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#but like. doing that is so so deeply cruel when this is most likely her first time choosing to be vulnerable since she was a child

lanymme · 29 days

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Hey. Kiara sure likes ohagi, doesn’t she?

It’s a cute quirk, but it’s also deeply, deeply tragic in a very subtle way that's hard to piece together unless you know about japanese sweets or Kiara’s personal history.

So let’s learn a little bit about ohagi, and why Kiara loves it so much!

Ohagi, and the very similar sweet botamochi, are traditional japanese sweets made from glutinous rice with a coating of sweet red bean paste and, optionally, a dusting of something else, often ground black sesame or soybean flower.

Here’s some that I made for Kiara’s birthday last year! They’re very doable and pretty tasty.

Higan is a Japanese buddhist festival celebrated around the spring and autumn equinoxes, and ohagi or botamochi is eaten as a ritual food during that equinox. Sources I found indicated that the difference between ohagi vs botamochi is not easy to pin down, but some say that the sweet is called ohagi when eaten for the autumn equinox. (This is beside the point, but the red spider lily, with which Kiara is strongly associated, also blooms around that time.) If you want to know more, check out this article I found on the history of ohagi and its ritual connection.

Kiara was born as the heir and savior to a mountaintop Buddhist cult. Her upbringing was deeply abusive, and despite the fatal illness she suffered from, for which her community and her father gave her no treatment, she was denied any semblance of a normal childhood while she was molded to be their perfect savior.

Nothing that inspires attachment was allowed to her. The book of fairy tales she ended up with was deemed inappropriate and taken from her because she spent too much time reading it, liked it too much.

It’s hard to imagine her being allowed sweets like a normal kid, since they’re designed for stimulating flavor.

But, of course, ohagi isn’t just a sweet. It’s a ritual food. So they couldn’t deny her that, could they?.

As a child, those 7 days surrounding the equinox twice a year were probably the only time she ever got to have sweets.

And of course, she probably learned to be very careful about not letting on that she was enjoying herself. Not overindulging.

Like fairy tales, it was a tiny piece of happiness that accidentally slipped through the cracks and gave her something to latch onto. And, like fairy tales, she carries it with her into adulthood.

It’s not coincidence that she makes ohagi and tea instead of chocolates for Valentine’s. In this new place where she can heal a little bit from her past and grow, she takes the chance to make ohagi herself, instead of waiting for the proper holiday; and to share them with someone else as a thing she loves, instead of hiding them away.

#people talk a lot about how she kills you if you reject her gift #but like. doing that is so so deeply cruel when this is most likely her first time choosing to be vulnerable since she was a child #and it's very clear she's doing that in despair as she gives up on ever getting better #it's nothing she hasn't done to others but yeah. just eat the ohagi. they're very tasty i promise.#sessyoin kiara #kiara sessyoin #fgo #fate extra ccc #fate series #kiara lore #highly suspect nuns

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wh0reforcoriolanussnow · 11 months

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Stay with me || D. Targaryen x Hightower!reader

GIF by @beaconofthehightower DIVIDERS by @straywords

summary: In which you have been forced into marriage with the Rogue Prince by the King. However, it has been well over a year and the two of you yet to see eye to eye, mostly because of Daemon's dislike towards your father. When you find out that you're expecting, things seem to take a drastic turn.

a/n: no way this was sitting in my drafts since i first opened this acc end of last year🥹

“The bath is ready for you, my Lady.” The handmaiden bowed at your direction as you finish taking off your jewellery. “Thank you, you may go,” You bid her off, “But my Lady-“ She protested, “I am quite capable of bathing myself, thank you.” Meeting the maidens eyes through the mirror, you didn’t mean to sound rude and snap at the poor women—your pent up emotions needed releasing, hence why you called for a bath.

Without uttering another word, you watch as she closes the door with a loud thud. Throwing your necklace across the room to release the built up tension, you inhale deeply whilst leaning your hand against the bed post. Tears threatening to escape, you look up towards the ceiling so that they would not fall.

Finding out that you were with child was a rollercoaster of emotions. You were saddened at the thought of bringing a child into this cruel word. How could you try to make your child’s life happy when both of his/her parents were not with each other?

You thought that you could some how find times in your marriage that you would be happy, but you didn’t, the past 12 months were a nightmare. You barely got to see Daemon, and when you did, he’d be drunk and fall asleep without saying a word to you.

And the whispers and talks of people seeing him visit brothels in silk street were unbearable. You tried ignoring the best you could, but how could you when people didn’t even put any effort into quietening down when walking past you?

Brushing your lingering thoughts away, you walk to the bath that was bearably hot. Removing your thin night gown and letting it pile in a corner, you couldn’t help but stare at your still-flat stomach in the mirror. The thought of a babe growing inside was both amazing and terrifying.

Slipping your body in, a sigh leaves your mouth at the sensation of the hot water against your skin. After nearly 30 minutes, the door to your chambers opened.

There was only ever one person to open that door without bothering to knock, and that was your Husband. Eyes closed, you heard his footsteps until it came to a halt, slowly opening your eyes and sitting up, you turn your head to find Daemon watching you from outside the door that led to the bathroom.

“Husband.” You greeted turning your head back and closing them once again. “Wife.” He replied, taking off his clothes and changing. You were surprised he did not sound drunk like he usually did most nights. The two of you not uttering a single word until you got out of the bath.

You flinch once you realised Daemon was sat on a one of the sofas that faced your bath tub, not that the two of you were foreign to seeing each other naked. After drying up, you slip your night gown on once again before making your way to your dresser.

“Ao nektogon aōha ōghar, nyke ūndegon” His voice made you pause your actions, looking at his sat figure through the mirror. “2 two months ago Daemon.” You reply annoyed as you brush through your hair. “But you would know if you saw me more often.” Muttering under your breath, Daemon replied, “ȳdragon plainly.”(You cut your hair, I see) (Speak plainly)

Closing you eyes and taking a sharp inhale, you turn your body towards him, a cup with what you presume was alcohol in his hand. “What I mean, husband, is if you were here more often instead of spending your nights at the brothel, that you would notice the little things!” Your voice escalates in volume. Daemon throws his head back with a loud sigh. “Are we really doing this?”

“Where do your loyalties reside, husband? It is most certainly not with me! Whom you swore under the seven Gods that you would be there for me!” You were now standing up as you watch Daemon with an unreadable face.

“Ivestragon mirros!”You yell, “Skoro syt issi ao sir mentioning bisa?” He calmly asked. With furrowed eyebrows, you study his face, his gaze set to candles on the table. “Skoros?”(Say something) (Why are you now mentioning this) (What)

“Don’t act stupid y/n,” He scoffed, finally meeting your eyes, “Emi issare married syt mirri jēda, sir ao decide naejot elēni aōha concerns?” (We have been married for some time, now you decide to voice your concerns)

“Ivestragon nyke, skoro syt?” His deep voice questioned. Searching his eyes, and opening your mouth, no words seemed to come out. (Tell me, why)

“Cat got your tongue, my love?” Daemon smirked as you gulped, tears slowly but surely welling up. You found yourself pathetic, truth being the fact that you couldn’t even tell your own husband you were carrying his child.

Without saying another word, you turned around, blowed out all the candles except for the ones beside Daemon’s side of the bed, and slipped under the covers of your bed.

A loud sigh leaves the Prince’s mouth. Deep down, you wanted him to come to bed and engulf you in a hug. Instead, you hear the sound of the doors opening and closing, he left. You cried yourself to sleep that night.

Waking up to a cold and empty bed, you felt it slowly but surely making its way up your throat as you place the back of your hand to your mouth. Luckily, Eva, your closest handmaiden, had walked in just in time as you puked into the bucket.

“Perhaps having breakfast will be good for you, my Lady” She kindly smiles at you as you look up at her with a disgusted face at the thought of food at that moment. “I think not” You grumbled before getting up and getting ready.

“Has my husband returned yet?” Your eyes meet with the handmaidens’ through the mirror as you put earrings on. “No, my Lady” She looks down. “Should I even tell him?” You contemplate, fidgeting with your rings.

Before you could get a response, a loud knock comes from your door as you give a confused look to Eva as she quickly opens the door. “My lady, it’s your father.” She calls out before curtsying and leaving the room.

“Father,” You kiss his cheek to greet him. “I think it is best you go to the throne room now” He gives you a blank look. An awkward chuckle leaves your lips, “But why? What’s happening?” Concern spread through your body as Otto doesn’t say anything.

You quickly brush past him and make a beeline to the throne room. Upon entering, you were stopped by a kingsguard. “Who is in there” You question. “I cannot tell you that Lady-“ “I’m only going to ask you once, brother, who is in there?” You send daggers to your younger brother’s way.

“His Grace, Daemon, and-“ Before he could finish his sentence, you push past him and open the door. There sat Viserys on the iron throne with Daemon standing e of him, his back to you. What perplexed you even more was the women on her knees beside Daemon. A handmaiden to be precise. Viserys gives you a pitiful look, It was only when both Daemon and the handmaiden look back to you when you realise.

“I-“ You couldn’t even properly speak as you choked back tears. You felt like screaming at that moment. “Y/n-“ You didn’t even let Daemon utter another word before you closed the door—Gwayne giving you a concerned look—and sped off back to your room.

“Pack my things. I am leaving” You order your handmaidens as tears continuously roll down your cheeks. You were shaking, you felt like you were suffocating. “Are you all right my lady?” Eva places ger hand on your shoulder as you breathe heavily. “I-I need to get out of this dress- a-and breathe for gods sake!” You shout angrily as hands were already untying your dress.

You had about enough of Daemon’s behaviour. You needed to leave. After being dressed in something more comfortable, the doors open as your father walks in. “I assume you’re going back to Old town?” Your father places his hands behind his back as he watches you gather your jewelry.

“I am. If you expect me to stay here any longer with that-that horrid man then-“ “I don’t expect you to, daughter. He was caught in bed with her this morning. I assure you, that handmaiden will get what she deserves. Sleeping with her Lady’s husband, what was she thinking” Otto scoffs as tears blur your eyes.

“Have you even told him yet?” His question catches you off-guard. “No. After what I just found out I don’t think I will. He can find out later on after I’ve left” You say through greeted teeth as the last of your things were packed up.

“The carriage is already out there waiting for you, my Lady” Eva mentions as you nod at her. “Goodbye father, I hope you do come visit” You sadly smile before embracing him in a hug, his hands caressing your hair before you pull back and walk off.

It was pouring outside. You held your skirt up so it wouldn’t get dirty. “Y/n!” His voice booms over the rain as you pause. You quicken your pace but before you could even fully step into the carriage, a rough hand pulls you back.

Before you know it, your hand makes contact with his cheek with a loud slap. The few handmaidens gasp before they look down. He rolls his tongue against his cheek before chuckling, “I deserve that, don’t I?” “Oh you deserve so much worse Daemon.” You darkly chuckle at the man.

“I can’t believed you stooped that low- and with one of my handmaidens? How pathetic can you get, Husband. I have done nothing but been patient with you every day but this? That was the final straw. I’m leaving and you cannot stop me” You say the last bit through greeted teeth. “Were you going to tell me?”

You stop dead in your tracks. You breathe out from your nose, “Tell you what exactly?” Your head turns to him. “That you’re carrying my child. Was I ever going to find out? Or was I going to when I’m on my deathbed.” He shouts angrily as you keep your composure.

“And bring him up with a father who can’t even keep his loyalties to his wife? You’re delusional, truly.” A loud scoff emits your mouth. Not a second later, Daemon drops to his knees infront of you. People around whispering to each other at the sight of the Rogue Prince on his knees to his wife. You gulp as he looked so vulnerable. He looks up to you as he takes ahold of your hands. “Stay with me. Please. That is all I ask of you y/n” He pleads.

“Stay with you? I have stayed with you every day Daemon while you fucked your way through the brothels. I’ve had enough of hoping that you would finally see me as your wife!” Tears were once again pouring down your cheeks as you sniffle. “I can’t stay with you.” Your voice cracks before you pull away from Daemon’s touch and enter the carriage without looking back.

The carriage starts to move as you start sobbing harder. Daemon was still there kneeling as he watched his wife leave. He watched his entire future leave.

#daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #house targaryen #fanfiction #matt smith #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen fanfic #otto hightower #house of the dragon fanfiction #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire

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aphroditelovesu · 5 months

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Yan!Husband Maegor the Cruel/Six Wives Headcanons (Poly!Romantic)

❝ — 🐉 lady l: This is more based on his wives than on Maegor himself, but I wanted to test something. This is dedicated to dear @gulnarsultan, hope you like it! If you just want one of Maegor, feel free to ask!! ❤️❤️

❝tw: polygamous marriage, murder, jealousy, possessive and obsessive behavior, mention of stillbirths and death on childbirth.

❝🐉pairing: yandere!maegor the cruel x female!reader, yan!six wives x female!reader.

You must have been a very cursed woman when you were chosen to marry Maegor I Targaryen. Not only because he already had wives, but because of his well-known reputation and cruelty.

You begged your parents not to let you marry him, but it wasn't a choice to make. It was an order. Your parents couldn't deny it or they would be killed. Your family was well known in Westeros and had a good reputation for being fertile, maybe that's why he chose you. You cried a lot that day, but you had no choice but to leave for King's Landing.

Once you arrived, you were immediately greeted by one of Maegor's wives, Tyanna of the Tower. You were hesitant with her, knowing the reputation she maintained, but to your surprise, Tyanna had been nothing but kind and courteous to you, explaining everything she could about the court and Maegor. That being said, you quickly warmed to her, hopeful that you had a friend through it all.

The other wives were also nothing but cordial with you, some a little hesitant and others more open, but all kind and polite. You felt calmer about it.

Maegor has an explosive temper and everyone is directed towards his anger, not even you are safe, although you are the only one who can truly calm him down. Whenever he is having a temper tantrum or cruelty, you are called to defuse the situation.

His behavior is violent and difficult, his cruel acts became more common after he became obsessed with you. You must do what he wants, after all, you don't want your family to suffer the consequences, do you?

Ceryse Hightower was as sweet and kind as she could be. She was the warmest to you, hugging you and wishing you happiness and many children. She expected you to give her husband heirs.

She was kind, so sweet to you that she quickly became your friend, your ally. You adored her, and even though she was your husband's first wife, you had no problems with her or she with you. Ceryse has truly come to adore you like a sister.

Alys Harroway was the second wife and one of your closest friends, whom you mourned the loss of your friend deeply. She became pregnant with Maegor and quickly became happy and told you, leaving you excited and Tyanna jealous.

Alys was your closest friend, protective and calm. Her obsession with you was hidden but it was there, and she fiercely protected you from anyone. She wanted to be your only confidence and only friend and that was her undoing, after the disastrous birth.

Tyanna of the Tower was Maegor's most feared wife, and your friend. She was kind and courteous to you, staying by your side and whispering sweet and poisonous words in her ear. She wanted you for herself, not for Maegor or anyone else, she wanted you.

She was largely responsible for Alys' downfall, and Tyanna, even though she liked you, would still be willing to deal with you if you got in her way. She loved sharing you with Maegor, when the three of you slept together and she caressed your belly, sincerely hoping for a child that would be not just yours, but hers as well.

You loved them, all of them, but you couldn't help but feel awkward, especially with Tyanna. However, after Alys' death and the confession that Tyanna was to blame for the abominations being born, she was killed by Maegor and he soon took three wives at once. The Black Brides.

Elinor Costayne was the youngest and the most delicate, gentle and sweet. She quickly warmed up to you and soon stuck to you like gum, much to her surprise. Maegor didn't seem bothered by this, however.

Even after her fertility was proven and she managed to get pregnant with Maegor, the child was stillborn and with wings. She survived the birth, however, and clung to you as a source of protection and affirmation against her husband.

Rhaena Targaryen was one of Maegor's most fearless wives, perhaps because she was from the House of Dragon. She never wanted to marry him, but she was forced to and found comfort with you, in her friendship with you, and came to love you like a sister, in the Targaryen way.

She viewed Maegor with bad eyes and as a threat not only to her but to you. Rhaena couldn't let anything hurt you, not when she was already so attached to you. Her obsession grew and she felt jealous of Maegor when he was with you. It was just a matter of time.

Jeyne Westerling was shy and beautiful, with dreams that didn't include marrying Maegor, but one good thing came out of that marriage, and that was you. You were her only friend in the midst of all this and she considered you above everything and everyone.

You could still feel the fear in Jeyne's voice when she found out she was pregnant, the terror she was feeling. She cried in your arms when she found out, fearing she wouldn't be able to carry a healthy child. You tried to comfort her, but it was in vain, not when she gave birth to yet another abomination and died after giving birth.

You mourned the loss of your friend and Maegor the loss of what could have been a son. Now it was up to you, his beloved wife, to give him what he wanted so much. You were afraid of him, but Maegor loved you in his own way.

Possessive and incredibly cruel, he has no qualms about killing anyone who looks at you the wrong way. You are his, his wife, his Queen. Not from others.

Your life with him would be difficult and although you found comfort in your friendships with the other wives, you still felt lonely, far from your family, and forbidden to leave the Red Keep.

Maegor's possessiveness worsened when he discovered your pregnancy and this time he would be sure he would have the heir he so desired. It doesn't matter what means he has to take for this. You will give birth to a healthy and strong child.

Your fate was sealed the moment he chose you to be his wife.

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notanactressyayy · 2 months

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—𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚, 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐮𝐩—

pairing . Natasha Romanoff x fem! reader

summary . you both knew you would never be able to be together — so you had to take the shot, even if it would be the only and one time.

warnings . smut! I am not responsible for your content consumption! bottom! Natasha, soft sex, praise kink (?), cunninglingus, face riding, fingering, multiple orgasms, forbidden love, Red Room trope in general, non graphic violence, implied sexual harassment (Dreykov), cursing, angst.

notes . english is not my first language (🇧🇷) so I apologize for any spelling errors. feel free to leave any advice though!

disclaimer: they're both 18, before the graduation ceremony.

highschool sweethearts thing because I'm a simp for it. ^^

divider credits: @benkeibear

"Love is for children." they'd say, "love is a weakness." so how the hell did you manage? Natasha wondered, how did you kept the facade, even with all the things that happened between you, in secrecy from the rest of the widows — from Madam B, and from General Dreykov?

Because even her, one of their best widows, was starting to lose it.

Ever since the beggining, you were the most ruthless, emotionless, cruel widow they had. You couldn't remember your life before the Red Room, because it never existed. They took you from your parents when you were 2, and your training started by the age of 4.

You could swear you were born like that — cursed, without a heart. You never cared for anyone, for anything. Your only task was rob, torture, kill. Because the apple doensn't fall far away from the tree.

But somehow, that girl still managed to change you.

When Madam B put the redhead as your opponent, was when your whole perspective of life, of being, changed. God, you hated her. She had everything you ever wished to have — the longing for a family, the care for people, the gentleness. That showed whenever you went on a mission together — it wasn't a part of her characters, it was herself. When she spoke to you about Yelena and how she tried to protect her, when she took you to the dark warehouse to take care of your bruises.. especially when she insisted on covering your ears and mumbling a russian lullaby to muffle the sounds of the other girls screams in the night.

She taught you what love was. And that made you want to kill her. To kiss her. To tear her apart. To make her scream, and not from pain.

Dreykov always made it clear that romance, or even the slightest display of affection would result in severe punishment, or worse, execution. That was because he knew that the widows would never be able to find a partner outside his walls, so finding that need between each other was the only way out.

Yet, Natasha and you had an advantage point — you were the best of the best, the most talented widows. So first: he wouldn't suspect anything, and second: he couldn't kill his best agents. It would be his loss.

That's how she became your little secret. You were an hell of an expert, because you never let your feelings get in your job. Neither did Natasha, but it still shocked her.

It started with a simple peck on the lips by the age of 13, in the farris wheel of the amusement park you were undercover. Your cart was the one on the top, where you could see all the atractions from, and no one could see you. You tried to convince yourself it was just teenage curiosity, but it still led to that.

The hotel room of Belgium, Brussels.

You never knew the simple mission on breaking in a bank was gonna lead to that.

Natasha did everything in a rush, knowing that you could do it smoothly, but just to be able to spend a little more time with you. Like now.

You sighed deeply, leaning against the sink's counter and looking at your reflexion in the mirror. The cut on your forehead was stinging a little, but you decided not to pay attention. The redhead walked in the bathroom, just not expecting to see you only in a black lace bra and the black tights of the vest. You heard the click of the door, but showed little emotion. "Hey, Red."

"Oh, Y/n..." she whispered, her eyes searching for yours, wanting to know if you wanted her to leave. You gave her a shake of your head and a small smile. She walked through the door with a soft exhale. "I already settled the guns and all the weapons. I also wrote the reports, in case you're wondering."

"You spoil me too much," you smirked tiredly. "You do all of that just to have me a little more, don't you?"

Your joke made her look down a little. "Yes," she whispers.

"You do?" you raised an eyebrow, not expecting her to affirm. "Well.. we still have 5 hours before they retreat us, so.."

"Your forehead," Natasha cuts you off, frowning in concern, rushing to check on you. Her hands went to hold your shoulders as she studied the cut — she only realized your lips parted and your gaze at her when she felt the straps of the bra beneath her hands.

"It's fine," you whispered, clearing your throat. Natasha looked away for a brief second, before looking into your eyes again.

"It's not, let me patch you up—"

You shook your head, placing your hands on her waist and leaning in, shutting her up with a long, gentle kiss. You pulled away and met Natasha's dreamy gaze, her eyes a little disoriented.

"Y/n..." the redhead mumbled, her eyes fluttering close and her head dropping to your shoulder, as she sighed.

"God, the way you look out for me makes me so weak." you chuckled, your palm rubbing her back, fingernails grazing her skin. "You know you don't have to do that. I can take care of myself just fine."

"I don't care," she said, lifting her head again to get herself lost in your eyes once more.

The graduation ceremony was coming soon, and you couldn't care less about that — but with her, it was different. You both knew what the ceremony actually meant, and Natasha was scared. She didn't want her dignity off her. And not knowing how to deal with this, she just wanted to protect you, in a way to comfort herself, her heart.

"It's gonna be okay, Natalia," you smile, planting a little kiss on the tip of her nose. "It's not gonna be the first surgery they perform on us. Besides, I'm gonna be with you as soon as you're back on the dormitory, okay?"

"It's just," Natasha gulped, her arms wrapping around herself. She was thinking far, of the future. "Who's gonna want a woman who can't even do the basics? Who's gonna want a woman who can't give birth to a baby?"

"Me." you simply said, placing your hand on her cheek, Nat immediately leaning into the touch. "I will. Because when we're out, we're getting married." you giggled. "Wasn't that our promise 4 years ago, when we were 14?"

Natasha's eyes snapped back to you. It was clear she didn't want to think of that as a joke — she had to show you how much she felt for you. And she wanted- needed you to reciprocate her. So she completely forgot of all the damn rules. She grabbed the back of your neck, and unintentionally pushed you up against the wall, kissing you with urgency.

Your eyes widened in surprise, but fluttered close again as the shock vanished. Your hands went to hold her waist again, tightening as you felt her press herself against you.

"Nat..." you whispered against her lips, breaking the kiss. She looked at you, her lips grazing yours again, your noses brushing.

"It's our only chance," she whines. "We were pleasure toys for men since we were little, can't we have something real for once? Before everything falls apart?"

Your breathing hitches as she says that. You let your eyes close, guiding her backwards and outside the bathroom, towards the bed.

"It's forbidden, but who the fuck cares? Who knows if we're not getting killed someday, or if Dreykov send us to different bases and we never see each other again?"

"Natalia," you shake your head, shakily breathing. "Everything I've done, everything I did was for one reason — having you by my side."

Natasha whimpered, sitting you down on the bed and standing between your legs. "Y/n, I want to see you."

"Then do it." you replied with no hesitance. "you're the only one who I'd consent to, Natalia."

At this point, you swore you forgot everything else than how she slowly unattached the hostler from your hips, pulling the tights and panties down and breathing rapidly by the sight of you semi-naked in front of her. Before she could do anything else, you stood up, hand moving to zip down the tight suit they made you wear. Natasha whined, leaning herself into your hands.

"So impatient," you whispered, finishing with the zipper and removing the fabric of her body, taking your time to do so. She held your shoulders and let you slip it down her legs — along with her panties, which she wasn't expecting. Natasha gasped quietly as the air hit her core, making you smile softly and stand up again.

"Darling," you cooed, hands moving to her back as your face found shelter on her neck, gently nibbling and kissing there. "you're so pretty it hurts,"

"Y/n," the redhead almost moaned, tilting her head back to grant you more access. She felt the straps of her bra slide down her shoulders and bit her lip as her breasts were freed, the lack of the tight clothing giving both of you an immense relief. In a moment, your lace lingerie was gone too.

"You're so gorgeous..." you whispered in her ear, your fingers tracing all the scars on her body, which you were sure you already had memorized. "And you are mine."

"Yes," she nodded, wrapping her arms around your waist. The skin on skin contact from someone she actually trusted felt too good, too much. "Yes, yes I'm yours."

Natasha then gently sat you down again on the edge of the bed, taking your breath away as she kneeled down in front of you, her hands gently pushing your knees apart and holding them open like this.

"God," she whimpered, leaning her face to slowly press kisses on your inner thighs, your back arching a little with the contact.

You took a moment to look at her dreamily, your slender fingers going to tangle in her red hair and play with it softly. "Lyubovmoya, (my love,)"

Natasha swore she could cry now, from the intense emotions building up within her. She couldn't wait anymore. So she did just that — diving into you, her mouth finding your pussy, her tongue inside you, tasting you, savouring the sweetness reserved only for her.

"Fuck, malyshka, (baby,)" you moaned, the sensation of being filled by someone who wouldn't harm you almost sending you over the edge already. "Yes, just like that,"

Natasha whimpered softly, licking the juices that were already spilling out of you, her tongue moving in circular motions against your clit.

"Nat," your head tilted back, hips bucking against her face as your climax approached. "I'm coming, Nat, I—"

She moaned against your folds as you came, licking all of your arousal, her tongue fucking you through your orgasm. After a while, she pulled her head back and looked up at your face.

"You're so fucking beautiful between my legs like that." you murmured breathlessly, smiling in bliss. Natasha blushed, you could tell she really liked your praises. "Are you really ready for more?"

"This is such a bad idea," she lifted herself from between your legs and smiled weakly, straddling your thigh again and gently pushing your back against the bed. "But the best we'd ever have."

You giggled, crawling further back the bed and laying your head on the pillow, your hands pulling her on top of you. Natasha thought of everything but that.

"Y/n," she bit her lip, getting a little shy. "I don't wanna hurt you."

"Don't be a hypocrite." you smirked softly. It wasn't going to be the first time she had suffocated you with her thighs, one of her combat skills. "Let me taste you too."

Natasha carefully placed her hands on the headboard, lifting herself up and lowering her thighs around your head, so hesitant. You gently squeezed her flesh and pulled her flush against your face, making her gasp a little in surprise. In a second, she felt your tongue inside her. So that's how it felt.

"Oh my," she whimpered, closing her eyes tightly, as she slowly started to grind herself against you.

You moved your hands up her thighs, to her hip bone, running your fingers across the bullet scar she had there. There was no doubt that, of all the Red Room academy, Natasha was the one who most took the harshness from Dreykov — sometimes for punishment, for the so called reward for being a good widow, or even to protect you. So she deserved all the sweetness and care she could get, for once in her life.

"More.." she breathed, her eyes looking down at yours — not expecting you to be so skilled, looking closely at her as your mouth worked on her. Your eyes smiled at her, and she felt it.

"Such a good girl," you whisper, sending vibrations all over her body. You then inserted two fingers inside her, carefully laying her down on the bed and hovering your lips against hers. Not kissing her, yet. "As soon as we get out of here, I'll marry you. And I'll scream to the world that you're mine."

"Y/n," she cried, feeling a warm tear roll down her cheek — not knowing if it was the pleasure only, but also her emotions.

"I feel so lucky," you smiled, so softly, lips brushing against her cheek as you spoke. She giggled, her arms circling your neck. Natasha moaned as she felt your fingers brushing continuously against her g-spot, as if you knew her better than herself, and you did. "I would give the world to have you in my arms, and I have it, and I'll never let you go."

"Say that again." the redhead begged, bucking her hips against your hand.

"I'll never, ever let you go." you repeated, feeling her legs starting to shake. "Even if I have to die for that."

"If I die..." she whispered, and suddenly, a wave of arousal washed over her, and she threw her head back, her cum all over your fingers. You gently fucked her through her orgasm, and then licked your fingers.

Nat gripped your back, her fingers digging into your skin. You rolled over the bed and pulled her on top of you. She looked like a baby now, so innocent, so precious. She clinged to you, wanting more of your safety, of your love.

Yes, love. And it didn't matter if she was considered a child now.

"I-if I die," she continued, her voice so so small. Your fingers ran through her hair, through her red locks. "At least I had one good thing in my life. You. You're the only fucking good thing I ever had, Y/n. And I'll take you in my memories forever and ever."

"I love you, Natalia." you said with conviction. "I'll love you in my every reincarnation, in my every life."

That's when you heard a loud bang in the door. The tracker, the wire.

"Goodbye, princess." you held her tighter, as she buried her face on your neck.

"See you soon."

Everything went black. Two widows terminated. Two shots fired.

Dreykov would have to train two other girls to replace you, and it wouldn't be easy.

At least you were free now. And had to hope you'd be married with two kids and a picket fence for the next time.

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dwaekkilinos · 2 months

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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.

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)

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inbarfink · 2 months

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I think a lot about the Concept of ‘choices that matter’ in video games. Like, in terms of what it is that makes a choice ‘really matter’, what do we perceive as a choice that matters or has a consequence, how do different games with different amounts of branching or non-branching storylines play with those ideas… Especially because Undertale is one of my favorite games of all time, and it has often been hyped as ‘a game where your choices REALLY matter’ and… honestly, I dunno if all of this hype was fully conducive to Undertale. Because the way it handles the concept of Video Game Choices is actually a lot more interesting and complex than that simplistic descriptor makes it seem.

Because Undertale actually has a lot of choices that ‘don’t really matter’! Lots of dialogue choices and silly little decisions that on a first playthrough seem like they’re some sort of moral choice or a branching plotline but end up always leading to basically the same result regardless of what you do!

And the game doesn’t really try to hide the fact that these choices are kinda 'Fake'. I mean, on a first playthrough a player might assume there’s gonna be some Massive Consequences for picking the ‘wrong’ drink on Undyne’s date, but the game’s narrative expects for there to be multiple playthroughs and pretty much every Choice that Doesn’t Matter is peppered with that Undertale brand of wacky character-focused humor that inherently makes the moment memorable. Papyrus leading Undyne straight to you no matter what you do is basically a cross-timeline running gag.

On some level I see this as a sort of gag that serves as meta-commentary about the expectations around Choices That Matter in Video Games. As in, a lot of games have their Moral Choices happen in clearly easily marked ‘this is a Moral Choice!’ moments within the story, while the actual gameplay (and any violence the player might cause as part of said gameplay) is basically entirely divorced from any element of narrative-branching and doesn't effect the story at all. Undertale basically entirely inverts this dynamic; the most important factor for which Route you’re own is how you handle your FIGHTs, and what seems like clearly-marked and obvious Moral Choices are just goofy insubstantial minor changes in dialogue.

But also… there is also a level where you must ask yourself ‘what does it mean when we say that these choices Don’t Matter’. I mean, it’s not like they didn't change anything about the game, the Player still made the character say that other thing, the choice probably led to an alternate piece of dialogue, probably a joke with a call-back at the end of the game… The line between a one-off joke and an actual story-changing moment can be a little blurry if you look at it too deeply.

For example, near the end of the Waterfall part of the game, the Player is given the choice to save Monster Kid even at the risk of having to face down Undyne.

Pretty much anyone who isn’t deliberately trying to be an asshole is going to rush to save them and obviously that includes the Pacifist Route Players. But you can actually leave Monster Kid to die without it 'mattering' in the sense that it wouldn't divert you from the Pacifist Route. Undyne saves them instead of you, and ends up with slightly less HP for her battle (which might Matter for Runs when you try and FIGHT her but obviously not in Pacifist Runs) and… by the end of the game, during the extremely happy True Pacifist Ending, they still clearly remember that you abandoned them and are upset by it.

So… does saving Monster Kid ‘matter’ or not? On one hand, choosing not to save them mostly just changes a few lines of dialogue but… these lines of dialogue kinda recontextualize this happy ending and the Player’s actions in general. Despite the True Pacifist Ending otherwise portraying the Player/Frisk as a kind-hearted and brave hero... they still did this undeniably cowardly (and perhaps even cruel) act to one of their friends .

Was running away and leaving Monster Kid to die a brief but significant moment of weakness that the Player regrets and has cost them what could’ve been the start of a lovely friendship? Or is that simply that being a True Pacifist was always more of a matter of pragmatism rather than ideals? Were they only acting as a Pacifist to get that promised 'Best Ending', and only Monster Kid has an inkling they are not as heroic or kind as everyone thinks they are?

And then there’s the Snowman ‘quest’.

A free healing item given early in the game, with your mission being to carry it along in your inventory for as long as you can without ever consuming it. The only reward you will ever see from it is a few lines of dialogue…

But for many, it is more than enough of an incentive to preserve the Snowman’s Piece. You can do whatever you want with the Snowman without it ‘mattering’ in terms of Ending or consequences. You could carry it through all of your adventures with care and kindness... or you could eat it while he can’t see you and then go back to him and tell him that you ‘lost’ it and then get another piece and eat that as well, you could eat it right in front of his face, horrifying him.

And much like with Monster Kid, you can STILL get the True Pacifist Ending after doing that, all that would change is a few optional pieces of dialogue from the Snowman…

And a total recontextualization of the Player’s behavior and the ending. The Snowman sees the Player as a cruel and heartless person who is just pretending to be good so they can be liked - the way they acted with this immobile, powerless Snowman who could do nothing for them and their reputation reveals their true self. And he says their friends will realize that too one day...

Doing a True Reset on the Pacifist Ending is, by definition, a (almost) consequence-free action and yet it changes future Pacifist Routes immeasurably. Turning the Player into a Hypocrite doing the exact same thing they were trying to stop Flowey/Asriel from doing - trapping all of their friends into a time-loop so they can play with them forever while never actually letting them to enjoy freedom on the surface, simply because they are not willing to move on or put their friends' wishes and agency above their own. Nothing in the game actually changes, not one character can even suspect that you did something like that, and yet for the Player - this choice makes the entire Meaning of the game flip on its head.

Even the most famous and heavily-toted Big Consequence in the whole game - selling your soul to Chara after completing a Murder Route… mostly what it does is just… recontextualize the ending of the Game.

As a game, ‘Undertale’ is very much about the ways in which a Player engages with a game can radically recontextualize it. The huge chasm of difference between the Pacifist and Muder Routes is just the most literal example of it. But, in a way, even the tiny little Dialogue Options - where the lack of real choice and consequences is Obviously a Joke - matter. Because of the way they can recontextualize the Player Character’s behavior.

(Okay, maybe not this one, but hear me out…)

Do you trust Papyrus to not betray you, even after you spied on him with Undyne?

Do you have the integrity to admit you forgot something or got it wrong even when there’s no consequences for just lying about it?

Are you a hypocrite for trying to get Alphys to be truthful with Undyne only to then immediately turn around and lie to Undyne yourself?

None of these choices matter for the ending, some of them don’t even get, like, a call-back joke or anything, but… if you are engaged in this story as a narrative, if you are invested in these characters as if they were people, if you are honestly trying to be the best person you can be, if you are trying to self-reflect at the way you approach this game… even the silliest little dialogue option can suddenly be imbued with deep implications and you can make them matter.

Undertale is one of the best demonstrations of this concept, but this is absolutely not exclusive to it. For example….

‘Ace Attorney’ is pretty much as far away as you can get from a ‘branching narrative’ within the video game sphere. It is a heavily-linear Visual Novel where 70% of the time it won’t even let you talk to random characters at anything but the exact order it expects you to and any ‘Bad Endings’ are basically just glorified Game Over Screens. (... because this is the Internet and something something piss on the poor, I should probably specify that I am talking about ‘Ace Attorney’ because I love Ace Attorney and these are neutral descriptions of the game and not complaints. There’s nothing wrong with a game being linear.)

If there’s any Dialogue Choice in AA, it’s generally a very basic ‘right answer-wrong answer’ choice between Progress and a Penalty, or a total non-choice that just gets you to the same final result regardless. Except… Well… as we just talked about, getting to the same final result doesn’t necessarily mean a choice is ‘meaningless’, does it?

There’s actually a lot of great storytelling moments where Ace Attorney, despite its otherwise strict linearity, uses this exact sort of recontextualizing mindset I’ve talked about with Undertale to make choices with some really powerful emotional impact…. Even if technically, the ending is the same ending. It can be something as basic as ‘even if picking this Wrong Answer doesn’t get me a penalty, it still embarrassed my character and disappointed my friends/rivals and thus I feel bad for picking it’. Consequences as recontextualizing your character as more incompetent than they should’ve come across at that moment.

And then there’s moments like the iconic ending of ‘Justice for All’. That moment before Franziska bursts into the Courtroom with the case-making evidence and saves the day. The moment where it seems like Phoenix really is gonna have to pick between protecting his best friend and carrying out a rightful sentence.

The player gets to pick between the two options, but Phoenix never gets to say his choice out loud before Franziska comes running in... and yet… he, and the player, still made that choice. Even if no one ever has to experience the consequences of your choice, even if the rest of the world has no idea what Phoenix Wright would’ve chosen if the Miracle hadn’t happened, we know what we picked and that knowledge of the choice matters. Because of how we feel about this choice and what it says about our interpretation of Phoenix… and about us.

There’s also a bit of this ludonarrative device in ‘The Great Ace Attorney: Adventures’. During “The Adventures of the Runaway Room”, when you investigate the Omnibus for the second time and start finding things that… don’t quite fit together. When you’re finally starting to make progress with proving McGilded’s innocence, while also maybe starting to notice that something is… wrong with these pieces of evidence.

The unchanging linear narrative of the game is that Ryunosuke does eventually realizes McGilded's trickery, puts truth ahead of victory in court and yet, despite his effort and good intentions - the case still ends with a false Not Guilty verdict. And yet, the Player has the choice to... tweak the details.

There are several points where Ryunosuke can object, where he can call out the inconsistencies even though they help his case, where he can support Van Zieks in his accusations of tempered evidence... or he can not. Not necessarily intentionally misleading the Court as much as subconsciously trying to ignore the inconsistencies in the name of trusting his client.

And yet… in the end it doesn’t matter. Maybe Susato calls out the inconsistency instead of him, maybe Van Zieks does, maybe it remains uncontested but... no matter what you do, the case will end with a Not Guilty verdict (I mean, I guess you can deliberately fail the game but that will not progress the plot), McGilded doesn’t seem like he held a grudge (in the few minutes he had left to live), and a few cases later - Ryunosuke would always be punished for his part at this false verdict.

So it doesn’t really matter what Ryunosuke did back then? Does it matter if he did his best and called out every single inconsistencies or if he kinda half-assed it until he (and the Player) had to? He’s still going to suffer the same consequences down the line. And yet….

And yet, I think there’s something so powerful about giving us that option. About knowing that Ryunosuke, and we, did try and do something about McGilded's dirty tricks- even if it didn’t work. Or alternative, knowing that there was more that Ryunosuke and us could’ve done even if it was not nearly enough. Even if in the eyes of the game and the British Justice system there is no difference, the fact that we know what did and what we could’ve done can radically change the way the player feels about all of the later scenes concerning the truth about McGilded’s trial. It can radically change the way the player interpret Ryunosuke’s feelings about it as well.

Because even though the game itself keeps playing along with the same script regardless, that trial had irrevocable consequences for the Player.

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calisources · 2 months

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𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒.

All these quotes are taken from different works of fiction and depict sensual, sexual tension between two people in different scenarios. There are some that are suggestive while others are more detail so this meme is nsft and usft, please tag accordingly. Mentions of jealousy, possessiveness, sex, fantasies are all here. Change pronouns, names, locations as you see fit.

I knew the first moment I saw him that it was going to be raw, it was going to be ugly, and I was going to enjoy every damn minute of it.

You're still looking.

You make it hard to look away.

I'm over here keeping my hands and memories to myself because you asked me to, that’s not fair.

If you'd just man up and admit there's something between us, I would strip down to my skin so you could see every single inch of me.

How long are you going to make me wait?

How awfully presumptuous of you to think I'd let you.

You missed my arrogance almost as much as I missed your impudence, little one.

You said not to fall for you. Did you change your mind?

We both needed to blow off some steam, and we did, right?

They say the colour of a lady’s lips is an exact match to another region on the body?

You're too soft.

Can we go back to making out now?

You sound jealous.

Then tell me this is what you truly want. Swear you want this more than anything else and I'll never mention it again.

If you want me to play the bawd, at least give me the benefit of your advice.

Tell me how it's done. Do you think she'd like it if I came to her like this, if I looked deeply in to her eyes?

And then like this? Is this how I ought to seduce her?

You're wet, aren't you?

You drove me mad.

She asked me not to be gentle with her, either,I would have been gentle with you, though.

I would have had you moaning my name throughout it all. And I would have taken a very, very long time, Feyre.

I'm all yours to look at, you know.

You need to let me go, darling, before we start something I intend to finish.

Feel free to touch, darling. It's all yours.

. . .I hate you.

Say it again.

Grind it. Nice and fine.

I gave him a few smiles and he handed over a family heirloom. I bet he'd give me the keys to his territory if I showed up wearing those undergarments.

Why shouldn't I? You seem to have difficulty not staring at me day and night.

Am I supposed to deny, that I find you attractive?

Is that a challenge, Feyre?

Do you think it's fair that you have seen every inch of me, and I have seen none of you?

Move with me now.

Touch me anywhere you please.

I want you to make love to me.

Do you know what that truly means?

You do know? You know that I will be inside you and that I will move inside you, until we are both mad from pleasure?

I want you inside me.

You have three minutes to get ready now.

I did dream about you. I didn’t want to, but I did.

What was I doing in your dreams?

Someone is watching us through the window.

All the more reason to put on a good show.

You're not in a position to make demands.

The best things are found in the most secret places.

And you are a beautiful, sexy temptress who is about to be fucked by a man who wants her so desperately he's willing to do anything to have her.

When I'm with a woman, it's not me doing the begging.

You're rubbing yourself all over me. What did you think was going to happen?

I thought you were all about self-control.

I remember how powerful those thighs are.

You are more beautiful than I imagined.

And your skin... Christ, it shimmers like gold.

I'm naked underneath.

Tell me----did it get you off knowing I was watching?

I want to take you under the moonlight.

Please, don’t stop.

Oh, so I shouldn’t? That would be cruel of me, wouldn’t it?

I am the cruelest man you will ever meet, but, I will make you feel so good, you will not care.

I’ve never been with a man before.

You do bad things to me, Carrie. Very bad things.

And you, Miss, are no lady.

#roleplay memes #sentence meme #( cali meme. )#rp memes #rp prompt #rp musings #roleplay prompt #usft tw #usft meme #smut meme #suggestive tw

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loggiepj · 6 months

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she broke her own heart

Summary : Just a short story about how Wanda broke her own heart.

You didn't cheat.

You learned at a young age that when you loved someone, you should be solely and deeply committed to that person. You were strongly against any sort of betrayal.

You hated your father for that. You thanked the heavens he got sick with something close to cancer because you knew he deserved it. But you hated him more for making your mother miserable who still took care of your father after he got sick most of the time. You pitied your mother. She shouldn't have to live that way, especially when she was the one cheated on. But she loved your father still.

That was why you had cursed him and swore to yourself you wouldn't ever do what he did to your mother.

You couldn't handle the guilt if ever you'd commit such a cruel act, wondering how some people could ever do such in the first place. Even some of your friends have cheated or have been cheated on. It made you sick to the stomach just to think of it.

You couldn't ever ever cheat and wouldn't attempt to in your lifetime.

You didn't cheat.

That was what you were trying to tell your girlfriend of four years when she caught you with a naked woman in your apartment.

Wanda. Sweet, innocent, ever kind Wanda. With red hair and green eyes, she'd part the crowd like the Red sea whenever she entered a room.

You met her during your last year in College and dated ever since. It was a funny encounter — an enemies turned into lovers type of story. It was when Wanda accused you of being the other girlfriend of your now ex-bestfriend, Vision.

It took her a whole month to figure out you were gay when you both got drunk and made out in your dorm. It only took her five seconds of your tongue in her mouth to find out she liked girls too.

You and Wanda had been inseparable since. The relationship grew more intense, making you both commit yourselves to each other. Your friends became her friends. Her friends became yours.

You considered yourself so lucky for having her in your life. Wanda was always there through your ups and downs. And you were also there for hers.

So why would you cheat on her? How could you ever cheat on her?

You didn't cheat. But Wanda didn't believe you.

Wanda witnessed it front row.

It was a normal Thursday afternoon, or at least it was supposed to be normal, when Natasha, your bestfriend, dropped by your apartment, carrying with her her bag of art supplies, a blank canvass and a lady wearing high heels who looked like ten years older than the two of you.

It was honestly your fault in the first place. You were too nice to deny Natasha a place to do her painting when she was kicked out of hers. But you were also too late to realize it was going to be a nude work when the lady suddenly took off all of her clothes, leaving only her red stilettos on.

Amidst your complaints about how Wanda wouldn't approve of such a thing if she only knew, Natasha had managed to persuade you that it would only take her an hour to finish.

But bad things were meant to happen.

If only you allowed Natasha to use the toilet when she needed to relieve herself earlier, you wouldn't have to wait for a couple of minutes for her to come back when she immediately headed towards the toilet the moment she had finished the painting.

You wouldn't have to endure an awkward moment alone with the lady as she slowly dressed herself. You wouldn't have slipped on Natasha's paintbrush that she left on the floor in a hurry and tackled with the lady as you both fell down on the floor.

And Wanda wouldn't have seen you two in a weirdly sexual position in the apartment that you and Wanda shared.

No. Wanda didn't believe you. She saw it with her own two eyes.

"It's not what you think it is," you told her. Yet, you couldn't move. You found yourself frozen, million of things running inside your head, reasons why you were suddenly on top of this half naked stranger.

Wanda scoffed, then bit back a cry as she said, "I thought you were different. I was wrong."

When Wanda hurriedly left the apartment, a switch turned on in yourself, making you finally move from your spot.

"What did I miss?" was what you thought you heard Natasha ask in a distance when she finally came out of the toilet. But you were too focused to follow Wanda out of the building and into the parking lot.

"Wanda!" you called out, knocking the windows of her car as you tried to get in. "It was not what it looked like. I swear!"

Then you made a run towards her side of the car because the passenger's side was locked.

"Wanda, please!" You were hysterical. Especially when you saw how red and defeated Wanda's eyes looked like. As if she had accepted her fate. That you were a cheater, just like her ex boyfriend.

"I didn't! We didn't—" A sudden honk made you jump away from the car before Wanda stepped on the pedal and drove fast. Away. Far from you.

You tried to run for it. But after a couple of blocks, you ran out of air to breathe.

Endless visits in Pietro's apartment became your routine. You knew Wanda was staying at her brother's place. You saw her car parked outside. But Wanda wouldn't give you the time or the ear to listen.

Wanda's friends became your enemies, despising you for betraying their friend. You could talk them through it, made them believe you didn't do what they thought you did. But you only cared for Wanda to believe you.

Pietro almost didn't believe you until Natasha talked to him.

"Give it time, Y/n," Pietro always said to you whenever you dropped by. "You know how she feels about cheating. Maybe tomorrow, she'd finally listen to you."

So you hoped and hoped that tomorrow will come. That one day she'd finally hear you out and your valid excuse.

But that day turned only into weeks. And weeks turned into a month. And a month turned into two. Until you couldn't bear it any longer and visited Wanda in her office.

Amidst the protests from Wanda's secretary, saying she was in a meeting, you still managed to get to her office.

Wanda wasn't alone. She was with her officemate who was also her friend, Jarvis. A friend who had become surprisingly close after your so-called breakup.

You were out of breath. Not because the secretary was so fast in trying to get you, but because you swore you saw Jarvis' arm around Wanda's shoulders just a second ago, and how their faces were so close to each other, it almost looked like they were kissing or something.

"Y/n, what are you doing here? How did you get in?" Wanda bitterly asked. You could tell she was still mad about what she thought you did.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am." Her secretary bumped into your back as she managed to catch up. "I tried to stop her—"

"It's okay. I trust it Y/n doesn't need help to exit this building as well," Wanda replied.

"You didn't answer to any of my calls or messages," you began. "If you could only hear me out just this once. Natasha brought—"

"I don't think we have formally met," Jarvis interrupted as he walked towards you, his hand held out for you to shake. "I'm Jarvis Stark, the CEO of Stark Industries, along with my brother Tony. And. . .," he made a look towards Wanda before he looked back at you, "Wanda's boyfriend."

You laughed. It was a slow chuckle at first, before you burst into a loud laughter.

"I see," you said, ignoring Jarvis' hand as you made your way towards Wanda. "You don't have to do this. Pretending he's your boyfriend when months ago, you despise the hell out of him."

Wanda stepped back. "You don't know me, Y/n. Maybe, I do want him after all."

"Wands—"

"Besides the fact that at least he wants me unlike you."

"You know that's not true—"

"Tell me, Y/n, was she really that good in bed? Good enough to throw all those years away?!"

"Wands." You tried to step a bit closer, arms extending for a hug.

"Stay away from me!" Wanda screamed, making Jarvis drag you away from her. You pulled out from his grasp as you stared at Wanda. She looked like a mess, but you couldn't really blame her if she had gone through a heartbreak.

After all, she was the one who broke her own heart.

"Don't make me call security," Jarvis warned.

You took a deep breath before you finally left.

You would have come back the following day. Or the day after that. If only you didn't get sick.

You would have visited Pietro's apartment the next day if you didn't just collapse on your way to work that day.

You thought it was just fatigue, what with the restless nights you had spent trying to win Wanda back. But you were wrong.

It turned out you were cursed with your father's illness too.

That was why you were drinking in a bar on a Tuesday afternoon, even when the sun was still up. If Natasha weren't there to get you to go home, you would have ended in God knows where.

"I don't deserve her," you softly murmured when Natasha had managed to get you in her car. "I don't deserve Wanda."

"Hey, don't say that."

"She's in good hands now. He'll be good to her. Promise me, Nat, you'll look after her."

Natasha cupped your face. "She just needs time, Y/n. She'll come back. I promise you that."

But time was something you had until now. Until you finally received the medical report from your doctor, telling you that you'd end up paralyzed one day. Just like your father.

And you couldn't do that to Wanda — making her take care of you as you both grew old. No. You couldn't do that to her. You were not your father.

Even when she finally realized that you didn't really cheat. Even when she would finally talk to you and accept you back into her arms. Even when Wanda made it known that Jarvis and her weren't at all true and she was just angry at that time.

Even when she finally came to Natasha's party after countless invitations in the past months, knowing you were there too. Even then.

You knew now you're not your father. You wouldn't cheat. And you couldn't make her give up her dreams just to take care of you.

So when yours and Wanda's eyes met at the party, with her talking to some of your friends, and you drinking from a distance, you knew you had to finally let her go.

"I cheated," you said when Wanda came to follow you in the balcony. "I had intentions that day to kiss her and more."

Wanda shook her head. "You're lying." Even her voice was trembling.

"It's true. The only lie I ever told you was to make you believe I didn't do it, that I didn't cheat. But I . . . I want to come clean, Wanda," you went on. "I'm sorry I led you on, I'm sorry. I slept with her that night. And on the following nights too—"

Wanda snapped, her hand hitting your left cheek with a force. The sound echoed through the night. That hurt. But your heart was already hurting.

"Why can't I be enough, Y/n?" Wanda finally asked after a couple of seconds of complete silence.

Then you looked at her, saddened that she didn't realize how perfectly enough she was to anyone.

You wanted so badly to tell her she was enough. That you were even lucky she was talking to you. That it was you who couldn't be enough for her.

But you stopped yourself. You had to let her go.

"Don't you ever let me see your face again," she said, gritting her teeth, before she left.

And that was the only thing you could promise Wanda from that moment on.

#wanda maximoff x reader #elizabeth olsen x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda #wanda angst #elizabeth olsen #one short

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luveline · 5 months

Note

jadey would you please mind giving us more of kbd!steve this season? xxxx

kbd dad!steve and mom!reader fight over christmas pyjamas, 1.4k

“I don't know what you want me to say.”

Steve frowns deeply at you. Another haircut, another day more handsome than before, he pulls off everything, but not…

“Say you like them,” he demands, hooking his thumbs in his pyjama top and pulling it outwards to properly show you the front.

Steve is wearing Christmas pyjamas. The Grinch from The Grinch Who Stole Christmas in all his scrooge glory grins at you evilly against a red background. The pants are white, patterned by red and green drawings of the Grinch holding a Christmas present. He looks much happier from your husband's thighs than the long sleeved shirt.

“Babe, they have cuffs. We're gonna be warm all day,” he says.

“They don't match,” you say, pointing to the Grinch on his leg, who holds a pink gift wrapped in yellow ribbon. “Maybe it's the pink and red throwing me off.”

His frown turns to a pout, the almond shape of his warm brown eyes at a downturn as he says, “You really don't like them.”

You crack like a weak walled chestnut over a flame. “I'm kidding! I'm just messing with you, baby, I love them. They're so Christmas-sy. Did you get some for me?”

His relief is palpable. “I got some for everyone.”

Steve got matching pyjamas for himself, you, the kids, and Robin. He shows you them from a bag on the kitchen table, where you ooh and aah reluctantly. You love him, love everything he does, but you're finally on your holidays vacation and you'd wanted to spend as much of it sitting down as possible. Not that sitting down is possible at home, but you digress.

Steve senses your reluctance with a grumble pressed into the back of your neck, his arms grabbing you from behind. “Alright, I get it! You hate me and your kids and you hate Christmas most of all, whatever. I should've married Tammy Thompson.”

You laugh and lean forward over his arms. “Tammy Thompson wouldn't have wanted a thing to do with you, H, on account of you being a cruel, know-it-all narcissist who forces his exhausted wife off of the couch at every opportunity he–”

“Alright, that's enough.”

Steve squeezes you until you're pleading with him to let you go, a riot of giggles forced from your lungs as he digs his hands into your sides, his fingers practically drilled into your ribs. You call for mercy and he ignores it, muttering about narcissism in your ear. He laughs as you laugh, can't keep up the act.

“Beg for me to stop,” he says.

“Stop!” you say, trying to pull his arms off of your stomach. “Steve, stop it!”

“Say you'll wear the pyjamas.”

“Steve! I'll wear them! Would you–”

“Get off of her!” Bethie shouts, barrelling into the room to push at her dad's legs.

It's so unlike Beth to shout that you both immediately stop fighting. For a split second, you think she's worried that Steve was actually hurting you, but then she laughs as she punches him in the thigh and sticks herself between your breathless bodies, two small arms extended to keep you apart.

When she's sure Steve is done, she wraps her arms around you, looking up into your face with a big smile. “Saved you, mom.”

“You saved me,” you agree, bending down to hug her, “thank you, sweetheart, thank you.” You drop tens of kisses into her hair and face, so many that Steve makes a show of huffing.

“Beth, she deserved it,” he says. “She doesn't wanna wear our matching jammies. Don't you wanna do that?”

She looks at him with those big sorry eyes only young children can master. “Yeah, dad, but…”

“But what?”

“But she's my mom.”

You pull one of the kitchen chairs out and sit down, patting your lap for her to climb up and sit with you. “But I'm her mom,” you sing-song, ever so slightly smug.

“And I'm, what? Cat food?”

“Don't listen to him, baby, he's just jealous.”

Steve turns away from you both, showfully miffed. Bethie giggles and turns into your chest. “He's mad,” she laughs.

“So mad.” You drop your nose into the side of her cheek.

“Are we still having a treat tonight?” she asks.

“Of course we are. It's Christmas! Mom's home, daddy's catching up on his sleep, we're all having cake and ice cream and chocolates until we can't eat anymore,” you promise.

“Wish you were home all the time.”

“Me too, baby,” you say, rubbing her cheek with the tip of your nose slowly. “I wish you could come to work with me. That would be so fun. But we have to make the most of our time away, yeah? Let's have lots and lots of fun.”

“I saved you,” she says, “so maybe I can have extra cake.”

“Beth. You can have as much as you want tonight, I promise.”

“I love Christmas,” she decides.

Steve rushes back into the kitchen with a child under each arm. Dove laughs, her eyes practically sparkling, not a care in the world though she's upside down, and Avery clings to Steve's waist, shouting, “Dad, put me down!” through nervous giggles.

“Tell mom what I told you,” he says.

“Dad, I'm slipping!”

“Avery, you're not slipping. I'm frankly insulted that you think I would drop you. Now tell your mother what we said.”

“Daddy's not a nar-pasit!” Dove says joyfully. “He's a sweetheart.”

“He's a huge narcissist,” you correct in a similar tone.

“He's dropping me!” Avery cries.

Steve shakes her until she screams. “I am not! For Christ's sake, I can curl you like two pound weight, you delinquent! Now.” He takes a deep, fake breath, pulling the two girls higher into his armpits. “Like we rehearsed.”

“I did my turn,” Dove says, reaching out for you, her smile hard to miss even if she is upside down..

“Dad didn't even want to marry that lady,” Avery says, her eyes squeezed closed. Steve chuckles and kisses her head, amused by her silly worry. “He's only ever wanted to be in love with you. And to drop me.”

Steve chokes he laughs so hard, leaning forward and depositing the eldest girl onto two steady feet. “Perfect as always, Ave. And you!” He twists into a shape, Dove's head getting closer and closer to the floor. She couldn't be happier, giggling like she's been tickled the whole while. “You did perfect too, honey.”

“I didn't even bring up that lady,” you say.

Steve and Dove return back to the right way round after some careful manoeuvring. “My bad. Babe. Y/N. I'm sorry, okay? I'm a loser and–” He nudges Dove aside gently to take your hands, your knees, ignoring Beth where she's in the way to kneel in front of you. “I just need you to want to wear these pyjamas as bad as I want you to. So pull it together.”

You put your lips to the shell of Beth's ear. “Should we forgive him?”

“Mmm…” Beth points at Avery. “He has to say sorry for almost dropping Avey.”

“Right.” You nod sagely.

Steve turns to Avery with wide eyes, “You're not actually upset, are you?” he asks, putting out his hand to her.

“My brains are like cranberry sauce,” she says.

He raises his eyebrows, delighted. “Yeah? The thick one from the can?”

Dove climbs under his arm. He pulls her in for a cuddle unthinkingly, but just as quickly she's ducking away from him to walk up to Avery, reaching for her face. Avery leans down obligingly.

Dove pokes her forehead.

“I'm not really jelly!” Avery says, giggling.

“Well, I'm sorry if I scared you almost dropping you,” Steve says, holding his hands together, brown eyes like melting sugar in his pleading. “Can you please forgive me, so mommy will forgive me, and we can put on our new jammies?”

Avery isn't stubborn. “Yeh, okay. I'll forgive you.”

He smiles, turning to you now for the final verdict.

“I already said I'd wear them, Steve,” you say with a grin.

“Oh. Good. Alright.” He climbs to his feet, split from cheek to cheek. “I'm gonna go get the baby. Aw, shit, and the camera. Practise your poses until I come back, angels!”

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unclewaynemunson · 1 year

Text

Eddie can hear from Steve's breathing that he's sleeping deeply and he's wondering how the hell he can possibly be asleep right now. His own mind is spinning and he kinda feels like he might throw up soon. Steve went to sleep with his back to Eddie and now Eddie can do nothing but stare at his silhouette in the dark.

He doesn't really understand what happened: they had this big fight and the word slipped out of his mouth before he even realized it did. The one word he had promised Steve to never say to him. And then Steve stormed out and Eddie just fucking stood there, unable to move and nauseous as hell, tears prickling behind his eyes. By the time his brain started working again and he realized he should probably go look for Steve, he could already have gone anywhere.

Half an agonizing hour later he returned; Eddie didn't give a shit about their stupid fight anymore and tried to apologize, but Steve... wouldn't let him. I know you didn't mean it like that, was all he said. It's okay, but I'm really exhausted, so let's go to bed first and talk about it in the morning.

The worst part is that he doesn't know what he should prepare himself for. Steve has never done anything like this before, but Eddie sure as hell recognizes the signs: waving him off, attempting to make him feel safe, so he'll let his guard down and then it'll all come crashing down on him. He can hear his mother's voice again, so clearly that she might as well be standing right at his bedside:

No, of course I'm not mad at you, Eddie. You couldn't help it, it's not your fault.

Have you already forgotten about what you've done, Eddie? Looks like I have to punish you after all.

The worst one had been after his dad got locked up, five whole years of jailtime ahead of him. He had never been behind bars for more than a couple months on end before. And Eddie had been with him when it happened. No, worse: he had run away.

You couldn't help it, Eddie, you were scared, and you couldn't have gotten him out of it anyway.

He had been grateful for his mom's understanding words, had finally lowered his guard when she even made him a hot cocoa before bed. It only took one restless night of sleep until he'd find out what she really thought about him: a coward, a sissy, someone who didn't know what loyalty was. Didn't he love his father? Would he like to see his own dad rot in jail? She was often cruel with her words, but the times she was cruel with her hands were a rarity.

Eddie had never viewed Steve as being anything like his mother, but with yesterday's events in his mind and Steve unreachable on the other side of the bed, he supposes it's more than justified. However shit will go down tomorrow morning, he will most certainly deserve it.

------

He must've somehow drifted off in the early hours before morning, because he wakes up to light pouring through the windows and - an empty space on Steve's side of the bed.

He quietly slips out from under the blankets and tiptoes to the door, but when he peers around the corner, he finds the living room empty. Upon further inspection, the kitchen and the bathroom both turn out to be abandoned as well. Steve's nowhere to be seen. A new wave of nausea washes over Eddie when he realizes that things must be even worse than he was expecting.

He remembers those times, too: the times when his mother would disappear, sometimes for a couple hours, sometimes for days on end. When he was little, he'd get hungry. As he grew older and learned to take care of himself, he'd only get scared. When she'd finally get back, she'd tell him that he shouldn't be so dramatic, that surely she'd told him where she was off to and for how long she'd be gone. Sometimes, she'd even tell him that no, she hadn't been away for three days, she had only gone to the store, what the hell was he talking about?

When the realization hits him that Steve might never come back - the same realization that used to cause the paralyzing fear whenever his mom disappeared - it becomes difficult to breathe. He staggers and stumbles into the bedroom, where he starts randomly pulling the doors of their closets and dresser drawers open in a desperate attempt to see if all of Steve's clothes are still there. His polos are hanging in a neat row in the closet, and his underwear dresser is filled just fine. His toothbrush is still in the bathroom, just like his shaving cream and his medication: that should be enough confirmation that at least he'll come back but maybe that's exactly what he wants Eddie to think and he can't breathe anymore and -

-------

A good night's sleep and a morning run are the perfect cure for just about everything, if you ask Steve. He comes home all sweaty and short of breath, but feeling better than he has in days. His head is clear and yesterday's fight suddenly seems almost insignificant. He opens the door, ready to make some coffee and finally properly talk with Eddie, who was still fast asleep when he left the house two hours ago.

But when he calls out a "Hi, babe!" the apartment stays eerily quiet. There's no trace of Eddie in the kitchen, nor in the living room, and Steve wonders if maybe he has gone out to get some snacks. He shrugs and walks into the bedroom to take off his sweaty sports clothes - and chuckles quietly to himself when he sees the mop of dark curls above the blanket.

'Eddie, it's almost noon, man,' he says while walking up to the bed. It's only then that he notices that all their drawers and closets are opened, as if Eddie had been frantically searching for something.

'Have you been sleepwalking again?'

He goes to sit down on the bed, right next to the lump of the blanket that is Eddie's sleeping body. When Eddie still doesn't move, Steve gently combs a hand over the curls and then pulls back the blanket.

'Hey there.'

He traces a thumb over Eddie's cheek, which finally causes him to jolt up. Steve immediately clocks that there's a look on his face that can only be described as concerning: something frantic and fearful is radiating from those big brown eyes he knows so well.

'You came back,' Eddie sighs out when he sees it's Steve who woke him.

Steve frowns. 'Of course I came back. Are you okay? Did you have a nightmare?'

'How long were you -'

There are tears in Eddie's eyes now, and he looks more scared than Steve has seen him look in years.

'Oh, baby, it's okay, I'm here,' he says, opening his arms to catch Eddie in an embrace. 'I was only gone on a run. Yesterday was pretty intense, remember? So I wanted to clear my head while you were sleeping in. I've only been away for two hours or so.'

Eddie slumps heavily against Steve's chest; his whole body is trembling like a leaf.

'What happened, baby?'

'What day is it?'

'Jesus, Eddie, you're scaring me. It's Saturday.'

Eddie lifts up his head; his cheeks are red and puffy and wet.

'Saturday?' Eddie repeats, voice sharp and frantic again. 'Is that true? Are you telling the truth?'

'Yes, what's going on, Eddie? Why would I - oh.' He doesn't need to finish that question to understand exactly what's happening, and he quietly curses himself for being so blind to it. 'Oh, fuck, Eddie, I didn't mean to - I'm so sorry.'

Not giving a shit about his sweaty sports clothes, he pushes Eddie a little bit to make space and crawls under the blanket beside him. He pulls him in his arms, cradling his head with his hand, and keeps repeating sweet-nothings like I'm here and I'm not going anywhere and I love you and I'm sorry for scaring you until Eddie has finally stopped trembling and his breathing is back to normal again.

'You're here,' Eddie finally says. His voice is creaky in a way that's breaking Steve's heart.

Steve leans forward to press a kiss against his temple.

'I'm here,' he repeats. 'And I promise you I would never do anything like the shit your mother used to pull, alright?'

'Watch out with that,' Eddie says. 'I also promised to never call you bullshit.'

Steve utters a sound that's somewhere between a sniff and a huff. 'Was that - a joke? Did you seriously just go from full breakdown to cracking jokes?'

Eddie hums something unintelligible and lets his eyes fall close while he nestles himself into a more comfortable position in Steve's arms.

'Why did you think I would ever do something like your mom?' Steve's question is almost a whisper.

Eddie sighs deeply. 'Because yesterday,' he says, burying his head against Steve's chest. 'It was too easy. You should've been mad, but you forgave me right away. And then you went to sleep with your back towards me and I - I had the whole night to spiral further about it. And then I woke up and you weren't there and - I dunno, my head was running wild, man.'

Too easy. That's exactly what it feels like, sometimes, with Eddie. To hear him say bullshit and know he doesn't do it to intentionally hurt him. To have a fight and know that they still love each other through it all. To come home in the apartment they share and have coffee together every day. It's too easy, too good to be true. Not something either of them ever thought they could have with someone. But they do. Even if they both take their damaged hearts with them. Even if they've both been raised on cruelty instead of love. Maybe it's not too easy after all; maybe they simply need to learn the difference between easy and too easy. Maybe easy is exactly what they deserve to share with each other.

Steve brushes some stray hairs out of Eddie's face. His cheeks are still swollen and his eyes are red. And it's never been easier to love him.

#don't mind me rambling about stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #fruity ficlet #tw child abuse

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fkinavocado · 6 months

Text

in which your husband and Harry's wife dragged you both into a situation you didn't want to be in, but as it turns out, everything happens for a reason

Loved, heard, seen- Masterlist, Author’s Notes & Warnings / alternatively, read on wattpad

Part One (word count: 3.6k)

Harry sighed heavily while closing the door to the hotel room behind him. He leaned against it as he watched the young woman pace the room and look around, wondering how he was going to let her down easily.

This was a mistake. He never should have agreed to this.

“I can’t do this.” She suddenly turned to face him after staring at the bed for a long while as if lost in her own thoughts.

Harry straightened up as a huge wave of relief washed over him and made to reply but she went on, agitated. “I’m sorry. I know this must be disappointing, but I just can’t go through with it. It’s got nothing to do with you, please don’t feel bad–”

Harry approached her and let out a light chuckle, “Please, no need to explain yourself. I feel exactly the same. I was struggling to find a way to break it to you myself.”

“Wait- really? You’re not just saying that?”

He placed his hand over his heart. “Swear to god. And don’t worry, it’s got nothing to do with you either… I just… Well, as corny as it sounds, I realized what a huge mistake this was. Agreeing to this. I love my wife. We don’t need this. I’m sure she must’ve freaked out by now, too.”

“Oh, thank god.” The woman clutched the neckline of her shirt and sighed in relief smilingly, the both of them chuckling at the realization they were on the same page about this. “I’m going to call him. I know it’s against the rules but like you said, I’m sure he’s backing out too by now.”

Harry was already dialling his wife’s number but his serene expression faded as soon as it went straight to voicemail. “Hm. She must’ve not turned her phone back on yet. She’ll call me back.”

“Same here.” Harry didn’t miss the slight tremble in her hands.

“Hey. It’s alright…”

But she kept trying her husband’s number again and again and soon she was panicking, pacing the room nervously.

Harry tried his wife’s number again, too. Voicemail. He was trying to keep himself in check, and decided to distract himself by reassuring the young woman. “Hey. Let’s give it a moment. Let’s not jump to conclusions. Come, let’s just sit for a bit, we’re on edge.”

She nodded frantically and sat on the edge of the bed next to the man. She placed the phone in her lap and her forehead in her hands, resting her elbows on her knees and tried to breathe in deeply to calm herself. “Why did I ever agree to this? What if he’s actually going through with it?”

Harry placed his own phone next to him on the bed after he double checked it wasn’t on silent. He rubbed his face, squeezing his eyes shut. “I didn’t want to. She did. It was her idea.”

“Same here. He brought it up…”

“The whole way here I kept expecting her to freak out and tell me to turn the car around and go back home. That this was a mistake. That we don’t need this. But she never did. If anything, she was giddy. Felt sick the whole time. I tried to hide it from her and not be a spoilt sport because I had agreed to it, after all… I don’t think I spoke a word the whole ride here. She didn’t even notice.”

“I kept expecting him to burst into laughter and tell me he couldn’t believe I’d actually fallen for this. That he’d never do this to us, but is proud of me for being so open minded. Kind of like a stupid test I passed that was meant as a cruel joke initially but when I went with it he decided to test my limits. But it never came. When I realized we were getting closer I kept wanting to break down and beg for him to stop the car, turn around, but it’s like I was too stunned that this was actually happening to do something. I just froze and watched it all happen. I don’t even remember picking the note with your name out of that hat. I was too busy looking at all the women, wondering who was going to have a go at my man–”

Her voice cracked and she began sobbing and Harry hesitantly brought his hand to her back, rubbing it soothingly, trying to console her. She turned to bury her face in his side and he took her under his arm as his own eyes glazed over. He felt pathetic for wanting to cry over it just like she was. He’d agreed to this. It wasn’t like he’d found his wife cheating on him in their own bedroom. No, they’d sat down and discussed this, she made sure he was on board 100% over and over, they’d signed up for this and drove all the way up here. He hadn’t been forced into it.

…Had he?

The woman pulled away suddenly and excused herself, “I need the bathroom. Think I’m gonna be sick.”

Harry stammered something indiscernible as he watched her rush to the ensuite. He couldn’t blame her. He’d felt like throwing up the whole way there. But now he felt different. He felt like punching a wall. Breaking something. And he was anything but a violent man.

He clutched the phone angrily, not even bringing it to his ear as he dialled the number again. He watched as it went straight to voicemail again and dropped it to the floor before he could throw it across the room and smash it against the nearest wall. He pressed the heels of his palms deep into his eye sockets, groaning in an effort to reign it in.

He stood up and almost stepped on the phone before kicking it to the curb in his way to the minibar. His wife was clearly preoccupied and wasn’t going to be picking up, much less calling him anytime soon. He grabbed an upside down glass from a tray and emptied several mini bottles of vodka in it. By the time the woman reemerged from the ensuite he’d already downed it halfway to what now looked like a decent amount of vodka.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. I’m okay, I stuck my face out the window there for some fresh air and managed to keep it down. Can I have some?”

“By all means. Choose your poison.”

“I don’t care. Make it strong.”

She plopped herself back on the edge of the bed and checked her phone again, and Harry rushed with her glass of vodka double before she could try and dial again.

“Thank you.”

He watched her try to gulp it down before retching and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Careful, else you’ll definitely end up throwing up.”

“Ugh. Maybe top it up with coke, is there any?”

“Yeah.” He took it back and poured a whole can of lime coke over it before placing the glass back in her trembling hand.

After him sitting back down next to her and both nursing their drinks for a while, she asked in a small voice, “What now? Do we just… wait here?”

“I kind of have to… I drove us here.”

“And I don’t know how to drive.”

“... Another?”

“Yes, please.”

After raiding the minibar they were both sufficiently able to ease up a bit. She kicked her heels off and he rolled the sleeves of his cardigan to his elbows. He felt stuffy but didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable and remove it even if he did have a wifebeater underneath. She asked about his tattoos and they tried their best to make idle chit chat in an effort to pass the time. Eventually they both sat against the headboard trying to distract one another with different topics of conversation; the design of the hotel room, the quality of the bed linen, the stain on the carpet by the window, the view, the lack of proper parking space, the inconvenient location of the hotel, the bumpy drive to it, the reception lobby, the way everyone else looked- something neither had noticed, too busy with their inner turmoil.

“What if they landed with eachother, like we did? Should I be worried?”

Harry didn’t mind the question. He was sufficiently buzzed to catch her attempt at a joke to further ease up the tension. “Then you’re in serious trouble.”

“Damn. Is she that much hotter than me?”

Harry shrugged, realizing he hadn’t even taken a proper look at her, in an objective manner. He scanned her from head to toe. He couldn’t imagine her husband had wanted to do this for lack of attraction. “I didn’t mean it as a comparison. But yeah… she’s gorgeous,” he sounded almost remorseful at the admission. “I’m not used to comparing her to anyone, honestly.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.”

“Should I be worried?”

“He’s your opposite, I would say. Jet black hair. Deep, brown, eyes. He’s more bulky, too, he’s a bit of a gym rat.”

Harry gasped in mock offence. “Excuse me? I’m pretty ripped myself, you know. Not everyone pumps steroids, some of us really put in the work for these abs.”

She laughed, “He does not pump anything. He’s just a bigger build than you. Don’t worry, I can tell you’re fit.”

Harry unbuttoned his cardigan and pulled the wifebeater out of his trousers to prove a point, all the same. He patted his stomach and she raised her eyebrows appreciatively, “Oh… okay. Wasn’t expecting a six pack, I’ll admit.”

He covered himself back with a smug smile, it felt nice to be silly for a moment. After a beat, he asked “How about his build…elsewhere?”

She gasped, this time no trace of mockness, then cleared her throat. “He’s… Alright, I guess. He’s the only man I’ve been with, so I don’t really have a term of comparison. Please don’t flash me, though.”

Harry laughed a genuine laughter, “Don’t worry. Although it would be fairly accurate for a case study, I’m a shower, not a grower.” He cleared his throat too, turning a bit serious. “So, he’s the only one you’ve been with and he was just gonna throw that away…”

“I mean, he did throw it away… for all he knows we’re in here going at it,” and then, in a smaller voice, “just like he is.”

Harry kicked off his shoes as well, “Well, Felicity– my wife, that is… she’d been quite, uhm… promiscuous, before we met. In her own words. She’s got quite the body count. I would never judge a person by that, honestly, and I just assumed she hadn’t found the right person for her until we met. She assured me she was ready to settle down and that I was everything she could ask for in a partner. I did have my reservations, though… after being so casual about sex, I was a bit worried she wouldn’t be able to settle for just one man for the rest of her life, but her reassurances put me at ease, and we went through with the wedding. 3 years down the line, though… turns out I was right.”

“...That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

Harry shrugged. “Guess I should be thankful she didn’t cheat, at least. This feels like sort of a loophole, a way to go around it guilt-free. She made it sound like we needed it. Like it was old fashioned of me to believe in monogamy anymore, that it was just a social construct of patriarchy when most men cheat anyway, and that this was a healthy, modern way of approaching a functional relationship. She wanted us to open our marriage and when I told her that I didn’t want anyone else, she suggested swinging to… see how I feel about it, since I couldn’t imagine actively seeking anyone out; so this sounded like a way to test out the waters before we fully jumped into this. But what I couldn’t get across to her is that you can’t just trial run cheating.” He cleared his throat, “Sorry, that was a bit off handed. I understand the concept of an open relationship and why it might work for some, and that it’s not cheating if both partners are fully in agreement…”

“Yeah, you’re right. I understand why it works for some, too. I’m just… not one of those people. It’s not even jealousy, it's so much more than that… I got married thinking this is my person. That it’s us, and us alone. I didn’t even save myself for marriage or anything, it just so happened that I ended up marrying the first man I slept with. We’ve been together 7 years, highschool sweethearts and all that… He’d been with a few before me, and I was glad for it, thought it would help avoid this very issue. I wouldn’t have liked him feeling like he was missing out on experiencing that with other women and one day feel the need to satisfy that curiosity. So that’s why when he sprung this on me… I was shocked, honestly. Swinging? Really? Ugh, I’m sorry… it’s like you said. I’m not judging anyone, but it’s just not for me. I thought… I actually thought our sex life was good, you know? He led me to believe it was, at least… Guess I’m not as… experienced as other women.”

“I seriously doubt it’s got anything to do with that. And likewise, I thought our sex life was good too. More than good. I’m honestly all over her all the damn time. And I’m plenty experienced. She never gave me reason to believe I wasn’t satisfying her, ever. We’re very open about our kinks and curiosities and whatnot. There’s nothing she wanted to try out that I said no to, and that’s ‘cause I genuinely was always on the same page. Except for this. This I’m not ok with, and I tried explaining it to her but it felt like a losing battle if I were to just say no. If I don’t agree to this, what then? Cheating? Sneaking behind my back? At least she was honest with me telling me she wanted more… made me feel ungrateful for denying her this when she was so open about it. I talked myself into it because I was too scared of what she might do if I declined.”

“Ugh, that’s exactly it. That’s why I went for it, too… I kept telling myself most women don’t get to be asked what their take on this is. At least he was being honest with me… that I’m just not enough… I tried asking him to explore more of his fantasies, anything that he felt he could get from someone else, I wanted to be the one to give to him. But he kept telling me he just couldn’t let go and just do all the things he wanted to with me. Apparently he respects me too much.”

Harry snorted, “That’s rich.”

“Right? Like if he wanted to be rougher, degrade me a bit, try kinkier stuff.. he just had to say so. I always wanted that, anyway… but I’m too scared to ask him to do that. It’s very… vanilla. I don’t blame him for wanting more, but I can’t get myself to bring up what I wanna try in the bedroom.”

“Oh… okay. Why do you feel you can’t tell him? You respect him too much?”

She giggled, “It’s not that I can’t. It’s more that I won’t. I don’t want to. I want him to take the lead. I want him to…”

“Dominate you?”

“Yeah.”

Harry clicked his tongue, humming lowly. They were both quiet for a beat. “Felicity is the opposite. She’s the dominant one. It’s not that I mind… But I wouldn’t say I’m fully submissive… I’m more of a switch. I’d like it to be more of an even playing field, at the very least. Like, I like her taking charge, and I loved it at the beginning because I was used to always being the dominant one in the bedroom, and I was actually looking for someone to put me in my place for a change. But she never lets me take the reins. Whenever I try she just blows me off and makes me feel less than. And then she mistakes my apprehensiveness for submissiveness when I give up. It’s something… I haven’t really been able to communicate with her either. She should want me to dominate her, you know? Not be talked into it. So I kinda… suppressed that. But even so, I never thought to myself oh cool now I get to be a dom again with someone else. In fact, it didn’t even cross my mind until now.”

“Hm.” After a beat, she asked “What’s that like? Is it like… I dunno, actually. Porn? Or those Fifty Shades books?”

Harry snickered a bit but then took in her genuine curiosity. “I mean… I haven’t read those books, so I can’t speak about that, but from what I’ve seen in porn, it’s definitely not what I would describe as a healthy dynamic. Uhm, porn is catered more to the male gaze, to put it nicely.”

She laughed, “I’d say. But I don’t like the kind they advertise for women either. It’s just too…”

“Vanilla?”

“I guess? Yeah…” she sighed profusely.

“You never see aftercare in dom/sub porn for instance. That’s so important. Like, they’re leaving out so much. And plenty of other things…”

Harry glanced at her when he thought he heard a faint snore and to his surprise, she had, in fact, fallen asleep. She couldn’t have been comfortable, but he didn’t dare try and move her or even drape a blanket over her mainly because they were sitting atop the duvet. He gently took the empty glass out of her hand so as to not accidentally turn in her sleep and break it, injuring herself. He left the nightstand lights on and tried to sleep too after retrieving his phone from the other side of the room where he’d kicked it.

No missed calls of course.

He tossed and turned for ages, mindful to keep to the edge of the bed and give his companion space and was certain he wouldn’t be able to catch a wink of sleep. He was surprised, to say the least, when he was shaken awake.

“Uhm… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry to wake you–”

Harry rubbed his face and took in his surroundings. He looked at the young woman and took in her dishevelled appearance, it looked like she’d been crying.

“I’m sorry. I’m just… freaking out. I woke up and I can’t calm down… I wanna uber home, but I’m scared to ride alone, it’s 4 am. Could you please give me your number so I could share my ride location live with you? I didn’t wanna ask a friend, no one knows I’m here, doing this, I don’t wanna have to explain–”

“Hey, hey… hey. Calm down.” He tried soothing her. She was a mess. “I’ll drive you home. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, oh no. I couldn’t– Plus, you had a bit to drink…”

“I’m fine. I slept it off. Feels like I’m waking up from the dead, honestly. A drive would do me good, clear my mind a bit. I’ll just run to the bathroom and we can head out, alright?”

The woman nodded, fixing her clothes and looking for her shoes as he went to relieve himself. He looked a right mess. He tried not to dwell on it, running his fingers through his hair and splashing some water on his face, and when he emerged from the ensuite she was ready to go.

“Thank you, thank you so much for doing this. Really…”

“It’s alright, I promise. Come on. Let’s get outta here.”

“Gladly.”

They made it to his car and she typed in her address into his gps. Harry kept stealing glances at her the whole way; in truth, he was worried about her. She seemed extremely shaken up, more so than originally. “Are you alright?”

“I just… it just hit me, when I woke up with you there, and it all came crashing down, the reality of it. My marriage is over…” her voice cracked and he reached his hand to her thigh, squeezing reassuringly.

“Hey… at least you know how you feel about this, and how he feels about this… If anything, cards are on the table now… Doesn’t have to be over if you really don’t want it to be. Do you?”

“I don’t know what I want… I don’t know if I can get over this… Do you?”

Harry felt his heart constrict at the realization that he did know. He’d been denied a lot in their relationship and this had really put things into perspective for him. Not only could he not dominate his wife sexually, something he would’ve never held against her- after all, he would never force that dynamic on her, he loved her and he’d been ready to bury that facet of his sexuality when he asked her to be his wife. So why couldn’t she let go of her need for more? He couldn’t even keep her to himself. He felt emasculated, worthless… and most of all, he didn’t feel loved, heard, seen.

He parked the car where the young woman instructed and after killing the engine he turned to her “I do. And I think you do, too.”

Part Two

A/N: 👀 so yeah, introducing swingrry. with all those WIPs somehow i felt the need for another one! this will have a part 2 and then that's it ahahah i'm trying to keep things shorter! hope you guys like it and are intrigued for what's to come ❤️ come talk to me abt it! thanks to the lovely @freedomfireflies for betaing ❤️

💕 like & reblog if you enjoyed this, lovelies, and most importantly, please come share your thoughts on it here 💌

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#harry styles smut #swingrry #harry styles concept #harry styles prompt #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles fic #harry styles x reader #harry styles reader insert #harry styles x yn #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n

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lady-charinette · 1 year

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The lucid moments of Queen Charlotte & King George:

they sometimes hide from the heavens under the bed and George asks how their kingdom is doing. Charlotte quietly confesses how sometimes, the world seems to close in on her too & she feels like she might just hide from the heavens forever. George cradles her hand whispers lovingly:"You've always been the stronger one of us." Charlotte:"Only because you gave me half of your strength."

George sometimes escapes his confinement and bursts into meetings, but he's lucid. Charlotte is momentarily stunned, but relaxes when George speaks normally with the higher members of the ton. She smiles and watches her husband, the king, attend to his duties. In these little moments, she feels like the paintings didn't have to add George in later, she feels like he was there all along for the still sitting.

George still goes to the fields, he's old now, but he can pick at the weeds and plant some vegetables at least. Brimsely swore he would always attend to Her Majesty the Queen, but whenever her husband is outside, he temporarily serves the King, on orders of Her Majesty. Brimsely knows the Queen trusts him above all to protect her king in Reynold's place

George sometimes draws her, draws her face, his artistic skill curiously weakens when he's of sound mind, but Charlotte doesn't seem too offended when she spies her likeness on their wall. She smiles brighter than the sun

They reminiscent of their youth together, George remarks on the make of Charlotte's dresses, they look just like they had when they were younger. Charlotte is too prideful to admit she still orders these dresses to be made because it's the only thing of George she can have with her everyday to keep her grounde

Amelia's passing wounded everyone deeply, George had still been lucid enough to have learned of it, which ultimately crumbled the pieces of his sanity over time. His lucid moments grew fewer and farther in between and Charlotte felt like she had not only lost a daughter, but her husband as well

George has his observatory in his residence at Kew, and sometimes when he gazes at the stars and searches for a glimpse of Venus, his clarity returns with full force. In those moments, he quickly writes down whatever thoughts flood his clear mind, to not forget them, forget that deep down in his madness, there is still a man. Charlotte occasionally visits his observatory and she always checks his journals for new notes. Little things he intended to remember. The names of all their children and their birthdays. Thoughts of Charlotte and how much he misses her. Most of them speak of Venus, how much he loves and adores her. The Queen learned early on that Venus has quite a few names. The Great Star. Goddess of Love. Charlotte. Lottie. And sometimes, his Queen.

"Tell me, Lottie, how are the gardens?". She smiles, "In full bloom, my dear.". There was an uncharacteristically but not unfamiliar grin on the king's face. "And tell me... how is your garden?" Charlotte laughed, spying the mischievous twinkle in her husband's eye. "It definitely could use some tending. Some watering. Some fierce plowing." Brimsely knew better than anyone to immediately send the guards and attendants away once the Queen hitched up her skirts and moved over to sit on the King's lap.

"I'm sorry, my dear Lottie." George spoke softly into their quiet bedroom. Charlotte tried to discern his expression through the darkness. "Whatever for, George?". George sighed deeply, "For not giving you as much comfort and support as you do for me, once my mind wanders again.". Charlotte can only hold her husband close to her and kiss his forehead, whispering softly into his thinning hair. "You do give me comfort, my dear. So much."

George often has nightmares during the night, whenever he calls for his attendants, more often than not, it's his wife that hurries to his bedside. She always manages to quench his demons. He's heard the whispers in the halls, about how cruel and cold his queen was. But not to him. To him, she was soft and warm. Oh, so warm.

At the birth of their last child, George worries for Charlotte's health and urges her to not have anymore babies. She tries to argue with him, but George snaps:"We have enough heirs! I know what it is that you try to do, I know my...my madness may pass down to any one of our children, but if I were to lose you while you give birth to another child madness shall consume us all! What shall I do mad with fourteen children to care for instead of enjoying the moments I have left with you by my side?"

George sometimes reads manuscripts of the love stories between older kings and their queens, he sometimes forgets them and discovers them anew, but he always remembers what each of these stories lacked to him. None of these love stories could come close to describe the endless well of love he harbors for his wife, in madness and in sanity.

Charlotte finds reading poems to be a waste of her time, but she keeps the small, crumpled pieces of papers very close to her heart. The handwriting is not always neat, not always eligible, but she knew them all by heart anyway. Even though he may not be physically near her, Charlotte knew she was never alone in ruling their kingdom with George's heartfelt poems tucked safely into the sleeves of her dress.

They sometimes run into each-other in the kitchen at night, it's always a fright at first, Charlotte doesn't know if George is in his right mind, but he always quells her fears with a boyish smile. "Fancy meeting you here, my queen. Care for some of the best pudding in all of Britain?" Charlotte smiles, her eyes misty. "Oh, you old fool. You'll upset your stomach if you continue eating pudding every night.". George caressed her cheek. "That never stopped you before, has it?" Charlotte sighed. "Oh, just give me that spoon."

Sometimes, in his calm state of mind, George wonders if his body subconsciously enters into madness on purpose. Not to drive him mad, no, a much simpler reason. Sometimes, George wonders if he falls back into madness because he knows if he does, Charlotte would always come to visit and spend time with him. Somewhere in the deepest corners of his mind, George doesn't mind being called the Mad King if it meant spending time with his dear wife.

Charlotte is Queen during the day, but when she visits George at night, she turns young again, the ache in her bones recedes and she's just a simple maiden with her farmer. Just Charlotte. Just George. Just them.

#bridgerton #bridgerton headcanons #queen charlotte spoilers #queen charlotte a bridgerton story #queen charlotte x king george #queen charlotte #king george iii #king george #charlotte x george #chatty charinette #my fic #my fics

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tteokdoroki · 7 months

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ೀ⋆OCT 23RD JENIFER'S BODY ━━ eijirou kirishima + monsterfucking !

୨୧ — caution, you are now watching. eijirou kirishima + monsterfucking. there’s something weird going on with you. you’re like…actually evil. not college girl evil, and it’s kinda hot. (5.5K)

୨୧ — rated r. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact ! nsfw, heavy smut, dark content, characters aged up to 20s, college!au, friends to lovers (?), mentions of death/murder, demons, gore, choking, gags, marking, blood play, knife play, creampies, cockwarming, monsterfucking, rough sex, unprotected sex, demon + fem!reader, monster-hunter!kirishima.

୨୧ — director’s note. back again for another week! sorry for the delay on this one! it's for sure one of the spookier fics so pls proceed with caution and enjoy <3 - m.list ⋆ kinktober m.list ⋆ taglist ✧

what does it mean to die?

by definition and according to the oxford dictionary — to die means to lose the life of a person or organism. any creature that breathes (to all capacities) the same components as air as yourself, that moves, that communicates, that exists. but what does it actually mean to die?

death is a concept the most humans find difficulty in coming to terms with. there is fear in not knowing what comes after or how it might feel when the flickering flame of your life is finally blown out. do you really see every choice you’ve ever made flash before your eyes? does it hurt? what emotions do you feel? regret, sadness, pain or happiness?

life can be so fickle, yet is always taken for granted and in a number of ways too. those that exist at this very moment don’t dare to consider the long run, they live in the moment — yes. but do they appreciate it? and then there are those that take life, disrupt the beauty of its natural course and take away a being’s chance to see the world for what it really is. to ruin their chances of love, longing and laughter. how cruel of a human do you have to be to want to hurt someone in such a way?

these are the thoughts that have plagued eijirou kirishima’s mind as of late, haunting his every waking moment from the second his eyes open, every hour in between, and to the second that they close. death has been a constant theme across the campus of yueii recently. ever since the fire at the beginning of the school year had burned the college’s local bar — it’s been everywhere.

the disappearances, the murders, the deaths.

it started with that girl, ochako uraraka, from the college cheerleading team. she went missing after a match at home and was found in the woods later on. then there was kyouka jirou — some emo looking girl who liked to skip class to play her music obnoxiously loud outside of the campus library. her friends shinsou and kaminari had been deeply affected by that.

and as of yesterday, mina ashidou.

she was the kind of girl eijirou would have been into if it wasn’t for his long-term boyfriend katsuki bakugou. she was bubbly and loud, but never treated anyone without an ounce of kindness and warmth — mina loved mornings, loved being in class and loved caring for her friends. the redhead had gotten close to her over the course of last semester, mina having joined him for a portion of his major (sports medicine) that coincided with her psych course. during that time relishing in the gift of her friendship and the kind gestures she offered like coffees for nine AM classes or sharing her notes whenever kirishima found things hard to follow.

she was found dead in one of the newly built frat houses just north of her last class with eijirou kirishima. and like most of the other victims, it looked as though she’d been chewed out by animals, as if she was scared right up until her last moments.

everyone had begged the question, who would do such a thing? why would they do it? students begin to flee, head home despite the year of lectures and assignments ahead whilst parents sent angry emails demanding that the university do more to protect their children. the killer remained at large, without a pattern, without a trademark nor a trace of evidence. nothing that could give investigators the slightest clue was ever left behind.

the only coincidence kirishima could come up with, was the very fact that you didn’t seem to care about what happened to mina even though you had been planning a date with her just hours before her death. he distinctly remembers your conversation in the halls, how you’d barely paid the pink haired girl any mind until eijirou struck up a casual (albeit, a little, flirty) conversation with her somewhere along the line. if there’s one thing that kirishima knows about you, his best friend, is that you hate when he’s the centre of attention.

he’s known you for practically as long as he’s been alive, you’ve been friends for the same amount of time too and through years of emotional bonding — eijirou has noted so many little oddities about you. things that he once adored, at least he thought that he did. you hated it when your outfits clashed, you had always jokingly claimed that it made you look like siblings rather than lovers. you were always so possessive, it took you months to accept bakugou as a partner and even more for kirishima to finally get over you… having the inkling feeling that you were leading him on.

to him, you were everything. a blessing wrapped in the shape of a wonderful human being, worth more than any gold or money a man could find. he loved you more than he should have for a friend, something he was a little too ashamed to admit — he let you take advantage of the kindest parts of his nature because of it. sometimes it almost felt like you wanted kirishima, like you needed him despite swearing that you weren't into the burly redhead. though nowadays, there’s a sinister twist in to his gut whenever you’re around — a cool chill that settles in his bones and a pang of fright to his chest where his heart is. like a knife has sliced right through it.

you’re not the same as you were before.

he gets flashes, visions of thinks he feels like he’s not supposed to see — your eyes disappearing into your skull and reappearing in a twisted shade of dark red, deep enough to rival blood diamonds and rubies. oftentimes there’s a devil’s tail and demon fangs that drip with a viscous substance akin to the one that runs through his veins and carries oxygen to his lungs. and in the days after his visions, you seem more full of life, more confident and hotter than previous ones.

that’s when it hits him, like a sturdy building coming down on eijirou all at once. rose tinted glass shatters around him, knocking his skin — making him bleed as it’s shards form a truth that he has been dreading.

whatever it is that you are, whatever it is that you’ve become is the reason for all of this death.

eijirou kirishima’s best friend… you… are a demon, a demonised college student that kills college girls for sport.

in one of his dreams, eijirou sees you soaked to the bone in blood like you've drowned in a rouge tainted oil slick. you’re still as ethereal as you’ve ever been, perhaps even glowing — and even though it’s just a dream and he knows what you’ve done, he still finds himself that boy who years for you and your body against his. on top of his. moving with his—

shooting up from the comfort of his sheets, kirishima palms the dull ache at the forefront of his mind as he tries to rid himself of all thoughts regarding you. funnily enough, you’re already there, waiting for him practically naked at the foot of his bed as if eijirou had used a demon circle to summon you in the middle of the night. it never used to be like that, where he’d call for you and you’d actually answer.

you’ve been in his room more times than he can count — put posters up with him, had sleepovers, danced to old music on his stereo tapes. but this time isn’t the same. firstly, you’ve never been bare below the waist and secondly, you’ve never looked this insane or deranged. the hairs on the back of the redhead’s neck stand on end, his spiked pulse — elevated and alive steadily thumps through him so loud he’s scared that you might hear it… and yet….

“what are you even doing here? don’t you know it’s late?” kirishima yawns, stretching out his tired limbs as he holds his arms above his head for some relief in his taut muscles.

peeking a crimson eye open to look at you, the smear of blood at the corner of your plump lips doesn’t go unnoticed by him, though, it still doesn’t elicit the reaction eijirou expects from himself. the innate human desire to survive.

“i owe you an explanation.” the smile that you give him is too fast to be genuine, just barely reaching your big shiny eyes. there’s that feeling again, the knots in eijirou’s stomach — the ones that let him know something is off. “you know what i am, i want to tell you why.” your tone is sickly sweet like molasses in his ears, innocent as if you’re not a demon.

as if you’re not the one behind all of this death. you explain to kirishima in detail about the night a group of bandmates sacrificed you to satan so that they could go global. how they mistook you for a virgin sacrifice. how the devil resides within you now. you tell him about the blood of your victims and the missing people. how it’s the only thing you can stomach. how it makes you grow stronger, how it heals you, how much you love the new version of you. the murderous you.

he thinks you might have gone insane when you flip a lighter from your pocket to burn your tongue — showing how you recover almost instantly. it’s only then that fear strikes eijirou in the chest with the power of a lightning bolt — realising that he’s well and truly lost his best friend. to satan or to insanity.

poor, gullible, eijirou kirishima — for doubting that his best friend could be capable of such heinous crimes. and while you stand there, looking more alive and more beautiful than ever… he just can’t fight the feeling that makes him want to run.

the red head quickly realises that he’s no longer faster or stronger than you. for your demon powers have you reaching the bed before he can even throw off the sheets. your toned thighs swing around his waist to lock eijirou down to the bed, his back hitting the blankets with a dull thud and his wrist nearly crushed in your hand — wrestling his concealed knife away from your chest, just barely nicking you.

“why would you want to hurt me, eiji?” you comment softly, acting as if everything is as it were before you changed. “it’s still the same old me!” the both of you are breathing deep from where your old friend thrashes underneath you, his pupils dilating and casting a dark shadow over his terrified red eyes. “i really don’t want to hurt you.”

this could be it. he thinks. his life flashing before his eyes just like the stories say. “t-then don’t…” kirishima stutters, the pitch of his voice spiking as you shift on top of him — inspecting him as if he’s a piece of meat. you have him right where you want him, his blade under your control, his vital organs open and vulnerable. one wrong move and kirishima could be next on your list of life-force victims. “you don’t have to.”

“you’re right… i don’t think i will.” cooing, you take your free hand down eijirou’s muscled body, tongue darting out to wet your lips while your hips grind down on his swelling erection — painfully hard from the mix of arousal and fear coursing through his blood stream. “on one condition,” you continue on, moaning lightly at the sensation of your clothed clit catching on his cockhead. “you let me feed from you.”

“w-will you kill me?”

“only if you stop trying to kill me.” you’re not upset, from what he can tell — revelling in your best friend’s guilt and betrayal as his knife drags along your collarbones in a thin slice from where you’ve let your guard down.

a crimson gaze flickers to all of the vital points on your face — searching for your innocence and any traces of who you once were. seizing the opportunity hiding within your hesitation and the crack in your resolve, kirishima tries once more to shove you off of him but makes the mistake of trusting your facade. he’s quick but you’re quicker, raking your nails over his toned stomach until they catch on the waistband of his shorts. as soon as his erection springs free — wetly slapping against his stomach whilst precum tangles in the coarse black of his pubic hair, you slither your hot cunt down on to him.

straight to the hilt.

your thighs either side of his angled hips keep the redhead anchored to his sheets and your hands splayed across his stomach stop him from writhing away from your quivering cunt as it clenches around him. not that he’d want to. pull out of you, of course. eijirou grows delirious, hot under the collar at the feeling of his weighty cock pulsing against your biscuits, squishy insides. a tender whimper bubbles up on his slightly chapped lips, his pointed teeth sinking into the swell of his lower one to try and muffle the pathetic sound.

he can hardly believe this. that is best friend, whatever form you might be taking right now, is sitting on his fat, drippy dick like he’s always dreamed of. any guilt kirishima has pulsing through his veins (in regards to basically cheating on bakugou, his boyfriend, no less) is replaced by white hot blistering lust. it burns at his nerve endings, painfully tremors through his erection trapped by your welcoming wet walls. it leaks against pleasure spots in the form of sticky precum — white and thick as it paints your pussy while you cockwarm him.

kirishima swallows and his adam’s apple bobs, he looks up at you through his dark long lashes without a word — afraid this his voice will fail him and end up in a moan.

“please, eijirou,” you purr, completely devoid of any blame-worthiness or evidence of your wrong doings. you’ve killed people. innocent girls for your own bloodlust and now you’re where — seated on your bestie’s dick as if your crimes mean nothing. and with a pussy like yours, wrapped around kirishima so warmly and tightly, he might start to believe that you’re innocent too. “let me feed from you, promise i won’t hurt you. i just…need…”

leaning down towards his neck, your hips shift above his own, encouraging his heavy girth to sink deeper inside of you — walls rippling pleasurably around him. the sudden movement causes a low, and needy groan to take residence in kirishima’s chest — taking root in his lungs and other vital organs. his head tips back into the pillows, ruby, blood red locks tussled against their fabric as a bead of sweat rolls down his forehead and another down his chin. tracing the ridges of his adam’s apple and the column of his throat.

his eyes don’t dare flutter shut, coasting over your every move as your lips ghost over his prominent collarbone and then his neck — pressing into his pulse pout where his heartbeat races, fear and adrenaline shooting through his body thanks to the steady thump of his heart.

you hear it all, the frightened tune of eijirou’s bodily orchestra only causing your mouth to water. “just need to taste you…” pouting, you nudge the point at which his chiselled jaw meets his neck. “need you.”

slowly but surely, your hunger reveals your truest form — and instead of the sweet girl eijirou kirishima once new, you sprout demon horns and a tail, nails that could tear a throat out, teeth that could surely cause carnage and a feral grin proving to the redhead that you would eat him alive. in contrast, your tone is sweet like syrupy honey or hard candy, the kind that eijirou loves — it’s salacious and full of wanton and he knows that he should resist. but you’ve always had a way of getting what you want out of him — he can never say no to you. you are his girl after all.

and no matter how hard he tries to escape your clutches — he will always be yours.

“f-fine,” kirishima barks, albeit shakily. “t-take what you need. just as long as you promise not to kill me.”

“pinky, baby.” comes your angelic coo, contrasting with the deep red of your own blood as it drips against kirishima’s golden boy skin. your hands massage over his sensitive pecs, smearing your hot blood over his nipples as they pebble under your fiendish touch. there’s a devilish spark in your pretty eyes once he agrees, and so, you latch onto his gorgeous, golden tanned skin ready to feed on kirishima to your heart's content.

as the pointed edge of your teeth sink into eijirou’s neck, his hips instinctively turn upwards and nudge his thick cock against your womb while layers of your juices spiral down each prominent blue vein that decorates his shaft. you bite down, hard, bruising him with shades of deep purple and midnight blue as if you’re creating a work of art. you suck the life from kirishima, close to draining his blood as if you’re a vampire fledgling with her first catch of prey.

there’s a weakness and a fuzziness that sits comfortably over eijirou’s brain, enhanced by the steady stream you set your hips — gently lifting and dropping them over the red head’s lap. the more energy, the more life force, that you drink from him — a mix of your blood and his glossing over your lips, the more turned on you feel. your cunt drips down his balls like a never ending tap, you’re so wet that a lewd slap echoes throughout your best friend’s bedroom.

even though you’re the one in control, guiding the hum of ecstasy that courses throughout kirishima's entire body, the waves that make him tingle from the top of his head to the tips of his toes — there’s no doubt that he has you losing your composure. the delicious burn of his girth against the tight rim of your entrance every time you sink down on the redhead drives you up the wall and pulls innocent whimpers from the bloody seam of your lips.

having him pressed up against your silken walls, bearing down on that special spot inside your swollen sinful pussy while you drain the man fry of his life force causes your jaw to go slack and tony spurts of his seed to coat your puffy folds. “oh fuck!” you drawl all high pitched, eyes disappearing into your skull as a bemused and blood-coated smile stretches across your angelic face. “you feel like heaven, eiji.” to pacify yourself, you lick over the puncture wound of your teeth that you’ve left against kirishima’s neck, grabbing him by the cheeks and tilting his head so you have access to the other side. “you taste so good, feel even better.”

“y-yeah?” kirishima asks, his voice shaky and extra husky from the lust. against his better judgement, clouded by all that is you — his rough hands fall to your doughy hips, manoeuvring you on his throbbing dick to his liking. “i-i like the way you fuck me, baby. but please…please move a little faster…”eijirou feels like he’s going insane beneath you chasing your sweltering and souse sex like a man following a mirage to quench his thirst. he behinds to push upward where you bounce your ass and pull off his cock, your hips rocking together fluidly.

his morals are completely abandoned, he could care less about the fact that you might be a killer, that you’re some kind of otherworldly being — especially when you ride him just like that. you release his raw bitten neck from your jaws of death, face and chin covered in blood and spit, while your hands dance down your chest and tweak at your nipples for your best friend’s viewing pleasure. he groans lowly at the sight, extending a thumb from your hip to reach between your doughy thighs and fat pussy lips so he can spread you wide open for him.

“g-getting bold, are we eiji?” you simper, ruby red lips caught between your pointy teeth when the rough pad of his thumb grazes your swollen clit as it peaks from between your folds. feverishly, you grind against kirishima’s digit, leaving a treacle-like trace of your sweet nectar against his hand. “so nasty. trying to get me off while i drain you dry. you m-must be delirious. so cute.”

he hates the way that you mock him, poke fun at how fucked up kirishima is for you. even though he knows that you’re slowly but surely killing him, drinking his blood while you take a seat on his achy, wet cock — he can’t help but give into you. eijirou wonders if this is how your other victims went out, if your precious tits swaying in their hot faces were the last thing they saw before you took them out. it’s a crude thought, but it only serves to turn him on even more. picturing you this way above others, your skin shining in the moonlight from the perspiration that glitters over you along with your glistening slit that leaves webs of your slick in his pubic hair.

while his thoughts escape him and his imagination runs wild, your next move catches the redhead by surprise. you grip his throat tight as leverage as you ride the man for dear life, pudgy thighs slapping against his strong ones, clit grinding against his pelvis and fingers. “fuck me,” eijirou begs, face twisted in rapture and guilt, cheeks as red as his hair. “fuck me harder, take what you want from me. j-just give it to me.”

it must be the lack of oxygen to his brain that obscures his view of you — the cold hearted killer on campus. because eijirou only sees his best friend, the girl he’s wanted his entire life, falling apart on his creamy cock as it bullies it’s way into your womb. he doesn’t care what you do to him as long as he keeps feeling as high as cloud nine.

the way you fuck yourself down on him right now, it’s like an out of body experience. you’re hot all over, out of control, objects and and Knick knacks around kirishima’s room levitating with the sheer amount of power and euphoria pulsating through your sweaty bodies as they move together in a shamefully slurry dance.

his head rolls to the side when you speed up, slamming your clenching cunt down on him with an erratic rhythm — a crude mix of your arousals flying about the place and wafting with the scent of metallic blood in the sex trained air. “you’re so needy, eijirou. bakugou hasn’t been taking care of you.” you tease through baited breath, throwing your hips down on him so that his milky precum spreads along your ribbed and sensitive walls.

you sink your teeth into his perfectly poised neck once more, leaving your mark and draining him of that life energy again. kirishima wails at your comment, chest heaving and eyes watering, his lungs threatening to explode with blistering lust. the more you bite at him, take his blood and his life, the more powerful eijirou feels. because you seem to have forgotten one key element to your newly found powers.

where your other victims were torn to shreds, the bites you leave on kirishima leave him with pieces of your demon abilities too.

“you can’t even respond, s’kinda pathetic, don’t you think eiji?” your words are harsher, meaner, and the red head can’t tell if it makes him want to fuck you or hate you more. “that you’re willing to let me sue you like this. take your life just like every pretty girl before you…maybe when i’m done with you, i’ll pick on your little boyfriend next—“

you truly are the fucking devil.

though everything you say is slurred and in the heat of the moment — you don’t have a chance to finish. every syllable ends in a salacious squeal when kirishima uses his newfound strength to wildly jackhammer into you. so fast and fucking hard that his weighty breeder’s balls smack against the jiggly flesh of your ass. his beefy arms snake their way around your shoulders, anchoring you to his girth while the bed creaks beneath the weight.

“will you fucking quit it?” in split second and surprising turn of events, eijirou has you flipped onto your stomach — sweaty chest to your back and cock so deep his pelvis barely peels away from your ass as it bounces for him. “you promised not to try and hurt me. but if you want it to hurt, then I’ll make it so.”

cockwarming him hardly prepared you for just how big and blessed your best friend is. chubby, fat and drooly as his cock glides through the sugar glazed lining of your gushy walls. every time your creamy hole clamps down on him, he threatens to crumble. like a mountain with an avalanche, his girth doused in your sweet essence and his breath shaky against your ear. kirishima grips at your demon’s tail where it sprouts just above your ass, stroking it lewdly just to hear you yowl for him.

the sheets below become victim to your pointed teeth, tearing through the soft linen in an attempt to calm your pornographic screams. “c’mon big guy,” you growl into the sheets, muffled, needy and amused, while you run your tongue over blood soaked teeth. “i thought you were going to make it hurt—“

“don’t test my patience, sweetheart,” your best friend snarls back as if you’re two animals fighting over land or territory — using his brute force, eijirou grips you by the back of your neck in a similar fashion to the way you did him, and yanks you onto your knees so that you’re both kneeling in the bed while eijirou fucks your wet little cunt raw. “if ‘m gonna fuck you, it’s going to be by my rules. so do me a fuckin’ favour and keep your pretty mouth shut, alright?”

the bed squeals louder than you do with this new position, eijirou angling his hips up to meet your g-spot perfectly — letting your eager pussy swallow him down. you lose control quicker than your brain can even realise, overpowered by the way the redhead brutally pounds into you, milky and heavy precum pearling along your ribbed walls like dew droplets in a black widow’s spiderweb. your sex welcome him home as if he was never meant to leave, clench on his bright red tip as you froth at his base and drop down his balls.

equally, your mouth foams with copious amounts of spit, your head hanging low while eijirou ruts you into a state of delirium. he licks the trace of drool seeping out of loud mouth and follows it up to your lips — generously feeding you his hungry moans and strings of spit. keeping you sedated, all for him while your tongues roll over one another in a fierce battle, neither of you knowing who will come out on top.

“you’re disgusting,” kirishima barks against your nape, giving it a near murderous squeeze — he fumbles around in the sheets and somehow locates the knife from before, pressing its cool blade against your skin with his free hand. you can just about hear him over the pap, pap, pap of his Rick plunging in and out of your slick walls. “don’t you feel guilty? huh? for…fuck, killing anyone?” the metal against your skin makes you moan, makes kirishima light headed and the whole ordeal so much hotter.

but you somehow manage to smirk in response, throwing it back into the red head aggressively— drowning in the pleasure. “don’t you feel guilty for fucking their killer?”

you grip the knife, pulling it closer to your vitality veins, light trails of blood from the wound smearing along kirishima’s skin meeting your skin. “why shouldn’t i kill you?”

“y-you don’t have a reason not to!” you battle through the thick drool on your tongue, hyperfocus in the precum and slick slinging between your sore thighs. you’re wrecked and ruined, losing your demon strength to your goodie two shoes best friend. “i’m a god, death doesn’t s-scare me!” with the way his dick churns you up, eijirou stretches you beyond your limits and preps you to take his impending heavy load. “f-fuck! right there, k-kiri!”

it’s so good that your demon powers activate on their own, your insides that burn bright with ecstasy grow so hot that they heat the knife pressed against you — branding eijirou’s hand with your claim until he drops the hot metal. he falters, the rhythm of his thrusts going sloppy while a creamy sound echoes between your sexes. you’ve changed and you’re right.

if eijirou kirishima really cared about your victims he would have turned you in and ended this all at the first chance. instead he dips into your demonic charm, afraid of what lies on the other end of this sinful ordeal. does he let you go? does he turn you in? does he keep his best friend here in his arms no matter what crimes you may commit?

“oh…oh eiji!” you whine, small and cute. “‘m gonna cum! please cum for me…cum with me.”

gone is his precious best friend, replaced with a slutty demon trying to selfishly such down his cock. lost in the moment of the ecstasy, you reach back and rake your talons across his skin in one last attempt to leave your mark and it’s only then that eijirou has had enough. using all of his strength, he roughly pushes you down to the sheets once more — forcing the sheets into your mouth to keep you quiet.

“i can’t stand you.” he reiterates, huffing against your shoulder while locks of his hair stick to your hot, sweaty bodies. “you’re so fucking greedy. so evil…”eijirou shifts to press his hand into the pillow next to your head, smiling sadistically at your muffled screams as he puts the last of his energy into making you cum just as you want. because you always get what you want out of him. “y-you don’t even deserve this.”

“b-but you’ll give it to me,” you pant around your mock gag, swallowing down thickly. “i’ll keep killing if i have to… you’ll still want me…”

even if it’s true, eijirou always wanting you, he can’t shake the feeling that you’re no longer the girl he used to know. used to love. his warm and kind persona you once knew is replaced with a similar demonic beast full of lust. “yeah i will and you’ll fuckin’ take it.” he threatens, continually bucking into you and nudging your g-spot in a swaying dance of sacrilege. “s-shit, you’re gettin’ tight. are you really that close, so soon?”

all you can do is nod — grabbing and biting at anything to keep yourself calm. the world around you shakes furiously and white blinds your gaze as you cum, juices splashing back onto kirishima’s meaty girth. “let me give it to you, hm? cream this pussy. make you mine like you want…” comes the red head’s last simper before the dam breaks and your demon cunt drains him dry, milking him for every last drop of his potent white seed.

the two of you are reduced to shallow breaths and heavy eyelids — exhausted from the loss of blood and sharing of demon powers.

but before you can turn around and sing kirishima your praises — the air is sucked from your lungs, a searing pain shooting through your back right through to the centre of your chest. thick, hot blood fills your lungs and the cavity in which they rest, it gathers at the corners of your cherry bitten lips and seeps through the knife wound kirishima has inflicted on you.

he’s quite literally stabbed you in the back.

he had no other choice, he couldn’t let you go on hurting people and tarnishing the image of his once best friend. you were different now, you had no place in the world anymore. it was your turn at death’s door, eijirou had decided.

“i… i’m sorry,” he says carefully, pulling out and away from you as you lay dying beneath him. “i… i couldn’t—“

with the last of your energy you offer eijirou kirishima a weak and bloody smile. “s’okay…” your breathing slows in understanding, and he lets go of the knife in your back. “so by any chance… have a tampon?”

of course you would find it in you to make a joke when faced with death. you weren’t afraid of anything.

and now, neither was kirishima.

with his newfound demon powers he wouldn’t let your death nor that of others go in vein. he would find the pro heroes who did his to you, made him do this to you, and make them pay.

a life for a life. a death for the same price.

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lilbunnis · 7 months

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❛ ♡. header credit. ⎯⎯ 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲. ❜

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭᛬ michael gavey as your boyfriend.

author’s note᛬ hii ! ♡ first time posting a concept on here--- & first time writing for my boyfriend, michael gavey. [also… i know we haven’t seen michael smoking cigarettes in the film; but it’s my canon that he does!] i hope y’all like it…& please, reblog & give me ur feedback. thank u! 🍒

warnings᛬ mdni! mentions of smut, profanity, she/her pronouns, afab reader, pussy whipped!michael, mentions of oral sex (m + f), demeaning names, [slight] mentions of bullying, pet names, romance, fluff. any grammatical errors are my own--- in advance, i sincerely apologize.

word count᛬ 591.

𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝑭𝑼𝑪𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃.

꒰ ⋆ ♡⃘ michael gavey would be the most perfect, adoring and loving boyfriend--- though he could also be quite cruel sometimes; a bit of an asshole, too… all due to him being a cocky, little smartass. michael gavey is head over heels in love with you. like, obsessive--- ‘will do anything you ask of him’ in love with you. michael gavey can be a complete and utter menace; one moment, he is a total dick to you because you’re not understanding what he has been trying to explain to you [for almost two hours now], from a class you both share--- and the next, he’s apologizing with a bouquet of a dozen red roses and his mouth on your cunt for hours. afterwards, romantic words from your favorite poets would spill from his soft, naturally curved mouth, while he’d casually hand feed you cherries, occasionally lighting up cigarettes for himself. michael gavey is so ridiculously smart, he finds it quite unbelievable how utterly dense you can be whenever he compliments and flirts with you, though you'd think he's just joking around, or being a tease--- honestly, he thinks it’s kind of cute how oblivious you can be to his affections.

michael gavey might not look like it, but he’s the type of man to fuck you nasty style; can be quite possessive over you, too. most days, when your boyfriend michael gavey is studying for an upcoming exam, a lit cigarette hanging loosely from his plush lips, while his nimble fingers continued skimming through page after page of his massive textbooks, studying nonstop. sneakily, you’d go into his dormitory and drop down to your knees, before taking him into your mouth and eagerly sucking him off, causing a shout from him when he eventually comes down your raw, sore throat--- “my poor, little baby girl… such a naughty fucking thing,” he’d coo mockingly, clenching both of your blushy cheeks together with his long fingers, before he’d claim your mouth in a dirty, deeply passionate kiss.

michael gavey adores seeing you wearing his clothes, especially his oversized sweaters, because that way he can ruthlessly rut into your weeping cunt while fucking you from behind; with you only wearing his sweater. michael gavey loves the taste of your strawberry flavored lipgloss [nearly as much as he loves the taste of your sweet little pussy]--- he loves kissing your plump, juicy, glossy lips whenever he can; and fuck, having your glossy lips wrapped around his cock? let’s just say, it’s embarrassing how quickly he shoots his load down your willing, suffocating throat.

michael gavey loves the way that you smell--- like red roses, strawberry lipgloss, vanilla perfume, sweet scented candles [courtesy of you lighting them all around his dormitory], and your skin… fuckin’ hell; soft as satin and sweet as honey, always smelling of the lavender body lotion he bought for you one random day that the two of you were out shopping [yes, he was holding all of your bags like a perfect gentleman]. michael gavey might be called on the daily a loser or even a freak, but he knows that regardless of the name calling; you’ll always stand by his side, defending him with your foul [glossy] mouth. michael gavey thinks of you as his soft, delicate little angel with a heart made of glass that he must protect at all costs. michael gavey would do absolutely anything you ask of him, he is just so fucking whipped for you; you’re his first love, and hopefully, you’ll be his last.

#꒰ ⋆ ♡⃘ 𝗇𝗈𝖺’𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌. ꒱#saltburn #michael gavey #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey x you #michael gavey x y/n #ewanverse #ewan nation #ewan mitchell

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heart-of-the-morningstar · 7 days

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Corruption fic - First Preview

It’s me, ya girl, comin’ at ya with a little preview! No active warnings for this one ☺️

"That's it, I'm cuttin' you off for tonight," Husk said sternly, whisking away your unfinished glass of whiskey. You'd been at the bar for only an hour and you've already downed 5 full glasses.

"Noooo, Husk c'mon...I'm fffffiiiinnee," you babbled, trying to push your head from the countertop unsuccessfully.

It's been a few months since you arrived in Hell after an unfortunate accident that ended in your early demise. But being a devout believer, you were so sure that Heaven would be your final destination. How wrong you were. You woke up in the fiery pit confused and scared, your body had transformed into that of a demon; you had become something you had feared for your entire life. When you first heard about the Hazbin Hotel, you nearly jumped at the opportunity for redemption. If there was even the slightest hope of getting out of here, you were going to take it. But your situation was more than troublesome, considering how you led your life up on Earth. So most nights, you could easily be found sitting on a bar stool, trying desperately to drown your sorrows and distract yourself from the reality you'd found yourself in.

What's worse...not everyone here is evil. It was ingrained into you that everyone down here in Hell deserved to be, they had earned this punishment. But getting to know some of the other residents at the hotel, that couldn't have been further from the truth! Was everything you were taught just complete lie?! For Heaven's sake, Charlie, the literal princess of Hell, was the sweetest and kindest being you've ever had the pleasure of meeting! And Vaggie, a former angel, so devout to Charlie and her dream, you've never seen two people more in love. Angel, although a bit eccentric and over the top, cared deeply for his friends and was ready to fight for them at a moment's notice. It was all...not what you expected, and you had a very difficult time coping with everything that you had been thrust into.

"You're shit faced," Husk snapped back. "Look, I know you're havin' a hard time with all this. But drinking away your issues ain't gonna solve any of 'em. You need to sleep this off." He watched you stumble off the bar stool, your one foot catching the other, resulting in a rather pitiful fall onto the carpet. But you couldn't feel anything, the alcohol helped mask the pain you were sure to feel tomorrow. You couldn't help but giggle at your own clumsiness. "Oh, for fuck's sake..." Husk grumbled.

Before you could even attempt to pull yourself off the ground, you saw a pair of black boots approaching you in a rather hurried manner.

"Woah!" the voice exclaimed, "Are you alright? Here, let me help you!" In no time, your limp body went from lying on the lobby floor to being hoisted up and helped back onto the bar stool you fell from. You turned your head to see Lucifer's concerned face staring back at you. "Husk, what happened?"

"She's drunk," the cat demon explained, "I told her she was done drinkin' for the night and she ate shit trying to stand up. I was about to help her back to her room-"

All of a sudden, a shadowy presence started to form behind the bar. A static filled laugh was heard before Alastor had popped up, startling the bar tender. "Husker, my good man!," the radio demon bellowed, "it seems as though I am in need of your assistance."

"Fuck! Why can't you just walk in here like a normal fucking person?" Husk grumbled.

Alastor only responded with a light chuckle before fixing his attention on you. "My, my, what have we here?" Alastor taunted. You could have sworn you heard a low growl coming from Lucifer beside you. "I say, my dear, I've never seen you look worse than you do now. What a pity, all of those teachings really didn't help you in the long run, now did they?"

You felt tears threatening to fall from your eyes at Alastor's cruel words. If you were sober, you would have run the other direction as fast as you could. Alastor had been the other real soul you met who you knew with every fiber of your being belonged in this pit. But considering you had no inhibitions and clearly no chance of getting away, you picked your head up and slammed your fists on the table in righteous anger.

"Ohhh, eat shit youuuu *hic* smiling prick!" You tried to stand up once more, only for your legs to buckle underneath you. Luckily, Lucifer had caught you before your face had met with the carpet again. "I-I don't deserve this! 'Least I'm TRYING to redeem m'self!"

Alastor's malicious grin never faltered. "Oh, and what a fabulous job you're doing! I do wonder how a woman such as yourself has fallen so far from grace."

"Fuck off, radio freak," Lucifer snarled, barring his teeth and his eyes shifting to a deep crimson red and yellow.

“Oh, ho ho! Seems as though I’ve struck a nerve,” Alastor mocked. He made his way around the bar, now towering over you and the fallen angel. “Tell me, your highness, what is your fascination with this lost soul, hmm? I’m so utterly curious as to why you would give her the time of day when all she does is wallow in her self pity and-”

“I. SAID. FUCK. OFF.” the king spat, his eyes now changing into a solid red and his voice deepening to match his threat. Though your vision was hazy, you noticed his horns had bursted out from his temples. Whether it was the alcohol or something else entirely, your face suddenly felt very, very hot. “Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

Despite the immense danger, Alastor could only muster a sly grin. “It’s very rude to ignore my question.”

“I don’t have to do anything for you! Or have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” The way Lucifer spoke sent a shiver down your spine. “The only reason that you’re not a mangled corpse on the ground right now is because of my daughter. So if you want to stay in one piece, I’d walk away right now if I were you…”

The two mens’ faces were just inches away from each other now. Alastor’s eye twitched as he glared back at Lucifer with pure distain. His eyes shifted to you only for a brief moment before standing up straight and smirking to himself.

“I suppose it really is no business of mine as to how you choose to mingle with the guests here,” the radio demon resolved. He turned around to walk away, but not before glancing at you once more over his shoulder. “They’re lost causes anyway. Come along, Husker!”

Lucifer’s demonic traits disappeared as Alastor finally left the parlor. “I hate that man.” He looked at Husk empathetically. “If I could break your arrangement with him, I would. I’m sorry. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of her.” With that, Husk nodded and followed the radio demon down the hall, leaving you and Lucifer alone at the now empty bar.

#hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar #lucifer smut #lucifer x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel smut #preview #my writing #hazbin lucifer #hazbin hotel lucifer #everyone say hi to Alastor! He’s a bastard! Lol

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