#And it would've also been easy to not try to do that and just keep it as talking!

[peppermintquartz]

Buck volunteers for the Thanksgiving shift. When Maddie asks, he apologizes, saying, "I don't really feel festive right now. But keep some leftovers for me?"

On the day, firehouses around the country all have similar calls to deal with: kitchen grease fires from frying turkeys, sprains in backyard games of football, people injuring one another because "did you hear what she said about our Emma/Francis/Kailey?". Buck is kept too busy to think, and it's nice having the time to catch up with Ravi, who's thinking of going to school to study law.

Their brothers and sisters in uniform also drop off dishes at the station, so between calls, they get pretty good food. Captain Graham gives them an hour offline after four consecutive calls. Buck collapses into a chair and serves himself pasta salad and a delicious honey baked ham, while his dinner rolls warm up in the oven.

He's scrolling through his phone, diligently avoiding the messaging apps, when a message preview pops up.

Tommy.

Buck almost drops his fork. He scrambles away from the dinner table, even though no one on C shift will try to take his phone from him, and finds a spot in the stairwell to read it.

Tommy: hope you have a good & safe Thanksgiving

As he's reading, another bubble appears and Buck's heart skips several beats, but this time it doesn't disappear. A second message arrives, followed by a third.

Tommy: don't know why I texted that

Tommy: guess I just wanted to say something to you

Tommy: you don't have to reply

Tommy: anyway. Happy holidays

Buck feels a slight loosening of the vice around his heart that has been there since that night. With a smile on his face, he types, deletes, types again.

Buck: happy Thanksgiving to you too

Buck: how many kitchen grease fires you got this year? We had 3

Tommy: you're working today?

Tommy: 4, but one of it was in the backyard

They're having a conversation. They're having an actual casual conversation, as easy as they used to on calmer shifts. Buck wants to cry. But he has to answer Tommy's question or have this conversation end too soon. Thinking about his options, he decides that he has nothing to lose anyway.

Buck: I didn't wanna sit around and smile and pretend I'm thankful for everything

Buck: it's better to keep busy

Tommy: I know that feeling

Tommy: I'm sorry

Buck: I'm sorry too

Buck: I wish we could've celebrated together

Buck: I would've said that I'm thankful for you

Tommy: I would have said that too

Tommy: I'm still thankful for you jsyk. I'll always be grateful to have got to know you

Does Tommy think he can't stay in Buck's life just because they broke up?

Buck: I don't think you know me well enough

Tommy: sorry

Buck wishes he'd run after Tommy that night, or done something since to show that he wants Tommy. Well, here's your chance, his brain reminds him. Do something.

He takes a deep breath. Then he types.

Buck: I want to meet. If I come over after Thanksgiving shift, will you please be home?

Tommy: is that a good idea

Buck: idk. But I can't stop thinking about you, and I miss you, and I wanna know what I did wrong. I wanna meet.

Tommy: I miss you too. You didn't do anything wrong, I just didn't want to... Idk. I didn't want to get my hopes up too much.

Buck: we need to talk in person. Texting is not good enough.

It isn't. He needs to see Tommy again. Tommy with his storm blue eyes and tender smile and broad shoulders and soft clothes. Tommy whose crinkly smile drives Buck a little (a lot) insane. Tommy whose lips he now knows the shape of by touch alone, whose body he has mapped out in detail, who knows how it feels to be inside Buck in the most intimate of ways.

He waits for a response. Hopes there will be one. It comes several minutes after, like Tommy had to really think about it.

Tommy: maybe not immediately after Thanksgiving shift

Tommy: are you off on Monday

The relief that crashes into Buck feels almost as overwhelming as the tsunami he was caught in years ago.

Buck: yes

Buck: your place this time

Buck: I'll bring cake

Tommy: you don't have to bribe me to open the door

Buck: no I just baked too much stuff is all. I'll explain when we meet

Buck: I'm really thankful you texted

Tommy: I'm thankful you replied

Tommy: have a good rest of the shift, Evan

It's Evan again. Buck can't hide his smile at all. Tucking his phone into his pocket, he goes back to dinner. Monday can't be here fast enough.

[cator99]

I try to fit in at work by participating in collective commiseration but in my heart I am feeling like "GOD I feel fucking incredible do these fucking idiots not know about performance enhancing drugs or what"

[queen-boudicca]

If I had a nickel for every time Christian Borle played a creative who has a duet with a rival who's competing for the same audience, and in that duet they cattily snipe at each other with spoken dialogue that scans and has a consistent rhyme scheme and meter...

Well, I guess I'd have a nickel

[astonmartinii]

i can do it with a broken heart [guilty as sin part three] | charles leclerc social media au

pairing: charles leclerc x fem sainz!reader

life goes on after a bombshell but this silence isn't mysterious it's ominous

MASTERLIST | GUILTY AS SIN MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1 and 1,304,509 others

yourusername: don't tell lies about me and i won't tell truths about you

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user164: oh holy moly this is so much worse than i thought

user165: i don't think i can ever look at those men the same ever again

user166: SEXUAL RELATIONSHIPS FOR FAVOURS?

user167: my mouth dropped open when i read that

user168: so like not to be insensitive but like who do we think it was

maxverstappen1: so like y/n obviously can't talk on this because she needs her silence but my big mouth will remain open they tried it on me that's why she mentions that she managed to make friends.

user169: what the fuck

maxverstappen1: they thought that i would be an easy target because i was so young but jokes on them i've always been taken advantage of so i saw that from a mile away (also y/n didn't want to so that obviously helped)

user170: that is actually insane like her and max are the same age so that would've made her so young i hope to god that they didn't try it with anyone older

maxverstappen1: they did but by the time they realised that it hadn't worked on me y/n had allies and fernando and seb were not about to let any of that happen

user171: thank the lord she had some friends when people control your money you'll do anything

fernandoalo_oficial: she became my daughter the moment that i saw them try and offer their family to some of the older men in the paddock

user172: i am actually in shock this was a "oh gosh this is so dramatic situation" but now it's just "holy shit i kinda need to see these guys in jail"

fernandoalo_oficial: me and you both

user173: i'm going to need ferrari to let charles out of the cage for this one

user174: kinda expected him to be in the comments supporting her i'm not going to lie

user175: he's in the likes?

user176: girl? his girlfriend is being sued by his own family and is confessing that she was offered round the paddock like a prize cow i feel like he should be actively voicing his support

oscarpiastri: you're loved and have the full support of the paddock

maxverstappen1: we're behind you 100% of the way

olliebearman: nothing but full support for you mum

pierregasly: we're all here for you no matter what we're allowed to say

fernandoalo_oficial: 🫶

sebastianvettel: it'll all work out in the end

user177: still no charles ???

user178: eh i feel like pierre is confirming charles' support in his place

maxverstappen1

liked by charles_leclerc, yourusername and 835,923 others

tagged: yourusername & charles_leclerc

maxverstappen1: i'm missing my best friend has anyone seen her?

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user179: oh good i was just about to lose it from y/n and max withdrawals

user180: at least one of the trio of dumbasses is keeping us fed

yourusername: i miss you toooooooooo :( (reply fast my lawyer has gone to the bathroom)

maxverstappen1: hurry up and win your lawsuit so we can go back to kicking ass and drinking gin and tonics

yourusername: i'm trying 🤞

maxverstappen1: and if i said it's time to red wedding them?

yourusername: i think we would be swiftly arrested

maxverstappen1: they can't arrest us our face cards are too strong

yourusername: well one of us is currently in court so what does that say about my face card

charles_leclerc: THAT YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL REGARDLESS FUCK THEM

this comment was liked by the author and @yourusername

this comment was deleted

user181: so is that like confirmation that charles is back in PR jail in maranello

user182: right i understand that he's literally employed by them but like he's also a grown ass man who can speak up

user183: like i know max isn't obviously at ferrari and isn't contractually obligated to be teammates with carlos but even he's out here slamming him

user184: and oscar who's only in his SECOND year in the sport

oscarpiastri: bold assumption that you're the best friend max

maxverstappen1: let's not get too rowdy piastri i can deal with you as the 'child' - you cannot be a bestie as well

oscarpiastri: i don't think that's the exact rules

maxverstappen1: you'll soon learn that I MAKE THE RULES AROUND HERE BUSTER

oscarpiastri: i can't wait for y/n to kick their asses so she can come back and KICK YOURS FOR ME

maxverstappen1: she would NEVER

oscarpiastri: okay maybe she wouldn't, but my dad on the other hand ...

liked by @charles_leclerc

user185: charles just PLEASE GET ON THE MIC

user186: i'm about to lose my patience i'm not going to lie

user187: guys we have to remember that this is a complicated situation with a lot of different moving parts, as long as charles is there for her in REAL LIFE it doesn't matter what we're seeing

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carlossainz55

liked by landonorris, user190 and 308,994 others

carlossainz55: what was it you said? all is fair in love and poetry.

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user191: WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SUPPOSED TO MEAN?

user192: not the childhood dog too ???

user193: these are unbelievable levels of hating

user194: i'd be impressed if he wasn't such an asshole

maxverstappen1: get fucked

carlossainz55: she shouldn't dish it out if she can't take it

maxverstappen1: she fell in love ?? and you thought that was a good excuse to take everything she's ever had

carlossainz55: she cost me my dream

maxverstappen1: as far i can remember, she's not on the fucking FERRARI BOARD GENIUS

carlossainz55: it's her pussy-whipped boyfriend that's the problem and she deserved this as soon as she choose him over her blood

maxverstappen1: you're insane and history will always remember you as the biggest crybaby loser to ever grace this sport

user195: so this ^^ is definitely referring to y/n's poetry

user196: are we living through scooter braun volume two

user197: @taylorswift PLEASE HELP

charles_leclerc: EAT SHIT I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL MAKE YOUR LIFE A LIVING HELL

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charles_leclerc: you are the lowest of the low and you will get what is coming to you

this comment was deleted

charles_leclerc: there's only so long i have to stay silent and the people will know just the type of person you are

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user198: so is like carlos deleting this comments or ferrari?

user199: i bet it's ferrari

user200: 1. can they stop being allergic to fun 2. i think this has gotten past the need to uphold image like these are your employees and this is serious actually

user201: also like silencing charles when its CARLOS BEING THE MESSY ONE HE IS ACTUALLY STILL YOUR EMPLOYEE

yourusername: old habits die screaming

carlossainz55: you can spout all the 'poetry' you want it'll all belong to me anyway

yourusername: i'd rather burn my whole life down than listen to one more second of all this bitching and moaning

user202: stealing poetry? now that's a new low

user203: i'm gonna need someone to take one for the team and put a cheeky front wing in his tyre

georgerussell63: well this sounds like a job for me

charles_leclerc

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1 and 893,450 others

charles_leclerc: lets go racing.

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user206: is this even charles? where are the emojis? where is the excitement

user207: i think we might be witnessing a lil PR takeover after his deleted comments tirade under carlos' recent post

user208: you'd think they'd at least get his tone right like the rest of his account is RIGHT THERE

user209: charles leclerc's PR team we now have beef

liked by @yourusername

maxverstappen1: ugh you people are useless

oscarpiastri: i'm not going to lie i'm losing my patience

maxverstappen1: for real i'm gonna need this court case to finish up fast so we can get back to being a united front of haters

oscarpiastri: and then we can also wrestle charles' phone back by force

olliebearman: PLEASE KNOW THIS ISN'T ME I LOVE Y/N AND WE WILL LIVE TO KICK ASS AGAIN

user210: oh so they quite literally took his phone?

olliebearman: whoops

user210: ollie coming for kid of the year

olliebearman: i can't be told off for accidentally leaving my phone out while in the car and accidentally making my password something easy to remember and accidentally telling charles that his PR team had posted something - accident i swear

user211: @maxverstappen1 can you confirm they're still grossly in love?

maxverstappen1: i do have the letters to prove so but i think he's going insane with withdrawals

user212: that's it GET ME TO MARANELLO RIGHT THIS SECOND I HAVE A SCORE TO SETTLE

user213: yo i know we just got some confirmation from max but i can't help but think how lonely this must be for y/n

user214: for real if i was being sued by my family and had everything stolen from me i'd want more than some 'confirmation' through her bff in an instagram comment

carlossainz55: i hate to say i told you so @yourusername but that would be a lie i'm enjoying this so much

maxverstappen1: i want to fight you so bad but my therapist said that's bad

oscarpiastri: it's also illegal?

maxverstappen1: what's the point of being a rich white man oscar if i can't use to it to traverse the justice system and defend my bestie's honour

user215: @charles_leclerc get a backbone and do it like these two ^^

user216: i still have faith that he'll rain hell on that family when he's free

user217: well can he hurry the fuck up cause he's really shaping up to be the worst boyfriend of the year

user218: he has to get fucking loud HE CAN'T PROVE CARLOS RIGHT I DON'T WANT TO LIVE IN THAT WORLD

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri and 934,520 others

yourusername: i can do it with a broken heart

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user223: no no NO WE'RE NOT DOING ALL THIS GUESSING GAME SHIT WHAT WAS THE VERDICT?

user224: it's finished?

user225: that's what the spanish media are saying

user224: well in that case Y/N WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU HAVE YOUR POETRY BACK?

maxverstappen1: a wine evening without me? prison changed you

user225: SHE'S IN PRISON?

yourusername: STOP TELLING PEOPLE I'M IN JAIL

maxverstappen1: want me to put some money in the commissary so you can buy cigarettes?

yourusername: i don't even smoke and i'M NOT IN JAIL

maxverstappen1: now you've done time can you employ some stricter parenting on oscar and ollie, they've gotten unruly with both parents absent

yourusername: i'm not an absent mother :(

oscarpiastri: SHE'S VERY PRESENT SHE'S BEEN TO EVERY RECITAL SHE CAN IN HER CURRENT CIRCUMSTANCES

maxverstappen1: did you just refer to literal FORMULA ONE GRAND PRIXS AS RECITALS?

oscarpiastri: maybe i did

yourusername: he's allowed to call them what he wants

olliebearman: i feel sufficiently supported by you mum x

yourusername: i'm glad

olliebearman: family dinner when dad gets released from ferrari's top secret base jail?

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maxverstappen1: did he just get sniped by ferrari's PR?

user226: okay cool got the main kids update but WHAT ABOUT LEO?

user227: please tell me he's been been in good care

yourusername: he's been my rock 🤞

user228: not the dog being more present than charles - it would be funny if it wasn't so sad :(

user229: so are any of you going to address the literal caption of this post

user230: there's two options here she either lost the court case or her and charles have actually broken up

user231: the fact carlos is not in this comment section actively gloating makes me think she might have actually won?

user232: but i don't want it to be the other option... charles and y/n are end game :(

user233: but he's been so so silent and that BULLSHIT response in the press conference

user234: idk the delusion in me has this theory ... she won the case but like t swift, doesn't have access to her old work so maybe she's heartbroken over losing that and then it's just exacerbated by her boyfriend's useless bosses that are holding him captive in italy (also he was totally coached to say that shit in the presser it's written all over his strangely expressive face)

user235: at this point i might go to italy and just prison break him out of there this is ridiculous

fin.

note: DON'T HATE ME YALL i promise it'll get better we must have faith in the man (i know i hate to put my faith in men) xx

extra note from me here. first, i will fix this tag list at some point idk why it's not working rn. secondly, i have been made aware by multiple people that there is a series just like this one down to characters and the name of the series on here and i can't lie i'm bummed about it. as i said on the first part (?) this is an idea i've had since the release of TTPD (and people will back me up on this) so it bums me out that there are blatant copies coming out! i'm all for inspiration but sometimes there's a difference between taking inspo and copying especially when my masterlist was posted ages ago and my first part was posted on the 9th of may.... anyways that's all i have to say! enjoy xx

taglist: in comments!

[snekdood]

& i stab him

You drank a snake oil salesman’s drink only for it to make you actually immortal in the old west now 300 years later you see that same salesman

[carolmunson]

blood machine.

emperor geta x senator's daughter!reader songspiration: in keeping secrets of the silent earth 3 | coheed & cambria

did not once plan to write for this guy but here we are. also like, is it historically accurate? no. like, not even a little. (hell is mentioned and technically hell wasn't 'a place' until 400 BC but like WHATEVER.) am i making a semi effort? sorta kinda. have i been a little stoned every time i've worked on this? well, yes.

summary: when what was supposed to be a diplomatic dinner before a much bigger and lively feast becomes a marriage offer, all of the wine you drank turns to ash in your mouth. haters to haters, bay-bee. tw: 18+, drinking but like -- idk it's ancient rome, tension, fighting, some mild body shaming (??), a literal threat of domestic violence but again it's ancient rome so like i don't think they cared, two stupid little bitches who hate each other. mentions of war and ultimate distaste for the poor. reader kind of has lady macbeth vibes. my little evil queen.

Wine is poured, golden chalices exalted. You are a vision and he is a toad looking creature of a man that only his mother could love. Not quite his brother, never quite measuring up the same way -- always trying to puff his chest. It was easy to tease him, ego easy to bruise -- little brother. You’d spent time in your childhood tagging along with your brother and the other kids to taunt him, pathetic and whimpering. 'Tale teller!' you'd jeer, every time he'd run off to his mother to blubber over how mean you all were. And you were mean.

But people grow, as they do. And so did you -- still mean, but in a different way. Listening to meetings, reading maps, keeping tabs on new republics, on potential uprising. The poor -- the fucking poor. Finding new ways to keep them occupied so that they'd stop trying to find ways to be powerful. Powerful like you. Powerful like the man at the head of the table with a plum to his lips. And as it has been said, a man in possession of a good fortune and power, must be in need of a wife. It became clear when you arrived that this was not a business dinner before a grand feast, your parents simply forgot to mention what this was really about. Your best linens, your hair coiffed, your best jewelry, you should have known it had been a ruse the moment you got there. His home on Palatine just sparkling the way the gold on your fingers did, candles in the halls and stairways glittering when they hit the rubies and pearls on your chest and ears. When your father veers the conversation from politics and business to marriage you both choke, stern eyes glued to your mother's painted face. A business dinner where you are currency -- more than worthy. Just a few months shy of being eligible when Caracalla was, regrettably, forced to marry Flavia at the last moment. It would've been nice to have the gang together again in some capacity. Could've bullied the toad to assasinating himself if you were lucky enough. Total power. Complete upheaval. The more you thought about it, the more of it your craved. The pit in your stomach grew, if it wasn't with his brother -- even though you bore no attraction -- there was not a point at all. Geta didn't think nearly as critically, didn't hit hard enough, didn't strategize correctly. You'd never even seen him pick up a sword -- but then again, that made sense. You very rarely spent time in his palace, much prefering the festivities of Caracalla's close by.

You listen while your mother goes on and on about his grace, tongue dipped in honey while she blabbers. She mentions how handsome he is, his valiance in leadership, how honorable he's become as he's taken the place of his late father -- you can't help yourself but laugh. The giggle echos and bounces through the high ceilings, floating against the archways, getting caught in the drapery by the open hall. His eyes flick to you over his goblet, catching in the candle light, an aggravated sneer plaguing his face. He looks like a pig when he does that, you think to yourself.

You know that business, for the most part, is a man's game. But it does not deter you from doing your best to try and wager yourself out of this. Ideas drip into your mind while the drone of the conversation turns to fuzz in the background. How can you sell that this is a bad idea? It will bring less publicity, less of a threat, less resposibility if married to someone with equal nobility. Certainly not an emperor. Especially not one like this. So petulant, so competitive, so eager for a war he does not know how to plan, so temperamental, so weak, so conniving, so consumed with the colosseum that he doesn't think of what should be done around him. It's his voice that brings you back to attention.

"And why is it she hasn't been taken for a wife then, at this age?" he asks, brow quirking in your direction. You let out of huff of offense while he sips his wine, metal clinking as he places it back down. A smirk flits across his features at the remark, "Is something wrong with her?"

Your father, sweating with embarrassment, looks over at you and back at the emperor, "Well she, she's of course beautiful." Geta winces, cocking his head to the side with a shrug. Your father sighs, desperate to try to find a better angle, "She um, she -- she has great wits, Ceasar, unmatched. She knows her duties as a wife, but -- a great thinker. She could -- she could be helpful!" "Wits," he mumbles sourly under his breath before leaning back leisurely in his chair, "Great thinker? Very surprising." "August--" your father starts. "Co--" you correct over a sip of wine, "Co-Augustus."

Geta tosses you another sour look, tongue running over his teeth before clicking it behind his lips. You shrug while swallowing. "Semantics, Publius," you wave a hand at him. A hush falls over the room as his gaze snaps up at you, blanching at the disrespect of being called by his first name. Your mother hides her face in her napkin with a groan. Your father leans his temple against his fingers, eyes closed in frustration. "Mind how you address me," Geta corrects with a stern pull to his lips, eyes glittering with rage. Your eyes catch over the mountains of food before you, holding your glass out as one of his servants pours you another glass of wine. "Is that not what your mother calls you?" your voice feathery, but certain. A vein begins to raise and pulse in his neck while his shoulders round forward.

"Please apologize, dear," your mother mutters, putting the napkin back on the table, "Tell -- tell the emperor what it would mean, to be -- to be wed to someone of such calibur."

Your eyes stay on his, challenging him while your mother begs you to say something to make amends. Another sip of wine passes your lips, "No, shan't."

Your mother scolds you, your full name escaping her with embarrassment tainting her tongue. Sweat beads at your father's forehead while he changes the subject, doing aything to try to keep his good favor with both sides of the imperatorship.

You grin into your goblet at the sight of Geta's face -- reddened with anger and frustration at the brazen disrespect. But it was fine to continue to be an enemy if it meant you would leave these regal walls and never have to step foot in them again. And if you did, it would be as another senator's wife, visiting his brother in another house where you'll laugh and drink wine and cheer when he's killed.

Even his posture is revolting, hunched over while he listens to your father speak. Now going on and on about paper work that doesn't interest you if it doesn't have a say on who is next on the list to conquer. Your eyes glaze over in boredom while pomergranate, honey pudding, and dates are placed on the table. Rose wine replaces the red to sweeten the tongue -- you're sure your parents wished it were true.

It's not very long after dessert is served that your parents start again.

"As you know, she does come from a family of very fertile women," your father encourages. You quickly swallow the bite of date you'd taken to interrupt, nearly choking, "Excuse me, I'm not sure this is appropriate dinner conversation."

Geta looks at you while you speak, scanning you and then lingering on the dessert in your hand, "Her hips are quite sizeable -- big enough to bear multiple childen, that's certain. Is that her only sell?"

Anger bubbles under your chest, but warning looks from both of your parents keeps your sharp tongue between your lips. The grip on your goblet tightens, jaw clenching while your pass another sip through gritted teeth. You let a seething breath out through your nose. "As I tried to explain before," your father continues, "She is very on the pulse in terms of the political climate and, and, and great with strategy." "I'm not looking for a wife who tries to strategize for me--" he responds coolly. "From how the empire has not expanded since your father's death I would guess that perhaps you should be," you snap back smartly. His posture straightens, chains and medallions across his chest glinting in the candle light. The room quiets itself again, only the sound of untensils and cups being put down or collected filling the dead air. The soft scrape of metal, the rustle of linens while servants and guards alike avert their gaze downward.

"Leave us," he states, voice pungent with authority. You stretch your neck on both sides while the servants depart, already bored with the back and forth. Already moved on from the eventual scolding and potential exile that won't get put into motion because you are simply too friendly with the rest of the upcoming generals and politicians. One rogue idiot who barely has the power his brother has, that his father never trained into him, could not dole a punishment that is worth your genuine fear.

You sigh, hearing the staff make their way down the long stone corridors into the grand halls to prepare for a more formal party with other higher status families. More likely a collection of offerings for him to choose from, other parents trying to arrange a marriage with the empire's most powerful and eligible bachelor. It would be one of the few times the brothers would have to engage with each other, which you're sure put Geta more on edge than normal.

"Senator, please take your wife to the grand hall to be seated," he commands, his voice lower, delving darker. The vein in his neck continues to pulse, forearms straining against the golden cuffs over his wrists, "The guards will accompany you."

You watch as your parents rise, bowing their heads before following the guards out of the room and through the blood red drapery hung from gilded valances. Geta's eyes stay hardened on you, and yours him, while you rise as well, taking a few steps around the large wooden table toward the exit. "Not you," he says, not turning to face you, "You will stay." "It is not appropriate for me to be unaccopanied in the pres--" "Do not speak," he huffs, hand coming up to silence you, "Your voice grates on me." "Then you can imagine what your own voice does, Augustus," you say without thinking, letting the insults flow out of you like the fountain water in the courtyards. He pushes away from the table, steadily walking towards you with enough vigor that the bottom of his cape starts to billow behind him. On his way, he pulls a sword from a guard's holster, dragging it so the tip grinds against the stone, making your jaw clench at the shrill sound.

"What happens to those who speak against me?" he asks, steps clicking against the floor from the studs on the bottom of his sandals. He begins to stalk around you, circling while he waits for an answer. "Execution," you respond, keeping your eyes on the drapery just twenty feet ahead of you. "What else?" he asks, you can feel his breath behind you, the whining grind of the sword against the stone making your shoulders tense. "Exile," you answer, a laugh bubbling out of you, "But I can't imagine your brother agreeing to either of those. You'd really banish me, Publius? Because I was a little mean to you?" When he appears in front of you again, your lips stretch into a sickeningly sweet smile, sarcasm staining your tone, "But we're such old friends."

He cocks his head to the side, taking a step closer with the sword between you, "Oh, I wouldn't do that to you."

He leans forward, enough that you can smell the rose wine on his breath. His voice quiet and menacing, "Though -- it could be that the senator said something to offend me tonight at dinner. It could be that perhaps he -- spoke poorly of my dear brother or my late father. Something just dastardly enough to sour my brother's respect for him." "And you expect Caracalla to believe that?" "In what way does it benefit me to lie about it?" he challenges, "And even more so -- with your father exiled, where does that leave you?"

You swallow thickly, not giving him the satisfaction of replying while your look into his now wild brown eyes. Flashing with mania and endless possibility.

"A peasant," he spits.

"If it keeps me out of these halls I should be lucky, no?" you fire back, looking at him from under furrow brows. He continues to circle you, dragging the sword again. The click, click, click of his shoes keeping time in your head. "I'm sure my brother would be happy to keep you as a pet in the meantime," he laughs to himself, "Or we could put you in the colosseum, you think you'd fare well?" "Better than you could, that's certain," you cross your arms over your chest, "Could never stand up and fight like a man, even as a kid. Your father would be embarrassed."

The grinding gets louder as he presses harder down, causing small sparks to fly from the edge of the sword.

"If you were to be chosen, would ever even attempt to learn respect?" he asks sharply, "Or would it have to be beaten into you?" You snort, "At least you're the funnier brother, you have that going for you." You can see him out of your periphery, the way he pulls his cheeks in, the roll of his shoulders -- he's losing patience. "What, would you prefer I called you Geta? Augustus? Ceasar?" your eyes roll. A soft cackle comes from his through, canines showing in a gleeful smile, "No, no -- from you? I'd much prefer something more respectful." Click, click, click. The grind of the sword. The rose on his breath. "Dominus," he nods with the threat, "Dominus et Deus."

"You disgust me," you respond quickly. "As a husband and as emperor is that not my title, already?" he shrugs, looking at you like it's obvious.

"You are nobodies Lord and God, you are a petulant -- sniveling -- repulsive little brother who is only where he is by being lucky to be born," you glower.

"You still see me as a child, femina," he tuts, "I promise you, what ever Caracalla has told you is a tapestry of made up stories. You could hang it on the tallest arch and it would hit the floor ten times over."

"I do see just a whining child before me," you hiss, "I'm sure you'll run to your mother after this, too."

His chuckle turns to a low, dark laugh from deep in his chest. It crawls up your spine and rings in your ears, mixing with the grating 'shhhhhhinnnngggg' of the sword on the ground.

"If it were fate that there was union between us," he asks from behind you, "What would you say to that?"

You look straight ahead, hearing the click of his shoes. The heat of the torches on the walls billowing onto your face while you keep your eyes on the drapery, still closed -- still keeping you here.

"It would be a fate worse than the hottest hell," you confess, your voice not wavering.

The whine of the sword stops, sheathed into his belt. The click of his shoes halts.

Quiet.

Rose wine on his breath, you feel it on your skin now, his chest against your back while he closes the space between you. A hand reaches up to push the hair from your neck, the other gripping the fat of your hip to pull you ruthlessly against him in a thud. Your eyes shut, bile crawling up your throat in disgust. His nose coasts against the shell of your ear, making you tilt your head away while goosebumps rise on your arms. Through a knowing grin he whispers, the words burrowing deep in your chest in loathing and a glimmer of fear: "I pray every moment of it burns you."

[gabriellessworldd]

Do i make you nervous?

shy, nerdy Armin x bold black fem reader

wc- 1.4k!

☆ warnings ☆: js a lil smth for my armin girlies! very light smut nth too crazy 18+, oral (f receive, you sit on his face 😛), armin is obsessed with you, so when you asked him to be your tutor he thanked his lucky stars.

"Excuse me, Miss L/n, could you stay after class, there's a pressing matter." your chemistry professor Mrs. Clark announced whilst sending you a look after she graded your assignment. "Yea i'll stay." you mumbled opening up your macbook, checking the damage, '13% no. fucking. way.' sure you weren't the best student but it was never this bad.

Class was finally over and honestly you wanted nothing more than to go back to your apartment and take a long ass nap. "Miss L/n, don't keep me waiting! Come here please." honestly you didn't want to hear what she had to say, but if you wanted to pass this class you would have to work your ass off. "Yes ma'am, what's the matter?" you were trying to be polite and sweet so maybe she'd have mercy on you but, that plan didn't work.

After 25 minutes of her lecturing you about your grades, she finally offered some help. "I would suggest you get a tutor, it could give you that extra push you need. Hearing the same stuff from me everyday clearly isn't helping you." She looks at you and shrugs, "You can see yourself out now, enjoy your afternoon." As much as she annoyed you, your professor was right, and you had the perfect tutor in mind.

Armin Arlert. Not only was he smart as fuck but he also had a gorgeous face. It made perfect sense, if that pretty boy had been teaching you chemistry you probably would've had perfect attendance and 100's on all your assignments. You saw him walking off campus and rushed after him, you weren't sure if he would help, but what's the harm in asking?

"Hey Armin!" he turned around looking for who was calling him then he spotted you waving him down. 'is y/n looking for me?' he felt his stomach do an olympic level gymnastic routine (😜) and swallowed the lump in his throat. He was captivated by you, there was just something so perfect about you. The way you laughed, your voice, your beautiful eyes, your entire being had him enthralled.

He walked over to you, "h-hey y/n" he tried not to get too nervous but the small voice crack gave him away. "hi! i was wondering if you could do me a favor?" you batted your eyelashes and smiled brightly. "o-oh! y-yea of course, what's the matter?" he said it almost too quickly, Armin was just glad he could talk to you. You studied his face, it was perfect, the way his glasses sat on his face, the pink tint on his lightly freckled cheeks, even his pink plump lips. 'wait, why is he blushing?' you smiled at the thought, this would be so easy.

"s-so you need m-me to tutor y-you?" he stumbled over his words, an hour and thirty minutes alone with you, luck really was on his side today. "Yup, that's it! Think we could start today?" you checked the time, it was 3:47. "You could come to my house now if you're free! There aren't any distractions and it would be just me nd you!" There was no way Armin was turning this down, "yes that works for me." 'fuck yea i finally made it through a sentence without stuttering' he smiled softly showing his teeth, and your knees nearly buckled.

You opened your door, the scent of vanilla and strawberries clouded Armin. Your place was comfy nd clean, "You can sit at the table over there, I need to shower quickly if you don't mind!" He nodded his head 'i can't believe im in y/n's house right now' he pulled out his textbook nd laptop, not that he would really need it.

"Thank you so much for waiting!" you walked out of your room in your pj's and matching house slippers. "You want anything to drink? I've got dr pepper, pineapple fanta, nd water." Armin watched you walk to the kitchen, your small shorts shrinking with every step, "u-uhm dr pepper is fine. thanks." You sat back down with the two drinks, your boobs bounced slightly in your exposed cheetah print push up bra. you noticed Armin's face heat up and slightly turn pink, you decided to tease him.

you leaned over the table and showing more cleavage and placed your hand on his arm, "Do you mind explaining this to me? I don't get it" Armin tried not to make eye contact with you and took a sip of his drink, but when he finally gave in your seductive eyes almost killed him. He choked on the dr pepper, "um y-yea it's dea-" "Wait.. do i make you nervous?" you cut him off, not caring about chemistry anymore, that assignment could wait.

You scooted closer to Armin and leaned in close to his face, "you're a very pretty boy Armin, did you know that?" You looked at his lips and back at his eyes, "n-no I've ne-never-" You went to kiss him and he immediately took the chance. His soft hands instantly squeezed your tits, and you ran your fingers through his soft blonde hair. The kiss was sweet but it was also passionate, it felt desperate like you both needed more. Armin slid down the straps to your top and bra, freeing your boobs. His soft hands pinched and rolled your nipples, you softly moaned into his mouth and he slipped his tongue in. But he still wanted more.

Armin pulled away from the kiss, face flushed and cheeks red, with a light sheen on his lips from your lip gloss. He lowered his mouth to your right nipple, slipping it in while still playing with the left. Your hands were still tangled in his hair, tugging at his locks. Armin left hickeys all over your chest, wanting to mark you, he needed to know that this wasn't a deluded dream and that you were right there letting him touch you. He looked up at you while sliding your tit out of his mouth with a pop, "c-can we go to your room?" his face was filled with lust, he looked so divine. "of course" you stood up and grabbed his hand, leading him to your room. Armin was anxious obviously, but the was something he needed.

You laid in your bed with your legs propped up on Armin's shoulders as he sloppily ate you out. "Fuck Armin! right there please!" He sucked on your clit, he needed you to cum, he wanted to taste how sweet you were. "o-oh fuck armin, mmhm, right there" He came up, his lips covered in your arousal, " I want you to cum in my mouth y/n." He went back to sucking your clit, you felt a familiar pressure build up in the lower half of your stomach,"a-ah mm armin. That feels soo good!" You could feel yourself about to unravel as he pushed his tongue in and out of your hole. "Cmon y/n, c-cum for me, please." he felt you pulse on his tongue and pull his hair, he started getting sloppier.

Your thighs squeezed his head as you felt your high coming. "ah Armin 'm gonna cum, fuck!" you moaned out as he sucked on your clit, making you throw your head back and squeeze your eyes closed, mouth dangling open. You felt yourself squirt and looked down at Armin watching him lick up everything.

"Can, can you s-sit on my f-face?" He wanted you to say yes, he needed you to say yes. You looked at him puzzled, "You want me, to sit on your face?" "Yes. please y/n." You nodded your head at the blonde, Armin quickly sat down, laying down fully when he saw you stand over him. You straddled his face, not fully sitting down all the way. "Y/n sit down all the way please, I promise I'll be alright." You listened and sat down.

"o-oh fuck armin, oh my god please!" his nose rubbed your sensitive clit as he continued tongue fucking you, his groans vibrated against your core. He loved the way you moaned, it sounded so heavenly, it was his new favorite sound. You needed more, you started to slowly grind on his face, "c-can you go faster y/n please." You picked up the pace, his tongue worked wonders, it was like Armin knew exactly what you liked. "a-ah Armin! 'm too sensitive, gonna cum again" You were on cloud nine, his tongue continued the ravaging pace. "c-cum for me sweetheart." The overstimulation and sloppy licks to your clit drove you over the edge "Fuck! ah Armin!" your vision went clouded as you came down from your high. Armin was satisfied, this was all he needed, to taste every bit of you.

a/n ☆: hiiii my lovebugs!! firstly i js wanna say i'm so grateful for all the interaction with "Never get yo bitch back!" also next part will be coming soon! lmk if y'all wanna get tagged in my future projects!! (y'all like the color switch for different characters or js keep pink?)

-with lots of love, gabrielle <3

[de4dlyniightshade]

꩜ LIFT YOUR EYES

꩜ pairing: spencer reid x afab!reader

꩜ rating: 18+, mdni!

꩜ word count: entirely too many. (9.3k;-;)

꩜ warnings/contains!: smut, virgin!spencer, sub!spencer, softdom!reader, loss of virginity, piv, handjob, mirror play(?), dacryphilia, slight body worship, pwp, unprotected piv(don't do that.), creampie, nervous spencer, marking, smidge of orgasm denial, praise, pet names, mention of and use of plan B, silly love confessions, no use of "y/n"!!, i think that's all

꩜ lyric: "lift those eyes, look into mine, cause i can guide you, i can guide you"

© to de4dlyniightshade. no translations/reposts!

[WARNING! - explicit sexual content! proceed at your own risk!]

꩜ A/N: this is proofread but i'm a moron and can't read so no promises🤷‍♀️ ALSO! be nice to me i haven't written a single thing in like a good few years</3

Spencer had been acting off ever since he had drunkenly revealed that he was still a virgin on one of your group nights out. Being a profiler had many benefits, and this was definitely one of them. He was more withdrawn from all of you, had been keeping to himself, and kept conversations to a minimum. He was pretty inconspicuous with the ways he did it, but you picked up on it immediately. You couldn't blame him; he had been backed into a corner by Derek and Garcia, pressing him for a sex story, but what they didn't expect was his answer to be that he didn't have any, with Spencer leaving shortly after, the whole atmosphere being unbearable for him.

You acted the same with him; of course, being a virgin was nothing to be ashamed of, and you didn't see him any differently; he was still Spencer, and honestly, it didn't surprise you; he certainly wasn't the type to sleep around or have one-night stands, and you were sure you would've heard of an ex-girlfriend by now, which you hadn't, not a single mention, so you put two and two together and just assumed the others would do the same, but unfortunately not.

If you were being entirely honest, the fact that Spencer was still a virgin only made you more attracted to him. You were already borderline infatuated with him, but this newfound information only heightened it. You didn't really know when your crush on him developed, but it developed rapidly, your small crush turning into an intense desire. You couldn't stop thinking about him, thinking about how easy he would be to render a babbling mess, how he would be so sensitive and reactive to every little touch, and how pretty he would sound moaning your name. You had to force yourself to shake your thoughts, trying to focus on what you were actually supposed to be doing, which was mundane work tasks, and it didn't help that Spencer somehow always ended up in your line of sight. 

You managed to push through the rest of the day without much more zoning out and you were packing up your things to go home for the night when Spencer approached you, stopping what you were doing to give him your attention. He seemed on edge, his body language was stiff, and he wouldn't look you in the eye. "Can I uh- , do you mind if I come over?" He spoke meekly, and honestly, if he'd been any quieter, he'd be whispering.

You just smiled, ignoring his strange behaviour, knowing there had to be a reasonable explanation that you'd soon find out. "Of course, what's the occasion?" You pulled your bag onto your shoulder, ready to leave with him without much question. You didn't want to turn him down considering the recent events, and you also just wouldn't. You loved hanging out with Spencer; he was a breath of fresh air, completely honest with you, and just great to be around.

"Oh uh no occasion, just haven't hung out in a while." He gave you that straight smile he did all the time, still avoiding your eyes for the most part. You hummed in response as you motioned for him to follow you, making your way to the elevator, Spencer following close behind, your joint footsteps echoing through the empty space, the two of you being some of the last people in the whole building, which was eerily quiet.

Spencer didn't say a word to you on the whole way down in the elevator or on the walk to your car, and still not a peep halfway through the car ride to your apartment, you decided to pry a little—not a lot, but just to see if he'd crack and spill whatever it was that was bothering him.

"what's up? You're an unusually quiet Spence." You took your eyes off the road very briefly to glance at him, seeing that he was in a world of his own, staring out of the window, your voice breaking whatever his train of thought was as he looked back at you with a dazed look on his face, taking a moment to process what you'd asked him.

"Nothing's up; why would something be up?" His tone wasn't defensive, like you were accusing him of something, which is yet another reason why you knew something was definitely up. There had never been a single time where someone had insinuated something was up with him and he didn't get defensive about it, but you just took his word; he clearly didn't want to talk about it, and you weren't going to force him to yet.

"No reason, Spence, just thought I'd ask." You flashed him a sweet smile, and he nodded, going back to completely ignoring your presence. Something was seriously going on with him; you just needed to figure out what it was. Honestly, it was eating you alive the whole way to your apartment. He had never been silent for such a long period of time in the entire time you'd known him, and it was unsettling.

Once you reached your apartment, you unlocked the door and shuffled in, switching on a light before locking your door behind you just to be safe. You hung your bag on your coatrack and shrugged off your jacket, Spencer doing the same, both of you removing your shoes in unison before you turned and made your way to your sofa. "Wanna watch a movie?" you asked as you plopped down on your designated corner of the couch, looking over at him and awaiting his response.

"Yeah, sure," Spencer smiled. Following suit to your sofa and sitting at the opposite end, you furrowed your brows at his choice of seat. He always sat in the middle when he was here. Always. As if all the other unusual behaviour wasn't evidence enough that something was going on with him. This certainly topped it off, which prompted you to begin your interrogation, ready to present your extensive evidence.

"Alright, Reid, out with it. What's going on with you?" You turned to face him, your elbow resting on the back of the sofa as you stared him down.

"Nothing's going on with me? What makes you think that there is?" His tone was defensive this time, but not in an aggressive way; more in an accused way. His sudden change from in the car only further proved your point.

"You've been nothing but weird since you came up to me; you were completely silent the whole way here, and when I asked in the car what was up, you weren't defensive, which you've never done before; you hate when people insinuate something is wrong; you also haven't looked me in the eye this whole time; and finally, you're sitting on the opposite end of the couch." You finished your rundown by flashing a smile at him and raising a brow. You knew he couldn't deny any of it because you knew he knew you were right. It was your job, after all.

"Alright, fine, you got me, but it's nothing, really." Spencer finally met your eyes, his expression unconvincing. It wasn't nothing, and you knew it, but you just couldn't work out what it was on your own. You were good, but not that good.

"stop lying! I know it's not nothing, Spence. C'mon you can tell me. Promise nothing you can say will phase me."You shuffled closer to him as you spoke, now sitting in his spot in the middle. The sudden closeness of your body to his putting him under pressure.

"I don't know how to say it," he said softly, eyes fixed on his lap as he fidgeted nervously. His behaviour only made you more desperate to hear what it was. You'd never seen him so nervous before, so you knew it had to be good whatever it was, and you knew he had to get it off his chest asap. You also didn't think you could handle him being so quiet for a minute longer.

"Ugh, c'mon, just spill it; the anticipation is killing me," you giggled, trying to make him feel at least a little more at ease so he'd just get it out already. Spencer sighed, mentally preparing himself as he mustered up the courage to say what he was thinking.

"Okay, alright, you can absolutely say no, and we'll never talk about this again. It's completely your choice, of course. I would never try to force you to do something you didn't want to do, y'know. I completely understand if you say no; I won't take it personally. I just thought I'd ask just in ca-" You cut off his rambling with a loud groan, reaching out to hold his face with your hands and forcing him to look at you.

"stop rambling. say it. right now, Spencer Reid." You both sat in silence for a moment before he took a deep breath, closing his eyes before he finally said it. His words rendered you completely speechless as it all made sense; no wonder he was a nervous wreck.

"Will you have sex with me?"

The words bounced around in your head like a ping pong ball, repeating over and over and over again as you just continued staring at him. He cracked his eyes open to see the dumbfounded expression on your face, immediately regretting ever considering asking as he moved to get up.

"I uh- forget it, I'm just gonna go," he said, making a beeline for your door as you continued to sit in silence, watching him grab his jacket before you squeezed your eyes shut, letting out a deep breath.

"I will," you said, opening your eyes again to see him completely still, back to you, so you couldn't see his face. The only reason you hesitated was because you weren't entirely sure that you were awake. You'd been daydreaming about a situation just like this one only hours prior, and when you realised that this was actually happening and Spencer Reid was actually asking if you'd have sex with him, you knew you couldn't turn him down; you'd be a fool to.

"you will?" Spencer finally turned to face you, his doe-eyes meeting yours. You smiled at his sweet expression; he looked almost excited, and you nodded. "Course I will, c'mere," you said nonchalantly as you patted the spot next to you, and he nervously padded back over, sitting next to you before you reached out to tuck his hair behind his ear, his eyes meeting yours again.

"Is this about the other night?" You kind of already knew it was, and you weren't going to take it personally if the only reason he was asking was so he wouldn't be a virgin anymore. It flattered you honestly, the fact he wanted it to be you, that he felt comfortable enough to ask you and allow you to take his virginity.

Spencer sighed, "Yeah, I mean- not entirely, partly—I just don't want to have to tell another person that I'm still a virgin, but I do think you're pretty, of course! I'm not just using you," you let him ramble, knowing he felt the need to explain himself most of the time. You couldn't help but smile at his behaviour; he was always so put together and professional, and now he was completely erratic and hardly making any sense.

"You think I'm pretty?" You teased, pulling your lip between your teeth. Spencer then realised what he'd said; unable to backtrack, he opted for scrambling to explain, "I-I mean, yeah, you're stereotypically attractive; most of the population would be objectively attracted to you just based on a visual first impression." You couldn't help but laugh at his flustered state, moving to run your hand through his hair, the physical affection making him relax slightly.

"Can I kiss you, Spence?" You mused, your fingertips stroking the hair behind his ear. You already knew the answer to your question, but you wanted him to tell you that you could, that he wanted you to, you wanted his consent through the whole experience, making sure that he knew he could tell you if there was something he didn't like or if he'd changed his mind.

Spencer let out a shaky breath, hesitating for a beat before replying. "Please," he practically whined, his voice airy, and you felt the air shift. A whole different atmosphere filled the room as you gently moved your hand to his cheek, turning his face to you. You smiled, just staring into his eyes for a moment before you slowly leaned in, placing an experimental kiss on his lips, and he immediately returned it, which was then followed by another and another before your gentle kisses became open-mouthed, sensual making out, your lips slotting perfectly into his as he tentatively placed his hand on your waist while you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer and pressing your body to his, your actions causing him to moan quietly into your mouth. The sound was sweet, like music to your ears, and you wanted more.

You tugged on the hair at the nape of his neck lightly, eliciting another moan from him, the pretty sound vibrating against your lips before you ran your tongue across his plush bottom lip, and he immediately knew what you wanted, opening his mouth to allow you to slip your tongue in, the feeling of your warm tongue exploring his mouth making him let out a whimper as he allowed you to completely dominate him, the sound awakening something in you as you moaned into his mouth before you broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting your lips, you quickly manoeuvred to straddle his lap, your skirt riding up your thighs, mere inches from exposing your underwear.

You began pressing open-mouthed kisses down Spencer's jaw and neck before you were stopped by the collar of his shirt. You pulled away, moving to take ahold of his tie before you hesitated, looking up at him. "Can I?" you asked, almost desperately. Spencer looked back at you, already with a lustful expression on his face, his lips swollen and red, his hair dishevelled, and his cheeks flushed pink.

He nodded eagerly as you still held his tie in your hand. "Ah, ah, words, honey." Honestly, you didn't need him to say it, but you definitely wanted him to. The idea of him having to outright tell you what he wanted or what you could do to him made your stomach flip.

"Y-yes," you saw his Adam's apple bob as he gulped, a sly smile spreading across your lips as you leaned in to place a few stray kisses on his neck, stopping just below his ear. "Good boy," your voice was sultry and teasing as you loosened his tie, his breath hitched at your words, eyes closed as he let you do whatever you pleased.

You discarded his tie on the floor, moving to unbutton his shirt, kissing lower and lower with each button before kissing your way back up to his collarbones as you started kitten licking at his skin, hesitating before biting down—not too hard, of course, as not to startle him too much. Spencer gasped at the feeling, a whimper following after. His pretty sounds were so much better when they weren't muffled, and you had to resist the urge to just unzip his pants and pull your underwear to the side then and there.

"You sound so pretty, baby." You spoke into his skin, flicking your tongue out to lick his neck, your words making him whine. "P-please," he mewled. His voice was high-pitched and whiny as he pleaded with you to do something, anything.

"Please, what, baby? Tell me what you want." You placed a few kisses on his cheek before pulling away, your hands resting on either side of his neck and your thumb stroking his skin. He was a nervous wreck, muscles tense and eyes darting around the room, looking anywhere but your eyes. You let out an airy laugh while he gulped, trying to muster up the courage to tell you what he wanted. He was adorable, and it made you want to croon at him and take care of him, doing whatever you pleased without him having a say, but you knew you couldn't. This was about him, and you wanted his first time to be memorable in a good way.

"Aw, baby, it's okay; just relax; tell me what you want; I won't say no; this is about you and making you feel good, okay?" Your tone was soft and almost motherly as you caressed his cheek, trying to ease his nerves as best you could. Spencer looked at you with puppy eyes, his lips slightly pouting as he took a shaky breath, trying to force himself to relax.

"T-touch me, please." He whined, eyes still fixed on yours; you could've melted right there. The sight of his pleading eyes, swollen lips, messy hair, flushed cheeks, and bare torso beneath was enough to make you let out a muffled moan, surging forward to lock your lips with his in a desperate kiss, Spencer returning it with equal desperation.

You trailed your hands down his body, stopping to stroke his slim waist. His skin was hot to the touch and silky smooth, and the sensation of your hands caressing his skin made him whine into your mouth. You let your hand trail lower, stopping at the clear bulge in his pants. Your touch was feather light, teasing just a little to hear him whine again. You pulled away, watching him chase your lips before you fully palmed him over his clothes. The sudden stimulation made him gasp, jutting his hips upward into your hand for more.

"God, you're so fucking pretty, you know that Spence?" You rasped out, continuing to tease him, knowing that the material separating your touch from where he wanted you would get him hot and bothered. Your words made him whine and mumble something inaudible; your curiosity piqued.

"hm? What'd you say, baby?" You spoke softly, continuing to palm Spencer over his pants. His head was tipped back, resting on the back of your couch, his eyes closed and lips parted as he let out laboured breaths.

"I'm not," Spencer's words made you stop dead, the loss of stimulation making him open his eyes to look at you, only to find you already glaring at him, "What did you just say?" Your tone was stern, and eye contact was unfaltering as Spencer began to sweat under the pressure of your eyes and demanding tone.

"I'm not pretty," he murmured, shrinking in on himself and averting your gaze. You took his chin between your fingers and tilted his head to face you again. "Don't you ever say that to me again, Spencer," you ordered, watching him swallow thickly at your sudden change in demeanour.

"W-why?" he asked meekly, a doe-eyed, innocent expression on his face. You raked your hand through his hair, leaving a silence in the room before you answered his stupid question.

"Because, Spencer, you are pretty. Let me show you." You stood up from his lap as you spoke, Spencer gaping up at you with a confused expression on his features. His confusion was quickly squashed when you extended your hand to him, placing his hand in yours without question and standing up from your sofa, allowing you to lead him through your apartment to your bedroom. Once there, you kicked the door closed behind you before trailing Spencer to the side of your bed, pushing his shoulders down for him to sit on the edge before you switched on your lamp.

You moved to press a kiss to his lips, which didn't last nearly long enough for him, making him whine as you pulled away. You just smirked, moving to the side to get onto the bed with him, revealing the mirror directly in front of him, and he was about to ask why when you moved to kneel behind him, your hands smoothing up his back and stopping at his shoulders. You placed a kiss on his covered skin before you took his shirt in your fingertips, sliding it off of him, gently kissing his exposed skin as you did. Spencer assisted you in removing it before you balled the material up and discarded it on your floor.

You continued to kiss his soft skin, kitten licking and nibbling as you went, stopping at the junction at the base of his neck, looking up through your lashes to make eye contact with him in the mirror as you marked his skin, suckling and biting harshly, the sensation of your hot mouth on him making him whimper, feeling you smile against his skin as he did.

Once you were satisfied with marking his neck and shoulder, you shifted back, spreading your legs. Spencer whined at the loss of your body heat before you tugged him back into your chest, his head against your shoulder. Spencer watched you trail your hand down his body through the mirror, stopping at his waistband and bringing your other hand around his waist, starting to slowly and teasingly unbuckle his belt. Spencer swallowed in anticipation, his breathing picking up as you unbuttoned and unzipped his pants.

You trailed your fingertip over the outline of his hard length over his boxers, watching his brows snap together as his eyes fell closed, his mouth dropping open, a moan falling from his lips, the thin material of his underwear making the feeling much stronger than before. His reactions only egged you on, fully palming him and beginning to stroke him through the material.

"A-ah-p-please" Spencer mewled, reaching back to grip your thigh. You smiled, leaning your head into his, Spencer opening his eyes to see what you were doing. His eyes glazed as they connected with yours in the mirror.

"Don't look at me, look at you," you whispered into his ear. Spencer followed your direction, his eyes gazing at his own reflection. The sight was so foreign to him; he'd never seen himself like this; it made him feel vulnerable and shy, a blush blooming on his skin.

"Good boy, now lift your hips for me, honey," you breathed, hooking your thumbs into the elastic of his waistband. Spencer swallowed, letting out a shaky breath before he complied, raising his hips enough to allow you to tug his underwear and pants down to his mid-thighs, his cock springing free and hitting his pelvis. The sight made you pull your lips between your teeth, Spencer sucking in a breath and screwing his eyes closed at the cold air hitting his hot, sensitive skin.

"God spence, look at you, so fucking pretty, even got a pretty cock," you rasped in his ear, your lewd words making him gasp and blush a deep pink. You pressed a kiss to his cheek as he cracked his eyes open, watching you run your hands up and down his sides, the sensation tickling slightly, making him squirm against you.

"Can I touch you, baby?" You asked the question as if you didn't already know the answer; it was obvious, of course, but you still wanted to hear him say it. The question made Spencer roll his hips into nothing, subconsciously nuzzling his head into yours.

"Y-yes, please," he breathed, his eyes still fixed on his own reflection, watching as your hand trailed lower, painfully close to where he needed you, but you stopped just before your hand reached his length, drawing figure eights into the smooth skin of his pelvis. Spencer whined at your teasing, jerking his hips into your touch, urging you to touch him where he needed you, but you wouldn't; instead, you just let out a breathy laugh in his ear.

"I'll give you what you want if you do one thing for me, baby, just one. Can you do that?" Your voice was silky smooth, your light touch still on his skin, and Spencer nodded eagerly, "Yes!, yeah, anything! I'll do anything!" His voice was needy and whiny as he spoke, his head tipping back onto your shoulder as his eyes fluttered closed.

"Look at yourself and tell me you're a pretty boy," you said into his ear, your lips grazing his skin as you did. A smirk spread across your face when you heard his breath hitch in his throat, eyes opening to see you already looking at him, waiting patiently.

Spencer locked his eyes on himself, breathing deeply as his tongue darted out to wet his lips, his skin heating up, a pink tint spreading from his cheeks all the way down to his chest. You could see the hesitation in his eyes. You were inching your hand just slightly closer to remind him of his reward, mumbling "go on" under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

"I-I'm a p-pretty boy," Spencer stammered, his voice cracking and shaky as he spoke, instantly tearing his eyes away from his reflection, blushing impossibly harder, and his cheeks turning cherry red. You smiled wide, kissing his hot cheek. "That's my good boy, my pretty boy," you praised, finally taking his length into your hand. Spencer immediately let out a breath that formed into a whimper, relaxing against your body as you slowly dragged your hand up his shaft. Spencer let out a moan at the slightest stimulation, making you wonder what he'd sound like when you picked up the pace and stopped teasing.

You soon found out when you began languidly stroking his cock, not too fast but definitely not as painfully slow as you had been so far. Spencer was twitching in your arms, his hips stuttering into your touch while he let out strangled moans of pure pleasure. The whole experience was completely new to him; he'd never felt this good before, and it was going to his head, making him babble incoherently.

"Feel good, pretty boy?" You mused, your thumb rubbing his slit, and Spencer's hand flying to grip yours that rested on his hip, squeezing hard as he shuddered and whined, his back arching slightly. "S-so good, feel so g-good, d-don't stop, p-please don't s-stop," Spencer's voice sounded teary as he rambled, your hand continuing to stroke his length and your pace fastening slightly, drawing more of his sweet sounds from him.

"I wasn't planning on stopping, baby, don't you worry, I wanna see you cum," you finished your sentence by circling your palm over his tip, the action pulling a choked sob from him as tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to spill over any second. Your eyes were fixated on his reflection, mesmerised by the way his body writhed against you, his hips rutting gently into your hand and his mouth agape as his head rested on your shoulder, the close proximity of your faces having him practically moaning in your ear.

"O-oh, my god! f-fuck" Spencer moaned loudly, his hips rutting into your hand more harshly as tears spilled down his pink cheeks, quiet gasps falling from his lips. You could feel the dampness pooling in your underwear as you watched Spencer fall apart in your arms. He looked irresistible as he gripped your bedsheets with one hand and your hand in the other. His entire body was shaking and twitching as he got closer and closer to cumming.

"I-I-think I-" Spencer could hardly form a sentence, at least every second word being interrupted by whimpers and sobs. You hushed him, understanding exactly what he was trying to say and opting to stroke him faster, tightening your hold just slightly. The change made Spencer arch his back into your touch, a choked moan filling the room, his hips uncontrollably rolling into your hand as he chased his release.

"F-fuck, I'm gonna c-cum, please p-please d-don't stop, s-so close." His voice was high-pitched and whiny as he lost control, his body spasming as he let out choked sobs. When you felt his cock twitch in your hand, you stopped at the base and squeezed tightly, preventing him from cumming. The sudden denial and loss made him cry out, and a non-stop stream of tears ran down his face and neck. He became a babbling mess, unable to form a sentence, just begging over and over again for you to let him cum.

"Shh, baby, shh, I'm going to let you cum Don't worry, baby, just do something for me, okay?" You slipped your hand from his to smooth his hair off his forehead, the sweat that had gathered making it stick to his skin. Spencer opened his eyes, his lip quivering and his waterline still teary. "p-please please, a-anything! j-just p-please l-let m-me, n-need it so b-bad," Spencer sobbed. The sound broke your heart, hearing your pretty baby so distressed.

"Watch yourself cum for me, baby." Your voice was low as you spoke in his ear, your hand absentmindedly stroking his hair, unknowingly soothing him slightly. Spencer nodded erratically, shifting in your hold as his gaze fixed on himself, his heart hammering in his chest. The anticipation of finally getting his release made his whole body start short-circuiting.

"Such a good boy for me, baby," you praised, releasing your hold on his shaft and drawing back to your steady pace. The abrupt stimulation had Spencer moaning almost pornographically, and the sound was music to your ears, knowing you were the only person to have ever made him sound and feel this way, only making it so much more exhilarating.

Spencer's breathing became exasperated as he tried to say something, his voice failing him completely, but you knew what he was trying to say, his cock twitching in your hand, giving it away. Spencer's eyes were trained on his reflection—something so sinfully mesmerising about watching himself and seeing himself this way—not many people have the chance to see themselves so vulnerable.

"P-please, c-can I?" Spencer mewled. You think if you said no, he might've broken down right then and would never forgive you. You weren't going to, of course. You wanted this as much as he did, and as soon as you whispered those three golden words, it was all over.

"Cum for me."

Spencer cried out as he came, his eyes rolling back into his head. His orgasm hit him harder than it ever had before, his mind going completely blank. cum painted his abdomen and your hand in spurts, the thick white liquid coating his skin as you milked him of every drop, working him through his orgasm. You only stopped when he let out a whine of protest at the overstimulation and tried to squirm away from you.

"So proud of you, baby; you did so so well, my good boy," you said sweetly as you wrapped your arms around him, hugging him close to you while nuzzling your head into his and pressing gentle kisses to his hair.

You sat in silence while Spencer came down from his high, allowing him time to get his breath back. The sound was the only thing filling the room. You placed a chaste kiss on his shoulder before you spoke, "You know we don't have to have sex tonight if you don't feel up to it, baby; we can just cuddle; I won't mind." Your chin rested on his shoulder, eyes closed, while Spencer peeled his open, turning his head to look at you fully instead of through the mirror.

"No, I want to; I wanna at least try to return the favour." His voice was raspy as he spoke, all the noise he'd been making taking a small toll. You tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, the same strand that seemed to be perpetually out of place, your expression softening at his words, "Spence, you don't have to return any favors; I told you at the beginning that this was about you, not me." You knew Spencer was persistent and wasn't going to give in easily, or even at all, but at least you offered.

"I want to, for you...and for me," Spencer averted your eyes, shy at admitting wanting this for his own trivial needs. His conformation that he did in fact want this and he wasn't just doing it for you because he felt guilty was convincing enough for you as you pressed a kiss to his lips. The sudden action caught him slightly off guard, but he quickly recovered, kissing you back with fervour, the anticipation of what was coming making him borderline intoxicated.

You broke this kiss, tugging Spencer's bottom lip with your teeth as you did, the action making him whine and chase your lips, desperate for more, but you just giggled, pulling away from him completely as you shifted up the bed, his eyes fixed on you as you moved to begin slowly unbuttoning your shirt. Your pace was painfully slow, giving him a bit of a striptease, the way he licked his lips and scanned every inch of skin that was revealed only egging you on further.

Once you popped the last button open, you slipped the material off your body, throwing it on the floor alongside his shirt. The sight of your chest, although covered by your bra, had the blood rushing straight to Spencer's cock, his eyes too busy on your boobs to notice you clearly staring at him until you spoke.

"Wanna touch them?" It could've just as well been a rhetorical question, with the answer already blatantly obvious. Spencer nodded eagerly; his keenness was endearing, and it had you squeezing your thighs together and biting down your lip.

You furrowed your brows when Spencer sat unmoving until you realised what he was waiting for; "C'mere then, baby" Your go ahead had him closing the space between you at light speed, and your eyes trailed down to see him fully hard again. It was a lewd sight, his pants pulled down just enough to free his length, his stomach still covered with his release, and his neck, shoulder, and collarbones lined with dark red and purple bruises.

Spencer noticed your staring and whined in embarrassment, feeling exposed while you were still mostly covered. You couldn't help but chuckle lightly. "You want me to take my skirt off? Will that make you feel better, baby?" Your voice dripped with honey, and the premise of seeing you in just your bra and underwear made Spencer's brain turn to mush.

"Y-yeah, please," he rasped, his eyes scanning your body from top to bottom, watching as you moved to kneel and reached behind you to unzip your skirt, pushing it down to your thighs before you leaned back on your elbows, your eyes connecting with Spencer's as you concealed a smirk.

"Help me take it off, pretty boy." You fake pouted and fluttered your lashes. Spencer's breath hitched in his throat, letting out a shaky breath before leaning over you, taking your skirt in his hands and slowly slipping it down and off your legs, dropping it on the floor before his eyes trailed back up to your covered crotch, attempting to swallow the lump in his throat at the sight.

"Fuck c'mere pretty boy," you leaned up onto your hand, placing the other on the side of his face and surging forward, pressing your lips to his with fervour. The kiss was sloppy and desperate as you pulled Spencer down to lay on top of you, taking his hand in yours and guiding it to your chest. He moaned into your mouth at the feeling of your soft breast in his hand, starting to knead and massage gently.

"Can I- can I take it off? please?" Spencer breathed, breaking the kiss, his hair falling around his face as he looked down at you. You bit down on your lip and nodded, arching your back off the sheets to allow his hands to slip around your body, fumbling with the clasps for a moment before they clicked open, your bra going slack on your chest. You weren't even surprised that he was also good at that.

Spencer let out a breath, watching you take the straps in your fingers and slowly pull them down your arms, finally revealing your bare breasts to him, his mouth gaping at the sight, seeing your nipples harden in the cold air, perking up and practically begging for him to suck on them, so he did, taking you by surprise when he leaned down, taking your nipple into his mouth without hesitation, wasting no time with testing the waters.

"Oh, fuck baby," you mewled, placing your hand on the back of his head and running your hand through his hair as he continued to suckle on your hardened nipple, letting out muffled moans into the soft flesh while he kneaded the other. You arched your back, pushing your chest into his face as he turned his attention to the other nipple, giving equal attention to both while you let out sighs of pleasure, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Spencer released your nipple once he was satisfied before burying his face in the crook of your neck, the movement causing his cock to press into your thigh, whimpering into your skin at the feeling. "Take your pants off, baby," you rasped in his ear, kissing his hair. Spencer immediately complied, pulling away and standing up from your bed before tugging his pants and underwear down his legs and stepping out of them, leaving them crumpled on the floor.

When Spencer turned around to climb back onto the bed, he was met with you completely naked, holding your underwear out to him on your foot, your lip pulled between your teeth. You giggled at his reaction, knowing that he'd be completely awestruck, not expecting you to be bare in front of him.

"Keep 'em if you like," you said teasingly, a sly smile on your lips as Spencer took the garment, dropping it on the floor along with the rest of your clothes and watching as you slowly spread your legs, completely exposing yourself to him, watching as his mouth dropped open at the view of your glistening pussy, feeling a little boost to his ego knowing that he was the reason you were wet.

"Are you going to come and fuck me or not, pretty boy?" You purred, watching him quickly climb back onto your bed, moving to be leaning over you again.

You could hear his heavy breaths, his body tense, nerves wracking his body under the pressure. You tucked his hair behind his ear once again, smiling sweetly at him. "Don't be nervous, baby; I'll tell you if you're hurting me or doing something wrong." Your words eased him slightly as he shifted closer, kneeling between your thighs, his eyes scanning your body from your face to your chest down to your waiting entrance.

Spencer didn't notice his breathing getting out of control again until you sprung up, taking his face into your hands, a worried expression on your face. "Hey, hey, breathe, baby, just breathe. You're okay. What's going on?" You tried to calm his breathing before it became a panic attack. Your soft touch and gentle words worked enough for him to talk to you. "I-i c-can't-" Spencer stuttered, avoiding your eyes and trying to pull away, but you just secured your arms around his neck, keeping him close.

"Yes, you can Spence; if you don't want to, that's completely different, but if you're just worried about doing it wrong, then you're not going anywhere." Your words made Spencer lift his gaze to your eyes, scanning your expression to see that you were completely sincere. He hesitated for a moment before leaning in to kiss you, initiating it for the first time. His kiss was gentle and slow, and you returned the same treatment, slowing the pace down to his comfort zone before you went any further.

You were the first to break the kiss for air, both your chests heaving and Spencer's nerves seeming to have subsided. You pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his lips before looking up at him, his eyes already fixed on yours. "You ready, baby?" You smiled, your hand resting on the back of his neck.

"Yeah, I am now." With that, you lay back again, watching Spencer smooth his hands down your inner thighs, urging your legs to open wider before wrapping them around and tugging you closer to him with no effort. The action made you gasp, feeling butterflies in your stomach.

Spencer placed a hand on your hip before his head snapped up to look at you. "I don't have any protection, do you?" He had a slightly panicked expression, and you just laughed, realising that you, in fact, didn't. "Just pull and pray," you said it so nonchalantly as if it weren't completely irresponsible and unreliable.

"But that doesn't prevent you from getting pregnant, and it's stupid, are you sure? I could go to the st-" You cut him off with a loud groan, glaring up at him. "Spencer, I swear to God, please just fuck me." You weren't usually so forward, but right now you were borderline sexually frustrated with how much he was putting it off.

Spencer gulped, nodding as you sighed in relief, watching as he moved to stroke his length a few times, taking a deep breath before leaning over you, pushing his hips forward enough for his tip to meet your entrance. You gasped at the contact, rolling your hips up and causing his length to dip into your cunt. Spencer immediately pushed further in at the feeling, his jaw falling slack as your walls started surrounding him, wet and warm and perfect, his hips subconsciously rutting forward into you.

"F-fuck s-sorry," Spencer apologised, stopping his movements to make sure he hadn't hurt you. You responded by wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer until he was bottomed out. A strangled moan ripped from his throat at the feeling of your soft walls wrapped around him. "O-oh, my god," Spencer breathed, his eyes screwed shut as he tried not to move, knowing that he had to wait and let you adjust to the stretch, which you were thankful for because it definitely was a stretch, making sure to mask the pain so he wouldn't worry. You lay quietly while Spencer let out laboured breaths, the hot air fanning your skin as his head rested on your chest.

Instead of telling him he could move You rolled your hips upward, Spencer moaning into your skin as you did, pulling out slightly before pushing back in, both of you moaning in unison. Spencer lifted his head from your chest and looked up at you, silently asking for reassurance. "Keep doing that, baby; that's good," you breathed, slinging your arms around his neck.

Spencer took your waist into his hands, continuing to roll his hips into yours at a steady pace, but you could tell he was holding back, trying so hard to be gentle and slow for you. It was endearing, of course, but you needed more. "F-faster, please" you moaned out, encouraging him to just give in and fuck you how he wanted to, how you needed him to.

He fastened his pace at your plea, his hips snapping into yours as he dropped his head to the crook of your neck, moaning desperately into your skin. "F-fuck! S-so good, pretty boy," you gasped, gripping his shoulders harshly, your nails leaving crescent moons in his skin. Spencer didn't even notice the stinging; the feeling of your pussy clenching around him overwhelming his senses as he moaned and whimpered into your neck.

"O-oh god, s-so warm," Spencer whined, gripping your waist tighter as he rutted his cock into you harder, his tip brushing that perfect spot inside you, the feeling making you gasp, nails running down his back, leaving red streaks across his skin. "R-right there! F-fuck Spencer, don't stop!" you moaned wantonly, back arching off the sheets as the sound of skin against skin filled the room.

Spencer's movements were slightly clumsy and out of rhythm, but the way he filled you and moaned your name made up for it completely. You felt his hips begin to stutter slightly, knowing that he wasn't going to last much longer; it didn't bother you at all. Your expectations for how long a virgin would last weren't exactly high; you didn't even expect to finish, but when Spencer moved his hand from your waist down to tentatively rub circles on your clit, you felt a familiar knot forming.

"Fuck, baby, that's it!" You moaned loudly, Spencer's fingers working faster at your praise, reassuring him that he was doing good. You felt tears prick your eyes, the sensation of Spencer's cock dragging against your sensitive walls and his fingers rubbing tight circles on your clit making your mind go numb, clinging to him as you ground your hips up to meet his thrusts, the head of his cock brushing your g-spot over and over again.

"I-I'm gonna c-cum," Spencer warned, voice strained and whiny as his pace faltered, thrusts getting sloppy as he neared his second orgasm. "m-me too baby just a l-little more," you whined, head thrown back against your pillows as a few stray tears escaped your eyes, thighs beginning to shake against his waist, your legs still secured around him.

It didn't take much longer for you to feel Spencer's cock twitch inside you, your walls fluttering around him as you felt your orgasm dangerously close. Spencer was suddenly trying to pull away to release on your stomach, your legs instinctively constricting him harder, desperate for your own release. "I-I c-can't hold i-it; you need to l-let me-" You could hear how much he was straining in his voice, desperately trying not to cum, but your mind only had one train of thought, and that was your own release.

"I-inside! p-please just c-cum inside!" You begged, Spencer's eyes blowing wide at your words, his cock twitching at the implication of filling you with his cum, and honestly, it seemed like his only option. Your thighs clenched around his waist and hands holding him with a vice-like grip, so he gave in, hands moving to hold your hips as he let himself thrust into your warmth, both of you moaning in tandem.

Spencer gave a few more sloppy thrusts before he choked out a moan, eyes squeezing shut and head tipping back as he released into you, burying his cock as deep as it would go, cum painting your walls in spurts, the feeling of the warm liquid filling you to the brim had to toppling over the edge, your back arching as you clenched around his length, a mix of his and your cum spilling out around his cock as he gently rocked his hips into you, riding out both your highs.

Spencer let himself collapse on top of you, his arms wrapping around you as he nuzzled his head into your chest, which was rising and falling quickly with your heavy breaths. You both lay in silence as you caught your breath, only remembering that you had to get up and clean yourselves when Spencer moved slightly, feeling more of his cum seep out of you.

"You should go pee." Spencer's voice was muffled as he spoke into your chest. You laughed lightly at the fact that he knew that. I mean he of all people would know that women had to pee after sex. "Well, get out then," you joked, Spencer cringing at your choice of words but complying, lifting himself off of you and slowly pulling out his softening length, both of you sucking in a breath at the feeling.

Spencer insisted on cleaning you up, taking care to be gentle and careful as he did, knowing you would still be sensitive before he all but forced you to pee, going on a tangent about UTI's and the statistics of how many women get them after not peeing after sex, and shoving him out of the bathroom. You finally got some peace to actually use the bathroom without him making you paranoid about your vagina falling off or something.

"alright! i pissed! happy now?" You walked back into your bedroom to find Spencer digging around in your closet in just his underwear, your bedsheets strewn on your floor. "Yes, very, where are your spare sheets?" he asked, turning to face you. You just stood in silence for a moment before you smiled, padding over to him, suddenly full of emotion as you wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your head into his bare chest. Spencer was surprised at your sudden affection but returned your hug, resting his chin atop your head and enveloping you in his arms, his larger body completely engulfing yours.

"What was that for?" Spencer asked when you pulled away, and you just looked at him with your eyebrows furrowed. "We just had sex, and you're asking why I hugged you? Got your priorities  straight, I see Dr. Reid," you jokingly rolled your eyes, feigning being mad at him. Spencer had learned how to differentiate when you were joking and serious pretty early in your friendship, so he just laughed at you, shaking his head but still curious as to why you decided to hug him.

You brought out your spare sheets from the closet, looking at Spencer with a look on your face that said everything: "I swear I looked there." He tried to reason, but you just scoffed, mumbling, "Yeah, yeah" and shaking your head.

Spencer all but forced you to let him help you make the bed, quickly regretting it when it turned into you both bickering over who was doing it wrong and who was doing it right, Spencer cursing more in the ten minutes it took to make the bed than he had in your years of knowing each other, but you eventually had the bed made, both of you getting in on your designated sides. It was a good thing you both religiously slept on opposite sides, or you think you might've actually become an unsub.

You switched off your lamp before rolling over and scooting over the bed to press yourself into Spencer's back, wrapping your arm around him and nuzzling your cheek into his back. "Are you...spooning me?" Spencer sounded as if he was trying not to laugh, and you glared at him even though you couldn't see him whatsoever and he couldn't see you even if a light was on. "Oh, I see, you don't appreciate my spooning you ungrateful little ass; I'll just be over here, don't you worry," you scoffed, rolling over aggressively and letting out an overexaggerated huff as you scooched right to the very edge of the bed, as far away from him as you could get, taking all the blankets with you.

"No no! i do! I really appreciate your spooning! come back!" Spencer laughed, reaching behind him to find you, his hand accidentally landing on your ass, making you gasp and swat him away. "Pervert! You're lucky you're cute, y'know." You rolled back over and moved to slot yourself behind him again, pinching his waist as a form of punishment for grabbing your ass before you draped your duvet back over him.

You both lay listening to each other breathing as you felt sleep begin to creep up on you. You heard heavy breaths leaving Spencer's lips. You poked him lightly a few times to be sure he was asleep before you whispered quietly, "I hugged you because I'm kind of in love with you." You held your breath, praying that he was actually asleep, and when he didn't reply, you let it out, sinking into the mattress as you let your exhaustion win, everything going black.

silly little epilogue!

"Shit, shit, shit!" you practically yelled, rushing out of your apartment with Spencer in tow, still buttoning his shirt, belt undone, and hair awry as you both hurried to your car. You had both slept in for work, completely forgetting to set alarms the night before. You only woke up when Penelope called you, asking where you were, eyes bulging out of your head when you noticed how late you were, Spencer stirring beside you at the commotion, opening his mouth to say something when you slammed your hand over his lips, his eyes widening when he realised it was Penelope on the phone.

You had to lie to her when she asked if you knew where Spencer was, telling her you had no idea and that you were sure he would be there soon. Spencer took the opportunity to jump out of bed to scavenger hunt for his clothes around your apartment.

You made a pit stop on the way to the pharmacy to pick up the morning after pill, the cashier looking at you with a knowing look at your appearance; your hair was messy, your clothes were askew and untidy, and there was not a lick of makeup on your face. You only realised you didn't have anything to take it with when you got to the car, and you were not taking it dry, opting to just speed off and deal with it later.

Your car all but screeched to a stop when you reached the building, both of you swinging the doors open and slamming them behind you, almost forgetting to lock your car as you tried to discreetly run-walk to the elevator, which didn't work. Passersby giving you both weird looks.

You did your best to fix yourself in the elevator, trying to look at least presentable to minimise questions from your colleagues. You didn't even glance at Spencer; how he looked was his own problem today. The elevator dinged and the doors opened, both of you striding out in unison, making your way through the office to the conference room.

"So sorry, I'm late!" You spoke, quickly making your way to your seat. "Traffic was terrible, sorry, hotch." Spencer followed suit, taking the seat next to you as everyone's eyes turned to you, looking at you both with a strange expression that you couldn't quite put your finger on.

Hotch went back to the briefing, going over the details that you had about the case when you leaned in to whisper to Derek, who was next to you. "Can I have a sip of your water?" you asked, and Derek nodded, handing it to you without hesitation. You tried to slyly pull the pill out of your pocket and quietly remove the packaging, but you clearly weren't sly or quiet enough. Penelope was gasping from across the table.

"no way! you dirty dogs!" She practically squealed, everyone's undevided attention turning to you, some confused expressions at her outburst. "That, my friends, is the morning after pill, and those, my friends, are a whole bunch of hickeys; oh, may I remind you they came in together, by the way?" Penelope pointed as she spoke, at your hand and at Spencer, both of you blushing and trying to wrack your brains for an explanation, but there was none.

"My boy!" Derek celebrated, leaning around you to pat Spencer on the back. You turned to him with an apologetic expression, realising it was probably your fault for not checking that they were covered, too worried about your appearance.

"Why am I not surprised?" Rossi added, a few of the others agreeing with him. You could tell that everyone wanted to bombard you both with questions but knew that they couldn't because of the whole part where you were all in an important meeting, Hotch clearing his throat as a reminder, everyone's attention turning back to the case.

You took the opportunity to actually take your pill, throwing it in your mouth and taking a swig of dereks water before handing it back to him and turning your attention to Hotch, the meeting continuing as normal.

You didn't notice Spencer scooting closer to you until he gently tapped your thigh to get your attention, turning to face him before he leaned in to whisper in your ear.

"I'm kind of in love with you too, by the way."

[puranami]

✿ Fever - 1 ✿

A/N: Not included Brook and Jimbei bc I have absolutely no idea how to write them. Also, since Chopper is baby it would feel weird including him, even though it'd be in a purely platonic way. Just because of all the pining going on. Idk, I'd rather keep the themes separate, if that makes sense?

Summary: You're sick and try to ignore it.

Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Nami, Usopp, Sanji, Robin, Franky.

Content: SFW, G/N reader, no serious illness but Usopp's is a liiiiittle angsty bc of his mum, not proofread (effectively) bc it's past 2am ✿

(Part 2)

Luffy

✿ He's honestly oblivious to things at first. You are doing your best to maintain your usual level of enthusiasm but it's so exhausting, and that's the most he registers - that you're tired.

"Hey, did ya not sleep too good?" he asked, entirely too loud for the headache beginning to form. You groan and lean your head into your hand, as if that would somehow soothe things, but to no avail. "Don't worry about it, I swear it won't affect my duties," you say, not sure who you were trying to convince. Apparently it didn't work regardless, as when you looked at him he was just stood there frowning with his arms crossed, and his head tilted. Before you could say anything you were greeted with a rubbery palm lightly smacking against your forehead, earning a surprised yelp from you. "You're hot." "Luffy!" Of course he had to say it that way. If you weren't already burning up with this fever, that would've set your skin ablaze. He really had no filter, and he never realised how the things he said affected you. He removed his hand from your face to grab your own, turning to drag you back to your quarters, not listening to any of your protests on the matter. There really wasn't anything you could do once Luffy had made up his mind, and you'd be lying if you said it wasn't part of his charm. "No duties for you today, 'kay?" It may have been phrased like a question, but you knew it was 'Captain's orders.'

✿ You'd end up sleeping most of the day, with Luffy having gotten Chopper to look after you.

✿What you wouldn't be aware of was his constant presence while you slept, keeping a quiet vigil whilst he made sure the damp cloth on your head was always nice and cool.

✿ He just wants you to get better as fast as you can!

Zoro

✿ One word; clueless.

✿ It just looks like a hangover to him, what with the way you groan at the light, are unsteady on your feet, and complain about being nauseous.

"And I thought I drank a lot last night." he'd comment with a smirk. "Shut up, Zoro, you always drink a lot," you whine. "I didn't drink anything!" "The pathetic whining says otherwise." You threw the rag you'd been cleaning with at him. He raised an eyebrow, watching it harmlessly drop to the floor in front of him. "Your form is off." This man, you swear! You try to growl out an insult, but it dies on your tongue, a wave of nausea hitting in it's place, causing you to clasp a hand to your mouth. "Alright, easy champ, no need to strain yourself," Zoro raised his hands in faux surrender. "Come on, you gotta sleep this one off." He can't help but smile as you pathetically smack at him while he picks you up, opting for bridal style as opposed to flour sack, only so you don't empty your guts down his back. Saying that, he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy holding you like that, though you're far too busy trying to fight him to notice the dusting of pink on his cheeks. "Don't worry I'll get you through this. I know my way around a hangover." "I'm not hungover," you protest as he gently places you in a hammock.

✿ True to his word though, he does see you through it, even if 'it' is the wrong thing. Task failed successfully!

✿ Zoro stays beside you, makes sure you drink plenty of water, and get plenty of rest, even falling asleep himself at one point; his face inches from yours as he was leaning against the post the top end of the hammock was attached to at the time.

✿ Sadly you never saw that as you slept right through it. Would've been good ammunition to use against him when he needed taking down a peg.

Nami

✿ One of the people who would actually do a good job of looking after you. She's not got the gentlest bedside manner; she is firm yet fair, so you're in good hands.

When you don't join the crew for breakfast, Nami took it upon herself to make sure you hadn't gotten tangled in your hammock, or something equally as stupid. You wake up in a cold sweat when you hear your door open, and manage to croak out, "Nami? Oh, did I oversleep?" When you try to get up, she pushes you right back down. "Don't." Her tone indicates that she will not tolerate any shenanigans, and so you do as you're told. "You need to sleep more. I'll get you some water, and later Sanji will make you some soup." She tucks a thin blanket around you, so you don't overheat. "If you so much as try to get out of this hammock I'm going to tie your arms and legs together. Understood?" Unable to stop yourself, you let out a light chuckle. "Nami, you're so cute when you pretend not to care," the fever disabling any kind of filter you may have had. While it did catch her by surprise, you are none the wiser, as you quickly drift back off to sleep. Nami has to take a brief moment to collect herself again, silently cursing the noticeable warmth in her cheeks, then mumbling about how you're an idiot before leaving your room.

✿ Nami basically dictates how your day is. Lots of sleep, plenty of fluids and maybe a warm bath to help sweat this out, and of course she 'requests' (demands) Sanji make a hearty soup to help you get better, which he is more than happy to do for her!

✿ She'll deny it, but she sets up in your room so she can monitor you throughout the day, only going to Chopper for medicine if she thinks it's bad enough, deciding it isn't necessary to bother him with something so manageable.

Usopp

✿ He panics. Something about seeing someone he cares about getting sick makes him think of his mother, and he doesn't want to lose anyone else like that.

Usopp scoops you up and books it to Chopper. You've seen him afraid, but nothing this intense, and no matter how much you try to convince him that you're okay, and that it's just a cold - you can't seem to break through to him. "Chopper, please help! Please!" He begs as he gently places you on a bed. Tears are streaming down his face, as he takes your hand in a vice-like grip. Once Chopper confirms what you already tried to tell him about it being a common cold, he relaxes a bit. You don't hold it against him, clearly this is something deeper for him. Chopper's words, those of a professional, were very reassuring. "You just need rest, but I do have medicine to help with symptoms if you need," he says before putting a comforting little hoof on Usopp's knee. "Everything will be okay, I promise." Usopp takes a moment to collect himself before quietly saying, "Can I stay?" You and Chopper look at each other before smiling back at him, letting him know he is welcome to stay as long as he likes, or in this case needs. Neither of you press him on why this had him so scared, figuring he'll tell you if and when he's ready to.

✿ Chopper will handle all of your care, because Usopp refuses to leave your side.

✿ He keeps you entertained with his stories when you're awake, and scribbles on some loose papers Chopper gives him while you sleep. It's mainly ideas for things to make, and it keeps him calm.

✿ At one point he falls asleep with his arms crossed on the bed beside you, his little fingers linked with your own, like an unspoken promise that you'll get better, and he'll be there when you do.

Sanji

✿ As soon as Sanji catches on that you are sick, he decides to completely dedicate himself to your care and recovery! He's very attentive, and will do every little thing you want or need to get you back to health.

"Darling, I insist!" Every 'it's okay,' and 'you don't need to do all that for me,' will be shot down immediately. "What kind of man would I be if I let someone as lovely as you do anything in this condition?" He clutches his chest dramatically. "No, no. Don't you worry about a thing; I'll make sure you're well again in no time at all." You really don't have the energy to try and dissuade him, so you accept your fate, and let him dote on you the whole day. It's honestly really nice; you love having his attention, and are thankful that the fever hides your blushes, but you also can't help feeling a little guilty with how much he does for you. "Please don't overexert yourself on my behalf, I don't want you to end up getting sick yourself." "Even if I was sick, it wouldn't stop me from looking after you, my dear." You can't help but frown at this. He's so eager to do for others, but is painfully stubborn about receiving that same care. "If you're ever sick, Sanji, I'm gonna do everything that you've done for me - and I won't hear any objection from you on the matter!" You say in as stern a voice as you can manage with a sore throat. "Darling-" "Nope!" You cut him off quickly, "You deserve the same level of care that you give out!" He looks at you a little wide-eyed, an adorable blush creeping along his face. He lets out a small laugh. As much as he'd like to, he says nothing more on it; you're as stubborn as he is it would seem.

✿ Sanji makes lots of lovely food to help aid in your recovery; warming soups, peppermint tea, porridge with ginger and honey. Everything that soothes and settles, no matter the malady.

✿ His bedside manner is impeccable! He's so gentle with you, and he makes sure to check in as often as he can, whilst still doing his duties, getting as much done as possible while you're asleep.

✿ Like Nami, he only goes to Chopper if he feels your condition requires it. He's confident that his cooking will be more than enough to get you back to health.

Robin

✿ A blessing, and a curse. She's very logical, and she knows how to handle such a minor illness, but, she really can't help telling you all about other illnesses that have worryingly similar symptoms.

"Oh, this one is very unpleasant," she beams, and you can't help but press your hands over your ears. "Chopper!" You cry, before she can start telling you about this particular strain of 'instantdeathitus,' practically running into the infirmary with Robin hot on your heels, holding an open book on diseases. "Robin keeps talking about scary diseases and now I'm scared I'm gonna die!" After being given a quick check-up, and much reassurance that, no, you do not have a rare disease that can only be contracted on a specific island in a completely different ocean, and yes, it is just a common cold, you relax. Mostly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," Robin says later once you have bundled up and settled down. "Your cold just reminded me of this book, and I thought it was fascinating. I just wanted to share it with you." She clearly felt guilty, and you appreciated that this was just how she is, but you really would've rather she'd chosen a different topic to tell you about. "Maybe, you have a book on old remedies you could tell me about instead?" Robin perks back up at this. She truly values how much you understand her, and she can see why talking about diseases when your ill is not the most pleasant experience, so this is a perfect compromise. "That's a wonderful idea," she smiles, and you swear she puts the sun to shame with how bright her smile is. "There might be one we can try that will help with your recovery."

✿ Once you get past the scary disease hiccup, Robin is a great companion, looking up home remedies, and trying out the ones that are clearly based on logic as opposed to superstition.

✿ If you find a good remedy, she's excitedly write it down, and later pass the information on to Chopper.

✿ She's happy to get you water when needed, and will watch over you as you nap in the library. It's one of the quietest parts of the ship, so there is no way to disturb you there.

Franky

✿ Aside from Chopper, Franky is genuinely the best at dealing with sick people. He tones down his behaviour, and knows exactly what you need to get back on your feet.

Your head was absolutely thundering, at least that's how it felt. Franky clocked onto your condition as soon as he saw you enter the kitchen, and once you had what you came in for, he hurried you off to his workshop. You thought it was an odd choice. "Shouldn't I go somewhere quiet?" "I know it doesn't seem it, but I can keep this place absolutely silent if I need to. No music, no one else barging in and making a racket," he said, keeping his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "Also the walls are soundproof - keeps noise out just as well as it keeps my noise in." "Oh! That's really impressive," even when ill, there is a sparkle in your eyes when he tells you about pretty much anything he's designed or built. You notice his cheeks turning red, but assume that it's just from the compliment as he looked so proud when you gave it to him. "That's not all," he grins, "I've been working on a lil something, and now's the perfect time to show you!" That certainly piqued your interest, and he was doing a great job at distracting you from how bad you felt. Franky led you to one of the corners of the room, one that was covered in a large tarp. You'd seen it many times, and you were always curious, but he'd always brushed it off whenever you brought it up, so the thought of finally seeing what was under there was exciting! Pulling down the tarp revealed a little alcove that was almost like a nest considering the amount of cushions. "It's a space for you," he said sheepishly, "so you have somewhere comfortable to sit when you hang out in here. I figured you could rest there whilst you're ill, and I can look out for you." You stared at it in absolute wonder, big shining eyes darting between it and him. "It's absolutely perfect, thank you so much!"

✿ Franky kept the workshop quiet like he said he would, and whenever you needed anything, like water or medicine, he'd go and get it for you.

✿ At some point Chopper came in to check on you, since Franky had mentioned you were ill, but there really wasn't much to do about it besides getting lots of rest, and you had that covered.

✿ He'd work on his quiet projects, the ones still in the planning and design stages, whilst you slept peacefully in your cosy nest.

[kamiversee]

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁*𝘾𝙆 𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

✧.* CHAPTER 28 || The Effect You Have

[ { SYPNOSIS } ] ➤ A tale in which Gojo Satoru blackmails you into seducing a list of people to clear his debt. Sounds easy enough, right?

[ { CHAPTER CONTENT } ] ➤ language & fluff.

[ { WORD COUNT } ] ➤ 4.1k

[ { PAIRINGS } ] ➤ jjk men x f!reader. gojo x f!reader. geto x f!reader. toji x f!reader. choso x f!reader. sukuna x f!reader. nanami x f!reader.

[ [ chapters mlist } ]

——IT ALL BEGAN SO SIMPLE. Once Gojo got you home, he opened the trunk of his car to reveal the fifteen dresses he'd purchased for you, all of which he forgot to tell you had also been tailored for you as well.

He left that part out because the two of you had gone to get a dress tailored once just a few days ago. The dress you wore to Sukuna's party was specifically tweaked to fit you perfectly and after that, Gojo took the extra step of having the tailor keep your measurements for future dresses.

It was a detail he decided to leave out because he'd been planning for this for a while now and he didn't want you to think he was weird in any way-- even though the gesture was rather nice of him. Gojo was also sure to leave out how expensive each dress actually was, never wanting to reveal the fact that he'd spent his entire bank account on you if he could.

You went upstairs first, carrying only one dress with you as you did so. When you got into your apartment, you quickly noticed that Shoko had left some time ago, giving you the space for a while. Since it's a Friday, you recall that she has one class and then usually likes to go out and do something right after.

Within minutes after you walk into your apartment, Gojo is entering with the remaining dresses piled up in his hands. You would've helped him carry more but he insisted otherwise.

He takes all the dresses into your room and places them on your bed, just as you instruct him to. Once he's done, the man goes ahead and seats himself onto your mattress with an expectant look in his eyes.

You blink, one dress still in your hands as you wonder why Gojo's looking at you in such a patient way, "What? Why are you still sitting there...?" You ask simply.

Gojo shrugs, "I mean I didn't buy all those dresses for no reason..."

You scoff out a laugh, "Ohh, you want me to try on the dresses for you?"

He flashes you this innocent little smile, "Mhm..."

You narrow your eyes at him, "You'd see the dress whenever I wear it though..."

"That's not true, I'm not gonna be at this nightclub every time you go, I'm just taking you tonight since it's your first time there," Gojo explains.

You stare for a second, then nod, "Uhuh... Fine then, I guess I'll try on the dresses for you..."

He smiles, "Let me know if you need help putting them on-"

"You're not slick, Satoru," You cut off as you turn and dip into your bathroom.

The sound of him chuckling is heard as you move around and begin to change yourself into the first dress. Like all the others, the dress is beautiful and so obviously expensive, despite whatever Gojo tells you about it not being pricey.

You're careful to put the item on, quickly noticing how it fits like a glove and how pretty it looks on you. This first dress is silk and dark blue, almost royal blue, backless, and rather enticing. Just looking at yourself in it makes you feel odd.

The dress you wore to Sukuna's party was one thing, after all, you've been to plenty of parties before so it was your typical dark red party dress. But this dress... Well, you know Gojo said the club was pretty fancy but based on this first dress and the glimpse you caught of the other ones, it seems like classy is what you're gonna have to go for.

When you consider yourself to be done, you open the bathroom door with your eyes down on the dress as your free hand moves to smooth it out. Gojo's eyes are all over you instantly and when you look up, you're not too surprised to see him moving to get off the bed.

"Why are you getting up?" You chuckle, watching him casually approach you.

Gojo's soon standing in front of you, towering over you like always, "I needed a closer look."

"You might need glasses because I'm pretty sure anyone could've seen everything perfectly fine from my bed," You say in response.

He smiles and tilts his head at you, "Gimme a spin."

You fold your arms under your chest, "Say please."

"Please?" Gojo utters as if it were second nature to do so.

With a roll of your eyes, you slowly turn yourself around and give him a full three-sixty of the dress. Gojo's got this big stupidly happy smile on his face as you do so as if he couldn't be more at peace watching you perform such a simple act.

When you're done and come to a stop facing him once more, he's still smiling at you. "Well?" You ask.

"Y'know I'm gonna say you look beautiful in everything, right?" He sighs, the look in his eyes just dripping with affection.

You swallow, "Then what's the point of me trying all these on...?"

"I'm gonna help you figure out which one you should wear tonight!" He says cheerfully, "Gotta' make sure you make a good first impression on Nanami."

A brow is raised in question, "You do know he's seen me before, right?"

Gojo does this gesture with his hand as if to wave off what you just said, "That doesn't count."

"Right, sure it doesn't." You say, shaking your head at him.

"Oh, I also bought you shoes," Gojo suddenly tells you, turning away and heading back over to your bed.

You watch with wide eyes as he flops down onto your mattress, "What? Why?"

"Uh, to go with the dresses, sweetheart." He hums.

"Well, where are they?"

"Check your closet," Gojo says, laying down on his back and staring up at your ceiling, "Shoko said they came earlier this morning."

You blink, not sure how exactly to react just yet. It's so unusual for you to get spoiled like this. It's one thing for him to buy you a dress every now and then, and another thing for him to pay you for your sinful acts but to go out of his way and purchase this much for you is just...

New.

Your feet move to your closet and the second you open it, you're met with a shitload of new shoeboxes. "Wh-What the hell..." You say softly.

Gojo sits up slightly, holding his body up with his elbow and looking in your direction, "Hm?"

"Satoru..." You whisper, your eyes darting all over the fifteen different boxes of shoes in front of you. "You didn't really..."

"I did," He hums, "I swear they aren't as expensive as you think they are-"

"Shut up," You cut off. He closes his mouth quickly and you crouch down to the first box that catches your eye. "Satoru, these are Christian Louboutins...."

"Oh, I forgot I got those..." He replies.

You move the box around in your hand to inspect the item, "They're like a thousand dollars for each pair on average..."

"Okay...?"

Your eyes go to the other boxes nearby, "I'm seeing seven different pairs..."

"Seven different colors," Gojo explains with a casual shrug.

You take a second to reply, wondering what the hell is wrong with this man and trying to figure out why he'd go out of his way like this. "That's roughly seven thousand dollars on just shoes." You point out after some quick estimates made.

"Okay.....?" He chuckles, "They're shoes for you."

Your heart throbs in your chest in reaction to his emphasis on the shoes being for you-- as if he were implying that the price will never matter if it's something for you. Carefully, you place the box back down, too scared to even open it and look just yet.

"I..." You release a sigh, "I don't understand you..."

For a moment, Gojo goes quiet. You can't see his face so you don't catch how his expression grows worried. He feels like you may even be upset with him for a moment, which is the exact opposite of what he'd hoped to achieve with this.

After a moment of thought, "Is it too much...?" He asks softly.

"Yes, yes it is." Your response is quick and you go on to ramble immediately, "Why the hell would you buy all this for me just for me to go to one little nightclub? There are thousands of other heels you could've bought for me that aren't nearly as expensive. I'm gonna feel like I'm literally walking on eggshells the entire night because of how expensive these are. What if I break them? What if they get dirty-"

"So..." Gojo cuts you off, raising a brow, "I should've bought you a backup pair for each shoe?"

He sounds so genuinely confused that it's almost funny. "No Satoru, you shouldn't have bought me anything this expensive to begin with." You say calmly.

He blinks, "Why not?"

"I..." You sigh again, "It's weird."

"Weird how?" Gojo questions, not understand your reaction at all. He thought you'd be happy about this kinda thing, he's seen the way your eyes light up whenever he pays you so what's the difference here? "I'm buying things for the woman I love, what's so weird about that?" He questions.

"Stop saying that."

His brows pinch together, "What? That I love you? Or, that you're the woman I love?"

"It's all the same, just stop." You tell him.

"Why?"

"Because..." Your words fall off your tongue as you lose the reasoning behind why you want to hear him stop uttering such a phrase.

Every time he says those things it's like you can hear the truth behind his words. Almost as if in no universe could you deny the fact that you wholeheartedly believe he's in love with you. And for some reason, that belief of yours confuses you.

Gojo grins a little, "Because what sweetheart?"

"I don't know how to feel when you say things like that." You finally explain.

"There's no right or wrong way to feel, y'know..."

You shrug, "Well, it makes me feel... weird."

A sneaky little smile spreads across his face, "Is it because you love me t-"

"No." You deny it instantly.

"Alright then," Gojo sighs, "What is it?"

"Sympathetic." You correct him, somewhat figuring out what it is you feel as he utters those three words to you.

"Huh?"

"Every time you say that you love me or do things that make me feel like you love me... I begin to feel sympathy for you." Your explanation makes his heart race for some unknown reason.

Gojo swallows, "W-Why?"

"Cause' it's like... the things you do are making up for the bullshit you make me do. A-And it's all so fucked up because the last thing I want to feel is sympathy for my blackmailer." You stammer, steadily getting worked up over this small conversation.

Gojo lets out a sigh of relief and then smiles softly, even though you're not looking at him yet, "Listen, I'm not spoiling you like this because I want you to forgive me for what I've done. I... I don't ever expect to make up for it. But, if getting you new expensive things can put a smile on your face, even if only for a second, I'd sell a limb to be able to provide that for you."

Your head whips around to the man, "What?"

"Anything," Gojo says, meeting your gaze. He's so serious that it's almost dark the way he looks at you, "I'd do anything for you."

There's this sharp feeling in your chest. It's like you could feel the gravity of his words weighing your heart down. Almost as though, you knew he was serious.

Nearly overwhelmed by his seriousness, you quickly turn your head away, "I appreciate that..." You murmur, unsure of a better way to respond.

"Great-"

"But," You interrupt, "I don't understand why."

"Those three words." Gojo explains, "That's why."

"Because you love me?" You ask.

"Mhm." He hums in response.

"Well," You slowly begin to stand up and move out of your closet. "I don't understand that either."

Gojo watches as you grab another dress to try on and take it into the bathroom. He gets how you find his feelings for you confusing and has no intentions of explaining them just yet so instead, he results in saying something rather simple.

"Love isn't meant to be understood, sweets," Gojo tells you just before you shut the bathroom door.

You merely hum in response to that and the rest of you trying on dresses goes pretty smoothly.

With each dress, he'd comment on either how the material looks good on you or how the color makes a certain feature of yours stand out, all of his comments well thought out and making you feel all warm inside. You eventually even start trying on the heels with these dresses and each outfit is something you never thought you'd find yourself wearing.

Not that they didn't fit your usual style or anything but the prices that followed the items you wore were just something you'd never given yourself the leisure of even looking at. So to have such pretty and expensive items on your body and in your closet felt really nice.

Eventually, you land on the last dress. The color alone made you not want to wear it because simply looking at it reminded you of that morning you spent with Gojo. It was baby blue and rather small on you. There were these thin spaghetti straps that went over your shoulders, a decent amount of cleavage was revealed, and once you got down to how it just barely stopped at your thighs, there was this small slit in it.

It was cute and when you turned around, you noticed it hugged your ass nicely. Even so, you didn't want to reveal yourself in it to Gojo because you had a feeling you knew what his reaction would be.

"It's been fifteen minutes, love. Need some help?" Gojo calls out from the other side of your bathroom door.

You looked to the bottom of the door and noticed his shadow was there, smiling to yourself at how he so clearly knew you were purposefully taking a while. "No, I don't need help..."

"Thennnn what's taking you so long?" He hums.

"Nothing." You say before moving to open the door.

You're quickly met with Gojo standing there, leaning against your doorframe like always with a little smile on his face. His eyes are on your face, not yet dropping down to the dress.

Slowly, he allows himself to get a look at you and you watch the way he smiles. "You are so..."

"Beautiful?" You finish, having heard him say the same thing for the past hour or so, "Yeah, I know-"

"Perfect," Gojo corrects, "You're absolutely perfect."

You roll your eyes at his compliment for the millionth time, "Whatever."

He moves a hand to your waist and suddenly pulls your body close to his. Your chest presses up against him and your eyes frantically search his in question of why he's suddenly touching you.

Then, you catch that look in his gaze that you haven't seen in a while. It's the look that makes your knees go weak, that begging and pleading look of his that so clearly tells you he wants his lips on yours. You hate the way you recognize it so quickly now.

Gojo leans down to you, his arm slithering all the way around your waist, "This is the one." He whispers to you.

You blink, "The one what?"

"The dress you should wear tonight," He clarifies.

"Why? Does Nanami like blue or something?" You ask curiously.

Gojo shrugs, "I think so."

"Oh.." You murmur, watching as Gojo's face nears yours.

He stops himself just an inch away from your lips, his head tilted and his eyes low on yours. He doesn't say anything just yet, simply looking at your lips with the strong desire to place his own over them.

"Can I..." He trails off a little, almost as if he's nervous to ask his question.

You don't know why but you just nod, permitting him to kiss you.

What was it about this man that made you miss the feeling of his lips over yours? You don't know. You have no idea why every time Gojo's lips press into yours and you kiss him, your knees go weak, your brain stops working, and you feel so drowned in love.

You don't feel the same for him but damnit you can't deny how much you enjoy the way he kisses you. Sometimes, like right now, it's gentle and slow, his lips carefully and strategically moving over your own until his tongue is in your mouth, affectionately making out with you as his hand travels up and down your back.

Other times it's hot and heavy, both of you chasing the feeling of each other's lips as if time will one day stop you from feeling that connection.

Currently, you find yourself lost in his kisses, panting softly by the time he pulls away and both of you moving in for more just as quickly as you pulled away. So lost in it, you don't even think as he eases you into your bathroom and lifts you onto the counter, his lips desperate against your own.

Gojo's not kissing you like he wants to have sex with you or anything, he's kissing you like he just enjoys the feeling just as much as you. It's like he melts into your mouth, releasing small hums and even smaller whines into your parted lips as he sinks into the moment.

His hands go to your face, cupping your cheeks in his hand and kissing you like his life depends on it, and as if he's worried you'll slip away from his grasp at any given moment. After which, Gojo's hands would be on your thighs, sliding up your legs and just barely going up and under the dress, eager to just feel your skin.

As he does so, you think you get dizzy when he pulls away just to whisper, "I love you," In the lowest voice you've heard from him.

And it's not just one time he does that, it's constant that he breaks the kiss just to whisper those three words into your lips as if he wants you to never forget it as if he needs to chant the phrase in order to pass the needed level of understanding behind it.

"So much," Gojo utters, "I love you so fucking much." His lips are back on yours within the next second, needy tongue shoving into your mouth that you so gratefully accept.

You're unsure of what you've done to make this man be so deeply in love with you like this. Maybe the day you find out, you may reciprocate the feeling but as of now, the the only thing you can do in response to his repeated claims is kiss him back.

You could never utter those three words back to him. I love you. It's a phrase you've reserved for someone else. A sentence in which you direct toward an entirely different man. Even now as you make out with Gojo, you still think of who's stolen your heart.

Somewhere deep down inside, you tell yourself that it should be him instead. It should be Choso telling you that right now. It should be him holding you so lovingly, kissing you so tenderly, and longing for you the way Gojo does.

That's who you should be with at this very moment and yet, there you were, against Gojo's lips hearing how in love with you he claims to be.

As of now, you could only await the day in which you'd be where you're supposed to be.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ .　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

After about forty straight minutes of locked lips with Gojo Satoru, the two of you eventually pry yourself off of each other. You hadn't even realized you kissed him so long and you didn't even notice the way your lips made it to his neck at one point.

It was almost subconscious the way you left hickeys on his neck, marks that he had no intention of stopping you from making. Gojo actually held your head at his neck at one point, thriving in the feeling of you against him.

When the two of you were done, you watched him admire the work you'd left on his neck as he gazed in the mirror. His fingers traced over each one and the man wishes he could keep them there forever. To have evidence of you on his skin was something he'd wish to keep forever.

Even so, the two of you eventually left the bathroom and it was decided that the final dress you tried on was what you were going to wear that night.

Gojo left later that afternoon and told you he'd be back to pick you up when it was time to go. You still didn't quite understand why it was so important for him to take you there but you didn't argue with him about it.

Shoko eventually stopped home later that afternoon and she teased you about going out for the second night in a row. This time, even though she wasn't going with you, she went ahead and got ready with you-- the two of you helping one another with makeup and accessories.

She even made a comment on the dress you were wearing, saying that it was really pretty on you and that she loved the color. She also not-so-sneakily made a comment on how she recalls Gojo having a tie from high school that matches it but you brushed her words off.

And of course, to your surprise, the tie in question ends up being around the neck of Gojo Satoru when he comes to pick you up. Why would he match his tie with your dress? You don't know and you didn't care enough to ask. It's not like you and him would be side by side throughout the night anyway, you were supposed to be meeting Nanami.

The nightclub in which you were set to be was located all the way across town and the drive took forever. The ride was filled with low music and Gojo telling you things he thinks Nanami would look for in a woman.

He tells you that you have to be careful not to be too bold with him because Nanami may misinterpret what you've approached him for, going on to tell you how the guy apparently gets hit on a lot and turns a lot of people down. So basically, you'll have to be careful with your flirting.

You take a mental note of everything he's saying and by the time you get there, you think you're ready for the whole thing. You've only seen Nanami twice, once in a photo and another in person but you could spot the man in a crowded room since he has rather distinguishing features.

Plus, Gojo told you he'd be at the bar and probably the furthest away from the dancefloor so you'd most likely find him there.

Even so, Gojo wanted to at least be in the building with you so he walked you to the door and entered the building with you. The man even gave the bouncer at the entrance a death glare for ogling you. After that, the two of you entered and you quickly noted how fancy the place really was.

It wasn't your typical club with people partying and drinking all over the place or loud music blaring throughout the building. Instead, there were people dressed very classy and almost elegant in certain areas. The dancefloor was filled with a few couples, all of whom danced to some slow jam.

You actually liked the scene in front of you. The only thing you felt nervous about was looking out of place. Luckily, by Gojo's side, you fit right in since he was wearing a suit and pulled himself together rather nicely. But, you wouldn't be around him the entire night.

And that was what worried you.

GOJO SATORU ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

GETO SUGURU ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

TOJI FUSHIGURO ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙈𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙪𝙢

KAMO CHOSO ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙎𝙚𝙢𝙞-𝙈𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙪𝙢 / 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

ZEN'IN NAOYA ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙀𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

ITADORI SUKUNA ☐ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙎𝙚𝙢𝙞-𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮???

NANAMI KENTO ☐ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: ???

mlist || previous chapt || next chpt

[hollowdeath]

I LOVEEEEE YOUR HARRY FICSSSS 😭😭🙏🙏 I literally cannot get enough, your harry fics are amazing ❤️

I was wondering if you'd be willing to do an enemies to lovers type thing with dark!harry, similar to the one you did with "the dark side" fic, but maybe they're rivals due to quittich, yet they both just have tension they don't know gow to handle, so one day they just kind of get so worked up in an argument they start making out. (P.S. I loved the thing you did where harry came from y/n saying he hated him 😫😫 also the part where harry gets turned on from y/n scolding him. If possible, could you incorporate that in there? Thank you smm ❤️❤️) I hope it's not too much trouble ❤️❤️❤️

thank you so much for requesting this, i hope you enjoy!!!

pairing: slytherin!harry james potter x gryffindor!fem!reader (18+)

summary: you and harry have been quidditch rivals ever since you've become captain of the gryffindor team. the tension between you two rises until one of you needs bandaged up by the other, leading to you making a discovery about the school's bad boy that leaves you baffled and insanely curious.

cw: smut!!! angst, mentions of blood, degradation kink, sub!harry x dom!reader, dry humping

word count: 7k

it was your final year at hogwarts and, more importantly to you, it was your last year as the gryffindor quidditch captain. you took major pride in your status as captain, and dedicated a majority of your time outside of class to leading practice, coming up with new plays, and making sure that annoyingly good slytherin captain kept his distance from you and your team.

harry potter was well known at hogwarts years before he even came through. the boy who lived, or whatever. you had never paid him much mind to begin with because you knew he reveled in his own notoriety.

see, potter wasn't just the slytherin quidditch captain. he was the most vile, egotistical, disrespectful wizard you'd ever had the misfortune of interacting with. on top of thinking he was some kind of miracle that blessed everyone's presence wherever he went, he specifically treated you worse than the mud on his shoes. not just because of your status as gryffindor captain, but because you were the only student who wasn't afraid to stand your ground with him. had it not been for quidditch practice 4 times a week and games every friday, you would've done everything you could to keep your distance. however, things didn't work out that way, and you ended up forming a sort of rivalry with the boy that the student body found all too exciting.

it started last year when potter and his friends made a dumb poster and hung it up in every boys bathroom: a drawing of someone falling off their broom with your face printed out and glued to it, along with harry's whose drawing had just knocked you off victoriously. they had put "[y/l/n] vs potter: this friday at 6" at the top like it was some kind of promotional advert. and, as much as you hated it, it actually somewhat worked.

from that game on, the other kids began picking sides every week to see who would win. the crowd turnout became the largest it had been in your entire time at hogwarts. some came in support of potter or were otherwise afraid of what would happen if they didn't, while a good amount of students started to become your biggest supporters the more you showed your skills in the game.

see, you didn't just become captain by having a recognizable last name unlike some other people; you had been playing quidditch since you could fly from a young age, and made the team every single year before finally being nominated for the position by your own teammates. you made a promise to them that day that slytherin would no longer be known as the winning house, and that they finally had some competition to sweat over.

and sweat they did. your first game as captain was an easy win, and so were the next 3. it wasn't until the slytherin players learned they actually had to try in order to win now that they began winning every other game as well. that's where harry stepped in.

harry was someone you always tried to avoid during your years at hogwarts. you didn't socialize with many slytherins to begin with as you found some of them to be rather grating and obnoxious, but especially not with slytherins like potter. it was students like him that gave the entire house a bad name. everyone thought he was so charming besides his cocky attitude, but you saw through his act right away. you think that's partially why he singled you out of anyone as his target.

once he set his sights on you, it was impossible to avoid him. it's like he had some sort of tracker on you the way he always managed to pop up in the most random of places simply to upset you. not that you'd be surprised, as along with harry's sickening bravado came his disregard for moral ethics. if there was a way to cheat, lie, or steal your way into getting what you wanted, potter was already on it. he knew no bounds when it came to his little schemes either. from stealing your game plays and sharing them with his teammates to spreading rumors about your players to playing clearly illegal moves during the game only for nobody to notice but you, potter seemed to revel in the rivalry everyone pushed onto you.

you hated giving him the satisfaction of breaking your cold demeanor, but sometimes his antics pushed you too far. he knows how protective you've become over your teammates, so he'll target them when he can't get to you, especially the younger ones. this is where you've blown your cover quite a few times as you can't stand seeing your first years cower in fear anytime they see potter. yelling, spitting, nearly getting physical with him on several occasions when he ignores your threats to leave the kids alone or else. it's as if he rather enjoys getting such a rise out of you, and not just to fuel the public rivalry.

today was your last day of practice before the last, biggest game of the semester. your team knew to meet at the field at 5 pm ready to go as you had plenty of plays you wanted to perfect before playing against the slytherins tomorrow night. practice had only just started with a few flyers in the air before you heard a commotion of voices coming from behind you.

you turned and saw harry leading his team onto the field, laughing obnoxiously and pointing at your teammates in mockery. you swear you felt steam coming from your ears when you told your team to wait and let you handle this.

you stormed up to potter with an accusatory pointed finger. "you. get the hell off my field now before i call mcgonagall out here, potter." you spit at him before pushing his chest. harry takes the push and just laughs, shaking his head at you.

"[y/l/n], i'm not sure how many professors have to tell you that this field isn't yours before you let us use it for practice as well," he said with a smirk, changing his grip on his broomstick and letting it rest on his shoulder. you narrow your eyes at him and cross your arms over your chest. "you know damn well we practice here every week at this time, and yet you're never able to find a time outside of that to spend with your own team. curious, isn't it?" you ask him sarcastically, your tone biting.

harry's smirk drops slightly. "are you suggesting that i'm trying to sabotage your chance at winning the season tomorrow? because i'd never do such a thing, [y/l/n], and it hurts that you think of me in that way." he responds just as sarcastically. a few of his players snicker and laugh just behind him, earning a nasty glare from you that has them shut up quickly.

you look back at harry who's waiting for a clever comeback from you, nearly on the edge of his seat to see what you have to say this time. you hate how much he thrives off getting you upset.

"fine. practice, then. you'll need it." you tell harry with a cold tone, giving him a disgusted look up and down. you take a step forward and point your finger back into harry's chest, your faces less than a foot away from each other. "but if you mess with any of my players, even as a joke, i will gut you like a fucking fish." you tell him in a hushed tone. you think you see his pupils dilate slightly, but you were probably mistaken. "got it?"

harry's smirk only grows as he starts backing away slowly. "got it, princess." he laughs, turning to his little group of followers for approval before they run off to the other goal post opposite from your team. the nickname is new, and for some reason it made your stomach drop and heart race like crazy. that potter kid just knew exactly how to get under your skin.

you tried to focus on your own team's plays for the rest of practice, but you could clearly hear harry and his friends saying your name and laughing too often for your comfort. anytime you happened to make eye contact with harry, you made sure to scowl at him and promptly turn your attention away. just his sheer presence made your blood boil and skin crawl.

for the most part there were no issues in the sky, the slytherins mostly kept to their side besides the few times harry's friends were messing around and ended up coming close to a few of your teammates. you scolded them each time, but they would only laugh at you and fly off to tell harry about your outbursts. other than that, you ended up getting a lot accomplished in order to be prepared for the game the next day.

however, towards the end of practice, your teammates were having some difficulty with a new technique you taught them, so you took the time to demonstrate it with another player in the sky. you were just about to start instructing when your teammates started calling out to you frantically. you didn't have enough time to process what they were warning you about before you felt someone fly into you from behind, nearly causing you to fall off your broomstick.

you could feel yourself falling to the ground, but your grip on your broomstick remained tight enough to quickly get it under you just in time to somewhat break your landing. you tumbled to the ground with a pained groan, and heard someone else fall just to your left. you could feel the wind get knocked out of you in the air, so it took a moment for you to properly breathe as you tried to sit up.

your teammates got to you in seconds, asking if you were okay and trying to help you up. that's when the pain set in. standing up-right you could feel your rib cage aching and your shoulder throbbing. "i'm fine, i'm fine," you told everyone, brushing off the grass stains on your clothes. you turned to see who had fallen next to you, and who else would be lying there but harry potter as his slytherin teammates rushed to his aid as well.

they're helping him stand up and you can feel the rage building inside you. you break away from your teammates' grasps and march up to harry as he's wiping the grass stains off his own clothes as well.

"you did that on purpose, you pest." you snap at him. harry looks at you incredulously as he fixes his practice jersey. "are you mad? it was an accident, i wasn't looking where i was going, drama queen." he snaps back, giving you a dirty look up and down. you can feel your jaw clenching and fists balling at your sides. "oh yeah, sure, you just so happened to run into me of all people in the sky. you know, you're such a…"

you pause in your anger noticing a gash on the side of harry's face with blood starting to drip down his cheekbone. harry notices your concern and gives you a confused look. you sigh and instinctively pull down the sleeve of your sweatshirt to hold it against his wound. "now you have a giant cut on your face, for fuck's sake," you tell him, your voice a mix of panic and exasperation. harry winces at your hand making contact with his face, but his eyes grow with concern hearing your panic.

you turn to your team and start guiding harry towards the school. "practice is over, do not be late tomorrow." you announce to them hurriedly, trying to keep your sleeve against harry's injury as you rush him off the field.

harry actually manages to stay quiet on the way to the infirmary despite your anticipation to shush him the entire way for making crude jokes. instead he remains silent and lets you urgently guide him through the empty halls.

once you arrive at the infirmary wing, you notice the entire room is full of people. every bed is taken, ans every nurse is running around frantically from patient to patient. you and harry share a confused look before you roll your eyes and find a nurse between beds. "excuse me, ma'am, i'm sorry to bother but um, potter here was being an idiot and got a cut on his face that just needs to be bandaged quickly." you motion towards harry and feel him give you a nasty look out of your peripheral for calling him an idiot.

the nurse, completely exhausted, sighs and motions towards a room to the side of the check-in station. "look, we are swamped with a potion experiment gone wrong here. if it's just a cut that doesn't need stitches there's a first aid kit in the little room over that way." she tells you quickly before being called away to another patient. you try to intervene but she's already jogging away, leaving you with a bloody harry in your hands. literally.

you sigh, clearly annoyed, and turn to examine harry's cut again. pulling your blood-soaked sleeve away, you see the blood flow still hasn't slowed and decide to just bite your tongue and help harry despite your hatred for him only growing in this situation.

you drag harry towards the little room, opening the door and turning on the lights to reveal the smallest examination room you'd ever seen. you had no idea this was even here, but it only contained a sink, a cot, a locked medicine cabinet, and a first aid kit. you closed the door behind harry and locked it. you grab a few paper towels from next to the sink and walk harry over to the cot. "sit," you command him, practically pushing him with your other hand to sit down.

harry looks up at you softly, way softer than he's ever looked at you. it makes your heart skip a beat but you ignore the feeling quickly. "here," you tell him coldly, handing over the paper towels. "just apply pressure on it while i get the first aid kit."

harry does as he's told and you slowly pull away your sleeve, making a disgusted face at the stains left on the cuff. you sigh and pull your arm back through the sleeve, starting to take off the hoodie altogether. "well, that's ruined," you complain, throwing it to the floor, leaving you in a tiny tank top and workout shorts.

harry's watching you intently, adjusting his glasses and shifting his weight in his seat. you walk to the sink and thoroughly wash your hands in case any blood happened to get on you as well.

opening the first aid kit up you find a tiny bottle of isopropyl alcohol, cotton rounds, and bandages. pouring alcohol on the cotton, you turn to harry and still find him watching you.

you give him a look. "what?" you ask with pinched brows. harry, for once, looks flustered as he turns his eyes away from you, instead staring at the floor below his feet. you just roll your eyes and set down the alcohol, walking towards harry and pulling away his hand from his cheek.

"here," you say, moving his jaw to look up towards you. "this is gonna hurt a little," you tell him before gently cleaning the cut with the cotton round. harry winces, but his eyes never leave your face. you try to ignore his gaze but it becomes even more intense the longer you take to stop the bleeding. you can practically feel his stare burning holes into your skin, and you start to feel that familiar annoyance rise in your stomach.

"i know i'm pretty, potter, but can't you look anywhere else?" you complain, giving him a cold look before returning your attention to his cheek. harry's eyes drop again, but end up falling on your chest this time. you back away and scoff, throwing the cotton pad into the trash next to the cot. "perv," you mutter under your breath.

just as you're preparing the bandage on the counter next to the sink, you hear harry say something from behind you. "you're gonna have to speak up, kid," you chuckle, throwing away some wrapping in the trash. "your, um, your back," you hear him stutter.

you turn to give him a confused look. "what?" you ask. harry motions towards your back, and you turn to look at yourself in the mirror above the sink. you look at your back and pull up your tank top slightly to see a massive bruise forming on your ribcage. you gasp at the size and color, immediately turning your anger towards harry.

he already looks prepared for your rage before you can even start to say anything. "you bloody prick, i know you did this on purpose. do you seriously want to win so badly you'd nearly break a rib to get there?" you snap at him, pulling your shirt back down and angrily marching towards him still sitting on the cot.

"i told you, [y/n], it was an accident." he says. you pause. he's never called you by your first name, at least not to your face. you were actually surprised he knew what it was in the first place.

harry looks up at you innocently, his eyes soft and brows raised. this just angers you again. you take another step towards him, your legs practically between his as harry tilts his head up to keep looking at you.

his glasses are crooked, his hair is a mess, and the cut on his cheek is still raw. and still, for some reason, your heart skips a beat looking down at him. you've never been so close to his face. you've never noticed his freckles before.

"you should just be glad i haven't targeted you the way you've targeted me all these years, potter. you're lucky i'm a nice person and don't believe in revenge, or else you'd be the one with nearly broken bones and a bruise the size of your lungs." you spit in his face, your tone razor sharp.

harry's expression hardly changes at your words. if anything his eyes only soften more watching you become filled with anger.

"and wipe that innocent look off your face before i do it for you. you should be thanking me for patching up this cut and not making it worse." you continue to vent at him as you step away to grab the bandage from the counter.

you're just starting to press down on the adhesive of the bandage around harry's injury when his eyes meet yours again. "thank you." he says, his voice broken and whiny. something about the way he says it makes your stomach drop to the floor. harry's usual annoying temperament was completely gone, no longer making mocking jokes or insults towards you, instead only speaking softly and looking into your eyes even softer.

confused and feeling a strange mix of emotions, you finish applying the bandage on harry's face without a word.

you start to put away the first aid kit, taking one last look at your bruise in the mirror with a sigh.

"i'm sorry." you hear harry say quietly. you look at him, his expression empathetic and almost concerned for you. it was then you started to believe the incident really was an accident. why would harry ever be apologetic for something he'd usually take loads of pride in, like knocking you off your broomstick?

you swallow nervously and look away from him, fixing your shirt. "you should be," you try to remain cold, but your voice is breaking. "i'm just glad you also hurt yourself in the process. you deserve to feel some of the pain too." you say in a deadpan voice.

you pick up your sweatshirt off the floor and start soaking the sleeve in some hot water to at least try and get some of the stains out.

"you're right." harry says behind you, his voice somber. you roll your eyes at his pathetic attempt to seem remorseful, turning to him curtly. "i know i'm right. and you know what else? you're just a loser who picks on people to feel better about yourself because you're insecure." you insult him.

you expect at least some kind of reaction from harry, but he just continues to watch the ground with a sullen expression. "i know." he says quietly.

you groan and turn to shut the sink faucet off, walking towards harry with the same accusatory pointing finger from before. "and you can stop with this whole act you're putting on 'cause it's pissing me right off," you nearly yell at harry, getting in his face. he just looks up at you with those big blue eyes again, biting his lip harshly.

you went to scold him again when you noticed a rather large bulge in his pants from where you were standing above him. you thought you were just assuming, but once you took a step back, you knew exactly what was happening with a smirk growing on your face.

harry nervously looked down at his crotch before quickly attempting to hide his obvious erection. he adjusted his pants and tried to use his shirt to cover it, but you were already laughing at him. "this cannot be real, this has got to be a setup. there's no way you just got turned on by me insulting you for 10 minutes straight." you could hardly get the words out from laughing so hard.

clearly embarrassed, harry looks between you and his erection with fear in his eyes. it only makes the situation that much better for you as you continue to humiliate your own bully.

"u-uh, this isn't, um–" "don't try and tell me this isn't what it looks like, potter. i know exactly what's going on here." you interrupt him and cross your arms. "you're such a loser that the only way you can get off is by having girls hate you. y'know, most guys get erections from making out with a girl, not getting threatened by them." you mock him, still a hint of anger laced in your voice.

harry's looking at you with that same innocent expression, but there's something else in his eyes that makes you pause. he's not just embarrassed, he's actually enjoying what you're saying to him. you can see his pupils dilate just looking at you, his bulge only becoming more obvious the longer you mock him.

you want to be disgusted at this situation. you want to hate the way harry's looking at you and leave the room with a huff to tell everyone about his little kink. you want to call him a disgusting creep and slap him across the face for ever thinking of you in such a way. but, you don't. because you can't.

you should be disgusted. you should be creeped out. but, for some reason, you're just not. you should be filled with rage ready to tell him off again, but, instead, you find yourself full of curiosity and…flattery?

of course it's never flattering for a guy to get an erection thinking about you being upset with him, if anything it's quite morbid. however, with you and harry, everything finally started to make sense. this is why he was always pushing your buttons just to get a rise out of you, or why he seemed to thrive off of your heated interactions. because he did. he found pleasure in your anger.

again, you should be fuming, but you're just not. your heart is racing and so is your mind. you're completely flustered at this point, possibly even more than harry is. you can feel the blush on your neck and cheeks and can't tell if the embarrassment you're feeling is secondhand or not.

still looking up at you, harry attempts to cover his erection up again with his pants. you just laugh at him again as there's no real point, you're more than well aware of his predicament at the moment. his blush is so severe he's nearly completely red, and you can see his hair start to stick to his forehead from the sweat. while you'd usually feel nothing but contempt looking down at harry's innocent expression, this time you feel a bit different. he almost looks younger now, his eyes soft and lips slightly hung open.

you notice the bandage around his scar starts to lift a bit around his eye, so you sigh and place a hand on his bandage to help reattach it. again, harry almost winces at your movement, and you can see his erection twitch under his pants. god, he really does get off on this.

while fixing it, harry's still watching you intently. "i'm sorry," his voice is soft but deep, making your blood run cold. you pause to look him in the eyes. "and what are you sorry for?" you lead him on.

harry's brows furrow together slightly. "for…well, y'know," he trails off, offering a fake, awkward chuckle. you smirk as you look back at his bandage. "no, i don't know. so why don't you tell me, potter?" you ask teasingly.

without fail, harry shifts in his seat uncomfortably and tries to subtly hide his erection again. your smirk only grows at his predictability.

"u-uh, well, i-i'm sorry for…for, um, getting turned on by you…" his stuttering is only making you enjoy the moment more. maybe part of you likes seeing him squirm like this under your hand. "by me…?" you lead him on again, taking a step away to examine his bandage. harry swallowed nervously watching you. "by you…being mean to me." he says meekly, his voice small and embarrassed.

you smirk at him again and decide to test the waters. "good boy."

harry's face absolutely drains of color. you can practically see his heart thumping out of his chest. and, if you weren't wrong, his hands actually started shaking in his lap.

you start laughing again at his reaction, hardly able to hold back from how funny this situation was to you. harry potter, the school's bad boy, the top slytherin student, the quidditch captain, your biggest rival, has a literal kink for being degraded. and he had the nerve to ever try and call you a loser.

"sorry, it's just so funny to me," you tell him between laughs, wiping tears from your eyes. "actually, no, i'm not sorry. i think you deserve to be laughed at for this. what guy actually gets horny from girls being mean to him?" you ask rhetorically, crossing your arms again and examining harry in front of you.

he's completely disheveled and getting sweatier by the minute. he breaks eye contact after your question, nervously scratching the back of his neck to waste time. "uh…" he starts off, clearly not knowing what to say to that. you just continue smirking, watching him struggle. "i mean, is it every time a girl is mean to you this happens? i'd imagine with your attitude that would be pretty often." you joke, partially curious but mostly just trying to make him squirm more.

harry shakes his head, both of his hands rubbing at his face and wiping the sweat from his hairline. "n-no, it's, uh…" he starts again, eventually trailing off with a sigh. you start tapping your foot impatiently. "i'm waiting." you say in a mocking tone.

harry tenses again, still not looking back up at you just yet. his body language is clearly uncomfortable and defensive. "it's not…all girls, okay? it's just…you." he finally spits out, clearly struggling to put his thoughts into words. "this only happens with you, i swear. a-and it's only started this year, and i don't know why." he rambles, speaking with his hands, his eyes still fixated on the floor.

for once, you're speechless. you weren't expecting that confession from him, and you certainly didn't know how to react to it in the moment. i mean, this potter kid has had it out for you since day one, he's practically made you two enemies on the field and off, and now he wants to tell you all this? it's a bit confusing, to say the least.

harry sighs, resting his face in his hands once again. "look, i'm sorry about all of this, okay? all of it, not just today, but everything. i shouldn't have been so rude to you all this time, especially not for the reasons i have…" you can practically hear harry wincing at his own words. he uncovers his face but continues to look down. "just…please, please, don't tell anyone. i know that's asking for a lot considering all i've done to you, but…please, [y/n]." he's nearly begging.

you just watch him carefully, trying to figure out how to respond to all of this. on one hand you're inclined to feel insulted, disrespected, and downright disgusted at this information, but in reality…you're just obscenely curious. i mean, how often does a guy get turned on by you being mean to him? and not just you, but specifically, only you. does that mean he actually likes you? or is it only a sexual thing? and how would that even work?

as your mind continues to raise more and more questions, you feel yourself speaking before you even decide what to say.

"fine, i won't tell anyone. if," you take a slow step towards harry. he looks up at you with flushed cheeks and wide eyes. your heart leaps at the sight of him so vulnerable beneath you. it's as if you can see him thinking anything, anything for you.

you're not sure what's possessing you in this moment, but you can't stop yourself from pushing the limits further between you and harry. again, your mouth starts speaking for you.

"if…you let me help." you say with a smirk, closing the gap between you and harry and standing between his legs once again. he's looking up at you in complete shock, his eyes examining every inch of you in front of him. he's trying to speak but his mouth just keeps opening and closing, gasping for air and nervously chuckling.

arms still crossed, you wait for harry to say something and enjoy seeing him be the speechless one this time.

he eventually looks back up at you, biting his lip again and leaning back slightly. "help…me?" he asks, confused. you laugh at him, shaking your head. "yes, potter. help you. can't have you leaving here with that," you motion down to his pants with your head. "can we?" you ask seductively.

again, you're not sure what's making you act like this right now, but you honestly didn't mind it. you already got a kick out of insulting harry anyway, why not watch him struggle a bit harder under your thumb in this tiny exam room?

harry's completely frozen. you smile at him this time, the most genuine one you could muster in the moment. "if you want to, of course," you say quietly, softening your gaze at him and fixing his messy hair. harry makes a soft sound and leans into your touch, his eyes closing. you giggle to yourself, he just looks so innocent resting in your hand.

the moment didn't last long as you tighten your grip on the hair on the back of harry's head, pulling it so he's looking right at you. his eyes open and a soft whine escapes his lips. "i'll take that as a yes?" you ask smugly, leaning down until your faces were nearly touching. harry does his best to nod his head, swallowing nervously and glancing at your lips.

you smile at him again. something just felt so right when you were in control, seeing harry's front disappear as he became a mess in your hands. you felt powerful, confident, and, to your dismay, insanely turned on from the entire situation. your feelings of hate and desire for harry drove you mad, yet he seemed more than willing to be the recipient of both.

so, you lean forward, and you kiss him.

it's soft at first, slow, shy, you feel like harry's barely breathing. eventually he catches up, nearly moaning into your mouth as you feel your stomach fluttering. you put your other hand on his cheek and sit on harry's lap, your knees resting on the cot around harry's hips. you feel his hands tread carefully up your thighs and under your shorts, his fingers digging into your skin roughly.

this time you can't hold back your moans, causing harry to melt even more into you. his lips were soft, careful, but so eager. it's like he was starving and yet still took his time with you.

you pull away slightly, your breath heavy and forehead resting on harry's. "lay down," you command him, climbing off his lap. harry quickly lies back on the cot, kicking off his shoes in the process. you do the same before crawling back on top of him, carefully resting your ass directly on his erection.

harry openly groans, his hands reaching for your hips and squeezing the skin roughly. you bite your lip to hold back another moan. you slightly adjust your position and cause harry's head to roll back against the cot. "[y/n]..." is all he manages to say in his broken voice.

he's already such a mess and all you've done is sit in his lap. who would've known all this time his teasing you was just a cover up for this?

"this'll be easy. you're already practically falling apart on me, potter." you tease him, your cold fingers finding their way under his jersey. harry's body shivers, his hands moving from your hips to your waist. his fingers crawl under your shirt as well and cause your skin to break out in goosebumps.

he slightly smirks at this reaction, but you don't let him have his moment for long. "and don't get cocky," you warn him before you start grinding on his erection. his head rolls back in pleasure again, his mouth hanging open and fingers digging into your skin. you smirk to yourself. "don't forget you're the loser who likes to be insulted here." you remind him harshly, your hands running along his chest under his jersey.

harry's noises are completely pathetic, his hips bucking into yours for even the slightest bit more friction. you stop grinding into him and he lets out a shaky breath, looking at you with needy eyes. he looks so worked up already and you've barely done a thing.

"shirt off," you tell him, pulling at the material. harry, again, doesn't hesitate to follow instructions. he removes his hands from your waist and quickly takes off his jersey, throwing it to the floor.

your breath hitches in your throat looking at harry's soft, sweaty skin in the dim fluorescent lighting of the exam room. you never realized just how toned his shoulders and chest were, or how many scars and bruises he seemed to have, both new and fading.

you look back up at harry, his eyes nervously watching your every move. you lean in to kiss him again, messier, needier. his hands return to your hips and practically force you to start grinding on him again. you would've intervened if you weren't just as desperate to continue rolling your hips into harry's hard erection.

a soft moan comes from your lips as you grind into him harder, your hands resting on his chest for support. harry groans, his brows furrowing. "shit," he mutters, only encouraging you to go faster.

you could feel how wet you were through your panties. your stomach was tightening already, making you feel a bit embarrassed of your own desperation. seeing harry be so willing to please you only had you wanting him more.

just as you start to feel yourself blush at your lack of self control, you notice harry's panicked expression, his grip on your skin guaranteed to leave bruises. "what's wrong?" you ask, somewhat sarcastically and also concerned.

he struggles to get a sound out. "hmph, gonna, fuck, please, don't," he's stumbling through his words, barely able to keep his eyes focused on you. his hands try to stop your hips, but his grip his weak.

"stop what?" you ask curiously, slowing your hips slightly but rolling into him harder. harry moans, his hand covering his mouth hearing how loud it echoed through the tiny room. you just laugh at him and pull his hand away, guiding it to your chest. harry's eyes widen, trying to pull his hand away.

"stop, gonna…cum, if you don't," harry whimpers, squirming under your weight as his legs try to escape. you take your opportunity and pick up your pace, giving harry an evil smile.

"aw, already?" you ask, forcing his hand back to your chest. you guide his fingers along the curves of your breasts through your thin tank top, causing him to breathe even heavier. "you haven't even gotten to see these, and you're already about to cum? i was right, you're such a fucking loser, potter." you tell him, guiding his hand back under your shirt.

you can feel him struggling under you even more, his torso only getting sweatier. you just grab for his other hand and guide it under your shirt as well. he watches as intently as he can, his eyes still rolling back in pleasure at the pressure in his lap.

you help him lift his hands higher and higher until he's cupping your tits under your shirt, your breathing becoming hitched at the feeling of his rough fingers running across your sensitive nipples.

"fuck," you say under your breath, loud enough for harry to moan and grope you rougher, lifting your shirt above your tits. you gasp at the feeling and look back down at him, a sweaty mess with eyes barely open.

"please, please," harry starts begging, his hips still trying to squirm away from you. you place your hands on his sides and push him down, continuing to chase your high. "just stay still, harry," you nearly whimper. you realize you've never called him by his first name either.

that's when he comes completely unraveled beneath you. he's practically crying out in pleasure and desperation, his hands roughly squeezing the soft skin of your tits as his head is thrown back against the cot. just watching him fall apart like this has you shaking on top of him, feeling the warm wetness of your panties leaving a mark on harry's jeans.

it takes a few moments for both of you to come back to earth. harry's hands eventually loosen their grip on you before quickly pulling away, his eyes wide and panicked again. "sorry," he says quickly, his cheeks completely flushed.

you just shake your head and laugh, climbing off of harry's lap and adjusting your shirt. harry sits up and runs his hands through his hair, trying to catch his breath still.

the room is a bit awkward, but you eventually start to chuckle and push harry's shoulder lightly. "so…" you lead him on. harry chuckles as well, hanging his head low. "so…" he repeats, his voice still soft.

"so…is it wrong of me to assume you might actually like me?" you ask, picking up harry's jersey and handing it to him. he offers you a shy smile and puts it back on, shaking his head. "y'know, i'm not sure there's a way i could've made it more obvious." he admits half heartedly.

you laugh again, feeling a blush crawl up your cheeks. you turn away from him and grab your sweatshirt from the sink, the sleeve still completely stained.

"i really am sorry about that, i have a few you could borrow if you'd like." he says with a smirk, pointing towards your sweatshirt. you roll your eyes. "well, good to know your cockiness hasn't gone anywhere." you respond, suppressing a smile.

he chuckles. "never will." he says confidently. you give him a look and take a step towards him, causing him to swallow nervously.

you laugh at him again. "yeah, okay, pretty boy." you tease him, stepping away and towards the door. he follows behind you, still blushing like crazy.

leaving the exam room you notice all the nurses are still running around like lunatics, having no idea what's just happened only a few feet away from them. you and harry share a knowing look before running off together, laughing as you reach the halls.

"y'know," harry says between laughs, looking over at you with nothing but love in his eyes as you continue walking the empty halls. "don't think i'll go easy on you tomorrow just because of…that." he says, motioning behind him with a shy smile. you smile back at him and offer your hand. harry looks a bit hesitant, but shakes it anyway. "wouldn't want it any other way, potter."

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[dwaekkilinos]

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 horde.

You swallowed hard.

Death was near.

You’d thought the undead didn’t horde 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 horde 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 horde. 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 horde 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 horde 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 horde 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 horde 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 horde 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 horde, 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 horde was gaining on you.

This was the end.

Beat.

Swallowing hard, you clenched your jaw, shutting your eyes as you realized what you needed to do. Clutching your father’s shotgun close to your chest, so close it nearly touched your heart, your lips parted, and a scream bubbled up your throat, ripping through your vocal cords as it echoed throughout the dead of night.

But before you could inhale and breathe out another war cry of your own to match theirs, a hand slapped over your mouth, muffling your screams. Another hand was gripping your arm the next second, pulling you off the ground and shoving your back against the nearest tree.

Your eyes shot open, dropping your shotgun as your hands instinctively clasped around the wrist of the hand covering your mouth. Deep dark eyes stared back at you, a sense of urgency in them as you realized what was going on.

It happened so fast, too fast for you to process. But you quickly realized the eyes belonged to a man not much older than you. Dark eyes. Full lips. Sculpted nose. It was your first time seeing a man other than Felix . . . other than the one you’d gutted . . . in a long time.

What was he doing?

But you couldn’t ponder long as his eyes twisted to the scene behind you, and you could’ve sworn you felt his heart beat faster against your lips where his hand still lay. And at that sight, he kicked into action.

“You listen to me. We have a few seconds before those fuckers are at our throats,” he spoke in a hushed tone, his voice deep and controlled, but you could sense the fear on him. It was different from yours. “When I tell you, you run as fast as you fucking can in that direction and you don’t stop. You follow me and you don’t get lost or you’re dead.” His hand fell from your mouth as he began hastily digging through the pack over his shoulder. “Got it?”

You skipped a beat, not answering.

His eyes were on you instantly, expectantly.

But you only blinked.

You didn’t want to be saved.

No, he couldn’t do this. It was your time. This was your punishment. He couldn’t—

Your thoughts were cut short as he pulled something out of his pack, and you quickly realized a grenade now sat in his hand. Your eyes widened. He was going to—

“Run,” he bit out, an order.

And it all happened so fast.

You stayed put.

He turned from you, quickly pulling the pin and chucking the grenade as fast and hard as he could from your location. You watched the weapon soar, your heartbeat stilling in your throat as the seconds of anticipation crept upon you.

Beat.

Beat.

Be—

A loud explosion sounded in the distance, the ground shaking beneath your feet as ringing in your ears commenced. Only then did you realize your feet had been moving on their own, carrying you farther and farther away from the scene as you caught a glimpse of the horde 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 horde 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 horde 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 horde.

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 horde 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 horde 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)

[lavendertales]

Hi hi hi 🥰🥰🥰 any thoughts on writing a fox on reader and Joel Miller where they have an age gap (obvs) maybe reader is a friend of Tommy’s and Joel is a bit protective over her but they end up fucking and the whole time he’s trying to shut her up from the clickers by covering her mouth, choking her but at the same time talking dirty etc etc I’ll let you live out your thotty imagination with this one xoxo

Hiii love, thank you for the request! Well this one was... phew 🥵 hope you enjoy!

Where you belong || Joel Miller x f!reader**

summary: who would've thought one of Tommy's good friends would have such an impact on Joel?

word count: 2k

WARNINGS: this is FILTH. age gap mention, teasing, some dirty talk, mutual pining, male & female masturbation, choking, unprotected piv, vaginal fingering.

AGELESS/EMPTY BLOGS & MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED!

gif: @pajamasecrets

Stubborn and harsh as he may be, Joel Miller knows how to appreciate some of the finer things in life.

A good song, a fine illustration, a movie that sticks with him for a while… and then there’s you.

Tommy’s made it clear that you were a close friend of his and Maria’s, and Joel respected that. He stayed within the limits of respect, never crossing the border. But he did enjoy the occasional sneak peek at you, always when you weren’t looking.

He’s not sure why. It just always felt… easier. Just watching you from afar and keeping things cordial between the two of you was always the easy and safe option, as opposed to actually caring too much.

Caring meant loss. And Joel had enough of that. He just needed something nice for a change. Something good, something that wouldn’t be tainted by the threat of harm.

Perhaps that’s why he’d grown so fond and so protective of you. Being significantly older than you was certainly another reason why he preferred to keep his infatuation for you at bay, but it also gave him a reason to be your unspoken protector. You didn’t ask for it, yet he simply provided it. For that, you were beyond grateful.

And frustrated, too.

Particularly on this hot summer evening in Jacksonville, when you were out checking the perimeter for raiders or infected, and you used every excuse imaginable to establish physical contact with Joel: a light grip on his arm when you faked a potential fall, soft giggles at his dry jokes that no one else seemed to get, and being face to face with him with every single opportunity you got. Five, in total. You gazed at him, searching his face for confirmation that he understood why you were doing all that, why you were craving his touch so dearly, and still you failed to see that. Joel remained as hardened as ever, and it only grew your frustration more.

So when you got back into town, throwing your gun on the rocking chair in the corner of your living room, you were surprised to see Joel behind you, footsteps heavy, as if he was angry about something.

“What’s wrong with you?” his thick voice asks.

You turn to him, utterly dumbfounded, almost insulted at the question he just posed. Maybe you misinterpret it, too, but hell if you give a shit right now.

It’s been months since Joel’s caught your eye, months of sneaky glances and wishful thinking, and closing onto three years without the intimate touch of another human being.

It’s too much. In this moment, all feels overwhelming.

“What is wrong with me?” you emphasize the pronoun. “What is wrong with you?! Have you not noticed me around you for the past, I don’t know, two hours?”

“Sure I have, how can I not?”

You scoff, hands on your hips and licking your lips in frustration. Gesture which does not go unnoticed by Joel, who licks his own in return, awfully tempted in this moment.

“I don’t know, Joel,” you reply sarcastically. “For someone with such great hunting and surviving skills, you sure lack some basic observation skills.”

He frowns, approaching you. “What are you talking about?”

You grow even more dumbfounded, curious whether he’s playing the fool intentionally or if he’s simply playing with you.

“How long have we known each other?” you ask.

“Six, seven months.”

“Seven months. Seven months since you’ve known me, and you still don’t know a fucking thing about me.”

“What don’t I know?”

You approach him too, your lips parted to make room for words that refuse to come out. Instead, you breathe through your mouth, your body nearly quivering at the simple, yet overpowering sensation of being so close to him, yet so far.

“What I like and don’t like,” you say in a near-whisper manner. “I don’t like being fooled. I don’t like being played or led astray, and I don’t like guessing. I hate guessing games. I was never any good at them.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

You nod several times, puckering your lips. “Clearly.”

“And what do you like?”

The way he says it, so rich with gruffness and tempting, it’s causing your knees to buckle and your heart to race faster. It’s the first time tonight you think he’s actually teasing you, and you feel heat spreading throughout your body, settling in your nether area.

“A lot of things, actually,” you reply, unable to look away from his full lips.

“Mhm. Like what? Tell me. Use your words.”

Yeah, he’s definitely fucking with you. But it’s all the more enticing.

You don’t tell him, though; you simply reach to press your lips onto his, only for a split second, and then you pull away. You watch his face closely, checking if you have his approval. When he wraps a faintly hesitant hand around your waist and pulls you in to kiss you properly, you melt into his arms, and realize that you do have all the approval in the goddamn world.

It doesn’t take long for the kiss to deepen. In a matter of seconds, you find yourself writhing beneath him on the bed, splayed shamelessly by his calloused hands. Under normal circumstances, he’d be a perfect gentleman and ask you out, spend as much time with you as possible, but for the past two decades, Joel lived on the edge, strictly in survival mode. Which means that some relief is all he can allow himself to have.

Your hands hastily undress him, messy just like the kiss you are sharing with him, and your breaths get ragged, as fast and irregular as your heart.

“You don’t know—how many goddamn times I’ve—wanted this…”

Joel’s voice is trembling despite its huskiness, and it causes you to shiver with excitement. The thought of him wanting you this much, this desperately, is getting you wetter with each passing second.

“Never allowed myself to—to want you” he confesses, peppering wet kisses along your jaw while you worked against his belt and zipper.

“Why not?”

“Tommy might kill me.”

“Or Maria.”

He chuckles briefly, prompting the same reaction out of you. You help him out of his jeans and his boxers, your mouth watering upon seeing how hard he is already. It’s beyond flattering, and you’re not sure how much longer you can stay apart from him.

“Thought about you too,” you confess, spreading your legs further so that you are on full display for him.

Joel stares at you in a delirious haze. In the sunset’s gold and red light, he can see the glistening of your pussy, and he swallows harshly. He doubts he’s ever felt this parched in his whole life, the waiting tearing him apart.

“You did?” he asks cheekily, cupping your sex while you gasp in surprise.

“Yes. Oh yes…”

He’s palming you gently, eyes locked on your face and nowhere else. He’s practically working on muscle memory, but it serves him correctly it seems.

“What did you think about?” he demands, drawing circles around your clit.

“Just you… touching me.”

“Like I’m doing now?”

“Yes—I thought about you… while I was touching myself.”

Joel can’t help the grunt that escapes his lips. That sole confession awakens something primal inside of him, something big, roaring in his chest. He pushes with two fingers past your folds now that he feels you wet enough to grant him easy access, and starts pumping in and out while you whine.

“Shh,” he coos you gently. “Easy, baby girl.”

“F-Fuck—“

“From this moment forward, you’re being silent. Not quiet. Silent. Is that clear?”

You bite on your lower lip and frantically nod your head while you palm your own breasts. It feels so good just to feel his fingers inside you, you can’t even imagine more. It’s definitely been a long time for you—presumably for him too—so you are awfully sensitive and needy, but just knowing that this is Joel Miller doing this to you, causing your body to react this way, to arch under his touch and whine from his words, it’s making you hotter and wetter than anything you could’ve ever imagined.

“Be a good girl for me and shut up, will you?”

He asks too softly for you not to obey, and again you nod frantically, unable to utter any words.

Joel’s fingers keep pumping in and out of you, faster and faster, and you do everything in your willpower to not scream. You barely let out a few whimpers, but it seems they get Joel going: you catch a glimpse of him stroking his cock in the process, the sight lewd as fuck. You focus on that while you reach in between your legs to furiously rub your clit while Joel’s fingers fuck into you, and his own hand is curled around his cock. Breaths ragged and in tandem, you work on each other to climb the ladder of ecstasy.

“Fuuuuuck—“you mutter, mouth in the perfect O shape as you feel your orgasm fast approaching.

“Keep your mouth shut, baby girl,” Joel reminds you, abruptly pulling out his fingers, now sticky as he takes them to your mouth, and you instantly suck on them, having a taste of yourself.

You don’t hide the disappointment on your face upon feeling empty, especially when you see that he’s not even jerking off anymore.

“There could be clickers around,” he seemingly justifies his command.

“We checked the area. There are none.”

“There are plenty of reasons for you to keep your mouth shut, darlin’. Or do you need me to find another use for it?”

You smirk. “If you want to.”

He doesn’t, though. That’s not for tonight, he thinks. Not when you’re both so worked up and needy. He wraps his hand around his weeping cock, almost ready to explode at how hard he is, and guides himself to your entrance. Muttered cuss words fill the room from both of you, said like a chant on repeat with the first roll of his hips against yours. Your pussy swallows him whole, and he watches mesmerized as you take all of his cock in, coating the hair at the base with your juices. He doesn’t waver with the pace: it’s fast and hard from the second thrust. He slams his hips into you, your wanton cries musically pleasing to his ears.

It’s only then that he wraps his hand around your throat, putting an end to any words you might’ve wanted to say. You only moan at him as he’s fucking you speedily, needy, with a fury you’ve only seen him use in combat.

“Do you fuckin’ know—what you do to me?” he grunts, the impending sensation of his release overcoming him. “Do you, hm? Look how full you are… stuffed with my cock… good girl, just like that…”

With a bit more pressure applied to the grip over your throat, you moan as you come, coating his cock with your arousal. The sensation of your walls trapping him inside you is the final click for Joel when he comes too, pulling out and painting the filthiest painting over your swollen pussy and thighs. His warm seed is all over your lower area, and there’s so much of it, you wonder how long exactly it has been for him since he’s last felt relief.

Breathless, you reach for him, cupping his cheeks and kissing him tenderly, a stark comparison to the rough way you were being handled just a few seconds before.

“Do you know what you are doing to me, Joel Miller?” you cheekily ask after a while.

“Think I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

You both chuckle, the sound shared only between the two of you, in your bed.

It’s the first time in months Joel gets a good night’s sleep. And the first time in months since he’s laughed. All because of you.

[amaranthineghost]

BUT I LOVE YOU SO (PLEASE LET ME GO) ( lando norris. )

he loved her, but knew he had to let her go even if it killed him inside. still he left a paper trail back to him.

warnings: heavy angst I suppose

authors note: wrote this with 2 am motivation. it was about time I finally gave you guys some writing after a couple of months of an absence (I sincerely apologize). I was thinking of making this one of the parts of the mini series because it sort of fits what I want to do with it, but i figured since i hadn't put anything out in a while, it'd be its own separate thing <3

part 2 found here

HE LOVED HER with every fiber of his being. every cell in his body lived for her, he told himself. the blood that ran through his veins underneath his tan skin, all the way to his heart that he had so carefully carved to be able to beat for her. she was the center of his life, he thought.

he really thought.

because now, as he sat and watched her through the fingers over his face to hide the incoming tears, he wished he knew what he should've done. because he only knew what to do.

to let her go.

surely, it wasn't easy, it was never going to be. but alas it was inevitable for the lovers to part though at the time, they wished for it to be only shortly.  but they were never coming back. they didn't want to believe, but their hearts knew.

it was a long time coming, but nothing could've prepared them for the heartbreak they forced upon themselves. it was like running blindly into the brick wall they had built together.

they didn't ever fight though. that was the one thing they took pride for their relationship, but now they realize it would've been better for petty arguments. because now, they realize they just don't work.

he was social, she was a homebody. he loved the night life, jumping between different clubs across cities he'd drag her to. of course, at the time she didn't mind being pulled into a club every so often, but it wasn't her scene. the media never was.

he knew that. she knew that it was his.

her hands shook with every folded article of clothing, occasionally wiping her nose with the back of her hand as she tried to avoid his figure altogether.

it wasn't like she didn't want him, in fact she needed him. but the relationship was doomed from the start, she knew yet she didn't care because at the time, everything was tunnel-visioned and he was the light at it's end. 

her best moments were the ones lived with him, yet also the worst ones too. but she didn't regret it, it shaped them for their future. one where they knew they couldn't be by each other's side.

they knew heartbreak was looming over them, though the possibility of severing their relationship at any given moment didn't dawn on them till blood was pouring out the wound and there was nothing they could do to stop the bleeding.

they wouldn't try to, they knew better than to patch a wound that would never heal. they let it bleed onto the cold floors of their apartment. the one she had to leave.

nothing had happened in the way they had wanted, but when would it ever if everything was always working against them? it was the world versus them and they lost.

they accepted that defeat.

she tried her best to keep her composure as she packed, for whatever thin thread they held onto would snap if she broke down. because they both knew he couldn't leave her if she did, wouldn't let her go.

because she knew he'd give up his career, his dream, in a heartbeat if it had meant he could still hold her at night. he said forever, and he would make it happen.

it sent her over the edge, reliving their relationship as her fingertips creased memories and packed them into a suitcase, each item of clothing holding significance from their relationship. all from the beginning, she'd kept everything, and that wouldn't change.

she broke. she recognized the textures beneath her fingertips before she could look, her favorite dress. her favorite dress that he bought for her for their anniversary. she knew it was over.

as soon as the choked sobs left her lips, the armchair he sat on creaked as he simply stood and walked to console her. his arms wrapped around her shoulders as the warmth of his chest spread across her back, which did nothing but break her heart more.

she pressed her lips against his skin, though not in an intimate manner, but to hide her struggled cries as the tears down her cheeks began to stain his skin with mascara. she gripped his forearm and bicep tightly, leaning her head further against him.

" 'm sorry," she mumbled against his skin, sniffling as she struggled to catch a breath between sobs. she clenched her eyes shut, seeing dizzying shapes underneath her eyelids. she hoped it would stop the tears.

"shh," he shushed as his lips kissed her hair, muffling his words, "i should be sorry."

still he spoke ever so softly to her as the day they'd met and she couldn't help but fold for his tone of voice every time. even when she knew she shouldn't.

" you have nothing to be sorry for, lan..." 

"i should've know the media would be too much for you, love." he mumbled against her hair, "i have everything to be sorry for."

"but i handled it." she peeled his arm from her skin, the streaks of black mascara almost making her lips twitch into a smile as it brought back memories. memories of crying-laughing and smearing mascara onto his arms. still, she held his wrist as she turned to face him, yet she didn't step back.

it'd be the last time they would be this close.

but part of him didn't want her to turn around. he loved when her makeup ran down her face as she cried tears of joy, with the bright sun shining down on her, acting as her personal spotlight, because she was the center of attention, with the wind blowing her hair.

he wished he could see her like that one more time before they left for good. because now he stood, resisting the urge to wipe the tears off her face. because now it wasn't happy, it was sullen. he wanted everything to be able to take care of her, to not let her leave. not yet.

he sighed, he had to give in. he always would, he couldn't help himself when he smudged the running mascara off her face, "fuck, that never works, does it?" he muttered in a soft panic as he realized he just made more of a mess.

she chuckled. she loved whenever he lightened the mood, intentionally or not, it was something she could always count on him to do, "every time, lando, every time." she replied through soft chuckles, sighing as she calmed.

he became serious once again as the smile slowly fell from his face and he wiped the black from his fingers, "but really, did you handle it?" he asked lowly, looking down at her with the same, soft look on his face she could always count on, "i know the media really affected you."

she sighed. there was no denying the exhaustion the media and paparazzi caused. they thought they were fine in the bubble of their apartment, but that bubble had long popped.

"you were born to shine, lando." she simply responded to not give him the truth he was expecting to hear, "that's just not me, we both know it."

"i know." he whispered, biting his lip and looking at her with a gloomy expression. he felt regret and guilt, " 'm sorry."

she shook her head, raising her hand to his jaw to trace the bone under his skin, “i know, but we're both at fault here. we should've known it wouldn't've worked out."

it hurt for them to hear, but it needed to be said, and he would've never said it. it was the truth.

she sniffled, backing away with the realization of how close they had become as she wiped away stray tears and turned back to the half-packed suitcase on the bed they once shared.

he watched her face as her eyes scanned the still heaps of clothing left for her to take, and boxes needing to be filled, "do you want some help?" he offered, his hand grabbing the back of her arm, caressing the skin as she jumped slightly at the contact.

she sighed and said through an awkward chuckle, "please," she reached again for clothes to resume her packing, " 'm afraid i'll change my mind if i stay too much longer."

her words hurt, like daggers slicing through his skin. another wound they couldn't heal.

"would it be that bad?"

his response hurt more. she hadn't meant it like that, but words were subjective. it was like he had taken the knife from beneath his flesh and twisted back into hers.

"no, lan, i didn't mean it like that-" she dropped the shirt she held to place a hand on his bicep, which he shrugged off.

" 'ts fine," he spoke without a tone in his voice, which was odd for him. His focus was on her clothes in his hands and somewhat neatly packed away into one of her many suitcases.

"but i just meant-"

"listen, 'ts fine, we aren't together anymore so we don't have to fix things, or try to."

she squirmed under the dagger as it twisted deeper into her flesh. the air was tense, too silent for her liking and his new attitude threw her off.

it made her realize that maybe there was something more to them that didn't work. because surely any two people who loved each other would make it work out.

it didn't make sense though. maybe it never would.

after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence between them where the only sound was folding of cloth and zipping up certain spots in her suitcase, he turned his back and left the room.

she watched him leave from the corner of her eye, but she didn't stop him. she wanted to though. she wanted so desperately to grab him by the arm and force him to talk to her, but she wouldn't. he was right. they weren't dating.

besides they couldn't even fix what they had before.

minutes later he reemerged with a hand stuffed in his hoodie pocket and another behind his back with something he hid from her. she couldn't get a peak before he slipped it into one of the boxes. she shrugged it off as something she had forgotten.

he returned to helping her fold, but this time with his back towards her. it pained her, she didn't want him to turn his back on her, yet in a couple of hours, she would walk through their apartment door, her back turned to him. it was unfair, she knew.

the tears this time were silent as they streamed down her face, but she didn't make a sound. she watched his actions for a solid five minutes, seeing his best attempts folding her clothes, for her. he was never the best at it, as she had poked fun at him for it in the past. it hurt to think she would never see the difference of neatness in her closet anymore.

her attention was piqued  when she saw his movement halt, quickly resuming with a messily put-together hoodie, one she didn't recognize to be hers.

she didn't get to look before he flipped back the top and zipped it up to go with the others.

she didn't have time to wipe the fresh tears from her face when he turned around after pulling the suitcase from the bed. he paused, dropping the handle.

in a swift motion, he pulled her into his chest. she couldn't stop herself from breaking down in his arms, his hand wrapped around her head, the other around her back. they stayed silent, apart from her sobs into his shirt. he didn't care if she ended up staining it.

they swayed for a while, longer than they should've, but at least now she had calmed down. though tears still streaming down her face and a headache forming in her head, they pulled apart slightly.

her hair was messy, her nose, cheeks, eyes and lips were red, her eyes were puffy and tears stained her face, but she was still prettier than ever.

he couldn't help but tuck the hair in front of her face behind her ear, his hand resting on her jaw.

for the last time, they kissed.

to him, it was like he was taking his last breath of air, or gulp of water for the rest of his life. he was taking what he could.

the taste of her salty tears, the wetness from her cheeks now on his, the hands in her messy hair pushing her desperately closer because he didn't want to let her go.

they sighed when they parted, his teeth grazing her bottom lip at a desperate attempt for more. more time.

they both stepped back, staying silent once again. they didn't have anything to say because their actions said it all. he stepped back to the suitcase he dropped and started moving them out to her car, which had considerably more trunk space than any of his.

it felt like when she was first moving out for college, with stacks of boxes and plenty of suitcases to make it seem like she was fleeing the country.

it all ended the second she walked out the door, but she didn't have to turn her back on him as he walked her to her car, opening the door.

one last hug between them. the last contact.

but they still followed each other's lives.

she would watch his races from the comfort of her new living room couch because she still worried about him the same amount from when they were dating. she noticed his suffering performance, though she sighed every time he crossed the finish line unscathed.

part of him knew she was watching for him.

he still followed her private accounts, liking the posts of the lifestyle that he could never live. it just wasn't his to experience, just like his was never hers to live either. most nights spent drunk in the dj booth, or out to dinner with other drivers, the social life had never been her scene.

he knew.

he knew all along that it was never going to end as they wished in the moment. they stared at their future without fully knowing what was waiting, yet they didn't step down.

months had passed. their lives were supposed to have gotten better, but they could both see they were both suffering.

boxes still unpacked from when she first left, she had never gotten around to fully moving in. still suitcases and cardboard boxes laid around the kitchen of her new apartment.

she felt like she should open them, like she needed to. if not now, would she ever?

boxes full of old memories from her childhood, or stuffed animals she had always convinced lando to buy for her. until there was one box left untouched. she hadn't remembered packing this one.

carefully, she sliced the tape and pulled back the cardboard. she was speechless.

his race helmet. his race helmet he dedicated to her.

dedicated for the anniversary of the day they met. for the race of the country where their eyes first found each other.

it had details about her. her favorite colors, places, things. it had her name, big enough to see from a while away.

he loved this helmet. and he gave it to her.

all she could do now was hug the last remainder of him and cry. she wasn't sure if letting him go was the right or wrong decision, but it felt wrong to question it now.

when she pulled away from the helmet and sniffling her nose, she noticed a piece of paper lodged into the visor. carefully, she pulled it out, unfolding it to see the familiar and horrible handwriting of lando norris.

she was lucky she learned to read it over the years or she would've been screwed.

blue suitcase. for when you're ready.

out of all of the suitcases she had taken, only one was blue. the one he had packed.

she hastily picked herself off the floor, carefully setting the helmet down on the kitchen counter before dropping back down on her knees and desperately unzipped it.

she tossed through every pocket and article of clothing packed into the suitcase, inspecting every single item. until she found it.

of course, he had given her one of his hoodies, but it was not just any of his hoodies. once again, a favorite of his he wore regularly. he gave it to her. it smelled like him still. curse him for spraying cologne on it.

she felt the fabric beneath her fingertips before slipping it on. a smile crept onto her lips as she went and sat back down on her couch, the TV had been playing FP3 in the background before quali in a couple hours time.

she pulled her blanket back over her, slipping her hands into the pockets. her brows furrowed when she felt yet another piece of paper, pulling it out to reveal even more horrendous handwriting from her beloved racer.

will let me know you're watching?

any day now love.

when the nights get lonely, i'll be waiting.

whenever you're ready.

i miss you, i'm sorry

ynusername

liked by landonorris and 4037 others

ynusername I don't know if i'm ready for this...

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proofread by @foreveralbon <333

[galedekarios]

minsc & gale

recently i've been doing a playthrough taking minsc along during the limited amount of time we do get to connect with his character in the game and i have to say he's growing on me in a way he didn't in previous titles.

i wanted to take the opportunity here to write a short post about his relationship with gale because that, too, is something i found myself enjoying despite the (too) few interactions that we have between them.

minsc's initial thoughts about gale

Player: How are you and Gale getting along? Minsc: I do not wish to speak of the wizard. Minsc: I could not have said it better myself. - Player Option 1: Gale's great - what's your problem with him? Minsc: He came to me one night with a little book of mischief - full of words and their meanings. Minsc: 'Posterior', he says. 'Can you say 'posterior'?' I refused! Minsc does not need to know the language of wizards. Player: 'Posterior' isn't wizard-talk - it's another word for 'butt'. Minsc: It is an inferior word. Far too long to use in a battle cry, which is where a 'butt' belongs. Minsc: Gale would do better to educate himself in the ways of sword and steel than to throw these pointy words at Minsc. Minsc: Ai, yes. Gale also owns a cat. A cat with wings! That is most unnerving for poor Boo. Player: You should give him a break - he's only trying to help. Minsc: Never! If he is not careful, Boo will shred his books and use them as bedding! - Player Option 2: Did you know that he has an explosive magical orb in his chest that could destroy a city? Minsc: WHAT? Minsc: That is a thousand times more interesting than anything that has ever been written in a book. Minsc: GALE! MY GOOD FRIEND! WHERE ARE YOU? MINSC AND BOO WOULD LIKE TO HEAR ABOUT THE EXPLODING.

they may not start off on the right foot, but with gale's genuine interest in other people's cultures as well as his perception and easy-going nature that changes:

sorcerous sundries

Minsc: Minsc has never trusted places such as this. Too much of a wizard's power can be simply packaged and picked up. devnote: Grumbling as we make our way through the shelves of Sorcerous Sundries Minsc: Well, picked up by all but Minsc. When he touches the many delicate little jars, oh how the wizards shout and stare! devnote: Revealing that his objection of Sorcerous Sundries is not in fact a deep philosophical belief that wizards have too much power - they just make him feel stupid and awkward when he pokes at their things Gale: Fear not, Minsc. You have a wizard at your side who positively encourages such curiosity. You'll fit right in. devnote: Reassuring Minsc: Obliged, wizard. Should we find our way to a weaponsmith, Minsc will rough you up a little - so that you too can fit in. devnote: Warm, comradely, would genuinely be doing Gale a favour

i feel like it truly speaks to gale's character that he doesn't dismiss minsc here - neither his feelings of inadequacy nor his innate curiosity about the things he perceives as wizardly.

it would've been very easy for gale - the wizard prodigy, the former chosen, to archwizard - to act the part of the haughty scholar, akin to the arrogant wizards that minsc describes in this banter, looking down on him, shouting at him, but gale doesn't.

gale reassures minsc, encourages him, telling him he'll fit right in. it reminds me of the way he treats karlach and fostering her interest in books and reading. another pair of seemingly polar opposites that still find a connection. i do think gale is quite natural at this, despite his long time spent in isolation.

and minsc does appreciate it - his tone changes to one of warmth, one of camaraderie - and i think this is also when minsc's perception of gale changes: from the annoying wizard to someone he sees as a companion and friend.

rashemi traditions

Minsc: Gale. Minsc worries you might send a fireball up his butt, with all of this stringy hair in your face. Gale: Is that why you keep your head shaved? I assumed it was a custom of some sort. devnote: Curious, referring to Minsc's origins Minsc: Oh, no! Most warriors of Rashemen wear long battle-braids, weighed down with stone. Minsc can show you, when next we camp? Gale: Thank you, but I'm more wizard than warrior. I'm not sure my scalp would stand up to such a plaiting. devnote: Very politely declining

i like this banter for several reasons: i think not only does it show the progression of their relationship with minsc offering to show gale the traditions of his homeland, gale also shows the same curiosity he shows many different cultures and ways of life, same as he does with lae'zel for instance and githyanki culture.

when he declines minsc's offer, he does so politely, without insulting minsc's traditions, putting the onus on himself instead. he's the wizard, not the warrior.

house of hope

Minsc: Gale! You will perhaps able to explain where Boo has not - what exactly is the difference between a devil and a demon? Gale: A fascinating question, one that boils down to which criteria we choose to apply. Are we speaking about the physiological? Theological? Etymological? devnote: In teacher-mode - up for an in-depth, intellectual discussion Minsc: Eh. Just how-to-kill... -ical. devnote: Non-plussed, echoing Gale's ending every word with 'ical' Gale: Oh. Then for your purposes, they are exactly the same. devnote: Disappointed

this banter genuinely made me laugh. again, i like how it shows the progression of their friendship, to the point of where minsc goes from finding gale annoying to imitating his speech. and gale doesn't put it beyond minsc to have an 'in-depth, intellectual' discussion... even if he is disappointed by the end of their banter, realising that minsc's priorities are... elsewhere.

wychlaran

depending on your party composition and who you take with you, minsc can also call gale his wychlaran.

The Wychlaran, meaning "wise old women" in the ancient language of Halardrim, also known as the Witches of Rashemen outside their lands, were the spiritual leaders of Rashemen, communing with the spirits and guiding the souls of the Rashemi people.

minsc does use it, too, to describe a special bond and a sense of duty and protectiveness to the people he ascribes this title to. he did so in bg1 with dynaheir and in bg2 with aerie.

elminster

Minsc: It must be difficult for Gale to imagine great Elminster a-courting. Writing poems. Doing... certain... deeds. Gale: Long before my time, thank goodness. That's not an image I care to dwell on. Minsc: Ugh. It is difficult for Minsc to think of, too. Let us speak no more of it. Minsc: ... Minsc: Of Elminster and the sex, I mean.

another banter that did genuinely make me laugh despite the seriousness of the situation, especially given the bond that elminster and gale share as well, which speaks of paternal feelings on elminster's part that come with a certain sense of responsibility, as well as gale's admiration, but also often exasperation with his former mentor.

on a more serious note, minsc offers great insights in his interactions with gale and gale's story:

mystra and the vremyonni

The vremyonni or Old Ones were an arcane brotherhood in Rashemen. Men that were arcane spellcasters in Rashemen had two choices, exile or to join the vremyonni. Many vremyonni were kept alive for eons by longevity magic. Vremyonni were expert weaponsmiths and magic item creators. On very rare occasions, vremyonni would fight in the defense of Rashemen. Vremyonni used secrets of magic that even the Witches of Rashemen did not use, destructive spells forbidden among the wilds of Rashemen, in case such magic was needed. The Running Rocks harbored secret strongholds of the vremyonni. All vremyonni wore masks.

Minsc: Gale reminds me of the vremyonni of my homeland. The man-mages of Rashemen. Minsc: While the girl-folk go on to rule as wychlaran, Weave-touched boys were hidden away. Trained to work their craft in silence and secrecy. Minsc: It is an old custom, not well-observed. In truth I thought it born of caution, after some catastrophe wrought by wizardly men-folk of old. Minsc: Now I wonder if it was not done to hide them from Mystra, and the snares she sets for young and prideful boys, hm? Minsc: Though this suggests that Mystra has never tempted a witch into foolishness. Not that I would blaspheme by suggesting otherwise. Minsc: I forget why I began this long and winding story. Yes Boo - we have been spending too long around the wizard.

i think this is a very interesting banter, especially since it's also only marked to trigger if gale agrees to return the crown to mystra.

it's easy to dismiss this banter, laugh it off as just another instance of minsc being minsc, but i think it's important to consider it within the context of game canon and what has been shown to us.

it's a story and everything within a story is there for a reason.

another great insight from minsc comes if gale is pushed towards the crown by the player:

gale and godhood

Minsc: Who among us has not been spurned by a lover? But a word of advice, if Minsc may be so bold: Minsc: Let the wizard lick his wounds. Write some rickety rhymes, and weep most manfully into his hamster's hide. Eh - his cat's hide. Minsc: But... his boasting is unbecoming. 'Claim godhood', he says? Will this make him any less a man with a half-mended heart?

again, minsc does at times share great insight into other characters and he does so here again with gale:

will this make him any less a man with a half-mended heart?

i think it quite accurately goes straight to the crux of what makes it so very easy to push gale towards godhood: he is hurt. he feels abandoned. by his goddess. by his former lover. both as a mystran and on deeply personal level.

he is drifting, seeking something to hold his head above the water. if it's not the protag's love or friendship, it will be the crown.

anyhow, i never expected to write this when i first learned that minsc would be a companion, but i truly did enjoy him and his interactions with gale in particular.

[oddeira]

time zones | charles leclerc 16

charles leclerc x reader

in different cities, plagued by different time zones, charles misses your phone calls once again. suddenly things don't seem so sustainable anymore.

note: hate to do it to you, but here's some angst. get those tissues ready and prepare to clutch those pearls. also, first charles fic! what do we think? love <3

masterlist / requests

warnings: angst, long distance relationship, miscommunication, heartache, sad charles poor charles :(

700 words

7:02am.

Charles stared at the blurry numbers on his phone, squinting at the brightness of the screen and the sunlight pouring into his bedroom. He squeezed his eyes shut when he noticed the notifications from you. Three texts, two calls. All unanswered.

The first text, at 11:58pm.

I just finished work. I'll call you on the way home. Can't wait to hear your voice. I need it.

Charles' chest hurt. 11:58pm, minutes after he must have dozed off. He had tried so hard to keep his eyes open but his day had been so long and sleep was fighting a good battle against him.

At midnight is when the first missed call came through. It would've been 5pm for you. You would be getting out of work and Charles would be about to get into bed. You would've just got to your car, set up Google Maps, and called him. That was the only time you could find to chat to each other lately, and Charles had missed it.

Worse yet, he let you drive home with the disappointment of waiting all day to hear his voice, only to still be alone come night time.

Twenty six minutes later, at your 5:27pm and his 12:27am, the second text came through.

I made it home safe. I saw you got P2, congratulations! Very well deserved my love. Are you still awake?

That's when the next call came through.

Charles knew that you'd have been upset when he didn't answer. He knew you'd be holding back the intrusive thoughts. The what-ifs, the tears, the disappointment. It would have been keeping you up much later when you'd be trying to sleep. But he knew what was really eating at you was the hope that he would wake up and light up your phone with an incoming call.

He knew it was true when he saw the text at your 11:03pm and his 6:03am.

I think we've missed each other tonight. I was looking forward to hearing your voice, but I hope you celebrated that win well. Congratulations on P1 my love, well deserved. Goodnight.

He stared at the time of your last text, your 11:03pm and his 6:03am. One hour ago. You'd barely been asleep for an hour and here he was waking up to start his day. By the time you'd wake up, he'd be in meetings. By the time he'd get out, you'd be in work. By the time you'd finish, he'd be going to sleep.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut. Distance was never easy, but this wasn't the first time you'd missed your small window to talk to each other. It had been happening a lot lately. He knew it was hurting you because it was killing him.

He opened the tab on his phone of flights that neither of you could take. He was stuck where he was, and you were stuck elsewhere. There was never time. Something always changed the circumstances for the worse, and Charles sank his shoulders in defeat.

He deleted the tab on his phone.

Opening your messages, he sent his own reply.

Good morning, mon amour. I'm sorry we missed each other last night. I hope you're sleeping well. I'll call you after you finish work.

He stared at your missed calls again. There was nothing he could do except stare at them and wish they weren't real.

The alarms he forgot to set would have urged him out of bed over half an hour ago, and so he got himself up and dressed for the meeting he was about to be late to, but he couldn't open the door of his lifeless hotel room.

Guilt gnawed at his stomach. It wasn't fair of him to make you live this way for him. You deserved more than a short phone call every couple of days, and he realised that the only way for that to ever change was if you were here with him.

But he knew deep down that following him around the world wasn't what you wanted. While he could give you security, he couldn't give you stability. That's what you wanted more than anything, and that's when he finally realised, after suffering the long distance for so long, that there were two things in life that meant most to him.

The job and the girl.

He wanted both. But as he opened the door of his hotel room, he realised he could only have one. He had to pick. But he knew it wasn't really a choice. There was only one option.

And it wasn't the girl.