of Oggdo Boggdo.
There's probably more but that's about everything I can think about right now. Thanks for the Ask!
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Howdy, kids! My name’s Jess- are you ready to learn about some cool critters?
Finally finished designing my FNAF OC: Jess the Red-Tailed Hawk!
He teaches children about birds of prey at a nature center, alongside a cast of fellow woodland creatures- at night, however, he becomes a lot less friendly, his security programming going haywire for reasons not yet understood.
#fnaf#fnaf oc#five nights at freddy's#my art#additional fun facts: He’s named after a falconry bird’s ‘jesses’- the thin tethers that allow a falconer to secure a bird to the glove#He speaks in a strong southern accent. His talons come in handy for clawing his way into the security office if he thinks the guard poses a#- threat. Is he haunted like the others- who knows?#His security programming functions a lot like the toy animatronics from FNAF 2- distinguishing criminals from a database- though this is…#- not entirely reliable. despite his extra sharp vision there are times he perceives threats that aren’t really there at all.
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Danny accidentally becomes the Ghost king, The president and the BIGGEST threat to Bruce's social status.
Pt 1 Danny becomes the Ghost king
"Fenton's were never allowed to have a "normal" life, we are either extremely successful or extremely unsuccessful, there is no in between. Maybe a spirit cursed us back in the days, but who knows, but one things for sure, all Fenton's will definitely make the news."
-Grandma Fenton from whatever generation
Danny's starting to believe that now. He used to think that it wasn't true, but now? He used to wish to have a normal life, be a good normal son with good grades an be an astronaut one day.
But like they said, a Fenton is either EXTREMELY SUCCESSFUL OR EXTREMELY UNSUCCESSFUL.
He was EXTREMELY UNSUCCESSFUL in that.
Instead of a normal life he turned a half ghost teen superhero. But oh well, the Fenton's were also known for their ability to go with the flow
But how in the world did the flow get him here???
In Danny's defense, he wasn't really expecting this. The only thing in his mind at the moment was keeping his town and his people safe from pariah. He just wanted to get rid of the rotten fruitloop. He was EXTREMELY SUCCESSFUL, so successful in fact that he ended up becoming Ghost king.
The fudge????
But okay, sure, he didn't wanna become king but if he also didn't want to give up the crown for others to take, what if an evil person becomes king and attacks amity again?? Fine, he'll be king, he'll figure it out. Just go with the flow.
Surprisingly, not only did he get the crown, he also got THE MONEY. as in literal gold and silver bars, coins and jewelry. Appearantly, one the kings a long long time ago, before at least two generations before pariah had an obsession with MONEY. So the king made a Permanent Royal Degree (a law that cannot be changed by any future kings) that when someone dies and becomes a ghost, 20% of the MONEY that they've acquired in their entire life. (The money turns into an equivalent of ghost currency in the realms but is still physically in the living. Kind of like how the soul is in the realms but the body is the earth. Also, the only reason money exists in the realms is for convenience and a sense of normalcy, it doesn't really have that much value unless the ghosts brings it to the living) would belong to the ghost king.
Basically, it's ghost taxes that only have to be paid once for the entire afterlife. (Or is it more of an entrance fee???)
But anyways, hes got the MONEY.
He's rich now and he thinks, "I have so much money it's disgusting"
So first things first, getting rid of some of it.
By this point, his parents know he's phantom and have changed their opinions on ghosts, instead of attacking they are now looking at ghost like they're equals and try and help them as an apology for hurting them.
They are also looking for a new project to spend time on. A new purpose
So Danny thought, why not give them the money then? Danny proposed to his mom a project to make things that can benefit both ghosts and humans.
Next thing he knows is that he's appearantly funding, building and making:
A ghost job agency
A human job agency
Ghost proof buildings (ghost can't pass through walls, it won't hurt them, just keep em out.)
Ghost proof clothes (overshadowing proof!)
A practical fashion line for ghost and humans (Bullet proof, blast proof etch. Borderline vigilante clothes that look like a civilians day to day outfit)
Homes for ghost and humans
A ghost obsession help center where they can ask humans to help with their obsession.
A school for both ghost and humans.
Liminal 101 because apparently because of the whole, pariah dark and, living in the ghosts kings haunt situation, everyone is liminal now
An entire line of technology that can be used by both ghosts and humans.
A fight arena where ghost and humans can fight for fun.
And so many other things , he can't remember
HIS NAME IS EVERYWHERE . His parents didn't even bother hiding the fact that their son somehow has enough money to fund these projects, everyone knows him now.
He ends up basically owning most of amity park.
And here he thought he wouldn't be the kind of king that expands their territory.
He was extremely UNSUCCESSFUL in that.
#danny phantom#dc x dp#dc x dp crossover#ghost king danny#ghost king au#nothing seems to be going his way#eat the rich#go with flow they said#itll be fun they said#how did it come to this???#danny needs a#therapy#or b#a financial assistant
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Teen Villain Alliance
Chapter 1 - Damian
Despite his proficiency in the skill, Damian hated spying on the Teen Villain Alliance.
Having appeared two years ago in alliance with Klarion Bleak, the Teen Villain Alliance, or TVA, quickly made themselves known as little more than pests, often rushing in to assist other young adult criminals or harass Justice League officials. Father wanted to investigate when they first appeared, but with Todd’s reveal and Damian himself coming to take his place as Robin, he’d been… busy.
Which allowed the TVA to flourish into a respected criminal enterprise. No vault was safe, no hero strong enough. A group had even banded together to take down Superman! And while there was no lasting damage other than some bizarre markings on the Kryptoian’s face, it was enough to prove these teenagers as a threat.
Damian, as much as it galled him, was not the first chosen to infiltrate. Martian Manhunter, shapeshifted into a meta fourteen-year-old girl, tried and was identified as a hero on sight. The Teen Titans and Young Justice got closer, actually able to talk to the villains about joining, but “it was like they could smell the hero on us,” Beast Boy had explained. “I don't know how else to explain it.”
Most likely, the TVA kept tabs on the Justice League and affiliated organizations. They needed someone fresh, someone who wasn’t a hero.
Damian had been more than willing to volunteer.
Introducing himself as Damian Al Ghul, the recently escaped Heir to the Demon Head, he’d been accepted immediately despite having approached the group mid-heist. All he had to do was extrapolate about how Grandfather’s assassins were chasing him, and the Wolf—a designation given to the members of the TVA’s inner circle—allowed him to join, but he was forced to stay with the hacker of the group while the heist commenced with no interference from a hero.
Damian had been confident. He’d gotten so far in mere minutes when a member of the Justice League, and even Drake, couldn’t get past the first few questions. He’d have the Teen Villain Alliance dismantled within the week.
Then Manson, as the Wolf had introduced herself, took out a device that transported them all to another dimension. Which was where the main base of the Alliance was. And none of his communication devices or trackers worked there.
Damian had only been able to update the Justice League a few times since his tenure as a spy began. Superman had reassured him it was fine, that there had been plenty of missions were communication was infrequent, but after a month of living in the TVA Base in the Infinite Realms, Damian hated not being able to contact his father easily. And in return, Father and Drake had taken to interrogating him for as long as possible the couple of times he was outside Headquarters.
(Phantom’s Haunt is what the TVA members called it. It was Phantom Dark’s home that he opened up to them all. Damian didn’t know how to feel about that.)
Damian had only been able to contact Father three times in his four weeks undercover, each time on a supply run… which was essentially just a grocery trip for the Haunt. The first time Damian had slipped away to the bathroom and called, Father had been… furious. He’d thought Damian’s lack of updates was on purpose. It had been five minutes before Damian could correct him.
He wished Grayson had answered during any of his updates, but he was on a mission in space and wouldn’t be back for another two weeks.
In those four months, Damian was still the newest member, and had yet to be involved in the truly illegal aspects of the organization. All the information he’d gathered purely administrative, like how Duulaman, a reincarnated pharaoh turned hacker, stole money from various billionaires and government organizations to fund their plans. He’d yet to be involved with anything serious.
He wasn’t allowed on serious missions either. He only had the supply runs to look forward to, and those only occurred once a month.
His other objective, to undermine the Teen Villain Alliance and spur a mutiny, was also going poorly. The children he surrounded himself with were fanatically loyal to the Alliance, citing Phantom and his harem as the reason they were alive today. Even those who weren’t directly rescued were loyal. One such child, a boy named Kyd Wyckyd, had confessed to turning to a life of crime due to his terrifying meta abilities and their effects on his appearance.
But the TVA took him in after the collapse of HIVE Academy. He hadn’t participated in a crime since, preferring to work with the Wolf named Jasmine who led individual and group therapy sessions for the villains. Jasmine had tried multiple times to convince her therapy sessions—more like brainwashing sessions—but Damian had stayed strong in the face of adversary.
Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be much more Damian could do. He tried to push, to get involved with the criminal aspect of the organization, but the Wolves blocked him at every turn, saying he was “too young.” That he needed “stability” and to “rely on them to keep him safe.”
Perhaps Damian oversold the danger of the League of Assassins.
For now, Damian hid in his room in Phantom’s Haunt. His castle. Even the magnificence of the compound he grew up in couldn’t compare to the headquarters. There were an infinite number of rooms—”as many as we need,” Phantom had told him—that changed based on the user’s preferences. Right now, Damian’s room looked like a cave. The Batcave, to be precise, though he didn’t allow references to his Father and legacy.
He was hiding because Manson had suggested he attend some of the classes held in the libraries—there were four libraries at the moment. Classes were taught by ghosts under Phantom’s control and weren’t mandatory, but “everyone’s worried about the lack of structure in your life.”
He tried to tell himself it was because he didn’t want to be brainwashed by Phantom’s lackeys, and that he already knew everything they were going to teach. But in truth… Damian was anxious. Attending school at the Haunt felt too permanent, too much like he was planning to stay. He hadn’t gotten the choice to attend school back in Gotham, with Father acting like he would compromise their identities around children. He wasn’t that petty.
Someone knocked on his door. “Damian? Are you inside?”
Sighing, Damian stood up and opened the door. “Dr. Fenton. Am I needed for anything?”
Dr. Daniel Fenton was another Wolf, another member of the harem Phantom had built around him, twenty years old and not an actual doctor but everyone called him that anyway. While Damian had yet to see Fenton and Phantom in the same place, Damian was keeping a detailed record of how the Wolves’ polyamourous relationship worked. Phantom and Fenton both dated Manson and Duualman, though they didn’t seem to be dating each other or Jasmine. Klarion often inserted himself into those relationships for hugs and hand-holding, but only seemed to kiss Jasmine.
“Actually, yes.” Damian’s lips parted in surprise. “I wanted to talk to you about something down in my lab. Would you join me?”
Fenton’s lab was off-limits to low level members of the TVA. He was the engineer, the creator of all their weapons of destruction. Fenton had no minions, while Manson had her thieves, Duualman had his hackers, Jasmine had her helpers, Klarion had his witches, and Phantom had his fighters.
Fenton was alone.
Isolated.
Damian agreed.
Fenton led him to the depths below the castle, past the never-used dungeon and through a secret door into a surprisingly bright and airy lab. He caught Damian looking through a window that displayed one of the Haunt’s many gardens, an impossible feat for being so far underground. “Magic castle, remember,” Fenton chided him. “Those work as portals that lead to the garden too, so it’s an easy one-way exit.”
Damian scoffed, abashed that he’d been caught so easily. From a glance, the lab was perfectly maintained, with every piece of equipment assigned to an outline meant to indicate where it belonged. As he walked further into the room, Fenton made slight adjustments to his tools, meticulously shifting them back into place. It looked more like a set than a laboratory.
But then, Damian observed Fenton. The twenty-year-old relaxed as he put his space back into order, nudging the screwdrivers and beakers back into their designated outlines. As he worked, the sleeve of his lab coat road up, revealing a glimpse of lichtenberg scars before it was hidden again.
Finally done, Fenton turned back to Damian. “My sister, Jazz, has told me that you’re not attending individual or group therapy sessions, is that correct?”
Well, that revealed a lot of information. Ignoring the fact that Fenton and Jasmine were apparently siblings, Damian replied, “I do not see a reason to attend. If this meeting is an attempt to force me–”
Fenton held his hands up in surrender. “No, I would never. Therapy doesn’t work if the person receiving it doesn’t want it. But you haven’t been attending any of your classes either, and Phantom has mentioned that you don’t hang out with the other kids. Are you settling in alright? I know the others are a few years older than you, so it might be harder for you to connect with them.”
Damian chewed on the question. While part of him was furious that someone, especially a villain like Fenton, was concerned about him and discussed him with his fellows, the other part… wasn’t. It was true; he was having difficulty connecting with the villains. Damian didn’t particularly want to, but it would make his mission easier.
He chose a neutral answer. “In the League of Assassins… I was the only child in the entire compound. Other children weren’t allowed inside, not unless their parents did something wrong. And those children…”
“Were used against their parents?” Fenton offered when he struggled to find the words.
“Precisely. It’s not in my nature to associate with children.”
Fenton nodded in understanding, stroking his chin in thought. “That does present a conundrum alright. How unfortunate; the task I needed your help with requires you to interact with at least some of the others, but if you’re that uncomfortable with the idea, then I could find someone else.”
Damian stared at the man in suspicion. “What task?” he demanded to know. If this was a way to get more information for father, he needed to know. But if this was another trap to get him into therapy…
“You’ve probably noticed by now, but I’m the only Wolf without someone working under me. Sam has her Bats, Tucker has his Flies, Jazz has her Rats, Klarion has his Strays, and Phantom has the TVA as a whole. The others have been pressuring me to create my own group, but babysitting a group of teens in a lab where anything could explode is just asking for trouble.”
Damian stepped away from the nearest device. Fenton continued, “However, I think a group dedicated to investigation would work much better. Here in the Infinite Realms, we’re very isolated from the human world, so my research on competing inventors is always lacking. Tuck and Sam help, but Tucker has his own hacking projects, and Sam targets financially viable targets instead of labs.”
“You want me to be a member of your new… group?” Damian read in between the lines of what Fenton was saying. Surely Father would be proud of him for gaining information about Fenton’s inventions and targets—
“I want you to lead the group.”
His glare dropped right off his face in shock. “Lead?” he whispered.
“That’s right,” Daniel agreed. “It’s not conventional and I barely got the others to agree, but Damian, you’re one of the best trained villains to ever join the TVA. Yeah, you’re really young, but you are serious and professional. To be honest, most of the kids we take in don’t take our work seriously. It’s not a bad thing, but I need a leader who is willing to keep their group in line. Infiltration and information gathering can be very dangerous, and I need someone who can keep the team safe.”
Daniel trusted him enough for that? Father didn’t trust him enough to be his partner; honestly, Father didn’t even trust him enough to introduce Damian to the world as his son! Perhaps he was aggressive towards the interlopers in his home, but he wasn’t going to stab a civilian!
And while Damian didn’t understand why Daniel was so cautious around what amounted to breaking and entering, he wanted Damian to lead. He trusted Damian for that.
And Damian was going to take back whatever information Fenton revealed back to his father, like a hunting dog to its master.
Daniel continued, “Of course, this is still a few months off from being necessary. But that should give you plenty of time to attend some classes to prepare you more! One on leadership skills, one on modern technology, one on basic magic and wards, maybe a refresher on hacking… Knowing you, you’ll test out of them in a few weeks, but the main point is to find other people to join our team. I’m looking for four other team members, and while I am looking for certain traits and skills, it's up to you to decide who you want on the team.” Daniel placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “So, what do you think?”
He’d betray Daniel by saying yes. He’d betray Father by saying no.
He made his choice.
Damian looked up at Daniel, determination set into his face. “I won’t let you down.”
Daniel smiled. “I know you won’t. You couldn’t if you tried.”
#dc x dp#dp x dc#dpxdc#dcxdp#ghost prince danny fenton#supervillain danny fenton#damian wayne is not robin#c: danny fenton#c: damian wayne#damian al ghul#Jazz: ok so this kid is really insecure but also really prideful so you can't ever seem like you're looking down on him#Danny: *aggressively taking notes so he can help this kid makes some friends and find a purpose that motivates him*#teen villain alliance
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Someone sent this to my inbox but
Simon X Uniform kink!reader🥴🩷
nsfw below the cut 💕 mdni
Normally, when Simon gets home, his first port of call is stripping off his balaclava, changing from his uniform. He leaves Ghost at the door. Your quiet, peaceful home shouldn’t be tainted by the shadow of death that lingers perpetually at his back.
To him, there’s a stigma around Ghost, around his whole career, making a life out of ending others’. Ghost gets left in the threshold of your entrance hall, dropped onto the welcome home mat and replaced by Simon. To you, it’s impossible to ignore the way he looks darkening your doorstep like death incarnate, so powerful, the epitome of brute, primal human strength. He exudes such power, such masculinity. It makes you feel weak in the most wonderful way.
Just once, you find yourself pleading for him to leave his uniform on, to let Ghost in. To take away the stigma of the thing that haunts your life. With tentative agreement and a hand on the small of your back, you’re guided back to the bedroom.
You know that Ghost will be rough, not like the soft, gentle dominance of Simon - who knows that he barely has to lift a finger to have you pliant under his touch. Ghost believes in no such thing. Ghost is a killer. A violent man who has no concept of gentleness or grace. If you want Ghost to fuck you, he’ll fuck you halfway to hell and back. The way you’re thrown down onto the bed is only a testament to how unyielding Ghost is, shredding your panties with his teeth without a word, just a growl of agreement when he sees you glistening wet.
There’s no warning when he plunges two fingers into your glistening pussy, his nails digging into the curve of your side when you cry out, a warning - a threat. He doesn’t take off his bulletproof vest, doesn’t flinch when you wrap your fingers in the velcro straps, only looking down at you with cruel knowing. Before you know it, he’s yanking down his fly, hardly bothering to pull down his jeans. He doesn’t need to. Ghost is tactical. Ghost doesn’t care for feelings.
The way his cock springs from his boxers, hard up against his abdomen, had you flinching. He makes you nervous. This Ghost is worlds away from your Simon, and it’s easy to see why people fear him so much.
You’re tempted to whine when he notches his tip against your already sensitive clit, quickly silenced by his fingers covered in your taste filling your mouth leaving you almost shamefully gagging, tears springing to your eyes.
“Been practically beggin’ me to fuck you for days now and now you’re whinin’?” He growls cruelly into your ear, his free hand finding your hip to position you. You don’t get a chance to think before his tip is thumping painfully into your cervix, leaving you crying out as you claw at his vest, his mask, anything to keep some semblance of control. He keeps a brutal pace, cruel taunts mixing with praise for how well you take him, what a perfect slut you are.
His hand pressing down slightly on the bulge in your tummy is what sends you over the edge, Simon’s brown eyes melting into stars and blinding white light as he pulls out of you, pumping his shaft and spurting ropes of hot cum on your abdomen, leaving the both of you heaving.
Ghost trickles down the shower drain along with sweat and dirt and cum, Simon washing your hair carefully as you lean your head into the crook of his neck, letting hot water pummel down your back.
“I love you. All of you.” You confess into his skin, finally content to have seen all of Simon. Not just the nice bits.
#cod mwii#cod mw2#tf 141#cod#call of duty#simon ghost riley#simon riley x reader#simon riley#ghost x reader#simon ghost x reader#Simon Riley smut#Simon Riley x you#simon riley x f!reader#ghost x f!reader#simon ghost riley x yn#ghost smut#ghost call of duty
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Dpx Dc AU: Ectoplasm is required for Ghosts to be visible to the human eye- And Danny creates his own ectoplasm.
Danny is visiting Jazz in Gotham and its weird how friendly everyone is. Like, the city gets a really bad rapport, everywhere he goes there is someone trying to strike up a conversation or answer his questions about getting around to the tourist spots. A few people even pointed out restaurants and ways to find off the beaten path gems! Jazz seems to role her eyes at him, but when he brings up her 'roommate' being kind of cute she flat out laughs.
Danny then comes to understand the Jazz doesn't have a roommate and that Ghosts in Gotham don't move far from their haunts- He's just been inadvertently turning these undead folks visible by accident of generating abnormal amounts of ectoplasm.
Which, is comforting in a way, he's never walking this dangerous city alone and really, most of the ghosts have been really friendly! They disappear once he's a few blocks away from them anyway.
---
Tim Drake is having a horrible day.
He'd been given intel that one of Black Mask's guys was going to snitch but that he'd died before given the opportunity to reach out to the GCPD. He tracks down the guy's last know whereabouts and yikes. Its next to the Theater. Tim was often grateful for his childhood obsessions, this time it backfired.
Tim and Bruce get into an argument about trust and respect and, worst of all, mental health. And even though Tim was vehemently against Batman accompanying Red Robin to the alleyway - that's exactly what happens.
They arrive and Bruce is closing up faster than a clam in the contaminated Gotham Bay- Clearly being in the Alley bothers him. No fucking shit. RR gets started on collecting evidence, there are a few extra blood splatters and a single left shoe... When a kid walks into the Alley.
"Uh, sorry to intrude-" The kid looks scared shitless, and runs away. And then, all of a sudden, Batman and Robin aren't alone in the Alley.
Tim can hardly believe his eyes as the dead man appears and quickly blabs Black Mask's bank passwords and what the plan had been- and While he's over joyed to have that closure, he turns around to Batman weeping in the arms of his parents.
The ghosts fade, and the emotions are certainly charged as this was never something Bruce or Tim would have ever dreamed of happening. Ghosts in Gotham. Talking, floating, granting closure.
"RR, Bats, come in." Oracle calls into their ears.
"Reporting in, but, uh, we need a minute."
"A minute? We have a case on 4th and-"
"O, we just saw the ghosts of the Waynes. It's going to be a minute."
"...Lots of Ghost reports lately then. Any chance you saw a kid looking like he could be adopted?"
"Yeah, actually, black hair and blue eyes. He was super polite before he ran away."
"We have work to do. Oracle, lets prioritize finding our person of interest and divert Nightwing and Robin to the case on 4th." Batman cut between them on the comms and he sounded... calmer than either of them anticipated.
---
Jazz is no longer laughing when Batman appears at her door explaining that he's looking for Danny (Who already flew away from town to get a good night's sleep before class on Monday). Turns out Danny reunited the man with his dead parents just briefly- and then the second guy appears and mentions how Danny had also given a guy who'd been murdered by a Mob enough time to explain the ongoing threats the city faced.
Jazz just rolls her eyes and says that it's not like the ghosts are going anywhere anytime soon and Danny will visit in another month. When pressed, she just explains that her brother is a weirdo. No of course he doesn't have powers. Gaslight and Girlbosses her way out.
And Jazz thinks that the game is up for at least another month, obviously when Danny visits more shit will stir up, but then this new guy appears.
Unlike the other Bats who are keen on watching her from a distance, the Red Hood knocks on her door. Are her eyebrows all the way into her hairline when Red Hood asks her to send his thanks along to Danny because somehow this whole situation led to his Dad expressing remorse for his actions and apologizing? Yes, yes they are.
But Jazz can smell Dissertation Data off of these vigilantes- Who is she to send them away? Jazz welcomes Red Hood into her place for a cup of tea and a small chat.
The story then devolves into Jazz getting shit done, Danny being cute by proximity and also bringing ghosts to the party, and the Bats having trauma resolve between them.
#dcxdp#dpxdc#dc x dp#dp x dc#danny phantom#dc crossover#dp crossover#long post#danny can make ghosts appear like they do in amity but only for a short while and when in proximity to him#its not apparent in amity because the ghosts are just like that there#Danny just having a good time#Danny having zero brain cells about this whole thing and neither he nor jazz will offer explanations#they're just like 'gotham has ghosts. its not like he put them there'#Bruce getting into therapy because his dead parents said they were proud of him and he didnt know how to handle that#bruce having to turn this energy around somehow and seeing jason - my boy i love you so much and im so sorry and im so proud of you#heres the thing i dont know how i made it anger management ship at the end but i sure as fuck did.#jason is at a lack of words at bruce's confessions of pride and love but is also about to be a BAT about this and track down info#info in the form of a cute girl#oh yeah she has a brother#uh well#he has brothers too- this is fine#someone write this fic pls n thx u
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My demons' periods cycles. By Mc
Note: these are purely my headcanons at the moment, they are based on animal ethology and behaviours that I think would suit each character depending on their personality and Lore. I would love to read your headcanon in case you have them.
Warning: Long text. Possible grammatical errors. It's written as if Mc was writing for themself.
Hey, it me Mc, the best human. Here is a compilation of the behaviours of my demons during their periods, cycles, for practical day to day use. It wasn't easy but I sat them down and got to talk to them, with a little effort I now know what they need. So now I am ready to assist them during these complicated times and be prepared in case I find a dead goat on the porch as a tribute.
Lucifer, Mammon & Levi || Satan, Asmo, & Beel || Belphie, Barbatos & Diavolo || Simeon & Raphael
Satan
Light damages his eyes, and during his period he does not sleep at all.
During his cycle, the plaques that extend from his tail to his entire body become more pronounced and acquire a bioluminescent coating. As do its horns. Beware, they prick.
Some parts of his body grow feathers (I think this is a "side" effect of his birth). He aggressively plucks them out, help him not to hurt himself.
His teeth grow continuously, he has to be sanding them (biting things or his own tail). Other than that he doesn't groom much.
Satan doesn't have a fixed place to spend his heat, and although he likes to "nest" he doesn't know how to do it well, which frustrates him a lot. Help him, you already have experience (I think that's why he has chosen my room as his favourite place)
Depending on the weather he may make something more like a nest or a burrow.
Satan is terribly territorial, even with his siblings. He has had a run in with Cerberus from time to time. Please don't let that happen, the house won't hold.
Satan does not have a pre-heat period as such, but you can tell it is coming because he becomes more taciturn and solitary.
Raw meat is his main food, which is what he goes out to hunt very often because he needs a lot of it, but make sure he doesn't eat more than his capacity or it will make him sick. One way to do this is to feed him yourself (I think he thinks you have hunted for him if you do this).
Satan is the only one who haunts other demons and even souls of the condemned.
It is the only one that has fought other demons. Any living thing within 100 metres of him is encroaching on his territory, which is a problem because he moves so much for hunt.
Satan becomes non-verbal. But he does not use noises to communicate, only physical contact.
Growls and roars are reserved for threats and warnings (in other words, to communicate with everyone but you).
He likes physical contact, but is afraid to get close in case he hurts you (his tags and tail), you won't deny him comfort so be careful and that's it.
Satan produces pheromones, but does not usually mark.
His way of courting is to offer you resources, especially prey (he wants to prove he can feed you), it's not the first time he's brought you a live demon. Once he brought you a Little D, the poor thing kept shaking.
Satan's senses are heightened to the extreme. Many stimuli upset him and he has fits of rage. talk to him, so that he focuses his attention on your voice, that will calm him down. Lucifer's voice calms him down a lot too (but it's a secret)
All these changes (hormonal, behavioural…) are not good for his anger, the poor thing gets very angry without knowing why.
Satan's temperature is a reflection of his activity, when he is on the move it increases and when he stops it decreases.
During periods of low activity he curls up next to you, holding your hand (for fear of hurting you) with his pupils fully dilated, don't be fooled, he is fully alert and ready to attack.
Satan purrs? YES! It's the purr that most resembles a cat (that will make him happy, but don't tell him, the avatar of wrath has his pride).
Mc: *in their bedroom helping Satan* Here is ok?
Satan: *looking at them and nodding*
Mc: Making a nest is complicated… are you sure this is okay?
Satan: *standing next to them and rubbing his cheek with their cheek *
Mc: *smiling* Okay, let's go to the next part.
Satan: *grunting at a demon that's approached the house*
Mc: Satan!!! Satan stop!!!
Demon: *paralyzed with fear*
Mc: *hugging* Satan now, let him go, he's going, he's goi- agh!
Satan: !!!
Mc: *cut themself with his tail* It's okay, it's nothing.
Satan: *guilty look*
Mc: *taking him by the hand* Don't worry, this heals fast.
Satan: *nodding still guilty, squeezing their hand*
Demon: …. I thought I was dying!!!!
Satan: *purring as he presses his chin on Mc*
Mc: *talking to him to calm him down* And remember you don't have to go out every day, there's plenty of food here….
Satan: *purring more loudly*
Mc: But if you see my great uncle's soul, the one from the village, it's all yours.
Satan: *nodding with a smile*
Mc: *laughing* How trustworthy, you're awesome Satan.
Asmo
Although he spends most of his time awake, he needs to sleep.
He can be just as active during the day as he is at night (like arachnids).
For him to sleep, you have to be right next to him or he won't sleep.
Asmo needs to nest completely under cover, underground, but prefers the safety of his home to going outside. So he improvises a burrow in his room.
During his period the scales of his exoskeleton become shiny and velvety coated, as do his wings and horns.
Them take on a more striking fuchsia colour than usual. It will be one of the few times you will be able to see Asmo's tail with its sting.
He preens himself a lot, moistening its wings, polishing its scales... At first he is a little reluctant to be helped, but later he will be constantly asking for your help.
More than territorial, Asmo is possessive. He doesn't want you to leave his side, sometimes with his siblings too. If he smells a scent of someone else in his tribe, good luck to that individual.
Asmo doesn't have pre-heat, you'll just wake up one day with all your clothes gone and you'll know it's started.
Asmo's diet during its cycle is varied, although its consumption increases, ranging from fresh meat, fluids of all kinds, to poisonous substances such as flowers, mushrooms or other live animals. Be sure to allow some time to pass before he kisses or bites you.
If you get him a rare poisonous plant, he will be happy and content.
He can talk normally, but he will also make clicking sounds to indicate his mood.
Lots of pheromones, Asmo produces lots and lots of pheromones during his period, pheromones that he will use to mark his territory. Often his siblings can't be near him. You don't have that problem
Asmo is very needy to contact, hug him, give him kisses, caress his wings, his hair. He will be happy to let you.
And he will return the gesture, he will bite you too (always have your first aid kit handy). He will always try to be on top of you or for you to be on top of him.
Asmo's courtship consists of exsivating while performing a dance (like scorpions), this dance is complex and elaborate, and during it he releases a large amount of pheromones.
He gets very confused when you don't react to it, Asmo I'm sorry but I can't smell your pheromones, sometimes he even gets sad.
His senses are very developed, especially his sense of smell, which is more developed than any of his siblings. Make sure the flowers in his room are enchanted so that they don't emit odour and with perfumes and other fragranced products the same or he can get hurt.
Asmo's temperature will generally drop, but he will go through periods of very high fever (due to his sin) which will leave him tired.
During fever peaks he will become very active, and will devote most of his time to courting. To balance this out you will have to COURT him yourself, you'd better improve that dance.
Because of his temperature, he will spend most of his time hiding in the burrow, demanding your cuddles.
He purrs? , yes, in an adorable and soft way. It is easy to make him purr, with a simple praise.
Asmo: Kiss? *with Mc sitting on his lap*
Mc: Not yet Asmo.
Asmo: *with teary eyes* Don't you love me anymore?
Mc: *sighing* Asmo, my life, my heart, you just ate three nightshade roots.
Asmo: *almost crying* And?
Mc: I love you very much but I also want to live.
Asmo: My nose itches.
Mc: Wait a bit longer, I'm finishing enchanting the flowers.
Asmo: *sad * It would be less trouble to remove them…
Mc: But you like them, don't you?
Asmo: Mc..
Mc: *hugging him* I'm here to help you and to make you comfortable, if you like the flowers, the flowers stay.
Asmo: Love you so much!
Asmo: *dancing with a very high fever*
Mc: Asmo, you are so beautiful… you can rest now.
Asmo: *staring at them non-stop*
Mc: *blushing while standing up * You leave me no choice *starts dancing and grabs Asmo by the waist*
Asmo: ?! Are you courting me?! * excited*
Mc: *Grabbing him in their arms to take him to rest* Yup, it worked?.
Asmo: I'm all yours, Mc, from the beginning…
Beel
Light is not a problem for him, although he prefers darkness.
During his period, the exoskeleton hardens and plates of it appear all over his body, and his horns become iridescent.
In addition, its wings become ribbed in a pattern, which at first glance is very beautiful. The more complex the pattern, the more attractive it is. You always see his wings as beautiful, but you agree with him, Beel deserves it.
He does a lot of grooming, which is lovely to see, because Beel is a bit clumsy and needs constant help, he has been injured a few times and you don't want that to happen again.
There are some flies and other insects that lay their nests underground. In Beel's case he has a small gallery dug in the garden, which he uses for storage too.
Beel at the beginning of the cycle may be in the house, but as he progresses he will be in his gallery.
More than territorial, he becomes protective of you and his siblings (he once kidnapped Luke), so when he is in his gallery he feels bad, because his desire to protect them is crushed by his need to be hidden.
Beel has a very marked pre-heat, in which he accumulates large quantities of food in his small cave and his appetite doubles. All the inhabitants of the house join in at this time to cook.
In contrast, during his period of heat his activity is reduced and his appetite decreases, this does not mean that he does not eat, he eats more often but in much smaller quantities and from storage (food that does not spoil).
He will insist on feeding you constantly, prepare indigestion medicine, you will need it.
Beel becomes totally non-verbal, be prepared to become an interpreter, he communicates with grunts, clicks and buzzes his wings.
Lots of buzzing, it's not the first time you've been hit by his wings, with the different buzzes he makes all sorts of claims and they have a high communicative range, you'll just need some time to figure it out.
His pheromones are strong, and he will mark, although he does it unconsciously.
As I said, he likes to have his family around him, but when he can't, anxiety takes over, vibration and physical contact calms him down. The easiest thing to do is to lay him on your chest and talk to him while stroking his hair or wings.
Beel's courtship is complex, first he feels the need to prove he can be a good provider, so he will constantly enlarge and improve his gallery.
And then there is the display of his wings, patterning and rhythmic, synchronised movements and buzzes to impress you.
He sleeps more than usual, will want you to sleep in his arms, and usually does so perched on one of his walls, hopefully you won't develop vertigo….
His senses are not as sharp as those of his siblings, but he becomes much more agile and has much better reflexes.
Beel's temperature increases, due to the continuous movement of his wings (insects produce a lot of heat when flying), but when he is at rest he tends to cool down.
Beel's purr is a mixture of a buzz and a vibration, he will purr when he is calm and content.
Beel was a little worried about how you might react because many humans detest insects. Be sure to praise his wings and other attributes, because this demon is adorable.
Mc: So this is your lair?
Beel: Yes… I decided to keep it from period to period to not destroy the garden…
Mc: I think it's very practical!!! It must be very cool in summer.
Beel: Do you really think so?
Mc: Yes, and cosy too, you're an artist Beel.
Beel: *smiling as he blushes*
Beel: *grunts*
Mc: Beel I can't take anymore…
Beel: *holding out a piece of fruit to them* *buzz*
Mc: Really Beel, I'm going to explode…
Beel: !! *hugging them*
Mc: It's a figure of speech… but can you eat my share… please.
Mc: *sleeping hugging Beel in one of the corners of his gallery*
Beel: *caressing them with his cheek*
Mc: It's all right Beel?
Beel: *crackling with worry*
Mc: Don't worry... Lucifer is with them… and the others will take care of Lucifer for you.
Beel: …*cradling them adoringly*
Mc: And I'll take care of you, so rest…
.
.
.
If you have made it this far thanks you 🩷
#obey me periods#obey me#obey me! shall we date?#obey me headcanons#obey me imagines#Obey me periods#obey me shall we date#obey me mc#omswd#om! mc#omswd satan#satan obey me#obey me satan#om! satan#om satan#asmo obey me#obey me asmo#omswd asmo#asmo om#omswd beel#beel obey me#obey me beel#om! asmodeus#om! beelzebub#omswd asmodeus#obey me beelzebub#obey me one master to rule them all#obey me otome
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♰ skipping heartbeats — nanami kento
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ KINKTOBER NO. 3 - curse user!nanami
nanami wants to see every jujutsu sorcerer dead, but he might make an exception just for you
contents. fem!reader, nsfw minors dni, sorcerer!reader, rough sex, slight overstimulation, begging, pet names, unprotected sex, villain nanami, jjk typical violence, tw mahito apperance :/, exes, angst, soft dom nanami, wall sex — 5.6k
He was never the same after Shibuya.
It's been two years, but you still remember that October with clarity. Memories blur at the back of your eyelids each night, carving images into your irises; each time you think you’ll get a full night of sleep, Nanami Kento returns to haunt your dreams, then lingers to steal your waking moments.
The change in him had been gradual, subdued. He’d hidden it well, so well, in fact, that everyone had believed that he was doing fine. Even you, the one who should’ve known him better than anyone, had never gotten him to reveal his darkest thoughts.
His succumb to madness was slow, but it was the consequence of a near decade. The burden of a sorcerer weighed heavily on everyone, but it hit Nanami the hardest, years and years of survivor’s guilt and misery bearing on his shoulders.
Then Halloween in Shibuya had happened; Nanami nearly lost his life, and something in him snapped. It wasn’t long after that he left. You haven’t seen him since.
Close to twenty-four months have passed since he disappeared, but his presence still lingers, twisting your world and your life into a den of chaos. No one is left at the school, and there are hardly any sorcerers left in Japan. Those who are still alive have moved anywhere but Tokyo, and those who stay know it won’t be long before they lose their lives too.
Your breath catches as you listen in silence, recounting every moment that led you here.
There is a scream from the other building, listlessly crying for help, but you won’t reach them in time, nor do you have the power to fight back. Despite your endless intelligence, your technique isn’t built for combat. It isn’t a threat to semi-grade one curses, and it certainly isn’t a threat to Nanami Kento.
You squeeze your eyes shut, slumping against the wall as you hold your arm, a bloodied wound seeping through your sleeve. There is no one here to heal you, no one left to help. Shoko moved away from the school months ago, once she realized that too many sorcerers are dying and Gojo is never coming back.
After that, many of the students left too; save for the few third years that had been determined to stay and fight.
The scream sounds again, before it’s cut off, abruptly. Another student gone. Another sorcerer dead.
You’d been such a fool to think you could take the place of people like Yaga, Gojo, Nanami; that you could bring together the last remaining sorcerers in the city. They’d been ones to look up to, strong and steadfast, but you are neither of those things.
You are the weak one who’d managed to stay alive, and the last person that probably should’ve.
Still, you persist, not giving into death so easily. There has to be an escape route; if you can’t save the students, maybe, just maybe, you can save yourself. There is still hope, as long as just one sorcerer is left in Tokyo. The school can be rebuilt, the curses can be exorcised, and things can go back to normal.
As long as you stay alive.
You listen, waiting for another sound before you move, attuned to your surroundings. The doors are shut, locking you in, and it’s too dark, too empty in the building for you to hide anywhere. Classrooms you’d once shared with Gojo open up like an endless chasm, the vending machine you got sodas from with Geto leers at you, and the hallways you’d kissed Kento in…
The memories are so soured.
You’re so close to the door, though. So close, and you can be free of the ghostly memories, and this time, you’ll leave Tokyo once and for all.
There is nothing left for you here now. With each day that passes, you start to realize more and more that no one is coming back. They’re all gone, and Nanami is not the man he’d once been.
You shuffle along the wall, trying to stay hidden in the shadows, away from the lights that flicker up above, destroyed by the veil of cursed energy. While your entire life has been a cacophony of evil, never before have you felt, so intensely, that you’re in a horror film. You are the final girl, ironically, without an ounce of heroine vigor.
All you have is a sliver of willpower to stay alive; just a few feet away, and you’ll be there, outside, able to escape from this pit of hell.
It’s so close—but not close enough.
“There you are!” a voice cries out, ringing like a jovial song through the hallways. It is eerily familiar, much too high-pitched and enthusiastic for such a brutal warzone. “We’ve been looking for you.”
You turn, shoulders stiff as you try hard not to freeze. Behind you, a young curse stands casually, his blue hair rolling over one of his shoulders, a stitched face smiling at you evilly. He’s pleased to see you, that much is obvious, and he prances over to you, fingers waving in the air.
“Oh, I can’t wait! I have to make you last because we’re running out of sorcerors to play with!” The tone is horrifyingly amused, more frightening than Geto in his final hours, of any of the clan higher-ups, even of Gojo at his absolute worst.
It’s the tone of someone who feels nothing, who cares about nothing, and who will enjoy watching you bleed.
You open your mouth, throat dry as you scramble for words, for a way to defend yourself. Three seconds stretch out into a minute while you contemplate, but Mahito is already upon you, his eyes flashing with excitement.
This would be it, wouldn’t it? How poetic that this wretched curse would be the one to kill you, after he took everything from you two years ago.
He advances; but something stops him, another aura. It’s not as powerful, but it’s much more commanding, much more human.
“Mahito.” The tone is forceful, flat, without any nuance of sound. It comes from behind you, and you stiffen, knowing from the simple string of letters who it is. The sound of the voice has something unfurling in your chest, choking you, rendering you helpless. “Don’t touch her.”
“Why?” Mahito whines, curling his fingers around your hair, his cursed face and energy too close, too frightening for you to move. “There’s no one left to kill. What am I supposed to do now?”
“Find something.” Nanami’s to you in just a few steps, and you can feel his presence behind you, the voice that slowly sneaks up on you. He smells the same as he did back then, and you squeeze your eyes shut, try to remember that he’s not Kento anymore, and whoever he is, you don’t love him.
You can’t.
“I’ll take care of her.”
Mahito grumbles, but after a few seconds of staring down Nanami, he leaves, skipping off to some other corner of the school. It’s disgusting how pleased he is by the murders he’s committed, but why shouldn’t he be? If his goal is to rid the world of sorcerers, he’s done quite well at accomplishing it.
Which meant every one of your students is dead. Which meant any remaining sorcerers are gone for good. There isn’t a jujutsu sorcerer left in Tokyo but you, and even though you need to call for help, no one can get here fast enough to save you.
Nanami, slowly, comes around to glower before you, standing too close, his breath ghosting your shoulders. You feel his gaze like daggers, dragging over every inch of you, regarding you with a thinly veiled disgust.
You’re not ready to face him, not after all the time you’ve been apart, but you don’t have a choice. He’s in front of you within seconds, looking down at you from the bridge of his nose, his hair mussed, but still in the same style that he’d worn two years ago.
It is, really, the only thing about him that hasn’t changed.
“How the hell did you end up back here?” That’s the first thing he says, the tone crazed and so opposite of the flat inflection his voice had always held. The sound leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, and you twitch, trying to keep your expression from shifting. Not even a simple greeting before he’s already mocking you, judging your poor choices, the ones that will get you killed.
You say nothing, but regard him with a dry mouth, letting your eyes drift across his broad shoulders, down his chest. He’s covered in blood, stained deep maroon—evidence of his murders, the color so different than the gore of curses.
The old beige suit is gone, replaced by an expensive black one, tailored perfectly to every angle of his body. Nanami has traded in the blue button-up for a crisp burgundy one, and though the tie is different, it’s recognizable.
You’d gotten him that tie for his 28th birthday, one of black silk embossed with flowers, tiny white ones woven within the vines. You’d purchased it on your trip abroad.
It makes you sick. You’re not sure how long you can look at him without expelling the contents of your stomach.
“You know,” he says, not waiting for you to answer as he walks around, swinging his weapon that is now used for evil. “I thought that maybe when I left, you’d decide to do something with your life.” His irises that are now so dark, nearly black, pin you. Gone, too, are the old glasses, exposing his severe, narrowed eyes. “You stayed in Tokyo to rot.”
“What choice did I have?” you ask, wishing you could speak without your voice cracking. Yet, when Nanami stalks you like prey, calculating, the familiar blade in his hands, you feel a flare of fear start up in your stomach.
You don’t know the man before you. He’s beautiful, as handsome as you remember. Yet, he stares at you with disdain, and he’s cruel, so cruel. His lips are hardened into a permanent scowl, seeping through his merciless laugh.
“Well,” Nanami stops pacing and stands in front of you, running a hand down the side of the cursed tool, thoughtful. “I had hoped you’d come with me, but I knew better than to ask. Your moral convictions would have prevented that, darling.” A smile drips with poison as your steadfastness falters, the name sliding smoothly off his tongue, something about it still so sweet, even with his malice. “You always were too good for me.”
That isn’t true, at least, not in your mind. He had been a good man once, the very best. Maybe you could’ve done something to stop this, to help him. Yet, as many times as you run it over in your mind, even you can’t pinpoint the exact moment he’d fallen.
“You’re right,” you say, grateful that your voice sounds a little stronger, a little harder. “I never would’ve come with you. You’ve killed our friends. You’ve killed children, Nanami.”
Something shifts between you; his eyes widen as he takes another pace forward, nothing but inches separating you. Against every intelligent cell in your body, your heart skips, breath catching at his proximity.
“Nanami?” he asks, eyebrows pulling together with a sigh. The air grows stagnant around you as he notices the lack of warmth behind your apathetic eyes. “Here I thought you’d still call me by my name. We did once share a bed after all.”
“That means nothing to me now,” you spit, wishing he would stop staring at you with such hunger. You’ve never been immune to him, and you’re not sure you are now, not sure that you won’t waver at his feet, if even out of panic. He’s so solid before you, a resolute being of power. Perhaps he’s even stronger now than he was before. “Look at you. I don’t know who you are.”
Nanami points the sword at your throat, and though it’s blunt, not sharp enough to do any damage, you still weaken in the knees, stare back at him with something akin to dread. Your eyes are wide, but your breath comes out steady as your hands shake by your sides.
“I’m the person who decided to do something, finally.” Nanami raises his voice, every word punctuated by years of repressed anger. “Sorcerers grumbled for decades, centuries, but no one made any effort to make a change.” His jaw clenches as he drops the weapon back down, sniffing with abhorrence. Nanami’s in your personal space, his breath hot on your cheeks, and you feel tears well up in your eyes, even when you’re not sure why. “Even Gojo Satoru, who claimed to hate the higher-ups, who saved Yuuji Itadori, did little. I’m the person who realized that nothing’s going to change, not unless the system is burned from the inside out.”
A twitch starts from your heels, rising as he glares down at you. His features are tense, every muscle in his body taut. Still, there’s something about him. There’s something about the way he’s wearing the tie you once bought him, as familiar as the tall, strong frame that leers over you.
“There’s none of us left, Nanami,” you say, blinking away those tears, even though he’s already spotted them, the corner of his lips quirking with a crazed glint to his eyes. “You’ve made sure of that.”
“Then a new order of sorcerers can build its way from the ground up.” Nanami leans forward, his face near yours as he cocks his head. “I’ve succeeded.”
You squeeze your fingers into your shirt, twisting them around the stiff cotton tightly. Your heel slips just one inch back, away from him, and the movement doesn’t go unnoticed by your ex-lover.
He scoffs, a smirk widening.
“What’s wrong?” Nanami says. A veiny hand snakes between you, and he cups your cheek with a softness that goes against every fiber of what he stands for. “Are you afraid of me?”
Your lips part, but words don’t come out. Instead, you blink up at him with glossy eyes, your heart hammering in your chest.
“You probably should be,” he continues, his fingers brushing your jaw, luring you in, a security blanket that he will snatch away once you get comfortable. “I’ve ruined your life.”
The room feels colder than it did before, as terror starts pressing down on you, your entire body shaking with anxiety. Still, your eyelids flutter at his touch, every cell within you reacting out of muscle memory, weakened by the killer’s touch.
“A life that you once promised to protect.”
He smiles, and it’s so cold, a rival only to the devil's, even though it ignites a flame in your chest. “Why do you think I saved you for last?”
Your eyes burn with tears.
“Still as pretty as I remember,” Nanami hums on the edge of a sigh, and his gaze darts all over your face, searching for a secret buried there. His tone is rough, but, somehow, there’s an ounce of affection there too, like a part of him is still holding onto the near decade you were together. It’s no consolation, but it gives you some satisfaction; at least it meant something. “You have a new boyfriend?”
You turn hot all over at the way he grins at you, watches the flush form on your face as your eyes fly open. Nanami has you in the palm of his hand, easily, and whatever happens, it’ll be up to him. “N-no,” you stutter, his thumb sliding over your mouth, knocking against your teeth.
His grin is wild, predatory. “I knew I’d ruined you for anyone else.”
A breath catches in your throat, and your chest rises and falls heavily from the wave of desire that goes straight to your stomach. You feel as if your knees might give out, that you might need to grab onto him, just to stand upright.
It’s sickening, and you hate yourself, hate how much you want him, even though he’s the one that killed the people you care most about.
“Kento?” you ask in a small voice. “Are you going to kill me?”
“I don’t know.” He softens, just a hair, and easily, he’s back to the man you remember, the sweet, caring one you thought you’d marry one day. “I probably should… but I think I might just fuck you instead.” The words are muttered against your lips, and you stumble forward, gripping his strong biceps, a feeble attempt to keep from puddling at his feet.
His face clears once again, stoic, and harsh. Maybe it’s all a ploy to get you in his arms, to weaken you even further, but you don’t care. You’ve missed him, you’ve missed him so much, and you’d die to kiss him one more time. The blood on his face doesn’t matter; nothing matters except how much you once loved him, the love that never went away, even in the times you wanted to hate him.
You wonder whether or not Satoru would sympathize if he was here. Maybe he’d understand why you never went after Nanami and holed yourself up in the school instead. Although you tried to protect your students, you could never act out of violence, and that had cost you everything.
You know you've made mistakes, perhaps more than anyone, but you can’t control your heart; it’s a heart that is caged by steely ribs, and still the possessor of your fragile mind.
“Kento,” you say, running your hands all over him, the muscles that have only hardened, grown with time. “I miss you.”
It’s nothing more than a whisper, but it still changes his entire demeanor, turns him into something desperate. Kento comes on twice as strong; every caress sends a wave of need through you. When you whimper, toppling under his gentle touches, he kisses you hard, pushes you backwards into the wall.
The taste of his lips is almost too much, a conflict of memories piling onto you, transporting you into a version of yourself that is two years younger, much more hopeful. You kiss him like you’re twenty-two, unsharpened by the world, because despite what you have suffered, life was better seven years ago than it is now.
The illusion is short-lived, though; Kento is rougher than he used to be, and he shoves you hard, bruises your lips. His tongue forces its way into your mouth, sloppy kisses smearing saliva all over your cheeks.
He may not be as kind as he once was, but you’ll never be able to deny your attraction for him.
“Fuck.” Kento unzips his slacks, palming at the bulge that already lies within the tight material. “Look what you do to me, baby.” It catches you off guard; he’s never called you that before, never sounded so lewd instead of loving. “Think I started getting hard the second I saw you. Remember the last time I was inside you?”
You groan against his lips, breathing heavily as you thread your smaller hands in his hair. He tastes like alcohol, and you know that he’s always enjoyed a drink, but it was never this prominent on his tongue. That observation alone makes you wonder what else about him has changed; if he sleeps on the same side of the bed now that you’re gone, if he likes to read just as much as before, if he still takes his coffee with just a splash of milk.
The thoughts hurt, searing a hole through your chest. You try to ignore them.
As you kiss, Kento manhandles you backwards, his fingers spread over your collarbones. Your back hits the wall, a ghoulish crack reverberating throughout the room. It hurts, but the pain is outweighed by the feeling of him all over your body, the sheer anticipation for him to touch you like you need.
“Want you,” you say, as his hands clamp around your delicate wrists, pinning them against the wall. Kento’s palms are so much bigger; he’s so strong that it’s devastating. You have no choice but to let him take from you, to kiss down your neck and leave a bruise you won’t be able to cover up in the morning. “Please.”
“Dirty girl,” he laughs, breathless against your throat, the sound vibrating against the strained tendons there. Hastily, he spins you around, forces your face into the wall, your chest pressed into it. Your cheek is cold, smashed into your bone against the plaster. “I’ve killed everyone in this building, and here you are, begging me to touch you.”
The rough tone sends desire coursing through you, and you cry out against the wall as arousal bleeds out of you. Kento kisses you, across your shoulders, his cock pressing up against you, hard and thick.
A groan releases into your ear, and you squirm, rubbing your thighs together in anguish. Begrudgingly, Kento lets one of your wrists go so that he can drag your skirt down, leaving you with shivering legs in the cool October evening.
You reach back to grab at him, desperately needing him inside of you; but he stills you with his hand, laughing eagerly into your skin.
“So impatient. Thought I taught you better than that.” Though, he drags your panties down quicker, lets them pool at your ankles along with the dark-colored skirt. It’s obvious he wants you just as much; he wastes no time dragging a hand down his cock, the tip already beginning to leak.
“Kento,” you say against the cold wall, throbbing, swallowing down all your need for him. It’s too dark for you to see every one of his pretty features, but his shadowy eyes gleam ruthlessly in the moonlight. “Let me kiss you again—”
Kento tsks and shakes his head, brushing your hair over one shoulder. “Now, that can’t happen. You’ll fall in love with me again too easily.” A laugh forces its way out of his chest, and you hate that the sound creates pressure in your body. You’re already in love with him, but his grip is too tight on you; you can’t kiss him, even though you want to.
A finger runs between your folds as Kento reaches between your legs, gathering slick in the process. His skin is cold, and you whimper; he used to be so warm, a natural furnace. Yet, he’s teasing you now, listening to your breathy little whispers as you lean back into him.
Without thinking, you grasp his hand with your own, slide it forward as the veins and tendons flex under your palm. This time, he complies; he lets you push his fingers into your cunt, much thicker and longer than your own.
“Oh sweetheart,” he says, full of scornful sympathy, so contrary to the soft kisses on your neck. “You’re soaked. Have you really missed me that much?”
Your breath grows hot, heavy as he sinks his fingers deeper into you. You think about how much you loved him two years ago, and how much you still do.
Everyone you care about is gone, everyone but him. Perhaps Kento is the only one who’s truly ever mattered, because even if you’d been asked to kill him, you never would’ve done it, never could’ve; you’re not strong enough.
That’s where you and Satoru differ.
Kento slides his fingers in and out, stretching you, brushing against your swollen clit that’s begging to be touched by him. He bites down hard on your shoulder, blooms a bruise there and marks you as his forever, even if you’d never be anyone else’s anyways.
Already, you feel your climax building; you’re breathing heavier, crying out his name in a voice that doesn’t quite sound like your own. “I’m c-close,” you manage, and that is the wrong thing to say. He stills all at once and slips his fingers out of you, a web of arousal smeared over his knuckles.
Between your legs, you’re sticky, cold, but you barely notice. Your attention is directed on how aching and empty you are when his hands leave your body.
With a whine, you force your hips backwards, hating the chill that surrounds you all at once. “I wanna cum—”
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Kento smiles against your neck and drags his cock against the small of your back, swollen and hard. “But I know you can ask much nicer than that.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, “please, Kento, please, please, I need you, I—”
“There’s my good girl.” A breathy laugh leaves him as he angles the tip against your entrance, slow, pressing into you. “Fuck,” Kento groans, loudly, drawing out the syllables. “Squeezing me so tight, baby, you’ve been waiting just for me?”
“Ken—” you say, and it’s all you can manage, the little nickname that no one’s ever called him but you. Kento buries himself inside you, his hot, muscular chest pressing into your back, pinning you against the cold wall. He’s so much bigger and wider, and his body encases you, shielding you from the agony that he’s dealt with his own hand.
You’re not sure if you can stand on your own — not under the weight of your solid and forceful affection for him.
“I know, I know," he says to the sweet sounds that escape you. "I’ve got you.”
Kento reaches around and cups your breast, squeezing hard. His thumb flicks over your nipple, the nail dragging against it cruelly as he swirls over the padded bra. Still, his blanketed touch is electrifying; your fingers curl into the wall, smooth, clawing without anything to grab onto.
He fucks into you, slowly, his strained cock rough against your walls. It’s just as you remember, and you long for your old life, wishing that there was a sorcerer out there whose technique could somehow turn back time. Then, you’d do something different, even if you’re not sure what.
With each thrust, his speed increases, hitting deeper and deeper inside you. Kento’s groans are so pretty, and tears roll down your cheeks at the feeling of him within you, surrounding you, the man you still touch yourself to at night, even when he’s a cold-blooded killer.
“It’s been a while since anyone’s fucked you like this, hm?” Kento says, cooing, almost sorry, even if he doesn’t realize how true that is. You feel dizzy with him, the sound of his syrupy voice, so deep and invigorating. “Need to cum so bad, don’t you, pretty?”
“Please,” you say, and you almost tell him you love him, almost let it slip, even though it can’t. This is nothing, this is nothing, this is nothing, you try and tell yourself, but you’re too distracted by the sounds, the utter sin that you’ve committed here in this school.
You’ve betrayed everyone, and you’re still betraying them now, your weak heart nothing but a burden.
Kento says your name, groans it around your ear as he presses harder into your body. His cock angles upwards, forces itself past your aching walls, and, he’s buried in you completely. There’s a lingering sting, a bitter pain, but Kento feels like home. Your stomach tightens, bursting with energy.
“You’re so perfect, aren’t you? So beautiful. Always take it like you were made for my cock,” he groans, and you suck him right back in, clamping around him tightly. “I missed this pretty pussy; maybe as much as I missed you.”
Tears well up in your eyes then, and you sob, reach around to grab his hair. You need to feel him all around you, remember what it was like for him to love you in return.
He hits a spot within you, and you arch into him, crying, a mess between your legs and on your face.
“There?” Kento says, but he already knows the answer, grinning as he kisses your cheek, your temple. “How could I ever forget the sweet sounds you make when you’re about to cum.”
You press his head closer, feel him kiss your neck again, softer this time, lovingly. He runs a delicate hand across your ribcage, your stomach. “You going to let go for me, angel? Surprised you lasted this long after two years. Think my sweet girl deserves it.”
“K-kento,” you whisper, but his name doesn’t get far; it’s cut off by your moan as he rips the orgasm from you, and you clench around him tightly, shaking.
“That’s it,” he says and shudders, grunting as he forces out the words. Your body jerks involuntarily into him as you slump against the wall, trapped between it and Kento. Already, you’re so sensitive, and your tears don’t stop falling as he pushes his cock into you again and again.
Kento’s heart is heavy within his chest, pounding against your back. You feel sick, helpless, missing him endlessly, even with him right at your fingertips. You can’t believe that you’ve lasted two years without him; how can you survive a lifetime?
“Take me with you,” you plead, your eyelids fluttering close as you try and remember the feeling of him, memorizing it in case this is the last time. “Please.”
“Can’t do that, sweetheart.” Kento jerks back into you, forcing your cheek further against the wall. His hand is stiff against your head, even though he strokes your hair gently, encouraging. “I’m supposed to kill you, remember? I’m supposed to rid the world of every last sorcerer.”
“I need you, Kento,” you cry, feeling close to another orgasm already. Tears are running down your cheeks, your lips wet with spit as your mouth parts. “Just like it was before. I love you; I love you so much, I’ll be so good, I’ll—”
Kento groans your name and cums inside you, thick ropes painting your insides. It’s too much, everything about this is too much, and you’re squeezing him again, painfully sensitive as you orgasm once more.
Nonsense spews from your lips, and you grab at him in desperation as he finally drags out of you, the absence of him shattering you completely. Your inner thighs are sticky and wet, and his cum drips down your thighs, leaving you nothing more than a cold, ruined mess.
Kento shushes, soothes you with sounds that are closer to taunts as you spin around, grab at him, claw at his wrinkled red shirt. There’s still blood on his face, but even then, you accept him; you’ll forgive him for every wrongdoing he’s committed if he lets himself love you once more.
“I want to go with you,” you say, and though his face is hard, he’s caressing your cheek with an opposite sort of touch, sadness in his weary eyes.
“I know you do,” he says, and there’s a conflict within him as his features contort. It’s the only evidence that maybe, deep down, he cares about you still. “But I’m not the man you want. Not anymore.” It’s a whisper, a prayer, and goodbye.
You nearly slap him as he straightens, inches away from you. You feel that you’ve been pushed into a pit of inky chaos, left soaked and naked from the way down, humiliated. Your cheek is red from where it was pressed into the textured paint, stinging from the pressure.
“Kento, please,” you beg, and he takes a step back, hardening his eyes. “You can’t leave me again. I’d rather die. I’d rather you kill me.”
You’re not sure which of the statements snaps him back into himself once more.
Kento blinks, then lets a cold smile filter onto his face, one that lingers darkly on every corner of his expression. A smear of blood remains on his sharp cheekbone, and he wipes it clear, grazing his eyes along your body in a way that makes you feel so small. You’re nothing to him, then; even though you had been once.
“Oh, I decided I won’t kill you this time,” he says, pushing his hair back into place as his spine goes rigid, straightening like a marionette string. “I want to make sure I have a pretty girl to come back to every now and again.”
“What?” It leaves you forcefully, and you’re choking in shame, because you hope the words are true. You can’t stand a life without Nanami Kento, even if that life is nothing more than seeing him in the cracks of moonlight, the shadows where no one knows he’s lurking. You’d take that before a lonely existence, void of the sweet lips of the devil that you pray to.
“I’ll leave Tokyo,” you shout, red-faced and teary eyed, your words nothing more than empty threats. “I’ll leave the country. You’ll never find me.”
Nanami grins, laughs at you coolly, a sound that chills you to the core. “Oh, I’d find you.”
You don’t have time to formulate a response. A breath forces its way out of you, but the wretched curse reveals itself from the corner of the room, stopping any words from escaping your lips. His eyes hungrily roam every inch of you, lingering on the lower half of your exposed body; you wonder how long he’s been there, watching, not saying a word.
“Are you done yet?” Mahito asks, dragging his lurid gaze away to face Nanami. “You’ve had your fun, let’s kill her now.”
Nanami’s eyes flash. “Leave her,” he says, scoffing. “She’s already as pathetic as it gets. Killing her won’t make a difference.” He spits the words coldly, and turns, following the curse out of the room
tags: @hannzai @cha0thicpisces @kissesmellow21 @sukiischaotic @hinata7346 @annoyingpainterprincess
I GOT SO NERVOUS TO POST THIS ONE SHDHFHS
OCTOBER MASTERLIST
#jjk x reader#kento nanami x reader#nanami x fem!reader#kento nanami x you#nanami x y/n#nanami smut#kento nanami smut#nanami x reader#nanami kento x reader#nanami kento x y/n#nanami kento x you#nanami x you#jjk x y/n#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen smut#jjk x you#jjk x fem!reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen x you#♰ theatre of vampires#rylie writes ₊˚🎧#villain nanami
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Trans Horror Podcasts
My post about trans horror books last year was much more popular than I expected, and since I've recently fallen in love with fiction podcasts and audio dramas, I thought I'd make a post about trans horror podcasts as well.
If you like trans horror, please give these a try - especially if you enjoy listening to audiobooks!
Hello From The Hallowoods:
Come walk between the black pines!
In this award-winning queer fiction podcast, an eldritch narrator follows the increasingly connected residents of the forest at the end of the world.
It's a bittersweet story that explores queer identity, horror genre tropes, and finding hope in humanity's last moments.
Hello From The Hallowoods is my absolute favorite podcast! If you only listen to one podcast from this list, please make it this one - it's so beautifully written and super queer! Also: season 4 starts today!
Trans main characters include:
our nonbinary eye-affiliated podcast host
a nonbinary "Frankenstein's creature"
a transmasc ghost
a genderfluid storm witch
a trans woman who can visit other people's dreams
multiple characters using neopronouns
Camp Here & There:
Good morning, campers!
Camp Here & There is a weekly horror comedy podcast tuned in to the loudspeakers of a small midwestern sleepaway camp plagued by supernatural terrors and natural disasters. Sydney Sargent, resident camp nurse, cheerfully reports on all the terror we must face with a big smile.
Let’s hope there’s nothing weird about that!
Sydney is a trans man.
Dos: After You:
Things have changed. Deck has fallen in love with someone who isn't human, and leaves a hungry house behind to see him again. Will he be waiting for you? The world has changed… but what about him?
Dos: After You is a queer urban fantasy/horror audiodrama available in both English & Spanish
Deck is a trans man.
Jar of Rebuke:
Follow Dr. Jared Hel's journey as he works to re-discover his forgotten past and finds his place within the small Indiana farm town of Wichton and the cryptozoological organization he works for called 'The Enclosure'.
These audio journals, and other recordings, dive deep into Midwestern US cryptids and folklore while also telling a mystery about identity, queerness, neurodivergence, and community.
Jared is nonbinary.
Spirit Box Radio:
Spirit Box Radio is an award winning, horror audio drama podcast about a radio show for enthusiasts of all things arcane.
Follow Sam Enfield a former postboy with no experience in the arcane arts, who finds themselves forced to take over running the show, following the disappearance of the previous host.
Sam soon discovers there are more than ghosts haunting the show, and finds himself amidst a mystery which threatens everything he knows about the world beyond his tiny basement broadcast studio, and maybe even himself.
Sam is a trans man.
The Silt Verses:
Carpenter and Faulkner, two worshippers of an outlawed god, travel up the length of their deity’s great black river, searching for holy revelations amongst the reeds and the wetlands.
As their pilgrimage lengthens and the river’s mysteries deepen, the two acolytes find themselves under threat from a police manhunt, but also come into conflict with the weirder gods that have flourished in these forgotten rural territories.
This is a world where divine intervention takes place through prayer-markings scratched into stumping-posts, and offerings are left squirming to die in the flats of the delta.
This is a world of ritual, and hidden language, and sacrifice.
This is folk horror, and fantasy, and a dark road trip into the depths of unusual faith.
Faulkner is a trans man.
The Magnus Protocol:
The Magnus Archives 2: The Magnus Protocol is the prequel/sequel/”sidequel” to the internationally renowned Magnus Archives podcast.
The Magnus Institute was an organisation dedicated to academic research into the esoteric and the paranormal, based out of Manchester, England. It burned to the ground in 1999. There were no survivors. Now, almost 25 years later, Alice and Sam, a pair of low-level civil service workers at the underfunded Office of Incident Assessment and Response, have stumbled across its legacy. A legacy that will put them in grave danger.
If this intrigues you then it is our pleasure to welcome you to the Office of Incident, Assessment and Response. Make sure you pick up your badge at desk and report to your line manager before sitting down. Oh and stay away from I.T., seriously.
I'm not sure if Alice is canonically trans, but her voice actress is a trans woman.
#hello from the hallowoods#hfth#camp here & there#camp here and there#chnt#dos: after you#jar of rebuke#the magnus protocol#tmagp#spirit box radio#the silt verses#tsv#nonbinary#genderfluid#transmasc#transfem#trans book of the day#trans books#queer books#bookblr#booklr#horror podcast#horror podcasts#queer horror podcast#queer horror podcasts#trans horror podcast#trans horror podcasts#trans horror#long post
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savior complex (pt. 1) | bang chan
summary: Your father had wielded you to become a machine; a weapon. And a machine you would become. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat. He taught you how to protect; specifically how to protect your family. But he never taught you how to survive with other groups, especially when their leader seems to have it out for you.
pairing: bang chan x fem!reader
rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | strangers/enemies to lovers + zombie apocalypse au, angst, fluff, smut
word count: 19.9K
chapter summary: you'd always known the end, and it had always known you. you just didn't know the beginning would be waiting for you when your time finally came.
warnings/notes: zombie apocalypse au so . . . blood, guts, gore, sad, sad, sad. beware. lots of inspo from every zombie thing i've literally ever seen (twd, tlou, train to busan, etc.), typos probably, parental death, actions of violence and murder, religious TRAUMA, religious undertones, reader does not believe in god but she's deeply influence by it bc of her childhood and it haunts her, reader comes from a small toen and it's not explicitly stated where she's from but hollows are mentioned, hunting, reader wishes for death multiple times, chan goes by chris, no smut in this chapter but there will be in every chapter after, i think that's it but let me know if i missed anything, and enjoy! <3
chapter one: i know the end (and it knows me)
( series masterlist | next → )
Sometimes you felt like a ghost. It happened when the world was so silent that you could almost hear the beat of your unsteady heart pounding in your chest; when everyone else was asleep and you stayed up, eyes watchful and searching for threats. That was when you felt like the lost faces that haunted you.
It hadn't always been this way, at least not until the world ended. Most of the time you tried not to think about it. You tried not to think about much except survival these days.
Because that was smart. Surviving was smart. Anything else was stupid; anything else would get you killed.
Ironic, how you used to fear that very thing. Death. Now it was all you knew.
The apocalypse had come.
You knew how it sounded. Honestly, you didn't believe it when it first happened. You had been too afraid to admit it; too scared that if you did, you could never go back. There was no going back anyway. That was something you wished you had known back then. And as you sat on a log in the middle of those dark woods, overlooking your group who all slept silently while you stayed up, bloody knife in hand, and eyes watching for threats, it was hard to ignore the fact that this was your cruel reality.
Because the reality of it all was: you were living on borrowed time, trying your best to do right by your father and keep your family alive. You'd faltered that night, dotting the line between protection and predation.
And now . . . now you couldn't help but think about the beginning. How you would've never ended up like this if things had been different. But things hadn't been different. Things had happened exactly the way they had, and it'd left you with rot in your bloodstream and hate in your heart.
That was what made you clutch the knife closer, nearly cutting your own flesh. Because things hadn’t been different, but they also hadn’t always been this way. You hadn’t always been like . . . this.
You supposed it was because it was easy to kneel when you were just a girl. It was easy to ignore the ever-present scabs on your knees when you didn’t know any better. It was easy to tear yourself down the middle, pulling stitches from the back of your legs when you knew it’d all be re-sewn by morning. It was easy back then when the world hadn’t died.
From the moment you were brought into the world, barely kicking and silently screaming like it was a sin to voice your pain, you had been taught to be that girl; that easy, complacent girl with not so much as a rotten thought. From the moment you were born, you had been taught the foundation of the Church and its vocation, and it had carved its way into your rotten flesh even when the world was no more.
At age four, you were in the pews, listening to the words of God while creating imaginary friends in the statues. At age seven, communion. Then at age eight, you had begun to become an altar girl, fetching and carrying, ringing the altar bell, bringing up the gifts and the book, among other things—essentially being a servant to God. At age fourteen, confirmation. At fifteen, your mother doused you in holy water before your first date with a boy from school. Sixteen, heartbreak, praying to God and begging for him to help ease it all, only to be left with no response . . . even after all you had done for him.
Seventeen and the stitches down your legs remained undone, the scriptures now more of a question than a statement. Then . . . eighteen, the timer clicked into place, and you felt yourself begin to rot along with the world, forcing you to realize your entire life was just a cycle of kneeling before God, praying, and asking for forgiveness for your sins.
It had been easy to kneel when you were just a girl; when you didn’t know any better. And then it happened.
It.
Armageddon.
The Rapture.
The fucking apocalypse.
It didn’t matter what you called it. Doomsday was still doomsday even dressed up with fancy scriptures and sacred wine.
The apocalypse had come. Humans were deemed horrible creatures by some almighty who you didn't give a fuck to acknowledge. It didn't matter. Someone or something had deemed the human race unworthy.
The apocalypse had come, and you were deemed worthless. You were made to die. It was inevitable.
The apocalypse had come. There was talk that it had begun in the North. But much wasn’t known in your town. Now you realized they tried to keep it a secret. It was a way of controlling everyone, you supposed, but not like it mattered much now.
That was just how things were. Your mother refused to let you and your younger sister watch the news, refused to let you search anything about what was going on in the world, adamant that everything was lies and those lies would cloud your mind. A religious town bordering on a commune that resembled a cult perhaps just a tad too much. You realized all this now, of course, but back then your knees were still covered in scabs from kneeling before a God who would never come. Back then your mother kept you kneeling until the final bell tolled, her hand firmly clutching your shoulder to keep you in place.
You were only eighteen then. And while the outside world was torn apart month by month, its people haunted by death piled upon death, your town continued on as it always had. The whispers of a war that would end the world were just whispers, covered up by scriptures that the local preacher would sight every Sunday morning just after you’d collected the eggs from the chicken coop and put on your best dress like your mother had always taught you.
But it was different for you, even back then. Because while it had been easy to kneel when you were a girl, you had begun to grow. Eighteen then, but you had begun to see the flaws within the Church when you were sixteen. And by eighteen, you knew better.
By eighteen, you could see the sweat beading along the preacher’s forehead. By eighteen, you could hear wavering in your mother’s voice when she proclaimed that this was just a test. That this was meant to happen. That the Bible had always predicted this, and if you remained faithful, then you would be saved . . . spared.
But by eighteen, you knew better.
It took one quiet night and a hammering heart for you to sneak into your father’s study and head straight for this desktop. It took even less time to discover what had become of the world. One. Two. Three clicks and then . . .
You remembered the choking feeling bubbling up your chest as your eyes scanned the news articles. A virus. One so horrible and unforgiving that it could take a healthy vessel, and within twenty-four hours, the body would succumb to death. But, you’d seen stuff like this before, right? You knew there had been plenty of diseases and viruses and they all had cures. They all had to have cures. They had to.
That was just the thing: no matter how hard you looked, you couldn’t find any article that explained how this virus came about. It was unknown, deadly, spreading rapidly, and there was no way of telling when it’d reach your town. It was just . . . just . . . (It was the first time you truly felt helpless.)
You remembered staying up with the sun, looking for answers, only to come out empty-handed. And when your father discovered you in his study that morning, you nearly confessed right away, sobbing into his arms. But no shame was brought upon you that day.
Your father had been a good man. He had loved you so. He had loved his family, no matter the consequences or conditions.
This town, your town, was small. It consisted of around only three thousand people give or take, all of which were either Christian, secluded, or . . . your father. In all the years you had been alive, not once had your father stepped into the Church. You never asked. You never worried. Your mother just always told you your father was busy every single time, and you believed her because back then, you’d trusted her with all of you.
As you grew, your suspicions of him did, too, but you remained silent as you always had in life. And it was only until that morning when he wrapped you in his arms and let you cry into his shoulder, did you realize why he never entered the Church, why he never spoke the prayers your mother praised, why neighbors would talk of his name only in hushed conversations.
He didn’t believe.
No, he believed in something just not . . . this sacred word your town so desperately worshipped. And that morning, he told you the truth. From his childhood to how he ended up in a town like this. He told you it all, and then he told you the truth. He told you how your mother was scared (how she always had been) and how one day he hoped with enough trying, she’d see the world for what it was ( . . . she never did). And then he told you about the virus, and everything was so much clearer.
The town had everyone convinced this was some kind of test. There was no virus to them. This was the reaping. The scriptures were true to them. And so every Sunday, you were forced to acknowledge that Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death—the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse had come to earth with the power to destroy humanity.
That was how it had been explained to your town, and all its people believed. A sickness had struck the world, yes, they told that much truth, but they chalked it all up to being some kind of plot point in God’s plan. To top it off, it was said that if the townspeople all repented and did right by his name, then salvation would be given.
That was what was told, and that was what was believed.
You remembered the preacher’s voice even now.
Then I saw when the Lamb broke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, "Come." I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer.
— Revelation 6:1–2
That scripture haunted you just as your father’s face did, but back then you hadn’t realized the detriment it would have on you. Back then, you played your part. Back then, you dressed as your mother advised, went to church, and listened, and then, when all was said and done and your mother had gone to her room, you snuck off to accompany your father on his hunts. And during those times, you’d learn the truth.
While the two of you hunkered down, waiting for deer to pass through your side of the woods, he told you about what was going on with the rest of the world. He explained how the CDC had claimed this thing; Pestilence (as your town believed) was some kind of virus, yes, only they wouldn't release the survival rate except for a few things that stated it was deadly, spread rapidly, and anyone could have it, but by the time symptoms had started to kick in, it would be too late.
As the weeks went by, as the more hunting extravaganzas you went on with your father piled up, his news became more worrisome. At first, the virus was contained in the North of the world, but as it took more lives and less information about it was being provided to the public . . . people began to panic. Hysteria spread throughout the world. Cases of this unknown virus peaked, and the government released statement after statement informing the public that face masks would be required to prevent the virus from spreading and travel restrictions would soon be put into place.
Only by that time, it was too late.
Carriers of this unknown virus had already traveled far and near, spreading the disease throughout the world. This so-called Pestilence might have only been given reign to a quarter of the world, but his disease had spread farther than his radius.
And while you had been young, you realized that this virus had only one purpose: to kill. There was no survival rate. No hope.
The world shut down soon after more and more people started dropping like flies, succumbing to the miserable disease that left them with boils and blisters covering their skin. Hospitals became overrun. Schools were wiped out with kids coming home with this deadly virus. Workplaces were abandoned, the people wishing to stay at home with their families, too afraid to step outside without any real knowledge of how this virus worked.
Your town remained oblivious, too, as the region shut down, gates being made so no one could enter or leave. It was safer that way they claimed. All of those who could be saved would be saved and helping those seeking a refuge was against the rules. It all felt like some kind of sick plan if you had anything to say about it.
By the time your father had taught you how to shoot your first deer without you sniffling in fear, Vaccines were finally attempted, but nothing worked; the disease only spread, and more people died.
Then . . . it all just stopped.
But your town continued to spread its lies.
The story remained the same even all these years later. You remembered how while you had learned the virus was supposedly coming to an end, your town still painted the picture of the Horsemen. Tales of Pestilence’s reign still remained.
They went on and on about how he rose from the depths of Hell. Pestilence had come. He, who sat on his white steed, had a bow, a crown that had been gifted to him by his gods had come, and when he had, he went out conquering. And so he did.
Until he was put to rest; until his conquering had come to an end. You listened with half a heart as the preacher went on and on about how his time had ended, yes, but this was not the end. All you had to do was keep praying, keep repenting, keep . . . kneeling, and you’d be saved.
But you knew better.
While others would attend midnight mass in addition to morning, you claimed you had to pray on your own, and when your mother had left with your sister on her hip, you snuck off with your father to learn of the world. You snuck off to better your shooting arm, to seek comfort in the only person who seemed to have their head screwed on right, to shoot ducks and geese and deer and everything in order to keep your town fed while everyone else prayed to a God that wasn’t doing half your work. And yet, every time, every kill, your father knelt beside the animal and prayed, until you had begun to do the same.
You weren’t sure why he did it. You had never asked. You never thought you needed to. (Now you would’ve done anything to know the answer.)
And so . . . life went on like that. Completely cut off from the world without the help of the internet your father provided for the two of you, life went on.
The virus no longer spread further, and many believed it was all just some hoax. News stations came to life again, but not much else was restored. That was how everyone found out the virus had concluded. Hell, even you remember being twenty-one years old, having your first legal shot with your father in the middle of the woods while the two of you watched news reporter after news reporter claim the virus had mutated and mutated so much to the point our bodies had accumulated a natural resistance to it.
But you couldn't believe it.
Three whole years of this deadly disease taking out population upon population, and then it all ceased. It felt almost too good to be true.
Of course, the town believed this too. Pestilence had conquered, and that was just the problem.
Every day, day in and day out, words spread throughout the hollow, the word in the Church mutated each week, even your mother who had spent the last three years praying to Jesus, Joseph, and Mary; your mother who had gone through rosary after rosary begging for God to have mercy on your family; your mother who had always forced you to attend those days at church on Sunday went around the house, boarding up the windows and hiding the special silverware in the basement, claiming that he would come next.
He has conquered, she had hissed over your shoulder when you and your father came back from one of your hunts.
Pestilence's reign had ended (according to your mother, who you were almost certain had a few screws loose). You didn’t believe it for a second, ignoring your mother's desperate ramblings.
War will come, she warned.
War will come.
But . . . you knew if something did come, it wouldn’t be this War.
And then . . . then he did.
The first sighting of the dead coming back was spotted just months after the virus that had plagued millions had ceased. And this time . . . the town allowed its folk to see the reports. Even your mother had brought the television from the basement to witness the dead rise . . . or rather . . . War. The news stations had captured a recording of these . . . people; people who had suffered from the virus coming back, and then with only their teeth, tearing any live thing apart. The recording was aired all across the world, fear, and hysteria spreading like wildfire.
The government was still up and running at this point with only one mission: to shoot down these seemingly reanimated corpses before they could cause more harm. People believed this to be a fluke, but your mother's words had stuck with you.
War will come.
It was all a little hazy now, but you remembered bits and pieces of the world back then. War had been quick, ruthless, and determined.
This was no man. This was War.
And it all became clear soon after.
While Pestilence had been silent, War had wanted an audience.
The things he could do; the people he could hurt . . . it was all so gutting. Those lost to the virus kept coming back, all with one purpose: destruction. With one bite, their victims would soon fall ill to that same virus, and then once it had taken their body, they’d come back, reanimated with the same gruesome purpose.
The government finally fell when the dead could no longer be stopped. Quarantines dropped, people ran, and everything just . . . stopped. These creatures tore through cities, sinking their teeth into civilians. And you watched it all on the television, until that, too fell, leaving the rest of the world in the dark.
That was when you realized just how real all of this was. That was when you realized the past three years of hunting with your father was not just something the two of you would look back on and laugh about one day when this virus was over. No . . . it seemed . . . it seemed you couldn’t quite see the end or maybe . . . maybe you could and that was the problem all along.
Your father, the man he was, tried to remind you that this was not War; that this was not the supposed God’s plan everyone was convinced of in your godforsaken hollow. And you tried to hear him, but for a while, you wished to be like everyone else in the town. You wished you could believe this was some greater plan. You wished you could believe that this was all because of some Horseman . . . but you knew better, and your father seemed to know this as well.
(And yet, when you thought back on it now, the stages in which the world ended still presented themselves as the Horsemen in your troubled mind.)
Because, well, you supposed that was truly when the world had ended—the day War came.
War will come, your mother had warned, and you knew that to be true the day the electricity stopped working. War had come, and he'd taken civilization with him. And while he reigned over the quarter of the world he'd been gifted, the rest of the world lay in the dark, trying to navigate throughout this new world.
From time to time you had heard talk of distant wars. You, however, had never seen one.
But War's ruthless hand still reached your town.
There was no news or contact with the outside world other than the people you could see with your own eyes. No transportation, no government, no nothing. It was said that cars had even been abandoned on highways as people tried to leave town to find their families. But they never got far; not with this newfound order bestowed upon the earth.
Because truly . . . War did not need to come to earth to corrupt it.
The government had fallen, the world had ended, the apocalypse had begun and that was all it took for chaos to ensue. People became their worst selves at the end of the world, you'd been told all your life through media upon media. But you had to disagree. You thought, perhaps, the end of the world brought out who people truly were deep inside. It allowed people to let go of civility.
And you discovered people really were perhaps even worse than this supposed War himself. Or rather a product of War and his righteous hand.
(Although, how righteous could he truly be?)
While War reigned, the rest of the world scavenged. Your family stood stagnant in your childhood home, holding up there for as long as you could. It was still warm when the second wave hit. You knew you'd need to find a different shelter when the time came.
The cold wasn't your only problem either. People were at their worst. When the news broke out in your town, the scriptures they held so dear began to fall apart. A lot left, some stayed, and others turned on each other, leaving houses with bloodstained splatters and a fear of thy neighbor. Your family stayed, however. Your mother read scriptures every day. Your father recited the truth. And they argued, while you sat by the window, terrified out of your mind as you watched the empty streets.
That was when you realized another truth about yourself. You were just about to turn twenty-two, the world had gone to shit, and you had never been so scared. Pestilence. War. Famine. Death. Their names raged on inside your head and it was as if you were still just a young girl, kneeling in church despite the scabs. Except now, you were a girl who could no longer kneel in church, and yet you were still so scared.
It felt cruel. Perhaps even unreal.
The scriptures had predicted this—the four harbingers coming down to scorn the earth. But you hadn't believed it. You were forced to now.
It was War’s reign back then. But Death would come one day. He had come to kill you all; to finish off everything his brothers hadn't touched, and one day he would.
It had been predicted. The words stuck in your head even now.
When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, "Come." I looked, and behold, a pale horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.
— Revelation 6:7–8
Your mother told you long ago of these scriptures. When you were a child, you'd cover your head with your blankets, hiding from the mysteries of the night. Somewhere in your innocent mind, you'd convinced yourself the devil himself would find his way into your room, wrap his bony hand around your ankle, and drag you to the pits of Hell.
Back then you'd feared death. You'd done everything to steer far from its clutches.
She’s afraid of the world, your peers would hiss under their breath, not knowing you'd heard every word. And you knew they were right. You knew you had always been a scared kid, trying your hardest to keep the monsters at bay.
You wished you'd realized there had been no real monsters . . . yet. You would've lived more. Now you knew the consequences.
Now there was no more living, just surviving.
Still, sometimes you found yourself missing it; missing life. It was a bitter thought—what could've been had the world not ended all those years ago.
Back then—before the end—you'd feared death.
How far will this go? you remembered thinking back then when it was still War’s reign. How long until things are normal?
You didn't have the stomach back then to come to terms with the truth. You barely remembered it now.
But you did remember the day everything truly changed for you.
Up until that day, you'd been following your father's orders, huddling up in your home with your mother and little sister as the four of you survived day by day. Then . . . your house had been broken into, the intruder coming in through your window.
Back then you had feared death. You had thought you were going to die.
You'd thought this up until the very last scream ripped through your throat just as your father emerged from the shadows, a look on his face you’d never seen, moments before everything went red. You remembered that to this day. While everything else was blurry, that moment was clear. You could still feel the blood splatter on your face as you watched your father—the man who used to tie your shoes for you before you hopped on the school bus—kill a man before your very eyes, ripping out his jugular with his bare teeth.
Once a girl who could no longer kneel in church, became one painted with the blood from another. And you remembered a small part of you—the part that had once knelt so much her knees had turned to scabs—that this was all War’s fault.
You thought it until you watched the man pale, falling to your childhood bedroom floor with a thud. You remembered how his eyes stayed wide open, locked on you as he gurgled and choked on his blood, bleeding out onto your pink carpet. He didn't blink. Not once. Not even at all. They stayed cold and empty as your father breathed heavily above him.
And then you looked at him.
Your father was a good man. He was kind and just, despite the town. He believed in science and facts. He wanted the truth. But none of that mattered if his family was at stake.
Your father was a good man. He loved you, and he would’ve done anything for you.
Your father was a good man.
Your father had ripped out another man’s jugular in front of you.
Your father was a good man.
Your father had killed someone.
This was the end. You knew it, and it knew you, too.
(It wasn’t talked about, and you never brought it up again. He simply embraced you in a tight hug and kissed your forehead, leaving a smudge of blood from the man in doing so, and whispered apologies that would never sink deeper than your skin.
(Now you wished you would’ve told him you understood. Now you would’ve looked at him and seen an image of yourself staring right back. Now you would’ve hugged him back.))
That was all it took before your father took it upon himself to gather your mother and little sister, put all necessities in the car, and collect enough portable gasoline as he could before the four of you set off down the road. Where you were going was undetermined. There was no knowing . . . because there was nowhere to go.
The world had ended. There was nothing left. You just had to go.
You have to grow up. No more kid stuff, your father said to you that night on the road while your mother and little sister were fast asleep in the back of the car. One day I might not be here to protect you. You have to learn to protect yourself.
And you'd promised him you would. Because you had to. You had been old enough then, after all. You had been twenty-one . . . technically an adult.
(Now, however, you realized you had still been too young. Twenty-one wasn't old enough to face the end of the world.)
But . . . what happens when a scared young girl is forced to grow up too soon? She turns into a machine.
Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat.
Your father had borne that burden back then, when you first set off on the road. The car hadn't lasted long. Not that it mattered. The world was a wasteland anyway. Walking from town to town on the vacant streets and highways was nothing new now.
You just have to survive, he kept telling you. Survive long enough to keep them alive.
And you always knew what he meant. He was training you for the day when he would be no more. Because when that day came, you would be the one left in charge. He'd turned you into a machine because that was the world you lived in. You were the oldest. Your sister was barely five years old back then. And your mother . . . your mother who once believed this was all some greater plan, was now convinced that if she prayed hard enough it'd stop Famine from following after his ruthless brother.
It was your job to remember what your father had taught you when Pestilence first came to reign—how to hunt, how to shoot a shotgun, and now . . . how to survive.
And when Famine came; when you caught sight of the words Famine has risen spray painted on a billboard on the side of a highway, reminding you of your sick home. It was then you finally learned how to survive. You didn't realize how hard it would be until a year after Famine's birth, your father had passed because of you (because of a stupid decision that you had made which you still couldn't bring yourself to acknowledge).
Survival became all that you knew after that.
Your father was gone. It was just like he had warned. You were in charge now, and you had one purpose: keep your family alive.
The burden became yours to bear.
This was your purgatory and you'd do well to repent for what you'd done; for the man you'd sent out to die; for the father you'd lost.
Survive, survive, survive. It was all you knew.
And when the final Horseman rose, you knew what you had to do. It didn’t matter if it killed you, you couldn’t let your family die at the hands of one of those . . . creatures.
Death had risen. The entire world was a wasteland filled with undead and wars made by man.
If you crossed paths with one of those creatures and let them lay a finger on your family, your oath to your father would be broken. Death would kill you all.
So you kept going, trying to outrun the inevitable.
Because you had to. For him. For your father. For the ghosts that haunted you.
Your father had wielded you to become a machine. And a machine you would become.
Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat.
The routine was ingrained in your brain, going on and on like a mantra. You couldn't escape that. Not that it mattered. Survival mattered. Keeping your group, your sister, your mother, and your family alive mattered. They were all that mattered. You would skip as many meals as your body would let you if it meant they'd stay fed.
Sometimes you found yourself laughing at how naive you had been in the past. At twenty-five now, you were equal parts machine and woman, still oozing blood when wounded despite your protests. You didn't tremble at the sight of blood now. You didn't fear death.
When you were a kid, death was your greatest fear. Now, you envied it. Envied the fact you had to walk the earth; the same earth the dead destroyed. Because you couldn't die. That was the harsh truth: you couldn't die.
You'd feared death for so long and now as you sat awake, keeping watch while your group slept, you yearned for the clutches of death to drag you into nothingness. It was almost laughable.
In a world where people now fought for their lives, trying to outrun the dead, you wished to succumb to death. You knew it was wrong, and you'd never speak it aloud, but you yearned for it. This world was shit. Complete and utter shit, and you wanted to give up. Everything in you wanted to just wait like some brainless sitting duck and let Death or disease or even those wretched beasts you heard groaning in the dead of night have their way with your hollow body.
But you couldn't . . . not when you promised your father you'd protect them. He'd died for you, and it was your duty to keep your family safe. Your duty.
You couldn't die, not when you had to keep them alive.
So you let yourself turn into a machine.
And a ruthless machine you had watched yourself become.
That night had been enough evidence of this. Because that night as you sat on a log, slowly dragging yourself out of the past and into the present, you realized one thing. A bloody knife sat in your hand while you watched over your sleeping group, eyes searching for any sign of the dead, and that was when it dawned on you that you had been right all those years ago—the end of the world brought out who people truly were.
You were a machine. You didn't feel. You couldn't.
Glancing down at the bloody knife in your hand, you realized you hadn't felt anything that night.
That night you'd done something you never thought you would. That night your group was attacked by a man with a gun; a man who wanted to harm; a man who had put his hands on your little sister. She was only eight going on nine, and she was your responsibility, and as soon as his hand clamped down over her shoulder while he held a gun to her head, threatening to pull the trigger unless you gave up all your food, you lost it.
Everything went black. You couldn't see. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't even think. You just felt this pure blinding rage.
When you finally regained your sight, you realized what you'd done—you'd killed the man.
No, killed was too vague.
Like the true machine you had become, you had slaughtered him; the bloody knife in your hand was evidence enough of that.
The man was dead, a chunk of his jugular ripped out while he clutched the many stab wounds piercing his stomach. And you . . . you stood above him, eyes wide, bloody knife in hand, and the bitter taste of blood on your tongue.
You'd never killed anyone before. You'd put people out of their misery, but you'd never taken another life like this. You'd never had to.
But you had that night.
And now you paid the consequences.
It had been hours since then. No one had spoken a word since. And your sister . . . your little sister had only looked at you once since then, and you could see the utter terror her round eyes held. Normally she would sleep by your side, but she'd curled up next to your mother that night.
She was afraid of you, and you couldn't blame her. You had once given your father the same look.
So you sat alone on that damned log, bloody knife in hand as you thought back on how you managed to end up in this Hell. Sometimes you felt like a ghost, and now you knew why.
Your brows pinched together. You couldn't help but think: is this what your father had intended?
How much of a machine had he meant for you to become? Were you supposed to clutch onto the part of yourself that was still human? Or had becoming a monster been part of the deal when you'd signed off your soul for machine parts?
You weren't sure. You weren't really sure of anything anymore.
Your sister had looked at you like you were one of the monsters that plagued your earth, slowly destroying it region by region.
Were you no better than the dead to her?
You swallowed hard.
Had you become a monster?
“You did what you had to do,” you heard a deep voice from behind you, perhaps answering your thoughts.
But you didn't jump as you turned to see Felix sit down on the log beside you, exhaustion weaving through his delicate features. You didn't speak a word, just stared at the side of his face for a second before you glanced back down at the bloody knife in your hand.
You did what you had to do.
You nearly laughed. It was just like him to say such things.
You see: Lee Felix had joined your group around the same time Famine took his reign, and ever since then he'd been following you around like your own personal shadow. That was three years ago now. Your father had saved him, offering him to join your family on the road. Perhaps your father had seen something in him. Or maybe he had just saved him simply because that was just who your father was: a hero.
Not that it mattered. You'd taken a liking to Felix, too. He was kind.
Kind had been rare back then. It still was.
And Felix stayed kind.
When your father passed, Felix stuck by you. Your mother had begun to look at you as if you were a stranger, and your little sister still had been too young to understand much. Felix had made life easier.
You'd taught him everything you knew partly because you needed to and partly because you liked being around him as if he were the younger brother you’d never had. Little bird, you called him . . . because you'd taught him everything. You'd taught him how to survive. And sometimes you thought maybe you would've been friends outside of this. If things were different, if you'd met in a world where the apocalypse hadn't happened . . . then you'd like to think you could have met; that your paths would've crossed.
But things weren't different. You weren't even sure if you could let him in entirely. Your friendship would surely put him in some sort of jeopardy. Because, really, it all came down to survival, and you needed him to live. You didn't care what happened to yourself. You just needed to stay alive long enough to make sure they'd all make it.
That still didn't stop the feeling of relief that washed over you as soon as you felt him lean into you, arm touching yours. He was trying to comfort you in the way that he knew, and you couldn't help but lean against him further.
He was still just as kind as the day you'd crossed paths.
But you?
Well . . .
“I ripped his throat out . . . " you heard yourself roughly mutter before you felt the words tumble from your tongue. You lifted a hand to your blood-stained lips and swallowed. “I ripped . . . throat . . . his . . . with my teeth.” You swallowed once again, harder this time as your eyes drifted to your little sister's sleeping figure. She had been so scared. You had done that. You had scared her. “She looks at me like I’m a monster.”
”You’re not."
“Lix."
“You’re not,” he reiterated, his voice as harsh as he could manage (which was not harsh at all) while he clutched your blood-stained hand and took it into his. “You did what you had to do.”
Your eyes flicked down to your hands. But you didn't look at him. You couldn't. You just kept thinking and thinking and seeing that look on your sister's face. And then . . . then you felt yourself say. ”She says all life is precious. She cries when we have to put down a squirrel for Christ’s sake. I should’ve known. I should’ve—”
”She’s just a kid."
“I didn’t have to kill him,” you continued. “There was a point where I could’ve knocked him out. I thought about it. And I still killed him.” Your eyes finally snapped to his then. “I wanted to kill him, Lix.”
A muscle in Felix’s jaw twitched. ”It’s people like him that make me wonder if this world got it all right,” he admitted after a second. “I’m glad he’s dead. I just wish I could’ve been the one to do it.”
Your breath hitched at his words, not because they'd shocked you . . . but rather because you found yourself agreeing. But that wasn't . . . right. Felix was kind. You were not. He was good, and you . . .
”You don’t mean that,” you mumbled, squeezing his hand. “You’re not . . . “
”Not what?” Felix countered, eyes searching yours. “Hmm? Not what?”
You blinked, your throat constricting. ”Too far gone,” you choked out.
His brows twitched, his expression softening. ”Neither are you."
His hand touched your face a second later, his thumb wiping the dried blood from your chin. You weren't a monster in his eyes. You were just his friend. He didn't fear you, but you knew he should've.
But for a second, you let yourself forget this. Instead, you closed your eyes, allowing him to clean your face of the man's spilled blood. And when he was done, your eyes fluttered open just in time to see him try to reach for the knife in your hand, probably to release it from your tight hold.
However, you shifted it out of his grasp. His eyes snapped to yours then, questioning.
You offered a weak smile—something you didn't do often, but would for him. ”Sleep,” you hummed, patting his shoulder. “We need your brute strength in the morning.”
”We need your brain more,” he countered, tapping a finger to your forehead.
”Sleep, little bird."
He rolled those round brown eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that."
Nevertheless, Felix listened to you. He shifted down onto the ground, resting his head on the log, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes closed. And you watched him until you were sure he was resting soundly. Then, your eyes went back to watching, making sure to keep your promise to your father.
But just as you were sure it was just you and the silence of the night again, you heard Felix’s voice filter through your ears, ”You’re not too far gone."
You swallowed hard but said nothing.
You're not too far gone.
Oh, how wrong he had been.
As if like some sort of phantom, your knees had begun to itch like they used to after mass all those years ago. For the first few days, you tried to ignore it, writing it off as poison ivy or not bathing for a few weeks, but even when you’d scratch, the itch would remain. You came to realize that this wasn’t something you could write off; this wasn’t something that hadn’t been caused by anything other than . . . you.
A few nights ago, you’d killed a man. You’d ripped out his throat with his teeth, and for a second too long, you’d enjoyed it. Now . . . now you wondered just how deep your guilt ran. Now you wondered if given the chance, would you do it again?
But you already knew the answer.
Your knees had begun to itch once again . . .
And you tried to ignore it. Honest, you did, but his screams; how easy it was to bite into his flesh; the bitter taste of metallic blood on your tongue which oddly tasted too similar to honey; the life in his eyes quickly dissipating as you towered over him like a predator to its prey; all of it kept playing in your head over and over again. You couldn’t escape it, not even when night came and you were forced to close your eyes.
His face was always there.
Sometimes you wondered if any of it had actually happened. Sometimes you wondered if none of this was real or if you even were. Sometimes you wondered if this man had been Death; if the tales your town preached had been real and this was your test.
Sometimes you wondered if you had failed.
And you knew you had.
At night, you could hear your mother whispering prayers under her breath, pleading to the heavens that she and her daughter would be spared. And every time, you knew which daughter she meant. Every time you knew she was praying to be spared from you. Every time you knew it was you who she feared the most in this world. And every time you wondered if one day he’d finally answer her prayers.
You couldn’t even blame her, because a few nights ago you’d done the one thing you’d never thought you’d have to do—kill a man. You knew you were some kind of fucked for that alone.
Then, last night, you began to wonder if this was how your father had felt. You began to wonder if this was why he was dead and not you. You wondered if he’d done it to save you, and to put himself out of his own misery.
And then you began to pray, too. You’d stopped believing in God years ago, but it was an old habit that you sometimes indulged in for some sick kind of comfort. And this time, in the dead of night, you’d shut your eyes and beg for your father’s ghost to return to you. You begged for just one more minute. One more minute and he could tell you how to deal with this; how to survive this, too, just as he had taught you how to endure everything else.
But no ghost ever came, only the perpetual darkness galloped in, consuming you whole.
Your father was gone, and it was all your fault. Guilt was your ghost, not him.
He would still be here if you hadn't—
"Mom thinks you've been possessed by the devil," your little sister's voice brought you out of your mind.
You blinked once. Then, you glanced down at her, taking note of her skeptical eyes and furrowed brows. It was almost as if she were inspecting your face, trying to decipher if you, her older sister, really were possessed as your mother had claimed.
It had been the first time your sister had spoken to you in the past week. The four of you had been walking through the woods, steering clear of the main roads ever since you’d come into contact with that man—the man whose blood you could still taste on your tongue.
She’d taken to walking hand-in-hand with your mother, just a few feet behind you and Felix as the two of you led the way into the unknown. You didn’t know where you were going. You never did. That was the thing about the end of the world—the only thing that mattered was surviving day by day. There was no end-point.
But today while you led the group through the woods, eyes searching for any rodents or small animals to capture for food, your head stuck in the past, your sister had taken the chance to walk into step with you. And those . . . those had been her choice of words.
Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.
And now with the world a ghost of itself, you thought perhaps maybe your mother could be right. You’d changed. The world had changed you. The old taste of blood on your tongue was evidence enough of that.
You’d killed a man. You’d ripped out a chunk of his jugular with your teeth and plunged the very knife in your belt into his flesh over and over again until you were sure he couldn’t do more harm.
Kill or be killed, sure, but . . .
. . . You’d still killed a man.
You’d actually taken a life.
(You weren’t expecting it to haunt you this much. But it had. You could still see his face, hear his voice, smell him, feel him. He was still very much alive in your mind, haunting you like a ghost.
It didn’t matter if he was more monster than man . . . you had still killed him. You had still taken a life without a second thought. His evils didn’t matter . . . guilt still seeped in.)
Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.
And maybe you had been.
That would’ve been easier to fathom.
But instead of voicing these thoughts aloud, you adjusted your backpack on your shoulders, touched a finger to the knife tucked into your belt to make sure it was still there and tightened your grip on your father’s shotgun in your hand before you finally spoke.
"Mom's off her meds," was all you offered. It was all you could say. And it hadn’t been what your sister was searching for.
Your sister stepped back, allowing you to walk alone. You knew you were losing her. You knew she barely trusted you now just as your mother stopped considering you a daughter.
And you couldn’t blame them.
The end of the world brought out who people truly were, and you were someone not worth saving.
The sun had begun to set when you finally declared you’d be stopping for the night. It wasn’t a solid resting place, which meant another night of no sleep on your part, but that didn’t bother you much anymore. All that mattered was there were no signs of the dead, no low groans in the distance, no immediate danger, and the small creek running just a few meters from your camp would provide just enough for you to wet your face and clean any dried blood from your skin. That was what mattered—a temporary sanctuary.
Felix had taken to accompanying your little sister to the creek, while your mother gathered small twigs and broken branches to add to the fire you had just started. But your eyes never stopped watching your little sister, keeping an eye on her to ensure no danger would reach her or Felix while you were occupied.
That was your only concern. Your second was food. There had to be some crawfish lingering in the creek that you could fry up. That was your second concern right after the fire was steady enough to last until nightfall.
With a soft sigh, you forced yourself to tear your eyes from your sister’s smiling face. You tried to ignore how she smiled at Felix while he splashed water at her. You tried to ignore the soft laughter you could still hear as you stabbed at the fire with a branch. You tried to ignore the thought that she’d never look at you like that; never laugh like that with you; never trust you like that again.
You tried to ignore how you had become more of a loose end your family needed to tie off, than a daughter or an older sister.
But you couldn’t. The thought was always there. There it would remain, you were sure of it.
Clenching your jaw, you added the branch in your hand to the fire, watching it crackle under the embers. And for a moment, you wondered what it would feel like if you were to reach forward and let the flames lick your fingertips.
Had he felt like this, too?
Had your father had these thoughts before he died for you?
Did he ever wonder if—
“You’re just like him, you know?” your mother nearly whispered, tearing you from your mind as she set down the pile of branches she had collected.
You glanced at her once, then glared into the fire. “Is that supposed to hurt me?”
She shook her head only once. “It should scare you,” she clarified, standing to her feet so she could tower over you once again. “God’s plan—”
“God’s plan?” you immediately spat out with a humorous scoff, now standing to your feet as well. You were taller than her now, unlike when you were a kid; unlike when you used to do everything she told you; unlike when she still considered you her daughter. “What does God’s plan have to do with my father?”
A muscle in her jaw twitched. “He has protected us this far. He couldn’t save your father. I’m worried if you continue down this path, he won’t be able to save you either,” she muttered back as she clutched the cross around her neck as if she thought it would ward you off like you had become one of the evils she’d warn you about when you were just a girl.
But you were no longer small; you were no longer moldable by her hand, and now, you were only made of anger. “You think God’s the reason we’re alive?” you questioned her, eyes narrowing into slits.
Your mother remained silent but clutched her cross harder. And you knew what that meant.
Your eyes flicked from her hand to her face. Then, you took a step forward, chin jutted out. “Is it God who kills so we can eat? Is it God who got us here, to this point? Is it God who holds dad’s gun?” you bit out as you touched a hand to your chest. “God doesn’t have a fucking plan.” You drilled a finger into your chest, your angry eyes never leaving hers. “I do. And God couldn’t save dad because it was supposed to be—”
But your words halted in your throat. You couldn’t admit it to her. You couldn’t tell her you were the reason behind your father’s death. It didn’t matter if she already knew. You just . . . you just couldn’t admit it to her face.
“God doesn't fucking exist,” you muttered out instead, turning away from her. “And if he did, he’s sure as hell dead now.”
“Your father filled your head with lies.”
You turned back to her, eyes glaring into hers. “Bullshit,” you scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. “He was the only one who ever told me the truth.”
Ignoring your words, she took a step away from you, her hand remaining on the cross around her neck. "Your father . . . I knew he was deeply flawed when I married him, but I just figured he’d change. I figured he’d see the way, instead he only got worse, but he knew when to control it. He knew right from wrong,” she went on, her voice steady, but her eyes had begun to water. And you knew tears would come, and when they did, you’d leave to kill the crawfish. "But, you, honey . . . I don't know where we went wrong with you. It's like you came out of the womb defective. You got all the bad traits of your father and nothing else. I look at you and I see this angry little girl. And, you know, sometimes I ask myself how in the world we managed to raise a daughter who is even more deeply flawed than her bastard father, but I never seem to know the answer."
There were the tears now.
But along with it came a knife in your chest that kept twisting and twisting the more she spoke.
Twist the knife, and she did.
"There's something wrong with you,” she whispered again after a moment’s silence, the tears starting to roll down her cheeks. “You frighten me.”
Twist the knife, and you refused to pull it out.
This was what you deserved.
Still, you didn’t cry, not for yourself. Never for yourself. Instead, you continued to stare at her with no emotion in your eyes as you muttered, “Talking ill of the dead is a sin, remember?” And then you began to turn.
But your mother’s hand landed firmly around your arm. “Don’t you turn your back on me, girl,” she warned, her words sharper than the knife she’d twisted into your chest.
Swallowing hard, you sucked on your teeth. “What else do you want me to say?” you questioned, but didn’t bother to turn and face her. “I have nothing else to give you, mom.”
She released your arm as if you’d burned her and hissed, “Don’t call me that.”
Your brows furrowed in confusion for a mere second before you realized what she meant; before you realized what you’d said; what you’d done. It was an honest mistake, as well. You hadn’t called her that in so long, and yet it still came out. You hadn’t meant to say it, but it still came out as if you were still small and thought the whole world was in her arms.
“Then what do you want me to call you?” you asked, your voice quieter now as you took a step back. “If not mom, then what should your daughter call you? Hmm? Or is the answer nothing? Is that what we are to each other now? Will that make God come down from the heavens and give us salvation? . . . If you abandon me?”
Your mother remained silent.
And you knew her answer.
Sucking on your teeth, you nodded in acceptance. “What?” you spoke in a whisper as you took another step back. “Am I not being loud enough for him?” You outstretched your hands at your sides, gesturing to the heavens. “Should I scream it? Will he finally fucking answer then?”
“Stupid girl—” your mother quickly scolded, grabbing you firmly by the arm— “don’t you dare put this family in danger,”
But you only tilted your head in question. “Does that include me?”
Her eyes fluttered, taken back. “What?”
“This family,” you reiterated. “Am I a part of this family?”
Once again, she remained silent.
But you knew the truth.
“God’s plan as long as I’m out of the picture, right?” you muttered under your breath, swallowing hard once again. “At least we finally agree.”
Then, you were tearing your arm out of her grasp, but you didn’t move, you didn’t even look away from her. Instead, you kept still. You kept your eyes locked with hers as if breaking that eye contact would sever the final string holding the two of you together. She didn’t speak either, and she refused to move. She wouldn’t move first. You knew that. She’d always been that way. So had you . . .
And when you were sure the world had begun to rot around you, you could have sworn her bottom lip quivered as if she were on the verge of saying something . . . anything. Only, when her lips parted a mere sliver, a shrill scream sounded from behind, and the perpetual darkness of your world crept back in through your peripheral vision.
Beat. Your heart shot to your throat.
It happened too quickly for you to think.
Beat. Beat.
You heard the scream and you knew your sister was in trouble.
Beat.
Without a second thought, you dropped everything and ran toward the scream; toward the creek; toward your sister. It wasn’t far, but it was far enough for you to catch sight of two of the dead. One Felix fought off, while trying to grab his knife from his belt. The other had found its way to your sister, pinning her to the forest floor as she thrashed and screamed, her weak limbs desperately trying to keep the thing from sinking its teeth into her flesh.
And you knew what to do.
For a brief second longer, there was screaming. Then the squelch of a knife being plunged through a skull. Then nothing.
The world faded away. No noise. No people. No nothing.
One. Two. Three seconds, then the world started to return.
Breathing heavily, you watched carefully as your mother rushed past you, tearing the dead corpse off your sister and holding her closer . . . closer than she’d ever held you. Your nose twitched for a mere second as your gaze shifted from your mother and sister staring at you in shock ((?) no, maybe it was horror) to the stilled corpse, and finally to the bloodied knife gripped tightly in your hand.
You’d killed that thing, yes. But you hadn’t even thought about it. You hadn’t stopped to think that this thing was once a person. You hadn’t even seen it as such, unlike your mother; unlike what the town had tried to drill into your head during Pestilence’s reign. And . . . you could see that realization in your mother’s eyes.
. . . You were getting worse.
Your legs had begun to weaken at the thought, but you quickly stabled yourself, afraid they’d see it as another sign to put you down like the violent dog you knew they saw you to be. Instead, you tore your gaze from the knife in your hand and met your mother’s eyes once again (but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet your sister’s tearful stare). “Tell me, mo—” you quickly stopped the word from tumbling from your tongue, then went on— “is this still what God’s plan looks like to you?”
But your mother didn’t reply, and you didn’t wait for her to. You could barely stand to hold her gaze for a second longer. Instead, you wiped the blood from your knife on your pants, shoved it back into your belt, and turned, walking back to the fire you had begun to make minutes before.
And as you walked, you took note of the silence which followed you. You took note of how even Felix hesitated slightly before he followed after you. You took note of how your mother and sister sat near that creek for a few minutes longer and didn’t bother to wander after you as if you were no longer their blood.
The final string tying your family together had begun to wear thinner. You wondered when it would finally snap. You wondered how long it would take for a violent dog to succumb to its instincts; how long it would take you to become the lost cause you knew you were destined to be.
Would they make the decision to put you down then?
Four days. Two sleepless nights. And one squirrel shared between the four of you. You felt a fever coming on a couple days ago. You saw the infected cuts from the fight with that man. You knew your body was weakening day by day.
If you didn’t stop soon, you’d sure become one of the dead.
But you tried your best to ignore it. You had to.
Your mother; however, remained hopeful (of course). You could hear her chattering on to your sister throughout the day while you watched the world.
According to her, no one really knew why the Horsemen came to earth. She claimed the world needed saving from certain people (what you were sure she was leaving out was the fact that she was convinced you were one of these people). So, she went on and on and on, and you quietly listened, too, because you were still a girl who used to kneel in church, after all; because you could still feel the bruises on your knees; because you could still see the scars left behind from the scabs.
So, you listened, but you did not believe.
The world was fucked and needed cleansing. People were inherently bad and God saw no other way for salvation (apparently) than to send his four loyal Horsemen to destroy Earth and its people. . . . Well . . . supposedly. You knew the truth; however. There were no Horsemen. There was just death. Something had gone wrong and no one really knew what, so they blamed it on some higher power.
Whatever.
(Supposedly) Pestilence had been a shadow. War had wanted an audience. The world fell before you could get a proper grasp on Famine. And now Death was here. He’d been walking the earth for two years now, and still no one knew why.
Just like the town, your mother had her theories. And while she believed this God was still on your side, still searching for the good in humanity, you thought him fucked up. The human race was just his playthings.
He’d made sure there was nothing left.
Hell, you knew there wasn’t even a god. The world was just fucked. The end.
Point blank: it didn’t matter. Nothing did anymore.
Survival was all that mattered.
Everything else was fucked.
And as you continued to lead the way into nothingness, listening to your mother’s ramblings about the Bible, all you could do was ignore how your knees had begun to itch once again, while you focused on one thought: survive, survive, survive. But . . . not for yourself . . . for them.
Survive long enough for them.
For your father.
For your sister.
For your mother.
For Felix.
For them.
By sundown, Felix managed to find an abandoned warehouse for the night. It wasn’t much, but it was better than sleeping out in the wild. Perhaps all of you could get some shuteye that night. Sure, luckily it was around Fall or maybe just before where it was still warm, but sleeping on logs wasn’t ideal. (Not that you could be picky. Not that you were.)
But, just your luck, sleep never found you.
Beside you, Felix softly snored, laying on his back with his arms crossed over his chest and his head resting in your lap. Your hand found its way to his dark waves, gently scratching his scalp as he slept. It brought you peace where you normally had none.
Sometimes you wondered when Felix would finally realize the monster you’d become. You wondered what it would take. How many more people would you kill for them in order for him to look at you as if you were a stranger?
You didn’t want to see that day come.
It’d already come for your mother the day your father died. Then for your sister when you’d butchered that man. You couldn’t bear living through Felix’s realization.
With a sigh, you glanced over your shoulder, eyes landing on your mother’s sleeping figure as your little sister curled up into her side, miles away in her dreams. You hoped it was better there; that her dreams were still pure and innocent despite the world.
You tore your eyes from them a second later, instead opting to glance out the large opening in the warehouse where a window used to be. The world was so bleak now. Even the sight of the empty lands before your eyes stirred nothing within you. It was just so . . . distant.
Nothing was left.
Truly.
Reluctantly, you shut your eyes, trying your hardest to drift off into sleep, but the pounding in your head and the scratch in your throat kept you up. You were getting worse. You squeezed your eyes tighter, hoping this fever would subside soon. The world was darker now, the nothingness intensifying. You weren’t even sure if you could sleep anymore. Had you been? You couldn’t remember.
But just when you were sure sleep wouldn’t greet you that night, forcing you to keep watch, you could’ve sworn you heard an inhuman howl echo throughout the darkness beyond.
Your eyes snapped open, heart hammering.
No.
It couldn’t be.
Another howl echoed throughout the air. But this was no howl from a wolf or even a beast.
You’d heard stories from survivors in the towns you’d passed through in the two years Death had taken his reign over your lands. You’d heard the stories of Death and his steed. His steed, pale in color similar to a corpse, was rumored to have this cry.
The cry was no ordinary cry. Death’s steed cried similar to a wolf or rather a beast, hungry for blood. It was a war cry—a warning sign.
Of course, Death was not real and there was no horse with their cry. No, you knew what this was. You’d heard these cries in smaller amounts. You’d heard these cries as you plunged your knife into each undead’s brain, killing the parasite living within. And a howl like this only meant one thing—a hoard.
You swallowed hard.
Death was near.
You’d thought the undead didn’t hoard unless . . .
The man.
Your eyes widened.
The night the man had attacked your group, you had managed to hotwire a car. That had been your plan. You were going to use that car to get your group farther and safer. But because of that man . . . because of what you’d done to him, you’d accidentally popped one of the tires in the process, forcing your group to stay the night in those woods when you should’ve been on the road.
And his screams . . .
You’d slowed down and made yourself known, and now they were following the noise.
And . . . it was all your fault.
You exhaled a shaky breath.
Death was coming.
Immediately, you swung into action, quietly waking Felix up. His eyes questioned yours before he, too, heard the war cry.
Death was coming. Felix knew this now, too.
The two of you silently awoke your mother and sister, Felix informing them of the matter they had on your hands, while you gathered your father’s shotgun, crouching near the window for a better look. If they were near . . . how near?
You swallowed hard.
Maybe you could still run. You could still get everyone out if you ran. It could work—
But then you saw it.
In the distance, you caught sight of the undead as they cried, following each other.
You checked the gun’s chamber, removing and reloading the cartridges just to make sure they were in place in case you were forced to fire. Your grip tightened and loosened, and you could hear Felix whispering your name, but your eyes were transfixed on the hoard up ahead.
Death was here. So close. Too close.
They couldn’t see you now, couldn’t hear you, but . . . if you ran, they’d catch sight of you. They’d kill your family. They’d kill Felix. They’d kill you all.
There was no way you could outrun the hoard. Not when they were this close; not when they could smell you; hear your every breath.
Fuck.
You wanted to scream.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Your father had trusted you. They all had. And now you were going to let another person down all because you’d been stupid one night. You’d fucked all of you.
“Snap out of it,” Felix whispered, his hand on your shoulder. “Ideas?”
You could only shake your head.
Felix swore, running his hands through his hair. "There's no way," he nearly gasped at his words. "Fuck."
You swore you felt your heart drop as you slumped against the wall. They were going to die. Because of you.
There was no way out; no way any of you would make it past the hoard without them noticing. The moment they saw any of you, they’d follow you until they could get their teeth into your flesh. And while you had no care for your own life, you still had care for theirs—the people you'd sworn to protect.
Your father had died for all of you. He knew it wasn't safe, and he still went out. He'd traded his life for yours. He'd made you swear to protect your mother and your little sister, and along the way, you'd sworn to not only keep them safe but to keep Felix from harm. You'd sworn that, and you were not one to fall back on your word.
There was no way out together. But . . . there was one way out.
You knew what that meant.
This was what your father would've wanted. This was what he would've done; what he had done.
It was always going to turn out this way. You'd known that.
And in that moment, you accepted that. After all, you'd always been told you were your father's daughter.
This was how you made things right.
You nodded at your thoughts.
Then, you felt your eyes burn, your brows scrunching in confusion. Wetness slipped down your cheek and you briefly touched a finger to the tear, finding you were crying. You hadn’t cried in so long.
Angrily, you wiped the tears away. You didn’t get to cry.
This had been your fault in the first place. This was how you made it right. You didn’t get to cry. You didn’t.
So you sent one last glare at the hoard up ahead, then turned to Felix. Fuck. He would be the one in charge now. You trusted him, yes, but you knew how heavy that burden was. That was what you would regret the most—putting Felix through this agony, too.
Still: "Little bird," you whispered.
Fearful tears were already in his eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that."
"Can't help it. I taught you how to fly," you hummed, voice soft and unlike you.
You both knew what you meant. You'd taught Felix how to fire a gun, taught him how to gut a fish, you taught him how to survive—you taught him how to fly. But he didn't need any more teachings. Like a baby bird, he'd flown from the nest ages ago. He could fly without you. The thought brought a melancholic smile to your chapped lips as you fought back the burning in your eyes when they met his worried gaze once again.
"Makes me feel important." You touched a hand to his cheek. He felt soft under your calloused skin. "But . . . you don't need me anymore."
Felix exhaled with a strained choke, his eyes widening in realization. "No," he rushed out, shaking his head as his soft brown eyes searched yours. "No." His hand enclosed around the one you'd touched to his cheek. "Don't. Don't."
You knew what he meant. Don't be the hero.
But that wasn't his decision to make. You had debts to pay; people to protect.
Living had never been something you wanted in a world like this. Sometimes you felt like a ghost; when the world was quiet and your heart beat a little slower—you felt like one of the many corpses you'd passed by on the daily.
Years ago, you promised your father you'd take over his job and protect. You'd never wanted to live, but you had forced yourself. Back then, you made a promise to yourself—you had to stay alive, not for yourself, but for them; you had to stay alive for the one you had lost. And you'd upheld that promise, but now . . . in order to save them, you had to break it.
You knew this.
Felix did, too.
He rested his forehead against yours. "Please. Don't. It's supposed to be you and me."
Your eyes squeezed shut. "I'm the reason he's dead."
The two of you knew what you meant. This was how you repaid him; how you repaid your father.
"Then let me do it," Felix muttered, hand dropping from yours to grasp the shotgun in your other hand.
You were quick to rip it from his hold. "It was always going to turn out this way," was all you said, and he knew what you meant.
The sound of the cries coming closer made you spring back from him. Your head swiveled, taking in your surroundings as your hands found their rightful place on the shotgun. Your eyes briefly found your little sister's—her round eyes wide with fright, only furthering your decision. You knew doing this for them, for her.
"Fine," you heard Felix hiss in a quiet whisper. "But I'm coming with you."
Your head snapped to him. "Like hell you are."
"You don't get to die."
"Neither do you."
"Then I guess we have a predicament."
Your eyes softened. "Lix."
His brows pinched together. "You don't get to die."
And you almost felt yourself smile. "Little birds are meant to fly," you hummed. Little birds are meant to fly; they aren't meant to die.
He shook his head.
You swallowed hard.
The cries grew closer, and your heart raced. You were out of time. This was your last goodbye.
You gripped his hand. "Protect them."
He latched onto your shoulders. “No. No. I’m not ready. Don’t make me say goodbye to you.”
Against your will, your bottom lip trembled. “It’s not.”
But it was. You both knew that.
Felix could only shake his head. “Please.”
“See you later, little bird,” you hummed, weakly, kissing his forehead before you tore yourself from him. And he reached for you, begging you to stay.
But . . . no amount of pleas could change your mind. You were already moving before Felix could stop you. You didn’t have the heart to glance back at your sister or your mother. You never wanted to live in a world like this, but if you looked back, you feared you might’ve found salvation in their eyes. You couldn’t put them through that. You’d put them through enough.
You worked quickly. You had to. For them.
The quiet cries of the hoard approached, moving slowly. You kept your eyes on their figures, stealthily stepping down the creaky stairs to the bottom floor. From there, you moved to the woods surrounding the area. You quickly crouched down in the dark forest, clutching the shotgun even tighter. This was your father’s, now it was yours, and you were going to use it to save your family.
You weren’t naive enough to think that you could actually kill all of them. But that didn’t matter. You were solely supposed to be a distraction. You would fire that damned shotgun at those things over and over again, not caring if it even did any damage. You just needed to keep their attention long enough to get them to follow you in the opposite direction. That would allow your family to escape. That was all you intended to do.
You knew there was no surviving this. And you were fine with that.
Death didn’t scare you. Not yours, anyway.
So you hunkered down, hands clutched on the shotgun as you waited for the hoard to get near enough to strike.
You heard them before you saw them. The cries echoed throughout the dark night, making your heart pound faster. It became louder and louder, so loud you felt yourself start to tense, and then the first came into view.
It came to a gentle halt, almost as if it had been expecting you. But that couldn’t be. It hadn’t seen you. You were still in the clear.
Still, you watched, remembering the lessons on hunting that your father had taught you. This was how you hunted—quiet, hidden, and alert.
The creature tilted its head back, eyes closed as the moonlight cascaded across its pale face. Your brows scrunched in confusion as you watched it, tilting your head to the side. It was almost as if it were basking in the moonlight, soaking up the feeling of the satellite shining down on it. And then you realized what it was doing: sniffing you out.
Behind it, the world was bleak as the rest of those damned creatures sauntered forward. The trees seemed to sag, the grass stale, and it was quiet, so very quiet. Every step they took, decay followed.
And then they began to move . . . toward the warehouse where your family still resided.
Your jaw ticked as you raised the shotgun. Your father’s instructions rang through your ears and you lined up the barrel, aiming at one of the creature’s chests as it was perhaps the only part of it you had direct access to. You were certain the impact wouldn’t kill it, you were almost certain it wouldn’t even hurt it, but . . . it would distract it, and that was all you needed.
Last week, you killed a man. You ripped out his jugular with your teeth. You’d slaughtered him. So this, killing this entity shouldn’t have made your stomach churn, but it did.
Your world was gone. Death remained. And it was all his doing.
Still . . . still, your finger hesitated on the trigger.
You would die tonight . . . by its hand, no doubt. And perhaps that scared you. Perhaps a part of you truly didn’t want to die. But you dumbed down this hesitation to just pure fear.
Fear that those things would find your family after disposing of your body; fear they’d kill them; fear all of this would be for nothing.
You swallowed hard and adjusted your grip on the gun. You had to try. Your life for theirs. It was that or you all died tonight, and you wouldn’t have that, not after all you had done; all you had put them through.
All you had to do was pull the trigger. And yet . . . you still hesitated.
Fuck. You closed your eyes, clenching your jaw as your heart hammered in your chest. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
And as your eyes remained closed, you heard their voices then.
You're not too far gone.
Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.
There’s something wrong with you. You frighten me.
You have to grow up. No more kid stuff.
Your breath hitched. You have to grow up. And you had. Too quickly you now realized. It was always going to end up this way.
This was the only way to save them. The only way.
Your eyes snapped open, catching sight of the creatures still sniffing the air like they could just smell your terror. You sucked in a breath, then pulled the trigger. Exhale.
The ringing in your ears was almost immediate and the explosive sound echoed throughout the silent night. You barely even noticed the shotgun’s kickback, too focused on the creatures before you, watching with wide eyes as the pellets hit one of the things, knocking it entirely to the ground.
The others cried out, their noses no longer needing to be depended on as their eyes searched for the origin of the noise. And then you caught the eye of one, and you knew it was the end.
You faltered at the sight, stumbling backward as you tripped on a root, causing your body to hit the ground. A low groan escaped you before you could stop yourself.
Fuck.
Had that been too loud?
Heart pounding in your chest, you slowly glanced up, eyes landing on the creatures. More eyes stared back at you, hungry with . . . something as a few had begun to make their way toward you.
You swallowed hard.
Death itself had seen you.
Acting fast, you hastily grabbed the shotgun. You weren’t sure how long you could keep this up, but you needed to buy your family more time. You needed to end this.
And end it you would.
You clutched the shotgun tightly in your hand and sat up, groaning slightly when you felt a sharp pain in your ankle. But still, you went on.
Remembering your father’s teachings, you knew what a machine was good for at the end of its reign: making a lot of fucking noise.
And so with a heavy heart and angry tears pricking your eyes . . . you belted out a loud yell.
There was no hiding now. They had all heard you. And that was all that mattered to them.
“Come on, you fuckers!” you took it a step further as you yelled at them, clanking the butt of your gun on a tree to make as much noise as you could. And then, when you heard their cries echo with yours; when you saw one turn to two turn to ten following you into the woods, you knew it was time.
With a fleeting look at the warehouse where your family still resided, you fought back the urge to crawl into yourself and let that anger you’d been holding inside yourself for years now finally just . . . snap. You didn’t know if you fired the shotgun at one of the creature’s heads first or ran off further into the woods, still screaming. You didn’t know the present from the past, but you did know you couldn’t look back.
And so, you let yourself be loud, screaming for yourself, for the people you’d lost, for the people you’d never see again, for your father. You yelled and yelled, racing through the woods as they all quickly followed after you, releasing cries of their own.
The world fell behind you in those moments, time moving in slow motion as you weaved through the dark woods, your feet bounding off the ground as if you were in zero gravity. Sound evaded your senses, only the muffled noises of your rapid breathing could be heard echoing in your ears.
But you just kept running, letting the world escape you. Even when you’d trip over hidden roots, your knees buckling as you fell to the ground, surely bruising and cutting up your skin, you persisted each time. Like your father’s daughter, you pulled yourself to your feet each time, sparing a glance over your shoulder only to be met with the sight of the hoard getting nearer and nearer. And every time, you’d force yourself to swallow the bile crawling up your throat before you cocked your shotgun and fired into the hoard, taking off screaming for them to follow after you.
This was the end, and you planned to gather as much of them away from the warehouse and closer to you. You knew it would hurt, but you didn’t care. Their teeth ripping into your flesh would never be a match for the sins you’d committed in this lifetime. That was why you met every dead that got in your path with a lethal hit from the butt of your shotgun and a silent prayer that your damned soul could be traded for the safety of your family.
You were sure you would have continued running had your foot not slammed into a divot in the ground, twisting your ankle with such force that you hit the ground instantly, crying out in pain. And this time when you tried to stand to your feet, you realized the pain was too much to stand.
It hit you then.
Beat.
This really was the end.
You couldn’t run.
Beat.
The hoard was gaining on you.
This was the end.
Beat.
Swallowing hard, you clenched your jaw, shutting your eyes as you realized what you needed to do. Clutching your father’s shotgun close to your chest, so close it nearly touched your heart, your lips parted, and a scream bubbled up your throat, ripping through your vocal cords as it echoed throughout the dead of night.
But before you could inhale and breathe out another war cry of your own to match theirs, a hand slapped over your mouth, muffling your screams. Another hand was gripping your arm the next second, pulling you off the ground and shoving your back against the nearest tree.
Your eyes shot open, dropping your shotgun as your hands instinctively clasped around the wrist of the hand covering your mouth. Deep dark eyes stared back at you, a sense of urgency in them as you realized what was going on.
It happened so fast, too fast for you to process. But you quickly realized the eyes belonged to a man not much older than you. Dark eyes. Full lips. Sculpted nose. It was your first time seeing a man other than Felix . . . other than the one you’d gutted . . . in a long time.
What was he doing?
But you couldn’t ponder long as his eyes twisted to the scene behind you, and you could’ve sworn you felt his heart beat faster against your lips where his hand still lay. And at that sight, he kicked into action.
“You listen to me. We have a few seconds before those fuckers are at our throats,” he spoke in a hushed tone, his voice deep and controlled, but you could sense the fear on him. It was different from yours. “When I tell you, you run as fast as you fucking can in that direction and you don’t stop. You follow me and you don’t get lost or you’re dead.” His hand fell from your mouth as he began hastily digging through the pack over his shoulder. “Got it?”
You skipped a beat, not answering.
His eyes were on you instantly, expectantly.
But you only blinked.
You didn’t want to be saved.
No, he couldn’t do this. It was your time. This was your punishment. He couldn’t—
Your thoughts were cut short as he pulled something out of his pack, and you quickly realized a grenade now sat in his hand. Your eyes widened. He was going to—
“Run,” he bit out, an order.
And it all happened so fast.
You stayed put.
He turned from you, quickly pulling the pin and chucking the grenade as fast and hard as he could from your location. You watched the weapon soar, your heartbeat stilling in your throat as the seconds of anticipation crept upon you.
Beat.
Beat.
Be—
A loud explosion sounded in the distance, the ground shaking beneath your feet as ringing in your ears commenced. Only then did you realize your feet had been moving on their own, carrying you farther and farther away from the scene as you caught a glimpse of the hoard following after the explosion. But you wouldn’t do this. You had accepted your death. You wouldn’t—
Your feet weren’t moving of your own volition. The world had fallen away from you, you realized, but as you turned your head away from the hoard you realized it was the man who was dragging you away from the scene. You realized in your daze, that he must have locked his grip onto your arm and took off running, dragging you along with him despite your injured ankle and dormant mind.
And for some reason, despite the urge to fall to the ground and let yourself fade away, you allowed him to drag you further and further into the woods. You didn’t realize just how much land you had covered until the sound of the hoard was so far, that he’d begun to slow down ever so slightly. You didn’t realize until the woods turned into sparse grassland, until the sight of what appeared to be a latched roof to an underground bunker of some sort. You’d heard of shelters like these, but you’d never seen one. You always just assumed the military had covered it all up, leaving people to die while they sat safely under the barren earth.
Your mind raced with a million thoughts, but you could barely see straight let alone think right as you allowed this man to drag you to the entrance. Hell, you allowed him to shove you inside, as you crawled down the ladder in the tunnel. It was a subconscious action, honest. Otherwise, you would’ve begged him to leave you outside to die. But there was no breath for begging as he followed in after you, shutting the hatch and twisting it closed to ensure it was tightly locked.
And when your feet finally met the metal flooring of the inside, you stepped back in shock.
As you had predicted, this was a government bunker. A rather large one at that. You swallowed hard. Fuck.
And when you turned around, your eyes searching the area, you were met with the scene of a group of survivors staring back at you in confusion. People. And they were alive. You hadn’t seen so many people since before Famine.
What the fuck?
But before you could react, something hard cracked over the back of your head, throbbing pain followed. The darkness seeped in instantly, your mind losing control of your body as you smacked the ground, eyes fluttering as you faded in and out of consciousness.
There it was, you realized.
Your punishment.
You were going to die.
And you couldn’t help but allow yourself one last selfish look because maybe there was still a small part of you that wanted to be alive. But that part could only live if things were normal again, if things were the way they had been before the world died. Still, that part of you took over and you watched silently, your vision fading in and out as you caught a glimpse of those dark eyes that had saved you, just moments before the world faded into darkness.
The next time your eyes fluttered open, a metal ceiling stared back at you.
There was a throbbing in your head, searing through your thoughts, and your shotgun was nowhere to be found. You released a soft groan, trying to shift in your spot, but you were met with resistance. You tugged and tugged, but your body didn’t budge.
In confusion, you glanced around, finding yourself on a medical bed, your hands tied together with rope, attaching you to the bed. This didn’t make sense. You hadn’t seen a bed in months maybe a year now. This didn’t make sense. Where were you? How did you—
And then . . . then the memories all faded in.
The warehouse. The man. The shots. The hoard.
This was Death’s doing.
The town had warned you of this and you’d denied it. You still didn’t believe. You couldn’t. God was dead and the Horsemen were just a figment of fearmongering. But for a second, you wanted to believe. For that second you were strapped to that bed, you wanted to believe that this was your purgatory and Death was punishing you. That would be easier: if you believed.
Death was an entity; one you had no idea about. There was no knowing what exactly he could and couldn’t do. And this . . . being bound to a medical bed with not even a soul to be heard felt utterly ordinary if he did exist, considering what you did know about this dark being.
But . . . why were you still alive?
Slowly, you lifted your head, groaning at the pain that followed as you assessed the rest of your body. You were alive. Cuts and bruises everywhere, but you could still inhale, exhale, breathe. You could still hear the beat of your heart if you closed your eyes and focused. You were alive.
You were alive.
Your jaw twitched. “I’m alive,” you whispered to yourself, a bitter taste left on your tongue. “I”m . . . alive.”
And for a second, you truly allowed yourself to believe Death existed. You allowed yourself that he had done this to you; that the two years he’d reigned all led up to this very moment. You allowed yourself to believe that he had kept you alive because suffering was for the living.
Was this his way of being kind? Sparing you?
Swallowing hard, you glared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. If you prayed, would he give in? Would he end this suffering? Would he finally give you your punishment?
Your mind wasn’t allowed much longer to ponder as the sound of a door opening brought you out of your repenting. Wearily, you watched with stern eyes as a man stepped in, carrying a bowl in one hand and a washcloth in the other. You watched as he let himself in, still not looking up while he closed the door behind him with a heavy sigh and finally . . . glanced up, meeting your gaze.
Him.
The man.
Slowly, your face softened as confusion consumed you. Him. He had done this to you. He had been the one to lead you here. (He’d also been the one to save you . . . ) He had knocked you out cold. And now . . . now here he was.
You clenched your jaw hard.
The man just stared a minute longer at you, his gaze stern, cold, calculating. Then, he was walking toward you, resting the bowl on the bedside table beside your head before he reached forward and tapped a finger to your chin, tilting your head so he could analyze the wounds on your face.
And you let him, analyzing his actions, preparing for his next.
“You’re awake,” was all he simply said as he dropped your chin and diverted his attention to the bowl on the bedside table. “Sorry about the blow and the rope . . . it’s . . . protocol.”
But you remained silent, watching.
"Your stunt back there . . . could’ve cost us this entire place," he muttered, his voice calm and controlled but you knew he was seething inside. He remained quiet as he dipped the washcloth into the bowl of what seemed to be warm water before he turned to you once again, his eyes lethal. "Screaming only attracts more of them, don’t you know? If you wanted to die, you should’ve just stayed put.”
You swallowed thickly.
There was something terrifying about a quiet rage.
"There's always someone like you," he continued, his eyes racking up and down your body in a menacing glare before the warm touch of a washcloth to your cheek startled a quiet gasp out of your lips. "Someone who ends up surviving longer than they should have." A scoff left him. "Someone who doesn’t care who dies for them as long as they get out unscathed. Did you even think there might be other survivors around before you took off attracting all of those things? If there were children? Families? People who survive together and want to stay alive without running into someone like you?”
And you hadn’t.
You never thought yourself to be stupid or any of the sort. You hadn’t been thinking. There hadn’t been enough time. You just needed to do something so your family could make it out alive. You hadn’t thought that there could be others. You hadn’t thought that saving your family could damn another.
Had your mother been right about you?
Were you really just a stupid girl? A stupid girl playing hero?
The man pulled a chair from the corner of the room, and placed it beside your bed, sitting on it as he dragged the washcloth down your arms now. His touch was somehow gentle despite his glare. Perhaps it was because no one had touched you so gently in so long. Perhaps it was because you had given up, but you let him clean the wounds on your body as you rested your head back onto the pillow, your muscles relaxing ever-so-slightly.
"No?" he questioned, reiterating his accusation. “In my experience, people like you don’t find themselves in trouble like that unless they’re planning something.”
You remained expressionless as you watched him, taking in his words. He thought you’d lured the dead here, and for what? Looting? Or just plain insanity?
Had you really become that corrupt even a stranger could sense it on you?
Slowly, you blinked, wondering if your father had ever felt this way before his death. And as you wondered, the man beside you continued cleaning your wounds, but this time, remained silent. Maybe he realized you wouldn’t answer. Or maybe he already knew the truth about you and your damned soul.
And as the minutes of silence ticked on, you did your own inspection.
Now, under the light, the man sat beside you, his eyes fixed on meticulously cleaning each wound with care despite his lethal words. It had been so long since you’d seen another man like this; a man that had to be around your age; a man so young yet so riddled with age. His dark hair was slightly curly, more tangled and messy than anything as if he hadn’t slept in days. The dark circles under his equally dark eyes were enough to show his evident sleep deprivation. And yet, he seemed almost too alert: his full lips were hidden as his teeth worried his bottom lip while he continued to clean the blood from your skin.
(You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t beautiful; so beautiful it almost made you believe in God once more.)
And for a second, you let yourself wonder what else your mother had been right about. You let yourself believe once again. You let yourself be a girl who could finally kneel in church without bruises being left behind. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she and the town had been right; that this whole thing was God’s plan; that the Horsemen had come; that they could be saved, but you would be condemned.
Then . . . you began to wonder if you had already been. Maybe it was the blow to the head you’d taken or the fever raging through your body or maybe it was the truth, but you began to believe that perhaps this was your purgatory; perhaps you had died in that hoard and you’d been sent here; perhaps the beautiful man beside you was Death himself.
Was this it then? Were you always meant to see him at the end?
Oddly enough, he reminded you of this small dog your sister had found near one of the abandoned houses your family had stayed in over the years. This was during Famine’s rule—when food became sparse, when lands became stale and yellowed; when the dead had only just begun to migrate south. This tiny dog found your younger sister then, and she’d brought it home, leaving you no choice but to care for the little thing.
Your sister had named her Berry. (A few months later you had to put her down; it was what we had to do to survive, you’d told your sister back then. You were sure it was then she first started to hate you.)
And as you stared at Death, taking note of how his eyes were a particular shade of brown, you realized they were the same shade that the silly dog had.
You tilted your head. Death somehow had eyes that were kind; eyes that were warm; eyes that reminded you of Felix. Was that how they planned to transfix you? Was Death meant to be this beautiful; this familiar so you’d go willingly? Had God forgotten you’d already condemned yourself? Had he forgotten you didn’t need to be tricked? Had he forgotten where your prayers resided?
Only a moment later, when you felt his hands running over your torso, did you snap out of your exhaust-ridden daze. You realized quickly he was cleaning the last of your wounds which resided on your ribs. And when he was done, he tossed the washcloth into the bowl without another care before he slowly leaned back, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched you with scrutinizing eyes.
Death narrowed his gaze, but it wasn’t menacing this time. Rather, he seemed almost perplexed. "Why aren’t you fighting?" he questioned. "You didn’t stop to run before. Why calm your fire now?"
Why aren’t you fighting?
The thing was: it was over. Your fight was over.
Sure, you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that Death was painfully beautiful . . . but it went beyond that.
It was surely daylight by now.
Daylight had come, hours had passed, and Death had you in his hold.
By now, Felix had probably taken your mother and sister onto the road again. They’d escaped, and they were miles and miles away from you and Death. They were safe.
So . . . where was your fight?
You didn’t have one anymore. This was the end. Death would either kill you or make you suffer again and again and again, and your family would live. You’d once told yourself that you never wanted to live in a world like this, but you’d kept yourself alive to protect your family. Only now . . . you didn’t need to fight because there wasn’t anyone left for you to protect.
Your fight was over. Maybe you could rest now. Maybe he’d let you.
Death seemed to catch onto the shift in your demeanor as he narrowed his eyes. "Do you not speak?"
For a moment, you considered not replying. Until: "There's no point," you heard yourself say, voice dry and hoarse.
The look on Death’s face was unreadable as his eyes shifted across your face, his mouth slightly parted. "You smell of death," he muttered, gaze still searching your being.
And you almost laughed.
Because this was your end, and Death himself just told you that you smelled like shit or well . . . like him, you supposed . . . apparently.
It all felt a little unreal.
Death must not have liked your silence as he shot you one last glance before he pulled away and walked toward a table on the other side of the room. As he walked, you caught sight of the blood painting his body, his skin, him.
You swallowed hard. You’d brought that hoard to him. He’d fought his way out. You’d caused those wounds, and now he was more than likely going to do worse to you. He’d probably take that scythe you were told he carried and cut your head clean off.
But unlike what you thought, Death sifted through the miscellaneous items on the table before pausing and grabbing a small knife. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you watched him approach you, knife in hand.
There it was.
This was the end you were promised.
Was he going to slit your throat and leave you to bleed out? Or cut you open so you could see just how dark your heart had become? You wouldn’t put it past him. Hell, you might have even welcomed it. But as he approached you, your eyes closing in anticipation, he did not bring that knife down upon your body. No, instead, with a few quick motions and the sound of the rope being cut, you slowly opened your eyes just as your hands were released from the rope’s grip.
On instinct, you brought your hands close to your chest, rubbing your raw wrists. You couldn’t even speak, you just watched as he kept the knife in his hand but returned back to his position of leaning back against the chair with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes on you.
"You're human," you found yourself uttering as you watched him watch you.
His brows twitched in confusion. "Of course I am.”
But Death couldn’t bleed. . . . Could he?
"You bleed,” you spoke your thoughts, dumbly.
His eyes met yours, but only briefly. "Am I not meant to?" he bit out before his gaze fell back on your hand rubbing your wrist. "Even the dead bleed."
Your confusion only spiraled. This was your end; your purgatory. This was Death, was he not? Your mother had been right. She had to have been right otherwise you were still alive; otherwise, you had managed to escape death once again without so much as a punishment. That wouldn’t be fair. That wouldn’t be right. That wouldn’t be just.
This had to be Death. You had to be dead or somewhere in between. It didn’t matter, this just had to be your end.
So, why hadn’t he condemned you yet?
Why—
"Why—” Death interrupted your thoughts, once you finally dropped your hand from your wrist— “did you think I couldn’t bleed?"
You glanced his way, finding his eyes already on you.
His stare only unnerved you more.
Why couldn’t he just kill you? You deserved it.
Your brows furrowed. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to play with your food?" you found yourself spitting out, finally finding your voice despite his devasting beauty capturing your words. "I put your lives in danger. I lead them here like you said. I could be with anyone. Having me here could kill you all, so take your revenge. Kill me."
The crease between his brows deepened further. "I'm not letting you die," he simply said, his anger quiet and calm . . . still. “You put my group in harm's way. I won’t pardon you for that . . . but . . . we don’t kill the living.”
That only unnerved you further.
Was this truly Death?
Surely he had killed before.
Although . . . you supposed perhaps he’d only just ever waited. Was that his fault? Waiting for the dead to find him? Is that how he found you in those woods? Is that how he’d taken your arm and helped you crossover to the other side? But . . . if that were true . . . where was your father now? Surely, he would’ve come to see you. Surely, he would’ve been the first one knocking at your door. Surely, he’d be here.
As you briefly wet your lips, your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Where’s my dad?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
A look of deep confusion twisted onto Death’s face, and then he was leaning forward to feel your forehead with the back of his hand. “Fever,” he mumbled more to himself before he pushed himself to his feet, the chair screeching against the floor. “Get some rest. Someone will be in to bandage you up and . . . I’ll be back in a couple hours with medication.” His gaze dropped to the large gash on your arm from just a few nights ago. “When you’re healed, we’ll give you some supplies and then you’ll be on your way, understood?”
But you just stared at him, silently pleading. Pleading for what? You didn���t know. All you knew was if your father wasn’t here, you couldn’t be dead. And if you weren’t, you wanted to be. You’d be able to find him then, because although you were no longer a girl who could kneel in church, you could still feel the scabs on your knees from years ago; you could still remember what it was to believe so blindly; you could still feel that insistent desire for there to be something beyond this world . . . something after this world.
There just had to be. You had to see him again. You had to find him.
You could die now. You could find him now. You would find him.
“Great,” Death muttered under his breath, breaking you out of your own mind. And with one final glance at your exhausted body, he began to turn and head for the door.
Fear struck you then. You had to find your father. “Wait, please—” you hastily grabbed onto his arm, only being able to reach his hand enough to dig your nails into his skin to halt him— “I beg of you.”
His eyes snapped to yours, wide and cautious as if at any moment, one wrong move and he’d grant your wishes. And all you could do was hope.
“Kill me,” you weakly whispered, hopelessly searching his eyes.
His brows twitched, taken back.
“Death,” you begged in a whisper, your bottom lip trembling, “please.”
But Death only stared back at you with a perplexing look written across his face. It was as if he couldn’t believe your request. Had no one ever begged him to die?
A heavy beat of silence pounded in your ears.
Death only continued to stare, a world raging on behind his eyes as he took you in. His demeanor was still calm, still collected, but he seemed . . . perturbed by your request, by your presence, by you. And you watched as his eyes trickled across your face, searching for something until finally . . . his gaze zeroed in on your cheek, his brows furrowing.
Then . . . you felt it.
A tear had slowly begun to slip down your cheek as if your body knew it was a sin to cry. But you were . . . crying that was.
You nearly gasped.
Another tear trickled down your cheek. Guilt followed.
But just as you were about to angrily wipe it away, there was a sharp knock at the door, breaking both you and Death out of your spell. The door opened a second later, a man peaking his head in with a solemn look on his face.
The man didn’t spare you a glance, he only cleared his throat and said, “Chris?” His brows raised, a silent message passing between the two. “A minute.”
Death only nodded, and then the man was gone, the door shutting behind him. Silence followed, but Death stayed unmoving, his arm still in your tight grasp.
“You won’t run,” he slowly spoke, his words a statement, not an order, but he didn’t turn to look at you. He kept his eyes on the door. “I don’t kill the living. I won’t kill you.” He paused, audibly swallowing, and then his eyes were on you. “And I know you won’t kill us.”
And then he was gone before you could blink, quickly tearing his arm out of your grasp before he reached the door and closed it behind him. You were alone with yourself once again, your thoughts running wild as your hand remained outstretched, almost frozen in place.
I know you won’t kill us, he’d told you.
But how could you kill Death? How did he know you wouldn’t if he didn’t give you what you wanted? How could he be so sure that you weren’t a killer, when you so clearly were?
You had killed before, and if he didn’t take you to the other side, you’d surely kill again. That was who you had become. That was who you were. He should’ve known that.
And then as you slowly laid your head back onto the pillow and allowed the minutes to tick by, the throbbing in your head began to subside, and the world became a little clearer. You were no longer a girl who could kneel in church. You did not believe anymore. The world had gone to shit, and it wasn’t because of God’s plan. There were no Horsemen. Your family was gone. And that . . . that man had not been Death.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you swallowed thickly. What was happening to you?
It all hit you then.
These were a group of survivors. That man surely was their leader, and you had just led hundreds of the dead to their doorstep. They should’ve killed you for that alone. You would’ve. You wouldn’t even hesitate if this had been your family. You would’ve done everything to keep them safe, even if it meant killing others, and yet . . .
I won’t kill you.
But why? You deserved it. You could see it in his eyes that he knew.
These were good people. And you were their bad omen.
It wouldn’t be long before your presence brought misery upon them, too, just as it had to your family. And it’d be all your fault.
You’d live, only to see many die. You’d make it out unscathed just as you always had, while they’d suffer, just as he had said.
It was then you realized this was not your purgatory, it was your Hell.
taglist:
@amaranth-writing @binchanluvrr @dreamingsmile @eternalrajin
(i did post the teaser like a year ago, so if you want to be taken off, send me a lil message <3)
#bang chan fanfic#bang chan#bang chan fic#bang chan smut#bang chan x reader#bang chan x y/n#bang chan x you#stray kids#skz#stray kids fic#stray kids fanfic#stray kids smut#skz fic#skz fanfic#skz smut#bang chan au#bang chan series#kpop#skz bang chan#stray kids bang chan#bang chan masterlist#skz masterlist#skz x reader#stray kids x reader#bang chan fic recs#bang chris#chris bang#chris bang smut#bang chris smut#chan smut
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My Father's Daughter pt 14
Summary: Dick and the others have finally caught up to Y/n and her "Red Team", but have they gotten there too late?
Dark.
That's all you saw, just darkness. You felt like you were floating in a sea of pitch black water, unaware but uncaring at the immense peril you were in. You floated, faintly hearing a noise in the background, something telling you to wake up and fight. But you wanted to ignore it, it felt good. Good to just float, not worrying about a thing.
But then there was a light.
A piercing bright light that hurt your eyes as you stared into it. And a ringing. A ringing that made your eardrums feel as if they were about to burst.
"Hello."
Who the fuck was that?
"Who the fuck are you?" You say with a hoarse voice, still not grasping the situation you were in.
"Such a foul mouth." The man tskd, " The signature of a Stark I guess."
You look around and feel the restraints on your wrists and ankles. You look down to see that you're splayed out on a table.
"That, unfortunately, shall be the first thing to go."
Panic floods your body.
You finally realized what is happening.
They got you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
" What do you mean she's gone?!"
Christine screams at the her children, " She- She was just here! She was in her room! She was safe!"
Dick looks up from the ground, feeling like he was twelve again, " Mom they.. they just came from nowhere. We had just gotten there when they attacked.."
Bruce was already making his way towards his suit, Dick and Jason had burst into the house, rushing the battered Peter, Wade, and Dopiender.
They were all caught off guard when they had finally found you, literally across the street only to see a group of armed men dressed in black descend on your unsuspecting friends.
They took out who they thought would be the biggest threat, Wade Wilson.
Or at least they tried to. They first shot him in the chest, hoping that the blast would take him out of the game, but to no luck. He flew back allowing them to shoot you with a tranquilizer, but he quickly rose and started firing back. It was only when they got him with a headshot that he went down and stayed down.
Peter, although he didn't have his suit, tried his best to get to you dodging multiple tranquiliser darts and managing to knock a few of them men to the ground. He was however overwhelmed and swiftly knocked out by a hit to the back of the head.
Dopinder actually managed to kill two men before he was shot in the arm and passed out from the blood.
By the time the shock from it all wore off and the Bat crew rushed to the scene, it was all over.
You were gone, and weren't even able given the chance to defend yourself.
The sight of your limp body being carelessly lifted haunted Jason's mind. He chased the SUV for twelve blocks before he lost them. By the time he made it back to the abduction spot, Peter had woken up and was panicking.
His best friend had just gotten kidnapped and he was being interrogated by Nightwing and Robin. Jason, fueled by adrenaline and rage tried to slam Peter into the taxi but was deflected by said boy. Surprising everyone and sending into attack mode.
But before any fighting could happen, Dick came in to be the voice of reason.
They piled into the nasty taxi and headed off back to the Batcave to allow Wade and Dopinder to recover and to think of a plan to rescue you.
"Jason," Bruce said, " What are you thinking?"
Jason looked at him from where he stood, " They were watching us."
Bruce nodded, " They knew she was here the whole time."
Christine stopped her yelling, " What?"
Bruce looked at her, " They knew she was here. That's how they were able to grab her so quickly. They had a plan."
Dick looked angry," We don't even know who these people are! How are we supposed to get her back?"
And for once, Bruce didn't have an answer to that. Despite the amount of time you had been with them, there has been little to nothing found about the people who were after you. Not by Bruce and not by your father. He had spent nights sitting in front of that computer trying to help figure out how to keep you safe. But without whatever information Tony had found, he knew next to nothing.
Christine held in her tears, she thought she had ran out of tears earlier but here they come again. She had that feeling again. The same feeling she had when she left you. The same feeling she had when she listened to the voicemails and read the emails you sent her. The same feeling she had when the movers told her about your outburst, and the same feeling she had when she saw you at that gala.
Was it sadness or guilt? She couldn't tell anymore.
But she was afraid.
Afraid for you, and what these people had planned for you. This was the one thing she had been terrified would happen and it's happened. They've taken you from her.
"It's my fault." She cried," If I had just listened to her-"
"Miss Christine, I'm afraid now is not the time for your pity party." Alfred said from where he had been helping Dopiender, who was stll unconscious.
" Alfred." Bruce said in an exhaused manner
"I am sorry Master Bruce, but I believe it's best if we focus on Y/n and not tiptoeing around Miss Christines woes of failed motherhood."
The whole room froze. It was rare for Alfred to criticize Christine for anything, as she was his favorite.
"Woah..harsh Jeeves"
Everyone turned to see Wade rising froom his bed, wound healed.
"What the fuck?" Jason said, " This dude took a headshot!"
"Not the first time" Wade shook his head, forgoing the dirty joke that popped into his head, " Now where the fuck am I?"
Everyone again froze, but Bruce emerged from the shadows, full on Bat mode.
"Who are you."
Wade took one look at Bruce and laughed in his face.
"hahahaha oh oh I'm sorry- I just hahahahaha" Another burst of laughter came from his mouth, "You're so scary I promise!"
The room looked at the man uneasily. The one person that was crazy enough to laugh in Batman's face was the Joker.
"Wade stop it." Peter said from where he stood, "Y/ns gone."
Laughter ceases immediately, an eerie aura fells the room, " What was that bugs?"
"They got her."
"Then what the fuck are we standing around here for!" Wade shouts, the sudden shift in personalities making the family of bats unsettled.
Except for Jason.
"Can I just ask who the fuck are you?"
Your two friends turn to him," We're Y/ns family."
Jason pauses and nods," Okay then."
Then proceeds to give them the rundown on what they have discovered, which is not a lot.
There's a heavy silence that fills the air.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Panic fills your veins.
"That will be the first thing to go."
Those words riddled your brain as you were strapped down to this table. The room was white, almost like a hospital room.
Now, this wasn't the first time you had been kidnapped, but most of the time it was petty. Ransoms and whatnot. And your dad always managed to find you within the hour.
This was different. This was people who truly had no good intentions.
You were scared. Your dad had no idea where you were. You were worried about your friends, and even about the Waynes.
You had no idea on whether they were looking for you or still thought you were in your room. For all you knew, they were having a grand time thinking you were sulking and weren't going to discover you were gone till it was too late.
And what would happen to your dad if you die? He could barely take care of himself when Christine left him. He needed to you. He needed you to be okay so he can be okay. You couldn't dead. And your mom, you couldn't leave her to pick up your dads pieces. She didn't know how. Not like you did. and what about Jason-
"Ah, you're aware."
A woman came in this time.
"I apologize for the rather rude introduction, I'm afraid men just don't have the same gentle touch as us women."
She had a small frame. She was pale, almost deathly so. With graying hair that had no cut, just long and curly. She didn't look old however, that's what unsettled you the most. She looked about a few years older than you.
"Please don't pay no attention to whatever these men say to you, we do not intend to cause you any harm."
Her voice was calming, it soothed your panic and eased your anxiety. It made you feel like you were floating.
"Now, Ms. Stark I know you are probably wondering why you are here."
You couldn't even bring yourself to care, you felt at ease. A frail cold hand carding through your hair.
" This building we're in used to be a prestiges lab. We studied the human mind and its capabilities. With the rise of people such as Wanda Maximoff and such, this research was well needed. We searched far and wide for the people with these capabilities. Which was hard because they are so rare as I am sure you know."
She rises from her place next to you, hand leaving your hair. She walks over to a table next to you. When did that get there?
"Well, the search for these people was fruitless as you can imagine. Not many people are as forthcoming with their capabilities as we hoped. It became so bad that we had to force these poor subjects out of their hiding spaces. But even then the search didn't turn up much. So we decided that we would make our own."
You really didn't comprehend what this woman was telling you. All you wanted was to go back to sleep. You felt so relaxed.
"As you can imagine, that didn't particularly go as planned. We didn't mean to kill them, their minds just weren't strong enough."
Wait what?
"There were many that came through ; young, old, male female. And only one group was ever rarely successful. And can you guess who it was?"
A cold chill went down to your bones as you were piecing together her story.
"Young women, age 15-25." She said calmly, " Of course they did."
You didn't respond, just stared into this womens pale eyes. She was starting to creep you out.
"Now, I bet you're wondering where you factor into this equation." She hmms, hand back in your hair. A little rougher.
'Well my dear, I am afraid you just got caught in the crossfire. You see, one of my little experiments just so happened to escape." She sighs, eyes showing some sort of emotion, "She was beautiful, with a strong mind. I even came to view her as a daughter of my own. My little petal."
"Wait..what?"
"Don't interrupt it's rude." This women chides, not cruelly but you knew not to say anything else.
"Now, escaping just wasn't enough for my little petal, oh no. She decided that she needed to expose our...little secret. It was all covered up of course, you know how the government is about things like this, but our funding was cut and our doctors were arrested."
While she was talking you can feel an intense amount of pain. A deep sorrow penetrating your soul and heart. You felt betrayed, hurt.
"Well, imagine my surprise when I turn on the television and see a girl who looks exactly like my little flower."
That's when you knew.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back at the manor, Peter was frustrated.
All these people were doing was arguing. Arguing about who should've been watching you, Arguing about what they should have done, what they did do, what they should be doing.
It baffles Peter that these were the feared vigilantes of Gotham.
Bruce was too busy trying to figure out just where you were taken and Christine had deemed him too normal to even be able to help (They didn't know he was Spiderman). Dick and Damian were out trying to find any footage that might have been taken on the scene. Wade was out talking to some of his connections with Cass because Bruce didn't trust him to be alone. So he was stuck being babysat by Tim and Jason who are arguing about the best course of action.
"I'M SAYING WE GO BACK TO THE DINER AND RETRACE OUR STEPS"
"Oh yeah that's a great idea, go to the bad side of town and ask about that one crime that happened in that one alley at night. As if anyone will talk."
"Well it's better than sitting here all-"
Peter tunes them out. He tunes everyone out. He's worried about you.
He knew that you only came here to make things easier for your dad. So he didn't have to watch you 24/7.
But the ironic thing is, Tony was worried out of his mind. He worked endlessly to find these people, people that he may have crossed in the past, people who may want to hurt him through you. Just to turn up with nothing everytime. Peter knew everyone one missed you. Your presence was not unnoticed.
He hated not being able to talk to you everyday, it was like you just didn't exist. He couldn't imagine how you felt, cut off from the only life you'd known
And all that pain for what? Just for the one thing no one wanted to happen come true in the end.
"Ahem." a throat cleared, breaking Peter out of his thoughts
"Sir, I don't mean to disturb you but perhaps now would be a good time to...call in some reinforcements." Alfred implied, softly talk as to not alert the other members of the family of his plan.
Peters brows scrunched in confusion before rising in clarity. He nodded softly, before standing and pardoning himself to the bathroom that Alfred showed him to.
When he was safely away from the commotion, he pulled out his cellphone.
*ring* *ring*
"Talk to me."
"It's Peter!DeadpoolkidnappedmetocomeseeY/ningothamandnowshesgoneandidontknowhattodoan-"
"Woah! Woah slow down Spiderboy, what do you mean you're in Gotham? That's a terrible place to be in."
"No it's Y/n sir! SHe's gone!"
A pause hits Peters ears, he almost thought he got hung up on"
"Peter, what are you saying?"
"They got her Mr. Stark. I'm sorry."
......
"Give me your location, we'll be right there."
#marvel x reader#marvel#tony stark x daughter!reader#reader insert#dc comics x reader#jason todd x reader#dick grayson x reader#x reader#bruce wayne x daughter!reader
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the one
• pairing: theodore nott x riddle!reader
• now playing: hayloft by mother mother / you that i want by divine
• word count: 1.7k
• genre: angst, fluff, hint of smut
— short one that i kept thinking of.
Theo slumped in his chair, fatigue weighing heavily on him. The clock on the wall opposite him ticked relentlessly, unforgiving of his sleepless state. He had long abandoned any hope of finding any rest. He hadn’t been able to since that fateful night when everything felt right in his life.
His mind wouldn’t grant him solace. Each time his weary eyelids dared to meet from the pure exhaustion of the stress of OWLS, the ongoing war, his brain kept feeding him images of you. You, who kept haunting him from the very forefront of his mind.
The natural curve of your eyelashes. The way it fluttered against his cheeks as your lips made a blazing trail across his cheeks. Gentle whispers that drown him in sheer bliss still send shivers down his spine.
His tie lay abandoned, discarded beside him, next to the pile of papers swept aside in his frustration earlier. The long, emerald fabric had felt too suffocating amidst the overwhelming thoughts of you.
He couldn’t help but wonder if you would also be writhing in bed, unable to fall asleep as he does. Would your dreams torment you with the brief time his hands tangled onto your hair, wayward? Does your dormant body spin cruel variations of that time, telling him tantalising tales of what could’ve occurred if only your insufferable blonde companion hadn’t so abruptly interrupted?
He had never loved you.
Not in the way you wanted.
This desire to fill the emptiness in your heart, to have somebody give you the time and day has obscured that truth. A part of you knew, from the very beginning, but this desperation forced you to turn yourself blind.
Draco was there, a constant presence in your life, a perfect match to have by your side. Born only 24 hours apart, and 10 years of your childhood spent solely with him.
In truth, you both used the other, a fact that you ignored. He relied on you for protection and status as your partner, while you clung to him to feel the fleeting sense of warmth. But the perpetual storm of reality always wearing you both down and, you were rapidly losing the strength to keep yourself afloat.
Unspoken words hung heavy in the air between the both of you as the year progressed and the inevitable return of your father neared. At first, you had both kept your feelings at bay, not wanting this to jeopardise your friendship altogether. But as time went on, it became a routine. Venom spit from raised voices, threats of abandonment and indifference to each other, reconciliation accompanied by hollow promises and sex.
“Are you a bloody fool? She is my best friend and yet again, Draco ‘can’t-keep-his-boxers-on’ Malfoy decided that didn’t matter!” You screamed in frustration, but it didn’t seem to matter when he didn’t even so much as falter at the volume.
“We aren’t even together, so why should it?” He carelessly replies, an air of indifference surrounding him.
“We aren’t? You truly are an insufferable git, I spent two years committing myself to you, and you never thought to mention that little detail before?” You scoffed, incredulous at the idea. It was foolish and outrageous, and not at all like how the man you know would think. Despite your differences with one another, he would still treat you with at least the respect you give to a friend, but now…
“Oh please! Don’t act as if your mind has not been completely filled with that mindless buffoon.”
“For Merlin’s sake, do not dare turn this on me…” You challenged him.
“Or what? Threaten to have your father kill me? Well, surprise, darling, I’m no stranger to that already.” He humorlessly chuckles. “I’ve seen you. I’ve seen that god-awful lovesick look on your face at the mere sight of his back. I am not the complete bloody fool you think I am.”
It hurt, truly, despite the fact that this started as a hilarious excuse of a relationship. You cared for Draco and to see him constantly destroy everything and everyone in his path of destruction left you unable to conjure up any more excuses for him.
“I am done, Draco. We can stop whatever awful pretentious act we put ourselves to and live on our own as you seem to hardly care for even yourself anymore these days.” You laugh, defeat etched on your face.
He never gave you the love that you sought, the kind that Theo had laid bare in complete display for you in just under seven minutes in that tiny closet.
“You came back to me.” He whispers, close enough for his lips to touch the corner of your lips but there’s just a stutter of breath. It makes you want to instinctively kneel and look up to him and beg religiously for mercy, the way he speaks.
“I did.” You reply. Unmoving, but your patience wears thin.
“Look at you,” He mutters, his hand tugging at your head by your hair, exposing your neck to him, and your knees nearly buckle at his breath that burns against your jaw. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet and you’re almost like putty in my hands already.”
“Shut it, Nott.” You quickly remark a decision you notably regret when you are left standing in the middle of the room all by yourself. The cold air from the ajar window left your skin tingling with an uncomfortable feeling akin to when Draco touched you in the past weeks.
You scoff, the sound more as if you were nearly pleading. “What are you doing?”
“You know I hate it when you act like a brat.” He inclined his head, and the movement leaves chills running through your spine for the action is almost similar to someone sinister. But weirdly, it makes you want to tease him even more.
“Oh please, Theo. I’m not blind, as if you don’t dream of it.” You slowly approach him, your fingers make a motion of dragging along the ends of the poster beds. “The way I see your eyes tremble when I contradict every single thing you say. I know you are depraved when your thoughts are only of my mouth…”
You hear a sharp intake of breath when you come near. “The way you would just love it if you could shut me up by having my lips wrapped around you. I know you, Theo.”
His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, he reaches almost mindlessly for your collar. His thumb barely touches the skin of your neck. “Yes, you do.”
His eyes are intense as they dart to your mouth. Your tongue unconsciously makes a sweep against your dry lips.
“I suppose Draco will show me exactly how.”
Taking a page of this man’s book is terrifying but you are tired of this game of tug that you keep playing.
“That would be wise. ”
He’s still looking at your lips.
“I’ll go then.” You try again, unwilling to make the move.
“Go on, you won’t hear a sound of protest from me.” But you remain standing in front of him, the will to move weak against the desire to have him.
“Really?”
“No.”
Theo grabs the back of your head, tangled his fingers in your hair, and made a mess of your mouth. With his lips attached to yours, you grab him by his shirt and the both of you kiss as if you were third years again. Your teeth clashed into each other time and time again and you couldn’t find it in you to slow down.
The need to kiss him, to feel what you’ve been thinking of for several nights on end. You push back at him, desperate to feel the same hunger and need in him, as he kisses you deeper and more profound than you ever thought possible.
The soft, selfish hands that you wished so badly to wipe clean off the bodies of other women move up from the bottom of your back to move you impossibly closer until you are almost one. His voice is ragged when he pulls away, a thin thread of saliva still connecting you.
He says against your cheek, “I love you. I’d die for you. Nobody can ever give you what I could make the pain go away like I could, not even that dense fuck who has a deeper sense of self-preservation than his parents.”
You swallow, agonised by the sudden slow pace that he moves. Not an ounce of energy dared to waste to defend your ex. “I will love you anywhere.”
You shiver at the raw and pure intensity that laced the declaration. You almost want to ask, to hear how. But you don’t think your mind could properly comprehend the ability to piece together the right words to ask.
His heart is pounding from beneath your fingers as you feel the pulse on his neck, almost leaping it out as if all it wants is for you to finally claim it as yours. Encase it in a glass case and put it on display for all else to see.
“In a bookstore, by the water fountain, the sidewalk, in the flames of your home.” His hands come down to your hips, his fingers digging in so harshly that by morning sunlight, purple will be painted on your skin but it feels so heavenly that you don’t push them away.
“I love you, not for the protection you provide and for your substantial looks, but for all the small things you do that bear your soul to me.”
Your hands meet around the back of his neck as he carries you by your thighs towards his bed. Pulling at the fabric that keeps him away from you.
“I’ll love you even as you tell me you hate me oranges. I love you enough that I will scour the face of this earth for a place where I can take you away from your nightmares.”
“I-“ He sighs into your lips, completely delighted by the intimacy that only his mind could conjure up in the lone nights. “I love you.”
You move for the buttons of his polo, while he moves to pull your shirt from you. A race that leaves you both fumbling when you feel his hand carving a path against your waist and up to your chest. You are left scalding, tiny bounces of light flickering in your eyes.
“I will be at your string’s end.”
masterlist
#harry potter#theodore nott#theo nott#theodore nott x reader#theodore nott x y/n#theodore nott x you#theodore nott fluff#theodore nott angst#theodore nott imagine#theodore nott fanfic#theodore nott fanfiction#slytherin#theodore nott oneshot#theodore nott smut
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FNAF Movie Theory...
I'm pretty sure there's still one major plot twist in the universe of the movie that's been set up for a sequel but hasn't actually happened yet.
Heavy spoilers under the cut:
After watching the movie in theaters and then revisiting a few scenes on Peacock, I'm still kind of convinced that Mike Schmidt is Michael Afton.
Here's my reasoning. A lot of the characters spend time acting like they know something the audience/other characters don't, and those things are...mostly resolved. But some of them just...kind of aren't.
The main thing that sticks out to me is William's whole storyline. Starting with the scene where he offers Mike the job, his behavior is almost explained by the movie's logic. He sees Mike's name, seems...kind of deeply upset, looks at him very closely, stands to get coffee, and has a moment of visible internal conflict. Then he instantly offers him the Freddy's job. The way the movie frames this, it seems to be saying that he recognized the name of one of his victims, realized this was the kid's brother, and decided to kill him right then and there. Which is passable as an explanation, but it has a lot of holes, if you look deeper.
Why would William so instantly recognize a fairly common last name as the brother of some kid he killed that wasn't even anywhere near Freddy's? Why did he kidnap/kill Garrett in the first place, in some random forest in Nebraska? Why did he see the name on the file, then immediately stop and examine Mike's face so closely, when Mike's memories/dreams pretty clearly show that they never saw each others' faces when Garrett was taken? Why did he send Vanessa to "keep Mike in the dark" if he purposely gave him the job to get him killed? Why not have the animatronics kill him right away? He didn't know that Mike was searching for the man who took his brother, and while he could have maybe guessed he was still actively haunted by what happened based on Mike beating up a guy that he thought was kidnapping someone, it still feels like a weird choice to go and hire him, then just have him do the job with no issue for a few days.
As for Vanessa, we see that she's been cleaning up William's messes for years. Why is Mike the one she changes her mind and stands up to her father for? There's no implied romance between the two and no particularly meaningful connection beyond them both having family issues. I guess she cares about Abby because she's a kid, but kids getting hurt clearly never stopped her from helping her father before.
And, on a more meta level, this is Scott and his storytelling style we're talking about. The man puts plot twists inside of plot twists and everything always ties back into the Aftons, somehow.
So, here's my theory: I think that Mike is William's kid, but Mike's mom left Afton when he was young and remarried the man that Mike thinks is his father.
It seems convoluted and maybe cliche, but if it's true, then suddenly there's an answer to all of those questions. "Michael Schmidt" isn't exactly an eye-catching name, unless you had a kid named Michael and your ex-wife married a guy with the last name Schmidt. Garrett's kidnapping, then, becomes an act of intentional, petty revenge rather than an extremely random coincidence. Giving Mike the job and sending in Vanessa suddenly becomes about piecing together how much he knows and figuring out if he's worth trying to reconnect with or is just a threat that needs to be killed. (It feels worth noting that William is as far as I can remember the only person to call him Michael in the whole film. He also very pointedly never says "Schmidt" until he's decided to kill Mike and suddenly announces his full name out loud. If he went by Michael as a little kid, that is what William would default to calling him, but if he took the new husband's last name, that would be like like salt in the wound that he wouldn't want to voice. By finally saying it out loud, it feels like he's making the decision to fully separate himself from Mike.)
As for Vanessa, if Mike is her brother, it makes sense that he would be the person she'd turn against William to save. It would be weird for her not to tell him, but she could also be trying to protect him, in some way. There's never any mention of her mother, and it seems like it's just been her and William for a long time. Also, ending the movie with her in a coma feels like a strange narrative choice, but it makes sense if she knows information that's purposely being kept hidden for the sequel.
Of course, it could just be that the movie has kind of messy writing and I'm trying to fix it because I want there to be a deeper reason for it. Maybe there is no Michael Afton in the movies, or maybe he's off chilling and doing his own thing somewhere and we'll see him in the sequel. Only time will tell.
#fnaf movie#fnaf movie spoilers#five nights at freddy's#five nights at freddy's spoilers#michael afton#mike schmidt
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GalexYou Pep-Talk
Summary: Pre-relationship yearn alert! This is a BIG yearn. Thank you @orangekittyenergy for the idea! Gale goes to seek you out (gender neutral) after a long day. Mutual pining, angst, fluff. Word Ct. 1.4 k
Master List | Read on Ao3
After the merriment and bustle of the night wore away and gave into the doldrums of sleep, Gale flicked his gaze around camp searching for you. You slipped away and although he expected you to return, the emptiness in your absence haunted him.
He sat outside of his tent, then stood, pacing with book in hand. He wasn’t worried. Not necessarily. You had been traveling for a few weeks together now and you had a certain levels of tenacity it seemed even gods and devils refused to trifle with.
It was just that he had grown accustomed to your company post-dinner and campfire camaraderie and felt a pang of remorse in your absence. The night air too quiet without the soft hum of your laughter. Sometimes, he would read aloud to you, other times you would both get lost in conversation, and sometimes would sit in utter silence. It intrigued and terrified him, that you sought out his private company despite the others being starved for your attention.
It was quite flattering and made him want to rip out the persistent thrum in his heart. He couldn’t indulge in such frivolities and would cause far less suffering to not humor the feelings at all. The orb’s ever looming threat didn’t allow Gale to succumb to whatever emotions festered in his gullet. At least, not consciously.
His mind began down the treacherous path of ‘what ifs.’ It was a game, like lance board, Gale was excellent at. As the moon greeted the stars, Gale’s anxiety intensified, his mind whirling with options. It had to have been a least an hour you’d been gone, longer than you’d take for bathing - not that he knew exactly how long that was! It was just something he happened to notice. Coincidentally.
The foreign thrum of desire stirred and the thick hair on his arms stood straight up as he wondered if you were bathing. If you allowed the water to kiss your supple skin, to know your secrets. Gale shook his head, embarrassed and felt his face redden. Keep it together. They could be dead and you’re fantasizing over their wet body? You should be ashamed of yourself.
Gale expected you to traverse through the trees any moment, prepared to feel ridiculous at his worrying. Why did he care? It’s not as if there was anything more than friendship between you two, at least from your end. He had to repeat this to himself to be convinced.
When he overheard Astarion ask Shadowheart if she’d seen you, Gale felt the whispers of envy touch his heart and decided he spent enough time wasted, musing over your whereabouts when you could be lost, or worse besides.
He couldn’t tolerate the sudden pain that gripped him with that ‘what if,’ and he walked into the brushes to find you.
***
Relief roiled through him at the sight of you, despite your disheveled appearance. Gale’s breath caught in his throat and he stopped, gripped when he looked upon you in the pale moonlight. Your eyes were red and swollen, it seemed like you’d been crying. He felt his knees buckle and he cleared his throat, so not to startle you.
You whipped your head around and Gale’s lips parted when he saw crimson blossom across your cheeks as you wiped away the streaks with the back of your hand. “Oh, I um.. how long have you been standing there?”
“Not long, I assure you,” Gale’s voice was tender, quiet. He held up both of his hands at waist level, palms facing up and smiled at you. “May I join you?”
You hesitated for a moment and Gale panicked that he’d made the wrong move, said the wrong thing and of course he had already messed up any chance he might have because he was so pathetically out of practice. You’d think a man who bedded a goddess would have a bit more self confidence in his seductive prowess, but being shunned and cast out by your former omnipotent lover does a number on one’s self esteem.
When you nodded, he tumbled off the cliff and the orb revolted as it mingled with the rush of adrenaline and rapture he felt from the simple gesture. One nod. To Gale, it was everything. He felt welcomed into your world, elated you’d allow him to offer support. You didn’t have to, and yet you did.
Gale joined you on the boulder that was nestled in the thicket, the soft buzz of nighttime harmonizing with his unsteady breath. “Hm… I know that look,” Gale said, gazing at how your lips curved. “And a clear mind does not eviscerate flowers quite like this.” He fingered a petal and gestured at the flowers and stems, all petals plucked intentionally from their root. “A nervous habit, no doubt.”
You sighed and his heart swelled, “I just don’t know what I’m doing. Every lead ends up in either more unanswered questions or unhelpful ends.” You groan and grip your chest, your breath coming in unevenly. “I’m exhausted,” as your head fell into your hands Gale, without thinking, rested a hand on your upper back and stroked your hair behind your shoulder.
“Ah, heavy is the head that wears the crown.” Gale felt warmth pulse through him as you laughed, whether genuinely or out of pity he wasn’t to know. He wasn’t sure he cared. “For the record, you have pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes most skillfully. You’ve shown remarkable courage and determination and, I’m confident the others would agree, many of us would not be so fortunate to still be alive if not for you. You must know that.” He rubbed his fingers in small circles along your upper back. When he became conscious of what he was doing he pulled back, ashamed and nervous by the electricity that seemed to flow between his skin and yours although barred by cloth. You whined a little and Gale cocked his brows, “What?”
You turned and as your gaze locked with Gale he drowned. Oh. He was jolted by the flash of profound need and emotion that coiled through him. Every part of him felt aflame and he worried that it was his end, that the orb was at last collapsing in on itself. Yet, as he remained next to you in the thickening silence, he realized it wasn’t the orb at all. When you spoke, Gale thought surely this was the moment he was becoming a mindflayer, a wicked dream to lull one as they succumbed to the parasite. “I.. .can you do that again?”
“Gladly.” Gale shyly returned his fingers to your back and as you leaned into his touch, Gale knew it was not longer a matter of if, but when. As you leaned farther, you almost rested in his shoulder and his throat closed. He swallowed hard and tried to steady his body and mind, every cell quaking with anticipation and overstimulation.
He inhaled. Temptation. You smelled like rain or fresh cut grass. You smelled like home. It was when you leaned into him, he was certain he forgot how to formulate a thought. Your head nestled against his neck and your side pressed into his. He wondered if the quaking was from your body or his. He dared not move, frozen as if Tara had fallen asleep on his lap.
The pain that coursed from Gale’s chest through his veins was almost enough to send Gale back to camp. The undue excitement made the orb restless. Agitated. He was both grateful and nostalgic when you pulled away and sat up. “Thank you, for that. Let’s get back to camp. I don’t want the others to worry.” You smiled at Gale and it seared into the crevices of his mind, a look he would capture a thousand more times and it would never sate him. You gave his hand a squeeze and then stood, offering your hand to Gale’s with a cheeky grin. “Here, I’d hate for you too put too much strain on those creaky knees of yours.”
Gale’s hearty laugh took him by surprise and he took your hand and stood with a grunt. “A wizard is useless without his knees, shame on you for poking fun at their fragility.” Gale chased the feeling of you, of this closeness and realized that, even before his isolation he had never met a person quite like you. Gale would have stood there in stunned desire forever had you not taken his hand to guide him forward, the movement breaking the trance and he pulled his sweaty palm from yours, embarrassed. He wiped them on his shirt and followed you back, his heart and head swimming with the idea of kissing you.
#gale dekarios#bg3#bg3 gale#baldur's gate 3#baldurs gate 3#gale#gale of waterdeep#bg3 brainrot#gale x you#gale x reader#gale fluff#gale angst#gale yearning#bg3 fanfic#bg3 fanficiton#gale fanfiction#bg3 gale fanfiction#bg3 gale fanfic
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Both Ways at Once Part 2
wc: 757, Masterpost
The stranger touched his chest and Red Hood’s whole being shuddered. The agonizing pain that been growing, growing, growing—
It quieted. Sharply and suddenly.
The relief from the pain almost hurt worse.
Red Hood curled around the hand. His fingers dug desperately into the sleeve to make sure the stranger didn’t pull away. The shock of whatever had momentarily pushed the pain back started to fade and Red Hood, to his shame, let out a keening whine.
“Shush,” the stranger soothed gently. Red Hood wasn’t sure how he even heard them over the klaxon of alarms and shouting. “It hurts. I know it hurts. But I won’t let them keep hurting you. I swear to you.”
There was a weight to those words— a promise in that vow— that felt like it seared itself in Red Hood’s bones.
Whoever this was, Red Hood believed them.
There was a whisper of air as the door opened.
“Nightingale, get out of there, right now,” the Hellblazer hissed.
It made Red Hood bare his teeth in a soundless growl even though no one could see it under the helmet.
The stranger— Nightingale— let out a huff of air that was almost amused. As if he had noticed.
“Oh I’ll come out, Constantine, we both will.” Nightingale twisted their hand in Red Hoods grip.
Red Hood almost made that pathetic sound again, fearing loss of the touch, but they simply twined their fingers together.
“Nightingale, you don’t know who he is.”
“Oh he’s a he now, not an it? Good of you to finally tell me, John. Really glad that it was clear from the dossier that I was going to be meeting a person not a thing or a creature. Oh no, wait, no it wasn’t,” Nightingale snarked. His voice was dry, but there was an undercurrent to it that made the hair on Red Hood’s arm stand up.
Where the lights always dimmer in the brig?
“Do you even know what he is?” Nightingale asked.
Part of Red Hood’s instincts told him to get out of there, that Nightingale was dangerous in a way he couldn’t even imagine. He just gripped their hand tighter instead.
Nightingale squeezed back. “I asked you a question, John. Do you know what he is?”
The main door opened suddenly; Superman flew through it. Red Hood twisted his hold on Nightingale’s hand, pulling his own arm against his back and forcing the other behind him. His free hand twitched towards his empty holster. Everyone in the room was a threat, but Red Hood didn’t like the offensive stance Superman landed in.
“How did he get out?” Superman asked.
“Nightingale walked through the wall,” Wonder Woman explained. Red Hood’s gaze darted to her. She still seemed calm, if watchful.
It felt like the shadows were flickering.
Superman crossed his arms. “Did we know he could do that?”
“No,” the Hellblazer ground out. He looked around them nervously, taking note of the way the lights shifted. “Nightingale—”
“He is a protector spirit, John!” Nightingale yelled. Wailed. It wasn’t a yell, it was a wail. The echo of it stuck inside Red Hood’s mind, bouncing around like a bullet. Everyone in the room flinched. Nightingale’s fingers pushed under the edge of Red Hood’s glove and found a strip of skin to stroke. It forced Red Hood to take a shuddering breath. The bullet stopped bouncing.
Nightingale took a breath of his own. Red Hood could feel it from where the other was leaning against his back. This stranger was coiled tension and danger and a carefully reigned in tone. “He’s a protector spirit and you are destroying him! You locked him up away from his haunt! How dare you.”
“Nightingale,” the Hellblazer said, stepping forward with hands raised (as if he didn’t have magic at his fingertips). “You know me. You know how I work. You know that I wouldn’t lock up a protector spirit if I knew that’s what they were. We had no idea, Pomp, I promise. Couldn’t even suspect. The person Red Hood was separated from is alive.”
The flickering shadows spiked. The whole room seemed to darken. Red Hood twisted his hand a little tighter into the sleeve he still had a hold on.
“The what?” Nightingale growled.
“It is clear that there is a great deal of information missing on all sides,” Wonder Woman said, her voice a calm certainty in the middle of the tension. “Let us turn off the alarms and go have this discussion somewhere we can sit down.”
-----
AN: Bad news, still sick, good news, it's not a new long term condition! And I should be near the end of it. Also good news, my tired brain wrote you more of this! Does this answer any questions or does it just make more???
I no longer tag people for several reasons! You can instead subscribe on the masterpost.
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