#Though one of those might exist already I need to check-

[luminiamore]

IN THE A.

biker geto suguru x black hoochie mama reader

warnings: fingerfucking, soft dom sugu, he’s a tease, sugu has a big dick, but we knew this!

a/n: this man is so fine i need him neow.

second part here.

masterlist

Life has always treated you so well, beyond well, in fact. You resided in one of Atlanta’s finest lofts, debt-free at 23 despite recently graduating from college. Even though you have your own income, your generous parents still send you a fat check every week or so. You had men constantly begging on their knees to fund your entire existence, and on the occasion, women, too. Everything you wanted simply came to you with no trouble. 

You wanted that cute brown skin man with the waves that you saw at the grocery store? He already has your number. You want that pretty ’90s hairstyle you saw in a vintage magazine? You were already on your way to go get it done. You want to change your dramatic nails, even though you just got them done two days ago, because you found another style you want more? Who can deny you? It’s your world. 

Was it manifestation? Who knows. The one thing you do know is that the world hands you everything on a pure gold platter.

Popularity followed you whenever you went, but who could blame you? You were the epitome of everything sexy. From the way your rose-colored wedges beautifully complement your flawless white toes against your dark skin to how your denim mini skirts hug your curves and accentuate your figure, and your tops, or mainly bikini tops, enhance your boobs so well that they could make a grown man cry. 

Had you been an adult woman in the 90s instead of being a high-maintenance child, you might have been a star, perhaps even one of the most iconic video vixens. However, that title belongs to your momma. The OG.

She was the sought-after beauty every top rapper wanted for their music videos. From Snoop Dogg to 50 Cent, Lil Wayne to Jay Z, Biggie - she lit up screens. She even brought fire to the feud between Tupac and Biggie when she appeared in the latter’s video. You’re almost sure that lady even told you about how Pac was nearly your father before she met your dad. And you, like the little minx you were, lived up to her status.

Now, you weren’t in those modern-day rap videos of the pretty big booty woman shaking their ass on camera. Your momma raised you to have more class than that. She taught you that your ass isn’t the biggest asset you have to offer, figuratively. Your face is, the way you make people feel is, the way you seduce people is. 

That resulted in you appearing in a few music videos where the artist expressed love for someone, as those typically featured the camera focused on one girl. And that girl was you. Those got you the recognition your momma had. Those got men practically lining up to pay all your bills, those got plentiful women dying to either be you or be with you.

Your reputation preceded you; you were exceptional, operating on a different level altogether. Your complexion was flawless, your lips rich and full, and your eyes possessed a captivating allure that could weaken anyone with just one glance. You were taught to always go after the best because you are the best. 

So, what the hell was your ass doing walking around in Oakland City? Wearing your ripped undercut booty shorts, which showed more booty than shorts, along with a vintage Dior top you borrowed stole from your momma, complete with a matching purse.

Your flower sandals from Dolce & Gabbana made such a powerful tapping sound, combined with the multiple pieces of gold adorning your wrists, ears, and neck, that everyone you passed couldn’t help but look to see just who it was, and they were definitely not disappointed.

You’re not stupid. You wouldn’t dream of entering one of the most dangerous areas of your hometown without protection. Your bedazzled gold pepper spray and your fully loaded Beretta Nano 9mm pistol in your purse, itching to be used if someone tries you.

They wouldn’t dare, though. Your momma wasn’t the only legendary figure in your family. Your dad ran one of the leading crime families in all of Atlanta, dealing with heavy drugs, counterfeiting, and smuggling illegal things across borders. He was feared just as equally as he was respected. 

Messing with you? Your pops would send their family a well-decorated package with their son on a shirt. The last man that cheated on you was a prime example. You couldn’t feel bad for him, though, you did warn him.

To answer your earlier inquiry, which has been nagging at you since you parked your Toyota GR Supra Coupe at a motel five blocks away from the neighborhood, you were there to buy drugs. Weed, more specifically. You could have asked your father, but you really weren’t up for hearing his opinion on how he believes you smoke too much. So you go to the next best thing, Satoru Gojo. 

Since your dad was focused on dealing with harder drugs, he didn’t bother with substances like shrooms or anything related to weed. He considered himself too old for that and delegated the task to his second in command and your friend since birth, Satoru. You quicken your pace, heels tapping rapidly as you approach one of his many houses. You’re almost there. 

He has some of the best shit in the A, but whenever you ask him how he does it,

“I just sell it, Sis. My best friend does all the hard stuff,” 

You would always roll your pretty eyes at this because this supposed best friend he always bragged about was never around. At first, you believed he fibbed about having a best friend out of embarrassment, suspecting that you were the only one who could tolerate his antics.

But you saw glimpses, small ones. A fine leather jacket hanging off his dining room chair that you know Satoru wouldn’t wear. A motorcycle helmet standing tall on the side of his kitchen counter. Your suspicions proved unfounded as your gaze shifted to a sleek, blacked-out MTT 420 Turbine Superbike as you approached Toru’s driveway. 

You know damn well that can’t belong to Satoru. Your movements stop once you knock harshly on the door. You catch the faint sound of a random trap song playing through it. You can’t help but smile, amused by how predictably cliché this white-haired man-child can be. Trap music at a trap house.

Your smile fades as you’re met with a cold glare from a short, thick, light-skinned girl wearing a blonde wig. Studying her features further, you can’t help but acknowledge her prettiness. But the minute she opened her mouth, you were annoyed.

“And, who the fuck you is?” She snaps loudly, the gum she’s chewing matching her obnoxiousness. She’s too pretty for this.

“Girl, bye.” You push past her, causing her to stumble slightly, as you march into the house. Maybe she was about to say something, but you didn’t stick around to find out. With your back turned to her, you catch Satoru muttering softly and glancing past you, “Don’t even try it.” 

She sucks her teeth in annoyance, slamming the door behind her as she heads back to the couch where Satoru, another man, and three other girls are seated. Wait- another man? 

You glance back at the couch again, only to steady your hands on the wall you were leaning on. Woah. This man was so fine that he almost made your legs give out on you. The fuck?

His face was so pretty. Sharp black eyes and the longest hair you’ve ever seen on a man. The wife beater he wore clung tightly to his perfect skin, so much so that you could make out that he had nipple piercings. Woah. The tattoos trailing up both of his muscular arms had you ready to remind yourself to just fucking breathe. He sported washed black Chrome Heart jeans, and the pretty cross peeking from his waistband gave it away. 

This man was looking at you, more like undressing you with his eyes. And you couldn’t look away.

“You can’t be knocking on my door like that Sis, I almost thought you were the feds.” Satoru hums, though he really wasn’t worried. He knew the feds couldn’t hold him for long; he had too much money for that. You quickly glance at him and roll your eyes. When you shift your gaze away from Toru, you turn back to the man who has yet to introduce himself to you.

As if he could read your mind, he rises from his seat, his towering height catching you off guard, and he saunters almost sensually towards where you’re standing in the kitchen. The minute he stands in front of you,

“Suguru Geto. You’re beautiful if you don’t mind me saying,” He brings a hand out to shake yours, his eyes never shifting from your brown ones. You glance down for a moment, and you swear you can feel your heartbeat in your pussy when you catch sight of his immaculately clean, clear polished nails, his fingers adorned with silver rings. Lord, help you.

You give him a smile when you register his compliment, “Y/n. You’re the infamous best friend I hear so much about but never see?” You raise a brow.

Suguru swears he’s died and went to heaven when he hears your honey voice. He thinks he’s met the prettiest girl he’s laid eyes on. The gold grill you have of what he remembers is the Scorpio sign confirms it. I mean, just look at you, your outfit, your jewelry, and your face. 

Suguru believes he knows himself. He knows he doesn’t like girls that do “too much,” but you make it look so good. He knows he doesn’t even have a fetish for feet. But if you told him to right now, he would drop down immediately and worship yours. He believed a goddess was walking among him when you walked through the door. 

“That’s me, the idiot doesn’t have anyone else,” He mutters. You let out the cutest laugh at his comment that makes his dick harden in his jeans. Lord, help him.

Satoru lets out a dramatic gasp behind the two of you, “Hey! I have Y/n!” You immediately retort at him, raising a finger at him. 

“Aht! No, you don’t,” You chuckle, snickering and rolling your eyes as you catch him placing a hand on his heart as if you’ve just shot him.

“Stop hogging my best friend and come get what you came for, Sis,” He waves a bag in the air, holding at least 20 grams of weed, ignoring the two girls tugging on both of his arms.

You squeal and sprint as fast as your heels allow towards where he’s seated. Suguru follows after you slowly, feeling ashamed at the way the other two girls cling to him the moment he sits down. He wants nothing to do with them, he feels almost disgusted by their presence now that you’re here. He didn’t even realize they were here when he arrived, he was only here for Satoru.

You snatch the bag from him, slip it into your purse, and then lunge toward him for a hug, knowing he’d never let you pay, of course.

“Thank you, Toru!” Naturally, he wastes no time pushing the two girls aside to embrace you. You’ve always been his top priority. Suguru finds it challenging to look away because as you hug his best friend, your curvaceous behind is directly in his line of sight. He wishes you would hug him like that.

When you straighten, “I gotta go. You guys seem busy anyway,” You quickly utter and glance at Suguru. He seemed like he was about to say something, but you interject before he can. 

“It was nice meeting you, Suguru.” You softly tell him. He might’ve just came in his pants with the way you said his name in that tone. He pauses for a moment, but before he can utter a word, you’ve already dashed out the front door.

He stills, and he turns to his lifelong best friend,

“Give me her number.”

It’s been about two hours since you arrived at your loft. You prepared yourself a nice dinner, a well-made Alfredo, before making your way to your room. You sink into the comfort of your silk sheets, retrieving your ashtray and preparing to roll up. Soft Erykah Badu playing from your Alexa Speaker. You’re interrupted by an unknown number dinging on your phone. 

Who’s this?

You smile immediately, feeling a rush of nerves as you realize he asked Satoru for your number. You're accustomed to getting what you want, and right now, you want him. You eagerly await his text, noticing that he's typing.

You observe his directness. Suguru is texting you as if he knows exactly what he wants, and if there's one thing you admire in a man, it's when he's decisive and goes after what he wants. You've already decided to smoke with him, swiftly swapping your shorts for a black Juicy Tracksuit as it got windy. You opt to play a little hard to get.

Your jaw drops at the amount he sent you for an Uber. Is he crazy? While you’ve had people send you rides to go somewhere, you can’t shake the feeling that he just wanted an excuse to send you money. You’re still reeling from the shock when he immediately sends you the address to his place afterward. You grab two rolled-up blunts and slide on a pair of kitten heels. Snatching your keys, you head out when your Uber driver arrives outside.

The drive to his place is surprisingly short, almost too short. Considering how spread out the area is, you’ve only been in the car for 15 minutes, yet you’re still in the same neighborhood. You brush it off and approach his door. As you knock, you notice Suguru’s driveway filled with three vehicles: the motorcycle you saw earlier, a Mercedes E-Class, and a sleek BMW M3. You can’t help but appreciate yet another reason you’re drawn to him.

He opens the door, and you swear you wish you could pounce on him. He’s still wearing the wife beater, and when you glance up at his face, you notice his eyes are low and red. With his hair tied up in a man bun, a few strands cascading over his face, the only thought running through your mind is... He’s so pretty.

“You started getting lit without me?” You feign surprise as he welcomes you inside. He kindly takes your keys and hangs them on the holder by his door. You could feel him staring at your ass as you move to stand beside him.

He chuckles, shaking his head at you. He reaches a hand out. “You know how Satoru is. My room?” You nod, and he shivers as your long, pretty nails brush against his hand. Was everything about you so alluring?

You follow behind him, noting how he never lets go of your hand. His room, much like his style, is entirely black. Black sheets adorn a king-sized bed, with a few rock band posters hanging above where his dressers are placed. He even has a private bathroom, the door wide open. Damn, this man even has lavender incense burning on the small desk next to his bed.

“Make yourself comfortable, sweetheart,”

Don’t mind if I do. You drop your body on his bed with a plop. You start to take off your right heel, intending to reach for the left one, only to find Suguru already kneeling down, doing it for you. When he’s done, he rubs your feet for about three long seconds before pulling away. You gasp softly, looking away from his intense gaze. Is he usually this forward?

“Uh- I rolled two. I get lip gloss on the blunt,” You sputter out, retrieving them from your purse as he stands up from his position on the floor and settles onto his pillow.

He makes a tsk sound, “Don’t play with me,” He grabs only one from your raised hand and pulls a skull lighter from his jeans pocket. As you place the other one in your purse, you watch him take the first hit. You realize he enjoys eye contact because, throughout all of his movements, his eyes never leave yours.

You’re nervous. For the first time in your life, a man has made you feel nervous. His energy makes you nervous, how he observes you with such intensity makes you nervous, and even how he feeds you the blunt after taking a few hits makes you nervous.

You’re mesmerized. The effects of the blunts hit you swiftly, altering your mind and intensifying your urge to fuck this man till he sees stars.

Suguru himself has never felt this way before. He’s had a few flings here and there and has even been in a relationship or two. But he’s never felt the need to be entirely consumed by someone. The minute he saw you, it felt like time had stopped for him; he could hear how fast his heart was beating. He wanted to impress you. He wanted to give you the universe because the world is far too small for someone like you.

“You have a boyfriend?” His husky voice asks this out of respect for you. Honestly, he couldn’t give a fuck less if you had a man. You’d be his either way.

“Why? You want me?” You giggle, though you knew he did, you just wanted to tease him. As you gaze up at him through the haze, your breath catches when you observe that his eyes have darkened noticeably. You recognize that expression all too well—it mirrors the one you give the camera when it’s focused on you.

He doesn’t respond or even break a smile at your inquiry. No, his eyes are fixated on your plump, glossed lips as you take another hit. You shift your thighs a little, you don’t know how long you can wait before he makes his move.

Suguru notices, and this time, his lips twitch up a bit, “And if I did?” His whisper keeps you quiet. What the hell were you supposed to say to that? Suguru doesn’t mind your silence. He needs you to savor your angelic tune anyway since you’ll scream his name in a few minutes. Rising from his position, he tilts your chin towards him, his eyes catching note of the smoke in your mouth. Drawing his lips dangerously close to yours, he exhales softly,

“Let it go.” You don’t hesitate to listen to his command. It’s as if your mind is his now, the way he doesn’t even do anything to get your attention. As soon as the smoke escapes your lips, he inhales it, pressing his soft lips firmly against yours.

You whimper out at the force and immediately kiss him back. Suguru swears he’s already in love when he feels your lips reciprocate his action, the stickiness of your strawberry gloss making him release a sound that had you squeezing your thighs. He’s relentless, nipping and forcing his tongue to merge with yours.

His fervor with just a kiss leaves you reeling. The combination of the weed and his lips makes you feel intoxicated, causing you to grasp onto the fabric of his jeans to steady yourself. When he pulls away from you, it only makes you crave more.

You’re both breathing heavily, and the sound of Brent Faiyez playing on his speaker is long tuned out. He stares at your eyes briefly before gently pulling you down to lay on your back. You lean up to pull him into another passionate kiss,

“More, please.” You whine out, a little too desperate for your taste. You couldn’t understand why you wanted him so bad, maybe it was the weed, or maybe it was the fact that your pussy was dripping the minute you saw him at Satoru’s place. You can tell he wants to take things slow, but you can’t find it in you to share the same feeling. You need him to do something to you, now.

He only whispers, “Patience, sweetheart.” And moves his lips down to your neck. Soft kisses fill your throat before he stops teasing and reaches for your zipper. He's not shocked to learn that you don't wear a bra; he could almost see your hard nipples through the velvet fabric of your hoodie.

Your sigh of satisfaction comes from the moment he wraps his lips around your dark areola and gently caresses the fat of your unattended boob. He starts slowly, listening to the sounds you make and observing how he can persuade you to moan louder. Your breath gets shaky when he gets more aggressive with his movement, pulling at your sensitive nipples. He decides that he wants more from you.

Suguru rasps out, “I know you want me to fuck you,” Your body feels on fire as his touch slithers down your stomach, grazing your belly ring. He lowers your tracksuit pants for you and throws them across his room, forbidding you to do anything that doesn��t include you receiving pleasure. Your body is anticipating as he continues, “But I need to prep you, or you won’t be able to take me,”

He toys with the slender strap of your thong, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on your face as he talks, “Be good and let me play with you for a bit, okay?”

Your fiery personality is well-known for not letting men dictate your actions. You’re quick to dismiss any nigga, and based on instinct, you’re almost prepared to snap: Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? 

By now, you should realize that Suguru observes every single move you make, every slight gesture you make, when your breath catches, and even now, he detects that you intend to snap at him. He does nothing but give you a look, a dangerous look, which only implies I dare you. Suguru orchestrates a dominance so calm but prominent that you can’t help but whimper out a quiet “Yes,”

What is he doing to you?

He presses a kiss to the side of your mouth as a reward. He’s in a trance. Suguru can’t pull his gaze away from your panties. You’re so wet that it’s clinging onto the fabric as he slowly pulls it away from your lower lips. He finds himself plunging two fingers into your wet cunt before your thong even touches your knees. Fuck, you’re tight.

“Ah- shit! Sugu!” You mewl, walls immediately clenching on his thick fingers. He quickly begins to rub circles on your twitching clit, observing as you gasp and scramble under him. You’re so beautiful like this, he thinks. He doesn’t hesitate to tell you this, too.

“I know, sweetheart. You’re so beautiful, y’know that?” Your slick is dripping all over his palm as he finger fucks you. You try to keep your moans in, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you lose your mind. But you can’t. You can’t do anything but scream out at the way his long fingers are effortlessly punishing your G-spot.

Suguru moves his fingers faster when you don’t answer him, “I asked you a question, baby.” 

Your loud whimpers can be heard over his music. How could you possibly answer? You’re already starting to blank, you’re not sure you even listened to what he said. “I- Oh fuck, Yes!” 

The sounds coming from your fat pussy is downright phonographic. The squishing, the squelching. Shit, it’s even dripping onto his bed, creating a wet stain. Fuck. Suguru doesn’t think he can take another minute without being inside you. He needs it, but he needs to make you cum first. 

He knows you’re about to, with the way your breathing is stuttering and the way there’s a white cream starting to stain his fingers as he pushes them in and out of you. You’re clenching so hard he’s not sure his dick will fit inside of you. He’ll make it fit, he’ll break your little pussy in if he has to.

Suguru leans against you, his desperate panting revealing his longing for you as he whispers in your ear, “I need you to cum for me, sweetheart. Can you do that for me?” He fucks his fingers inside of you harder, rubbing your pretty clit even faster.

You nod eagerly, mind already reeling as you wail, “Y-Yes. I’m gonna cum, Sugu! I- Shitt,” He gently kisses your lips, sliding his tongue into your mouth as if he’s encouraging you to accept it, to just cum all over him. And you do.

Your grip on the bottom of Suguru’s wifebeater hurts your fingers, and you arch your back off the bed while your tight walls clench once more around him. You see white spots in your blacked-out vision, and your squealing is so loud that you worry the neighbors will hear it. He doesn’t stop moving when you cum, wanting to prolong what he knows is the strongest orgasm you’ve ever had. 

When you finally stop twitching in aftershock, your breathing begins to slow down, and his movements follow suit. Your panties are long gone. He swiftly pulls out of you while you’re still in a daze, making you unaware that he’s sucking up your essence from his fingers and pulling his jeans down along with his Calvin Klein briefs.

You are, however, aware when he pushes your thick brown thighs flush against your chest. And you’re even more aware when he lines his fat pink tip to your sticky lower lips. Suguru doesn’t let you see just how big he is, he directs your focus to his lips on yours. But Lord, do you fucking feel it. You feel it when he rubs up and down on your wet slit. You feel it when he pushes only his tip inside of you before he pulls back out again.

Suguru doesn’t think he can keep on teasing you like this. He tries to keep it up for your sake, but the way you feel on his tip has his body shaking; it’s almost embarrassing. But he can’t find himself to feel ashamed when you look up at him at him like that, your eyes pleading for him to fuck you into the mattress.

“I’m gonna put it in now, baby. I’m gonna fuck you real good, okay?” You’re learning, you know he wants an answer from you, and you don’t bat an eye when your trembling, honeyed voice whispers, “Whatever y-you want, Sugu.”

Whatever he wants? You probably should’ve never said that, and he’ll show you why. He pushes inside of your cunt slowly, hissing at the same time you shriek when your walls try to push him out. “Breathe,” He rasps out. And you’re trying, you’re really trying to. But he’s just so fucking big, it’s like he’s breaking your pussy in half. 

“Y-You’re too big! I can’t-” He doesn’t let you finish, he proves that you can when he pushes in halfway through your slobbering pussy. 

“Of course you can, Y/n. You’re almost there, sweetheart. One more breath for me, yeah?” 

You listen wordlessly, sucking in another deep breath. It’s inevitable to cry when he plunges the rest of his 8 and a half inches in one go. Suguru lets out a groan in your ear, and the sound makes your insides churn. How is it that he immediately finds your spongy spot? You’re so used to being briefly grazed in that spot that this feeling is foreign to you.

Suguru gives you a few seconds before your pussy starts suffocating him, and he’s forced to start feeding you with slow, deep strokes. “Jesus, fuck!” You keen, mewling, and pressing on his firm abs; the pressure was just too much for you. Are you crazy?

“None of that Y/n.” He uses his left hand to hold both of your hands and place them above your head, gently grasping your throat with his right. All the while, his eyes never leave yours, and his big cock never stops stirring up your guts at that slow pace. He gets impatient. 

“You feel so good, so fucking tight. Pretty pussy is mine now, yeah? Tell me it is,” Gradual snapping of his hips against yours in a feverous tempo causes you to scramble under him, with your mind getting lost since you can’t find anything to keep you grounded. He has you altogether under his control, and you can’t find it in yourself to be upset.

You don’t respond, your brain too gone to form any thought that’s not Sugu. You’ve forgotten your manners, he’ll make sure to remind you. He snaps his hips harder, he swears the cries you make almost make him cum on the spot.

“Words, Y/n. Tell me this perfect pussy is mine,” The sound of your soaked pussy filling the air as he whispers against your lips, which are permanently shaped in a perfect O.

You weep out, “Fuck! Oh, Sugu- it’s yours, all yours! I- Ah!” His face adorns with a sly smile at your confession. His body is on fire, your pussy perfectly snug around the shape of his cock. He knows he’s about to cum, with the way his insides are twisting, and his heavy balls are twitching rapidly as they slap on the fat on your ass. Your pussy is so good that he swears you’re not even from this planet. But he needs to get you there first. That’s all he needs to dump his seed inside of you.

He slithers the hand gripping your throat down to your drooling clit, rubbing so fast you think you’re having whiplash. Your cries become louder, and before you even know what’s happening, you’re covering Suguru’s entire stomach and his soft sheets with your squirt.

Suguru follows swiftly after you, letting out a sinful moan, his body trembling as he fills your pussy with his cum. It’s so much, so fucking much, that you can feel it overflowing past your stretched-out pussy. The sluggishness of his thrusts inside you causes him to let out loud breaths and drop his face in the crook of your neck.

Your eyes are still stuck on the ceiling above you, shallow breaths emerging from your sore throat. Woah.

The long-haired man above you is still panting and giving you another command, making it difficult for you to process what just happened to you.

“On your stomach, sweetheart.”

This time, you remember your manners.

[seokgyuu]

Running a little witch store in a small town, recently the only exciting thing has been Jake visiting your store every other day. While he doesn’t buy anything, his looks are enough to make your days a little less boring. And when he comes in one day, mixing up his offered tea with a very, very powerful aphrodisiac… it is about to get a lot more than just a little less boring. 

Pairing: Neighbor!Jake x Witch!Reader Genre: Porn with almost no plot, Supernatural (as reader is a witch, duh) Warnings: Jake is a bit of an idiot but hot, reader is very sarcastic… are those even warnings? Reader has female anatomy and is described as a woman, pure filth basically, MINORS DNI!!! Smut tags under the cut Word Count: 6k  A/N: Well hello! Happy Halloween everyone! My little last minute Halloween Project is done! First up, thanks to @aaagustd for the AMAZING banner!!! And my lovely @heechwe for betaing! This  work was very, highly, extremely inspired by a clears throat spicy audio that was uploaded literally last night. Could not stop imagining it to be Jake who this happens to… so here we are. The creator’s name is AugustInTheWinter, check out his Patreon or Reddit, I swear it is SO worth it if you’re into audios!! Anyway, thanks August for this inspo and thank you guys for reading! tagging my beloved @yvnempire because she's so excited about this hehe. Please leave comments and/or reblog, it would mean the absolute world! Wanna support me? Here's my Ko-Fi!

Smut Tags: Big dick!Jake, Jake starts nervous and a bit subby, but turns into a beast, handjob, blowjob, face-fucking, facial, p in v sex, unprotected sex (stay safe kids!!), multiple orgasms, loads of cum (like really… so much), dirty talk, degradation (words used: whore, slut, hole, fucktoy etc.) cumplay, cum eating, tell me if i missed anything!

Everything about this town was boring. 

The scenery was boring. The activities were boring. The people were boring.

Just… everything. 

Your coven had sent you here because of the apparent magical aura you so, as they said, “desperately needed to achieve your full potential”. Bullshit, for all you cared. The magical aura might have been strong, but it was so deeply rooted into the earth, you had trouble reaching it even after hours of channeling your own powers. Of course, you didn’t tell them that. All they knew was that you were having a blast in this shithole of a town and had already made tons of friends. 

So far no one had questioned your answers and so you just lived your life, hoping you would soon succeed in attaining the magical power of this place and go back to your normal life. 

Recently, though, you at least had something a little less boring gracing you every other day. Jake Sim - the neighbor from across the street. He was handsome and a little shy and very obviously did not believe magic existed. Not that you cared much about that, no, you had been exposed to many people who didn’t believe in you and your kind, not to mention all the other supernatural beings walking on the face of earth. 

Jake was a non-believer and wonderful to look at and you were fine with that. Content. More than happy. 

As you were brewing some potions a few of the older women around town had ordered (while they also didn’t exactly believe in magic, they at least believed in your ability to brew things that were extremely efficient in their gardens), you found yourself thinking about the pretty man again. About his laugh and his eyes, about the way his shirt would rise up and show a bit of his happy trail leading down to something you could only wish to see fully exposed one day. 

Truthfully, the last time you got laid had been ages ago. So long that you couldn’t even really remember who it was with and where. It was a curse, this town, and seeing a young attractive man stalking into your store a few weeks back had suddenly brought back the desire you had managed to suppress for who knows how long. 

Just then, as you were deep in thought, cutting up some lavender, the door opened and the little bell above it rang, bringing you back to the present. 

“Hi Y/N!” 

Jake had his puppy smile on, hair blown out of his face and a thick coat hanging off his shoulders. He walked over to the counter and you smiled up at him, catching yourself finding his flushed cheeks extremely endearing.

“Jake, welcome. Anything I can do for you today or are just here for another chat about how magic can’t be real?” You tilted your head and gave him a playful smile that he answered with a little laugh.

“Actually, I did come for something today. Mrs. Bloodstean said you have some great tonics for flowers?”

Ah, yes, Mrs, Bloodstean, the woman three houses down who had trouble with her roses. You had helped her and now her roses bloomed all year round. 

“I do indeed, Mr. Sim. What can I get for you?”

“Well, I’ve been having some troubles with my Mandevillas… they don’t seem to wanna bloom as much as, uh, I would like them to.”

His sheepish grin would have made your knees weak if you’d been standing. You nodded and got up, checking the shelves behind you for the potion he’d need to get his flowers to grow and bloom as much as he liked. Eyes roaming over the different bottles, you soon came to the realization you were out and clicked your tongue.

“Seems like I’ll have to brew one. That’s gonna take a couple minutes, do you want some tea while you wait?”

Jake nodded yes and smiled, turning around to do this usual routine through the rows of shelves in your store. From a safe distance, he began to watch you do your thing, cutting up ingredients and throwing them into a miniature cauldron Jake couldn’t help but be amused by. A witch store in the middle of this small town, run by one of the most attractive women Jake had ever laid his eyes on. 

When he had first stumbled in here, he had mistaken it for an alternative medicine shop. While he wasn’t totally wrong, he also wasn’t fully correct. You did offer some remedies and lotions, some potions and tonics, but you also had crystals and salts and books in your many high rising wooden shelves. The first day, he had spent hours just browsing through the books, not thinking of actually buying anything, but somehow being immersed into this world of magic he was so sure could only exist in fiction. 

He hadn’t even noticed someone working at the front behind the counter until he turned to leave, almost stumbling over his feet when he spotted you. You concentrated on a page in an old looking book, biting down onto your tongue that was slightly sticking out of your mouth. You with the prettiest face he had ever seen, that made it so hard to look away. 

After that, he came back every other day, hoping to talk to you, get to know you and maybe ask you out on a date. Of course, he never did because if Jake was anything it was a coward. It didn’t matter that he somehow happened to be handsome, his charisma was in the trenches. 

It was obvious he didn’t see the effect he had on you, which made it even more fun to have him around in your store. You could sense that this man did not have one indecent thought about you while in the store, even when you wore low cut shirts or skirts with slits almost as high as your hip. No, he was a good boy, a sweet boy. The contrast of the two of you was almost comical - you thinking about what it would be like to feel him, to taste him, to push him against a bookshelf and have your way with him and Jake just wanting to man up to ask you out. 

Circling back to the front, Jake saw you hard at work and decided to fill his tea cup by himself, the steaming blue teapot on the right side of the counter. Smiling, he brought the cup to his lips and took a sip, his eyes widening at the sweet taste. 

God, that’s delicious!

The hotness of the drink seemed to fade into the background as the taste spread on his tongue, so sweet and wonderful his eyes almost rolled back, the liquid making his whole body feel warm and fuzzy, and without even noticing he finished the whole cup in one go. 

“Wow, that tea is amazing! What kind is it? I don’t think I’ve ever had it before.” Jake put the cup back down and beamed at you. 

Blinking, you looked up at the brown-haired man, your mind a little slow at catching up with what Jake said. 

“What do you mean?” You asked, brows furrowing slightly.

“The tea you made me, what kind is it?” He repeated, pointing at the teapot next to him. 

Your eyes widened for a brief moment, then you slowly got up.

“How much did you drink of that?” You asked calmly. 

“A whole cup, it’s like so, so good, how-,”

“A whole cup?!” The volume of your voice surprised both of you and Jake’s eyes widened in surprise, his mouth dropping open a little.

“Was that- was I not supposed to? I- I’m sorry, you seemed busy, so I just helped myself.”

You stayed silent for a few seconds. Watching Jake’s confused face, trying to read his thoughts. He had absolutely no idea what he just drank. But you did. 

A grin found its way onto your lips, a grin so diabolical it made Jake’s stomach turn. 

“That’s not your tea, Jakey,” you said, pointing at the teapot he drank from, “your tea is over here.”

Jake followed where your finger pointed next, a small black teapot standing to your left, all done with a cute little pink cup next to it. He blinked a few times.

“Then- then what is this?” He asked, nervousness beginning to spread through his body. Your grin deepened.

“Oh, that? That’s just the very, very powerful aphrodisiac for Mrs. Brown’s husband. See, he can’t really get it up anymore.”

Silence. Jake felt like the whole world had suddenly gone silent at your words. But then he remembered where he was, who you were and how incredibly unlikely it was that this really worked. So, he snorted.

“Right. An aphrodisiac in the form of tea, I’m sure that’s gonna work wonders with Mr. Brown.”

“Not just him, but you too, you know,” you began to walk around the counter, stopping when you reached the other side, leaning against it with crossed arms, “and you’re only supposed to drink one sip of it. You, dear Jakey, drank a whole fucking cup.”

Honestly, Jake still didn’t believe you. Or at least he thought he didn’t. But something about the way you looked at him almost made him falter. He laughed and shook his head.

“Come on, Y/N, I’m not an idiot. This obviously isn’t going to work, it’s a hoax, we all know it’s a hoax.”

“Is it though, Jake? Is it really a hoax?”

“What? Of course it is! Magic isn’t real, can’t be real, this tea surely won’t help Mr. Brown get an erection and I, my friend, more than anything, will not get aroused by some fake viag-,”

Oh shit. Jake couldn’t help the deep moan escaping his throat when he suddenly felt the hardest wave of pleasure hit his body. He almost dropped to his knees, his cock growing harder by the second, pressing against the seam of his jeans, making them uncomfortably tight. 

“You won’t get aroused, Jake? Yes? Is that right?” You were having the time of your life. This was better than anything you could have ever predicted. By Mystra, how could you have forgotten about the tea for Mrs. Brown? And how lucky were you for Jake to mistake it as his own? You couldn’t believe your luck. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Jake groaned now, his chest heaving and you tilted your head again, watching sweat form on the handsome man’s forehead. His pupils were blown and his face flushed and, fuck, did he look good. 

“I would say the potion is kicking in. How does it feel?” You bit your lip, watching Jake struggle to find words for what was happening inside… and outside of him.

“I- well, oh fuck, it, uhm, it feels… it feels like, like I’ve never- like it’s so.. it’s so h-hard, you know?”

“Hm, I don’t think I do. Perhaps you can show me, just so I can check if it all looks normal?”

Jake’s cock twitched at that. You wanted to see? Check if it looked normal? Another moan made its way through his lips and it sounded so utterly pathetic you felt yourself drip into your panties.

“Wh- what do you mean “normal”? C-Could it look, like, n-not normal?” He was sweating. A part of him really wanted you to see, to check, to maybe even touch him, but another felt shy, didn’t want this to happen before taking you out to a nice dinner, maybe even a movie and- 

Fuck, who was he kidding? 

“I don’t know, that’s why I wanna check. Will you show me, Jakey?” 

“F-fine, b-but only to check!” His cheeks were on fire at this point. His cheeks on fire and his cock hard as a rock, aching and throbbing and probably aggressively red at the tip. 

That last prediction proved to be correct when he pulled down his pants and briefs at once, his cock springing free, standing harder and prouder than he had ever seen it. He whimpered at the sight. 

And you? You almost fell to your knees, itching to touch him, to lick over the tip that was already leaking so, so miserably. Oh good lord. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip again and you swallowed hard, eyes glued to the huge cock Jake had been hiding from you.

“Is it- is it always this big?” You asked, not even looking into Jake’s face anymore.

“Well, n-not when it’s not, uhm, you know… h-hard.”

“So it’s this size even when no potion is involved?” You wanted to know.

“Y-yeah, that didn’t change.”

“Holy fuck,” you mumbled, your hand wanting to grab around him so badly, but you contained yourself. 

“What- what can we do? Like is there an antidote? Can I- can I drink another potion? Or maybe there is, uhm, fuck, a spell or something?”

You chuckled.

“Now you believe in spells, Jakey? Funny timing,” finally, you raised your head to look at him again, “but no, there is no antidote. Like I said, it’s made to help get it up and given in a specific dose. But you, my dear, drank probably thrice as much as necessary.”

“So what does that mean? I- I can’t just go home like this!”

He was right about that. Everyone would see him sporting the largest boner known to mankind. And right now, you decided, this was only for your eyes. 

“I think the best way to deal with it is to, frankly speaking, empty it.”

Stars seemed to dance around Jake’s head when you spoke, the image of you rubbing his cock, sucking on it or even bouncing on it to empty him of all his cum… he twitched aggressively. 

“S-so, wh-what are you sug-suggesting?” His heart was speeding in chest and he was trying his hardest not to jump to conclusions. 

Yet another devilish grin spread on your lips as you raised your hand and snapped your fingers, closing the blinds of the storefront window and locking the door all at once. In any other situation, Jake would have been freaked out, but right now all he could concentrate on was the way you pushed yourself off the counter and looked at him from head to, well, problem.

“I am suggesting, Jake, that it would only be right of me to help you out.”

Jake swallowed hard, glued to where he was standing, his cock still so unbelievably hard, still aching and throbbing and in desperate need of attention. 

As you lowered yourself, knees soon hitting the wooden floor, he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

“Do you want me to help you out?”

“God, yes, please.”

And there it was. All that you needed to finally bring your hand to his cock. He immediately moaned, head falling back as his hips moved forward, thrusting into your grip. You chuckled as you slowly began to move, bringing your thumb to his tip, gathering all of the already leaking precum to use as lubricant. 

It already brought you immense pleasure, jerking him off. Staring up at him, seeing nothing but pure lust and desperation on his face. You were throbbing between your legs, wetness building up more every passing moment. 

“Fuuuuuck, yeah, j-just like that, oh wow.” 

Jake felt like he had never been touched like this before. Every bit of friction against his skin was like the first time. Every inch you touched with your hand was burning, sparkling with something he could only describe as magic. He couldn’t stop the desperate moans even if he tried, couldn’t stop his hips chasing your hand, thrusting into it like a mad man. 

“Faster, please!” He cried out and you obeyed, speeding up your hand. Your eyes were glued to his cockhead then, watching how precum kept leaking, drips landing on your floor or the briefs that were hanging around his ankles with his jeans. 

You worked your hand faster, having trouble closing it around his big shaft and finally adding the second, working him at double speed with his cockhead still peaking out. 

God, how would he feel inside you? 

Two hands around his cock and Jake could sense a first orgasm approaching. He thrusted his hips, fucking both of your hands, eyes rolled back into his skull, the pleasure completely taking over.

“Yeah, yeah, just like that, fuck, fuck, I am fucking your hands so good, shit!” He didn’t know where to put his energy, switching between moaning and whining and saying his incoherent thoughts out loud, feeling himself leak onto your hands. He wondered what you’d do when he came, if you’d just let him come right onto you or if you’d point it elsewhere. 

“Feel good, Jakey? You look so hot, so, so good for me.” You stared up at him, batting your eyelashes and finally Jake looked down at you, his spit catching in his throat. You looked insane with his cock in your hands, your face wild and determined, a small grin on your lips that made his cock twitch once more. The whimper escaping him must have been the single most arousing thing you had ever heard. 

“I’m gonna come, I’m s-so close,” he cried and you nodded, licking over your lips.

“Yeah, come for me, wanna see you come, Jakey.”

When he had said yes to you helping him out, he sure as hell had not expected dirty talk to be involved and, shit, was he happy it was. His mouth fell open wider, eyes glossy and focused on your face. He knew it was going to be a lot, knew he’s going to shoot the biggest load of his life onto you in a few heartbeats.

“C-Coming, oh- shit!” 

When he came, he came. Cum spurted out his cock, and you didn’t even think about letting a drop go to waste. The first load landed on your neck and collarbones, dripped down your cleavage and over your breasts, the second you managed to catch with your tongue slurping it down like a five-star meal. The third landed on your cheeks and chin, some on your neck, joining his already left mark. 

Jake truly couldn’t believe his eyes. You, the woman he had been thinking about asking out for weeks now, covered in and eating his cum. Another little bit of cum dribbled out his cock and you caught it perfectly with the tip of your tongue, causing Jake to groan desperately. 

He was still so fucking hard. Still desperate for more.

“I need more, I’m still so hard, please.” His pleasing eyes and slightly trembling lips made the picture in front of you perfect. Jake, big cock full on display, still hard from the potion he had drank by pure accident, his first orgasm so powerful he had shot three loads onto you, was now begging you for more. 

And you were more than eager to make every wish of his come true. 

“Since you said please…,” you grinned, leaning forward, not giving a damn about the seed currently drying on your skin, and flicking your tongue against his tip, his hand almost immediately moving to grip the back of your head.  “God, yes, yes, please take it into your mouth, fuck, please!”

His wish was your command. 

Your lips closed around his tip, sucking on it just slightly, tongue gliding over his sensitive slit, tasting his bittersweet taste, wondering if maybe the potion had altered something about it. Next, you moved your head forward, taking more of him into your mouth, feeling the veins of his cock press against your tongue. A moan erupted through you, the arousal almost too much to bear at this point. 

“Ohhhh, god, yes, take it, take it deeper, shit.” His hips moved, pushing more of him into your mouth. He seemed to vibrate, seemed to fit perfectly into your wet heat, tip hitting the back of your throat and causing you to gag, spit dripping from his shaft down to the floor. Your hands grabbed the back of his thighs, steading yourself as he began to thrust down your throat. 

“Holy fuck, that’s right, gag on my cock, gag on it, fuck.”

It must have been the potion speaking because he wasn’t usually this vocal. But then again, he had never had anyone take his cock down their throat as well as you were doing right now. Gagging and spitting and tearing up, but nothing in your face showed discomfort. No, you were thriving on this and Jake felt your arousal in the air, felt it mixing with his and he sped up his hips, both hands now holding your head in place as he let out the most beautiful moan you had ever heard. 

He shoved you down his cock completely now, his balls hitting your chin as he fucked your mouth like it was the last thing he’d ever do. Drool mixed with his precum dribbled down your chin, tears began to stream down your face, your eyes rapidly blinking as you watched him lose all of his composure. You wished to keep this memory engraved into your brain for all of your life.

Jake was in a rush, in a complete trance, fucking down your throat, feeling your tongue against his shaft, your throat restricting around him, your gags and chokes turning him on even more. Somehow, with every thrust closer to his release, he felt the tension rise up more. 

What the fuck even was in that potion? 

It hit him then, his second orgasm, thrusts becoming sloppier, quicker, accompanied by desperate moans, whimpers and groans. 

You managed to swallow it all, the load just as huge as during his first orgasm, shot after shot down your throat, your eyes growing wide while you sucked him dry, or at least attempted to.

“Swallow it all, yes, yes, fuck, come on, come on! Take it all, I know you want to, fuck!” 

There was no control left in his body, the potions effect taking over completely. 

He emptied his cock into your mouth and pulled out when he at least thought it was over, only for another wave to hit him and land on your skin again. He felt like an artist painting an already perfect canvas with his own visions. 

“S-sorry, fuck,” He breathed hard, watching you slowly get up, your face wild and stained with his seed as well as your own tears. Your eyes were red, pupils blown and with every gaze you shared, he knew you wanted him as much as he wanted you. He swallowed and looked down, seeing his cock still hard, still throbbing and aching. Would this ever end?

“I need more, need more,” he mumbled, stumbling forward and grabbing your hips roughly. You moaned at his touch, your fingers gliding over your chest to pick up some of his cum and shove it into your mouth, sucking them clean. He swore under his breath.

“Do you want to fuck me, Jakey?” You asked then, voice sweet like honey, but body looking so breathtakingly filthy. 

“Want to, need to, have to,” he replied, moving to lick some of his own cum off your neck. You moaned at that surprising action, pussy throbbing and dripping. Without another thought, you dipped forward, pressing your lips against his. He kissed you back right away, tongue shoving into your mouth and he could taste himself even more on your tongue. His hands ripped open the corset-dress you were wearing, freeing your tits from their prison and immediately moving to grab them.

You hopped onto the counter then, pulling him closer, legs hooking around his waist. He kissed you hungrily, tongue and teeth and spit and hotness all mixed together. You shoved his coat off his shoulders and opened the buttons of his shirt, but he stopped you.

“No time, need to be inside you now.” He basically growled, fingers simultaneously finding your panties and ripping them off of you just like he had your dress. You spread your legs further, ready for him, more ready than you had ever been. 

Jake knew he had reached heaven right then. Grabbing his cock and bringing it to your drenched pussy, pushing into your awaiting entrance and feeling you grip him, pulling him closer. He cried out, whimpered into your ear and continued to suck on your skin, cleaning you off of his seed all while working to bottom out.

And when he was finally buried to the hilt, he only paused for a second to take it all in, before beginning to fuck into you at a brutal pace. Your fingers clawed into his shoulders, mouth dropping open as your head tipped back and high pitched moans crawled out of your throat over and over. 

“So fucking tight, taking me so fucking well, such a dirty fucking slut.” Jake bit your neck and you cried out once more, your whole body shaking with pleasure as he continued to fuck you. There was nothing you could compare to what was happening right now. No one had ever fucked you as good, as hard and as fulfilling as Jake. 

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better than this, Jake pulled out of you and grabbed your waist, heaving you off the counter only to spin your around and push you down onto it, your ass up in the air.

“Sorry, need to fuck you like this.”

Back in he went - full speed, full force. The counter shook under you and you gasped when he began to thrust. His cock dragged against your walls, split you open so beautifully it felt like you were going to burst. You threw your ass back at him, clawing at the edge of the counter, eyes falling shut as you let yourself enjoy the way he drilled into you.

There was a high chance Jake was going to grow addicted to this feeling. Never had he ever had sex as good as this and perhaps this was courtesy of the potion - or maybe it was just you. You with the perfect pussy, the perfect mouth, the perfect hands. Everything about you seemed to heighten his arousal, seemed to get him closer from the edge all while pushing him even further away from it. 

He could do this for hours, fuck you until he came, spill his seed in you over and over, watch how it spilled out. God, he wanted to see your pussy stuffed with his cum so bad. Watching his cock slip in and out of you, hearing the noises you made, it was almost too much.

“You’re my perfect little hole, aren’t you? Just made to be fucked like this,” he couldn’t help himself, grabbing your hips even rougher and spitting down to make it even wetter. Not that that was really necessary. You were dripping down his cock as well as your own thighs and Jake swore he would never recover. 

“Fuck, Jake!” You cried out, hip trying desperately to move while he held you, eyes opening only to roll back as your orgasm hit you like a brutal wave.

“Shit, are you gonna come on my cock, slut?” Jake saw red as he felt your pussy spasm around him, pulling him even deeper, squeezing him for all he had, wanting to milk him dry of his load. 

And who was he to deny such a request?

“Come inside me, Jake, please, please, please!”

You had sensed his orgasm and he let out a growl, finally filling your pussy with his load just as you hit your second high right after the first. Once again, it didn’t stop, it just kept on coming, his cum landing inside you and already dripping out as he fucked both of you through your orgasms, filthy sounds filling the air next to both of your moans and groans and pleads for more. 

Jake had expected to be done after three, but no, he was still hard, and so he grabbed your wrists and held them behind your back, standing up straighter as he picked up the speed once more.

“Need another one, baby, just one more, fuck, m-maybe two, I just- fuck, I am so hard, I need to fuck you more, wanna fuck you all night, need to fuck your pussy.”

There was nothing left in his brain except for the need to come, for the need to fuck you. He was like an animal during heat, felt like he was going to explode. His cock was so incredibly sensitive, hurting even at this point, but it was addictive, you were addictive. Just the thought of not being inside of you anymore filled him with something close to agony. 

“Y-yes, fu-fuck me Jake, your cock feels so good, s-so big!”

At this point you could have taken the potion yourself judging by how you were feeling and talking. Normally, you were the one in charge, the one on top. But with Jake? You enjoyed being in his hands like this, enjoyed being used by him for his pleasure. You wanted him to fill you up, to split you open, to do with you whatever the hell he wanted. 

“God, yes, like my big cock fucking you open like that? Such a good behaved little whore, isn’t that right?” He found himself slapping your ass, and judging by your reaction that had been the exactly right thing to do. He groaned when he felt you squeeze him again, both hands back to holding your hands in place.

He lost himself in you. Lost himself in the pleasure. And you lost yourself in him and the need to have him fill you up again and again. 

His fourth orgasm made his cock soften a little. He filled you to the brim, watched the majority drip down your legs, forming a little puddle to your feet and he licked his lips, letting go of your hands and pulling out of you, turning you back around and placing you back on top of the counter. 

“Lean back,” he ordered and you did as wanted, eyes wide and pussy throbbing from the last orgasm a few seconds ago. 

You leaned back on your elbows, watching him position himself between your legs. He grabbed his cock and placed it in between your lips - to thrust in between them, cockhead repeatedly hitting your clit. You gasped, body jerking forward.

“Wanna paint your whole body with my cum, stay still.” His big hands grabbed your hips, pinning you to the counter as he began to thrust his cock over your pussy, the friction already enough to almost make him come again. 

“Mhmm, y-yes, f-feels good!” You cried and he grinned, continuing his spiel like a madman. 

“You’re so sexy, so fucking sexy, baby.” He breathed out, his brain slowly but surely coming back to him. And when he heard that little noise you apparently always made before you came (if he could trust the two orgasms from earlier), he felt himself reach the edge as well. 

Your head fell back when you felt the next orgasm hit and your pussy ached for more when his next load landed all over your stomach, even reaching as far as your tits, painting you just like he had wanted. 

The canvas was finished.

But Jake wasn’t.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, so sorry, I need to-,” his head was fuming red, and he moved back a little, just to dip his cock back into your spent pussy and you fell flat onto your back, your head hanging over the counter. 

He fucked you like a ragdoll, like a toy, like he didn’t even really acknowledge you were still there. He pressed down onto your stomach and sped up, tried to fuck you deeper. He imagined he could feel his cock through your skin, imagined he could see himself fucking you just like that. 

“S-so deep!” You cried out and he looked at you, at your body, and nodded, watching now how your tits jumped at every thrust. They were stained with his cum as well and he hoped he would never forget this image. 

“One more, promise, just one more, my perfect little fucktoy, yeah?”

His words were so filthy, so desperate and full of need, they made your pussy spasm again, made you grip him hard over and over again. 

“That’s it, fuck! Gonna come, gonna come, shit, sh-shit! Take my cum, take it, yes, yes!” He was in a spiral downwards, then back up and back down - his last orgasm hitting him like a fucking brick, yet another load landing inside your pussy - one, two, three. His cock twitched and twitched and finally began to soften. 

When he pulled out, he fell backwards, landing on the floor, his eyes wide and his ass hurting. 

The potion slowly lost its grip on him, his normal, coherent thoughts coming back all while he was getting down from his many, many highs. 

You pulled yourself up in exhaustion, your chest heaving. When you sat up straight again, you couldn’t help but chuckle at Jake on the floor. 

“Need a hand?” You asked, carefully jumping off the counter and finding that your legs were nothing but mere jelly. Quickly, you grabbed onto the edges of the surface and found your balance again.

“I- I-,” Jake began to stutter, his eyes probably the size of saucers by now. You grinned.

“You?” You raised a brow. Jake’s face turned crimson.

“I- I’m sorry, I-,”

“You’re apologizing? For what? The best sex I’ve ever had?” You snorted, “No, Jakey, no need to apologize.” 

Jake bit the inside of his cheeks. Best sex you’ve ever had? While he wanted to feel proud, he wasn’t so sure if that really had been him having sex with you or if the potion had a mind of its own. 

“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” you moved forward now, stretching your hand out for Jake to take, “the potion only strengthens what’s already there. It doesn’t change your personality, it just makes you give less fucks.”

Had you read his mind? Jake cleared his throat and nodded slowly, before taking your hand and letting you help him up. 

Only then, when he was standing so close to you again, did he realize you were still covered in his seed. He turned even redder.

“Oh, right.” You giggled, closing your eyes and once again snapping your fingers. 

Immediately, you were clean of his cum and back in your dress - which had also magically repaired itself. Jake also found himself back in his briefs and jeans, his coat safely hanging over the counter. His mouth dropped.

“You-,”

“Are an actual witch, correct, Sherlock.” You winked at him and walked back to the other side of the counter, “Now, do you still need that potion?”

Jake stared at you for a second.

“Y-yes,” he mumbled, watching as you quickly finished the preparations. He didn’t dare say anything, his heart beating at triple speed and his brain working overtime. He had just fucked you. For like… a good while. And he didn’t even have your phone number.

“There you go,” you smiled and carefully shoved the bottle with the potion over the counter, “just pour a few drops over your flowers tonight. You should already see some results in the morning.”

“Th-thanks. How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, Jakey. You already paid me enough.” You said cheekily and Jake found himself choking on his own spit.

When he walked out he regretted not asking you for your number. Or if you wanted to go on a date. 

But that night, when he got ready to put the potion to its use, he saw a little note stuck to the label he hadn’t seen before.

Tomorrow, 8 o’clock at your place. I promise I’ll bring wine that won’t make you wanna fuck me for hours. It’s a date! Also here’s my number: xxx-xxx-xxx. See you tomorrow, loverboy!

Jake found himself laughing out loud. 

And while he did his work in the garden, he thought that just because the wine wouldn’t be the reason, he sure as hell would not mind fucking you for hours at least twice every day for the rest of his life.

[goldfades]

FLIPPED──RAFE CAMERON

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for this request, for my baby jojo! @wanderlusturous

─ summary | rafe is completely devoted to his pregnant wife, spoiling her endlessly and preparing for the arrival of their baby girl, who becomes the center of his world. after a life of feeling lost and disconnected, rafe finally finds purpose in his new family, vowing to protect and love them unconditionally.

─ pairing | rafe cameron x wife!reader

─ warnings | such a sweet, domestic bliss fic! rafe spoiling tf outta reader, rafe being a girl dad, mentions of toxic family, but other than that it's just so sweet.

─ ev's notes | the chokehold that gif has on me is... insane. also wheezie needs to be included more in fics like... shes so awesome (ik she hasnt done anything but thats kinda the point) ALSOOOO I NEED MORE DOMESTIC RAFE LIKEEEE, PLS SEND ME REQUESTS. i might do a part 2 for this fic cause it's so heartwarming i cannot

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You’re lounging on the couch, wrapped in the softest cashmere blanket Rafe could find, a far cry from the one you had before. That one had been comfortable too, but Rafe never thought it was enough for you, not when his princess deserved the best. The soft hum of the air conditioner fills the house, the only sound in the otherwise still afternoon, while your fingers absentmindedly trace patterns on your growing belly.

Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow over the room, and you sink further into the cushions, feeling the quiet luxury that has come to define your life since you met Rafe. He’s out right now, picking up God knows what — probably more baby things, even though you already have a mountain of stuff piled high in the nursery.

He never does anything halfway. Every stroller, every onesie, every diaper cream has to be top-of-the-line, the best that money can buy. He doesn’t just spoil you, he suffocates you with care, but in the softest, sweetest way possible, so you don’t even mind. No, you love it, revel in it, feeling like you’ve been plucked straight out of one life and placed into another, where all you have to do is exist and be adored.

The front door clicks open, and you can feel his presence before you even see him. He’s always like that, larger than life even when he’s trying to be quiet. You sit up a little, trying to hide the way you’ve been lazily sprawled out, but he’s already at your side, his hands gently urging you back down.

“Relax, baby,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your forehead. His eyes flicker to your belly, then back to you, that familiar mixture of awe and protectiveness gleaming in his gaze. "I've got everything handled. You just need to rest."

You open your mouth to protest, to tell him that you could've gotten up, could’ve helped him with the bags, but he’s already shaking his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as if he can read your thoughts before you even say a word.

"Not a chance." He sets the bags down, filled to the brim with things you know you'll never touch, because he’ll do everything for you. “You’re not lifting a finger. Not while I’m around.”

His voice, low and firm, sends a shiver down your spine, the kind of reassurance that only Rafe can offer. He crouches down beside the couch, running his hands over your legs, making sure you’re comfortable—like he always does. His touch is possessive, protective, the kind that says without words, you’re mine to take care of.

You let out a soft sigh, sinking back against the plush cushions as his hand glides up to rest gently on your belly, almost like a reflex now. You’ve noticed that since you started showing, his hands always find their way there. Like he has to be close, to make sure everything’s okay. He’s obsessed, really—your safety, your comfort, your every need. It’s like a switch flipped the moment he found out about the baby, and he hasn’t let you out of his sight since.

“Everything’s fine, Rafe,” you say softly, trying to reassure him, but the way his brow furrows ever so slightly tells you he doesn’t quite believe you. He’s always worrying.

“I know,” he replies, but there’s a tension in his voice, the kind that tells you he’s already thinking five steps ahead—about the doctor’s appointments, the vitamins, the nursery. He leans in, kissing the top of your head as his other hand gently brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “But you’re carrying our baby. I’m not taking any chances.”

You smile at his overprotectiveness. It used to overwhelm you at first, this all-consuming devotion, but now? Now it’s like second nature, the way he hovers, always making sure you’re not doing too much, that you’re not straining yourself. He’s like a human safety net, never more than a few feet away, always anticipating what you might need before you even know it yourself.

He stands and starts unpacking the bags he brought in—high-end baby gear, of course. Another designer bassinet, this one with extra features that make it look more like a spaceship than something an infant should sleep in. You watch him move around the room with purpose, his movements fluid and sure, as if orchestrating a plan only he’s privy to. He barely spares you a glance, but you know he’s hyper-aware of your presence, always keeping you in his peripheral vision.

“You didn’t have to get all this,” you murmur, though you already know the answer. You say it more out of habit now, like you need to put up some token resistance to the endless stream of gifts and gadgets.

“I know, but I wanted to,” he says without looking up, his tone casual, but you can hear the edge of finality in it. It’s the same way he talks about everything when it comes to you—like there’s no room for negotiation. “Only the best for you and the baby. You deserve it.”

He sets down the bassinet and moves back to you, taking a seat on the edge of the couch, his hand immediately finding yours. He strokes the back of your hand with his thumb, and you lean into him, letting yourself relax in the comfort of his presence. For all his intensity, there’s something so soothing about him when he’s like this—calm, focused, entirely devoted to making sure you’re taken care of.

“Rafe, really… I don’t need all this. I just—” You hesitate, biting your lip. You want to say that all you really need is him, that he’s already more than enough. But before you can finish, his lips brush against your temple, silencing your thoughts.

“Don’t worry about it, baby. I’ve got you. I’ve got everything.” His voice is gentle, but there’s an unshakable confidence behind it, the kind that makes you believe, even for a moment, that the world outside doesn’t exist. That as long as you’re in his orbit, nothing can touch you.

You glance over at the bassinet, the sleek, modern design standing out starkly against the warmth of the room. It’s absurd, really, how much Rafe is willing to spend, how nothing seems too extravagant when it comes to you. But that’s just him—lavish, obsessive, determined to give you a life where you never have to want for anything. And despite how overwhelming it can be sometimes, you can’t deny how intoxicating it is to be the center of someone’s universe like this.

“You think you’ll ever let me out of this house again?” you tease, half-joking, half-serious. He hasn’t exactly been keen on you going anywhere without him lately. Even the grocery store is off-limits unless he’s there to push the cart and carry the bags.

Rafe chuckles softly, but there’s a protective gleam in his eye. “Not until the baby’s here. And even then, only if I’m with you.” He’s only half-joking, and you both know it. The idea of you out in the world, vulnerable, without him by your side—it’s something he can’t stand.

You roll your eyes playfully, but the warmth that spreads through your chest is undeniable. It’s not like you want to go anywhere without him. Not really. The truth is, you’ve gotten used to this, the way he dotes on you, the way he watches over you like you’re the most precious thing in his life. It’s addictive, being adored like this.

“Fine, fine,” you say with a mock sigh of defeat, settling back against the pillows. “I guess I’ll just have to get used to being spoiled.”

Rafe’s smile widens, his eyes softening as he looks at you. “Good,” he says, leaning down to kiss you again, slower this time, lingering. “Cause that’s not changing anytime soon.”

───

The moment he found he was having a girl, his world flipped upside down in the best way possible. The baby shower was small and private, only inviting your close friends and family. And for Rafe, he only invited Wheezie. He doesn't really have family or friends he'd want to be around—he only needs you, really.

Rafe never really had a family, not until he met you. Sarah was... well, Sarah. She used to be a part of his life, but they were worlds apart now, and Rafe had long since stopped trying to bridge the gap between them. She had her own life, her own people, and it didn’t overlap with his anymore. Rafe had always felt like an outsider in his own family, never really fitting in, never living up to what was expected of him. His father was distant, his mother gone, and his siblings—well, they weren’t exactly close.

But you? You were different. From the moment he met you, something shifted. For the first time in his life, he felt like he had something solid, something real. You gave him a reason to try, a reason to build something better than what he grew up with. He didn’t just want a family—he wanted your family. One that wasn’t broken or full of secrets and betrayals, but one where he could be the man he’d always hoped to be.

The moment he found out you were having a girl, everything inside him shifted. He wasn’t just Rafe Cameron anymore. He was going to be a father—a girl dad. The idea scared him at first, the weight of it hitting him harder than anything ever had. He wanted to be perfect for her, for both of you. He wanted to give his daughter everything he never had growing up: stability, love, safety. Things he never knew he craved until now.

The baby shower was intimate, just the way you liked it. Soft pastels draped the room, and delicate decorations hung from the ceiling, a far cry from the over-the-top events Kooks were known for. But that wasn’t you. And that’s why Rafe loved you. You made everything feel simple, real, stripping away the excess that had always suffocated him growing up.

Wheezie was there, of course, quiet and awkward as ever, but Rafe didn’t care. She was the only family he had left that mattered, the only one who hadn’t looked at him like he was too far gone, beyond saving. She wasn’t like Sarah, who had washed her hands of him long ago, or Ward, who saw him as nothing more than a disappointment.

As you sat in the corner, surrounded by a small group of friends, Rafe couldn’t take his eyes off you. You were glowing—literally glowing, your skin radiant, your hands instinctively resting on your belly. You were laughing at something Wheezie said, but all he could think about was how surreal this all was. How he’d gotten here. From the chaos of his old life to this—a quiet, perfect moment.

Rafe didn’t need anyone else, not really. His friends? They were more like shadows of a life he’d left behind. Toxic, empty relationships that had never filled the void. But with you? He felt whole. He didn’t need the Outer Banks, the parties, the fake smiles and empty promises. All he needed was sitting right in front of him—his future, his family.

You caught his eye from across the room and smiled, and just like that, the world shrank down to just the two of you. It always did. Everything else faded away when you were around. He crossed the room, ignoring the small talk and the laughter, his focus entirely on you.

“Hey, princess,” he murmured, kneeling beside your chair, one hand instantly finding your belly like it always did. He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder before leaning his head against it, closing his eyes for just a second to ground himself in the moment. “You good? Need anything?”

You shook your head, resting your hand on top of his. “I’m fine, Rafe. You don’t need to keep checking on me every five minutes.”

He huffed out a laugh, but there was no humor in it, just a soft kind of affection. “Can’t help it,” he said quietly, opening his eyes to look up at you. “I’ve gotta make sure my girls are okay.”

Your heart melted at that, at the way his entire face softened whenever he talked about you and the baby. Rafe Cameron—the guy everyone thought was a lost cause, a wreck waiting to happen—was now the most devoted man you’d ever met. He wasn’t perfect, far from it. But he tried—tried so damn hard for you.

“Everything’s perfect,” you reassured him, squeezing his hand. “And you’re spoiling me too much. Again.”

A mischievous grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “Not possible. I’ll spoil you both for the rest of my life if I have to.”

You laughed, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead. “You already are.”

He looked up at you, his eyes full of something soft, something vulnerable. “You know… I never thought I’d have this. A family. Not like this.”

You reached out, gently cupping his face in your hand, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “Well, now you do. And you’re going to be a great dad, Rafe.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his eyes flickering with emotions he didn’t quite know how to put into words. But then he nodded, his grip on your hand tightening slightly, as if he were afraid to let go.

“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice thick with something unspoken. “I guess I do.”

And when his baby girl finally came, his world cracked open in ways he never thought possible. Everything changed in an instant—the noise of the hospital, the rush of doctors, the sterile white walls—all of it faded into the background the moment he saw her. Tiny, fragile, perfect. His heart seemed to stop and race at the same time as the nurse handed her to him, her soft whimpers breaking through the silence like a delicate melody.

Rafe had never known he could love something this much. Not until he was holding his daughter in his arms, her little fingers curling instinctively around his thumb, her eyes barely opening to reveal the softest hint of blue. In that moment, every bad decision he’d ever made, every reckless move, every mistake—it all faded away. Nothing mattered anymore except this.

She was his.

His chest felt tight, his throat constricting as he tried to wrap his head around it all. The weight of responsibility hit him like a wave, but it wasn’t fear that came with it. It was a sense of purpose, a deep, unshakable need to protect her, to give her everything. To never let her feel the kind of emptiness he’d grown up with.

You were lying in the bed, exhausted but glowing, watching him with a tired but content smile. Rafe caught your gaze and smiled back, tears threatening to spill over as he gently cradled your daughter against his chest, her tiny body fitting perfectly in the crook of his arm.

“She’s so small,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, barely above a breath. He felt like he was holding the most precious thing in the world, something so delicate he was terrified of breaking her. But at the same time, he didn’t want to let her go. Ever.

“She’s perfect,” you murmured, your voice soft and full of warmth. “She’s ours.”

Rafe swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that were quickly clouding his vision. His thumb gently brushed over the soft tufts of hair on his daughter’s head, his heart swelling with so much love it almost hurt.

“She’s more than perfect,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I—I don’t even know what to say.”

You smiled gently, reaching out for his hand. “You don’t have to say anything. You’re doing it, Rafe. You’re already her father.”

The words hit him like a punch to the chest. He’d never been sure if he’d be good enough for this, good enough for you, for the family you’d built together. But looking at his daughter, her tiny face so serene in his arms, he knew he’d never stop trying. He’d move mountains, tear down the sky, do anything and everything to keep her safe.

Rafe stood there for what felt like hours, rocking her gently as you dozed off, exhausted from labor. He couldn’t take his eyes off his daughter, couldn’t believe she was real. She had your nose, your delicate features, and he could already see hints of his own wild streak in her.

It terrified him, and yet it filled him with a pride he couldn’t put into words.

As she shifted slightly in his arms, letting out the tiniest yawn, Rafe felt his entire world center itself around her. His priorities had changed in an instant, everything he’d once thought was important—money, power, even his own survival—seemed so insignificant now. The only thing that mattered was the little girl sleeping soundly against his chest.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering as he whispered, “I’m never letting you go. I promise.”

And in that moment, he meant it. Every word.

He didn’t need anything else—no approval from his family, no redemption from his past. He had you, and now he had her. His little family. A family that was his to protect, his to love, his to spoil with every fiber of his being.

Rafe knew he’d made mistakes—plenty of them—but as he held his daughter close, he made a silent vow to her. He’d be better. He’d always be better for her.

Because now, his world wasn’t just about him anymore. It was about her, about you. And for the first time in his life, he had something worth fighting for that didn’t come with strings attached or conditions. It was just love. Pure, overwhelming, unconditional love.

And Rafe Cameron was never going to let that go.

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↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Elite Serial Killer

Thinking about the rich hunting the poor plot of thousands of movies

Popular and inexplicably vain it’s a surprise he goes to your college at all

But because of his status and immense popularity you never quite got close to him

Only knowing about him because of gossip 

His existence doesn’t matter to you until the college plans to take everyone on a cross-country trip

That happens to be sponsored by an anonymous donor 

You somehow end up in a travel group with him and his most loyal groupies

You didn’t even know you were in the same class

But when the school asks for a payment he generously pays for all expenses

“If all it takes is a bit of pocket change to have these nerds do my homework, then I’ll pay for it!”

He scoffs in your face if you try to refuse 

having the principal tear your check in front of your face if you try to pay yourself

But you pack your bags prepared to get on the plane booked for the class only for one of the nicer groupies to stop you

“Uh, where do you think you're going?”

“To the plane?”

“Our plane is on the tarmac. We’re not getting packed in like a bunch of sardines.”

“But I already bought the ti-”

“Look nerd stop complaining before he leaves you.”

When you do get on of course it’s a shock to have an attendant nicely handle your bag 

Of course, you fidget as you watch the groupies casually sit in specific padded chairs

As though those were their designated spots 

You’re watching them so intensely you miss the grey eyes watching you

“You.”

“Huh? Me?”

“Where do you want to sit?”

“Uhm I’ll just sit over here.”

You randomly pick the spot farthest from them 

He scoffs again and snaps his fingers

“No, you won’t you’ll sit over here.”

The seat he’s pointing at is right beside him…

But a girl is already sitting there

You hesitate looking nervously at the girl who’s engrossed in her phone

Wille exasperatedly sighs before turning in his seat to kick the girl off it

“Ahh!”

Thud

It looked like it hurt

But no one reacts…at first

Before one of the groupies chimes in

“Move Piggie! It’s obvious Wille doesn’t want you here!”

The other’s laugh while ‘piggie’ slowly gets up moving her things she gives you a hard glare before moving to the row over

With Wille impatiently snapping his fingers you sit in the seat

Now being weirdly included in the conversation

Though it’s completely out of your realm of understanding they are seemingly including you

You don’t get the chance to ask  why he wanted you here but you couldn’t complain

When an attendant served you a hearty meal that happened to fit all of your likes and dislikes

You are made to hold someone’s bag or do the other’s assignments issued for the class but you can’t complain

Especially when ‘piggie’ is the one who keeps getting pushed around

Once the plane lands it’s constantly like this 

In museums, restaurants, and lectures 

The pattern continues and as expected you feel incredibly indebted to Wille

So of course you’ll look past the slightly demeaning tasks he sends you on

Or when the groupies need the opinion of a ‘commoner’ you answer

It’s never as bad as it is for ‘piggie’ 

Who ends up paying for some of the other groupies’ shopping sprees 

Or when someone deems their outfit ruined or out of style it’s ‘piggie’ who has to buy something new

You feel awful 

But you’re sure if you spoke up they’d absolutely leave you in this foreign country all alone

So you’ll try in another way

“Hey, I uh filled out an extra assignment if you’d like it?”

For once you might see them accept and start coming to you to talk

It’s nice 

To speak to someone more sympathetic to your situation

But things don’t really kick off until the last day 

And you by association are invited to the intense partying of your group who invite others from your college

There Wille demands that everyone in your group come to his vacation home where his family is 

To work off the hangovers and keep the party going he says 

He says it’ll be another week before you all head back to the college

Whether you drink or not you don’t mind the small extension on your trip 

after all, all of your expenses are paid for

So without being able to refuse you join the group  

a butler welcomes you as soon as the chauffeur drops you all off at the castle-like vacation home mansion

Unexpectedly there and looking at watching you all gawk are Wille’s family

His father, his mother, his older sister, and his younger brother

They all are just like him with long wavy hair and cattish grey eyes that seem to see all

They welcome the group but they’re honestly quite cold

You don’t mind all that much though

They’re polite enough for the first three days

But then as the end of the week approaches it just gets stranger

Not just for you but for the others as well

“H-h-hey did any of you guys notice Wille’s little brother has a lot of stuffed pets?”

“Really?”

“Well, did you see how that old man was looking at me? Creepy!”

Finally on the sixth day 

more accurately at midnight, the hunting really begins

Faced with Wille himself smiling wider than you could have ever imagined right along with his family with their own twisted faces

“You won’t believe how many social climbers cling to us like leeches! In our world. They have their protections and safeguards that stop us from bashing their brains in. But you–we could do that and so much more because no one cares about you. No one!”

It’s alarming, to say the least 

The dirt under your nails

The cries of the others

Wille continues

“But it's nice to imagine right? So we’re going to play a little game! You all get until midnight tomorrow to escape our property. If you do you get to keep your little worthless life. As a bonus, we’ll reward you an extra million for all the trouble! So, everyone ready to play?”

Screams are heard 

And a gunshot goes off

Someone else breaks down again

“Good energy, you have until sunrise.”

Like frightened deer you scatter

Part 2

[brie-annwyl]

Tim and Damian always being at each others throats, but always the ones that are most there for each other out if all the siblings.

Dick, bless his heart, is the mother hen of the family. His hands are always full with everyone else and their feelings, that sometimes people get.. forgotten.

Damian was never forgotten. He was Dick’s baby. He told Bruce as such during an argument (“he’s MINE Bruce. I don’t care if you were presumed dead or not. He’s MY son more than he’s yours!”) Damian was his top priority.

Until he wasn’t.

Damian didn’t realize how lonely life felt when he wasn’t the centre of Dick’s world. He didn’t realize how much it would actually hurt when Dick would eventually forget to come to one of his school award ceremonies, or to take him out on their weekly lunches so Damian could spend special one-on-one time with him.

It was 3 hours past when Dick was supposed to have picked him up for lunch, yet Damian was still dressed up in his Nightwing hoodie (a hoodie he stole from the elder). Except he was no longer waiting in the family room like usual, he was up in his room, hiding from the prying eyes of Drake that glanced his way every ten or so minutes when he’d check the time. Lines of worry clearly etched on his face.

Damian tries to call Dick, his call gets sent straight to voicemail. He frowns as he gets a text a few seconds later.

-Sorry Dami, can’t talk right now. I’m out with Steph and Cass for a girls day (yes, I’m invited to those. Lol)-

“Oh.” He forgot. Set plans they have every week. Plans that never diverge. He forgot them for a “girls day”. Damian checks his calendar for the 8th time, needing to make sure he hasn’t mixed up the days (even though he knows he never mixes it up, and it’s always Dick that forgets). He shouldn’t be surprised anymore, their lunches had been canceled the past few weeks due to Dick’s unrelenting schedule, but he had promised Damian that they would go to lunch today, and that he would make up for the past few weeks with staying at the manor and having a sleepover with him.

Damian isn’t sure when he threw his phone, nor when he curled up into a ball in his makeshift reading nook in his closet. His cheeks feel wet and the reality setting in makes him all the more embarrassed. Crying over something so juvenile was so beneath him he might as well change his last name to Drake.

Speak of the devil, Damian internally groans when he hears a soft knock on his closet door.

Maybe Drake is like a dinosaur, if he doesn’t move a muscle or make a sound, he’ll move on and leave him alone.

“I can hear you, demon brat.” An unintentional groan escapes Damian as he buried his face further into his arms. He can hear the closet door open and feels Drake shuffle into his hiding spot, his safe space.

At first, it’s quiet. Neither of them dare utter a word in fear of breaking the calming silence that only exists inside this closet. It’s not the first time the two have found themselves here. Tim is the only person with the amount of audacity to enter Damian’s not-so-secret nook in the back of his closet. It’s the only place the two of them don’t argue, an unspoken boundary that holds together this fragile development in their relationship.

“Is this how you felt?” Damian eventually breaks his silence, casting a subtle glance to Tim, only to realize Tim was already looking at him with an indiscernible expression on his face. It’s a look Damian doesn’t see directed towards him often. He isn’t exactly sure what it means either. It’s a facade, it’s meant to look soft and happy, assumably meant to calm him down before approaching any meaningful conversation. There’s an underlying sting of sadness and pity entwined within it. Damian decides he hates it.

“How I felt?” Tim’s a little closer now, maybe 2 meters away from Damian, his head tilted and eyes questioning. A sigh escapes Damian.

“Is this how you felt when I arrived here? Did he forget he loved you too?” Something in Tim’s expression breaks, and that’s all the answer Damian needs. He feels an urge to apologize, but brushed it away. Him and Tim just being able to talk like this - it’s so new, it started maybe 3 weeks ago. He doesn’t believe he can break down all these walls just yet. He isn’t ready to accept and atone, by looking at Tim, he knows he isn’t ready for that either.

And suddenly the elder robin is a lot closer, almost bumping shoulders as he settles in the same position Damian rests in, staring blankly at the same spot on the wall. It’s his collection of “adopted” animals, the ones where they give you a plushie for sponsoring an animal. Damian had over 30.

“You know, I’ve never been to the Gotham animal sanctuary.” Tim subtly added, hoping Damian took the bate, hoping he didn’t catch on. If he had caught on he managed to hide it very well under a sudden angered gasp.

“You’ve never been?! I have a full exhibition there dedicated in the dangers of housing exotic animals and imploring those to donate to the different charities at each animal exhibit!” Tim threw his hands up in defeat, chuckling slightly.

“Well then boy wonder, we need to go then, don’t we?” Without so much as another word, Tim is pushed out of Damian’s closet. For a moment, he believes he screwed everything up. That Damian will forever live his life as a recluse, only seeing the light of day when physically pried from his hiding place. He’s pleasantly surprised when his little brother emerges in a plain tee shirt and shorts. Tim smiles, not listening as Damian warns him that the exhibits are interactive and imploring him to change his clothes as they will get dirty.

Tim just had to learn that the hard way when elephant snot gets on his new bomber jacket.

[yuriisclumsy]

HELLO !! I SEE THAT YOU WRITE FOR CALE HENITUSE :d you've got good taste that man makes me feral i love that unbelievable idiot :D

Whadoyyathink about Cale being with someone who's weaker than him but she's kinda useful (one of pookie's powers is to boost someone's abilities, it generally doesn't matter if the one she's aiding doesn't have magical powers, they just have to be good at something like for example, painting and swordsmanship—she can enhance their ability and knowledge temporarily).

She's a mage that's dying the more she exploits her mana. She tried to not use too much, but in a reality where she and everyone suddenly got thrusted into war? She couldn't help but use, use, use.

None of em knew her degrading lifespan until one day she just told em casually when the gang asks wtf is wrong w u why do you look like u r boutta die and why do you keep passing out sometimes

If this is too much feel free to ignore, though thank you for reading :D

Will you stay by my side forever?

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 1,443

[Authors Note]: This thing took me so long to make because I couldn't figure out what setting to write it on. Besides getting a bit tired of only writing for Cale back when I was consistent with the requests. But, hi! I'm back! At least just for this one. This request is back from May 💀. I still have two more, one from June, the other from July. So I might come back and do those. Do people want a part 4 for Love's Dance?

»»►Ouuu, what a fun scenario.

»»►Apologies in advance if it’s a bit weird, haven’t read or written for Cale in a while, so I might have lost my touch.

»»►Warning (I never really do these, but I thought it would be appropriate): could be inaccurate to the Henituse War Arc because I have yet to read it.

»»►Also, the POV is different on this one.

Dragons.

Powerful beings, capable of destroying us all if they wanted to.

One thing they weren’t meant for was to let humans ride them and control them like animals. They had far greater intelligence than any being in existence. 

So why should they submit to us?

The skies are filled with erratic bat-winged lizards; their flames and roars were scattered all over the field.

This was a war.

Dragons…What pesky creatures. I already have one to deal with, I don’t need more.

“Choi Han!”

“Yes, Master Cale?” said man came within seconds and kneeled in front of him.

“I need you to scout out the area in the east for me,” I commanded.

“On it,” and with that, he left as fast as he came.

I already know how all of this will pan out, but a little safety never hurt no one…

“Master Cale!”

“Hmm?” I turned to see one of the city guards running in a hurry towards me. “What is it? Why are you in such a hurry?”

“I-it’s lady [Name]! S-hes…” the guard gasped for air from the run.

“Easy, calm down… Now tell me, what’s wrong with [Name]?” I patted him in the back.

Recuperating the lost oxygen, the guard went serious and looked at me. “Lady [Name] has lost a great deal of blood and fainted..! S-she just started to cough and— M-master Cale–? Where are you going?!” The Guard shouted at me, but all noise was shut down by my mind.

That instinct to check on those you care about kicked in the moment I heard the word blood being uttered.

I ran.

Ran, and ran, until I was able to see the camp where she had been stationed at by me. A camp far from the battlefield, but close enough for me to constantly check-up on her.

How could a thing like this happen to me? I had just checked on you a few hours ago, so why? Why are you suddenly bleeding?

The men there stood aside as I ran past them. They understood not to be on my way with the expression I wore on my face.

“Where is she?!” I yelled to the men crowding a tent. I already knew my answer when they looked at me  and then at the inside with sad expressions.

I burst in and scanned the area to look for the woman I ran miles to see. I paused. There, on a bed on the far corner of the shelter, was her. [Name]. Medics surrounded her with yet more sad faces.

I walked slowly towards them, not wanting to know if what I had in my mind were to be true. “Is she alright?” I asked when I was a mere few feet away from the bed.

The head doctor looked at me with furrowed brows and sighed. He then gave me a smile when he saw my eyes, filled with worry.

“She is fine,” he said. I let the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “But she has lost a great deal of blood. I need her to stay in bed for a few days, and another more of pure rest until I see her health back up again.”

“I see… Thank you.”

“No need, it’s my job,” the doctor looked at the other two, who I believe to be his apprentices, and gestured to them to exit with him. “I’ll leave you alone with her,” he patted my shoulder as he left.

I stood there for a bit, before I went and sat on the bed right next to hers. I stared at her face; the face that made my heart jump from excitement wherever I saw a smile; the face that l would look at and made me feel better instantly; the face that made me fall deeply in love with her.

“...Cale?” a voice rang in my ears which made me snap out of my trance. My eyes meet with hers.

“[Name]...you’re awake,” I let out simply. She smiled at me, relieving me from the aching I had in my heart moments prior. “Are you feeling better?”

She nodded. Her eyes were filled with a love I can’t put in words, stared at mine. “I’m… I’m sorry,” she said sadly.

My eyebrows knitted in confusion. “What are you sorry for? None of this is your fault.”

“...” she stayed silent. She turned her head to the other side, blocking my view of her expression. I knew this move of her’s. She did this whenever she was hiding something. And then I realized something. I hadn’t asked what the cause of the blood was.

“[Name]...” I called to her, “..this wasn’t your fault…was it?”

“...I’m sorry,” she apologized and let out a low sob. “I didn’t want for any of you to find out this way….”

I was in disbelief. What possibly could she have done to cause such blood loss other than a stab wound…had she...?

“[Name], tell me… You didn’t cut yourself, have you?”

She quickly looked at me, “no, of course not, I would never do something as bad as hurting myself!” She reassured me.

That’s good…but that doesn’t answer how she had lost a lot of blood.

“Then…why were you bleeding?”

“...That’s..a long story.”

“I have all day,” I crossed my legs and rested my head on the palm of my hand.

“...”

“...”

She sighted thinking I would give up on the subject, but I’m far too stubborn to give up. “I lost a lot of blood because…”

“Because…?”

“Because of my ability…” she finally said.

“Your ability..? The ability to enhance abilities?” I asked in thought.

“Yes.”

“How exactly does your ability work then?”

“Well, you know that I can upgrade someone's abilities, yes?” I nod, and she continues, “but what I didn’t tell you was the toll it comes with.”

“Toll? Wait, have you been hurting yourself while using your ability?” I accuse her.

“No! Well…yeah, but exactly how you think…” that wasn't very convincing. “Whenever I use my power, it takes energy from my body. The more I use it, the weaker I get.”

“...”

“Please don’t be mad at me…” she pleaded with puppy eyes.

“...I’m not mad.”

“I feel like you are.”

“Well, I’m not,” I straightened my back, “but I will have you permanently stop using that power of yours.”

“What!?” She sat up at lighting speed, and groaned out of pain.

“Don’t sit up so quickly,” I got up and held her back.

“Y-you can’t just…prohibit me from using my power! How else would I be useful to you? How would I earn money!?”

I didn’t say anything. Then an idea came to mind. My ears were burning at the thought.

Taking courage, I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat at the word I was about to say.

“...I’m firing you,” I said.

“...Huh?” She looked heartbroken. Oh, how I can’t see you like that. “no…No, no. Please, let me work for you. Please, Cale!” She grabbed my arms in an attempt to make me rethink my decision.

“No, my choice is final,” she was at the brink of crying. “Instead… I want you to stay by my side.”

“What..do you mean?” Her eyes gawk at me with tear drops threatening to spill out.

“Let me rephrase myself so you can understand,” I cleared my throat, “I would like for you to be mine.”

We stared into each others eyes. She shed a tear from before, but not out of frustration, or grief of a lost job, but out of love and affection. She chuckled.

“Is this your way of courting me?”

“Is it bad?”

“No! No, it’s…interesting,” she lowered her head to laugh at my proposal.

“So?” I placed my index finger under her shin and tilted her head to look at me. “Are you going to accept?”

“Hahaha… Yes. I accept,” she gave me the happiest smile I had seen from her.

And in that moment, I knew I was the happiest man alive.

Fin

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Master-List

[tranceinnumerabletabs]

When Johnny Comes Back Pt5

A/N: Posted this a little early since the winner was clear and I couldn't wait. Thank you all so much voting for this chapter! Or, just voting in general. Y'all the reason I post. Here's the final product! Enjoy being a drunk Batman

You do not need to read this chapter, it's got less relevance to the main plot and has less Johnny. So, it could be considered boring

Btw, @supermegabitchboyexceptimagirl , here's the chapter. with you tagged in as requested.

It's me, part one! the first child

I'm part two, I get the most hand me down

middle child pt three

part four, I'll miss being the baby

Disclaimer: Stalking

Previously:

Well, yeah you’re smart but you’d be lying if you said that you didn’t learn a thing or two from Johnny when you asked him about his job.

Now:

At first you didn’t think of it. Older men existing around you is no reason to be alarmed unless it’s a voting booth.

But then he appeared again, and again. And he always seemed to want to eavesdrop on your conversations. You caught him talking to Andrew. He called him Ross. Their conversation quieted when they saw that you were watching.

Then it escalated to ‘casual’ stalking, then he tried to find out where you lived. It…was awful. And you thought he wouldn’t follow you via car. You were wrong.

You were walking home from a girls night out slightly intoxicated. Your sober friend dropped you off nearby and you kiss her goodbye. She laughs and jokes that you’ve become a much more affectionate friend after meeting your roommate. If you were sober you’d frown at his mention but you just laugh. “Yeah…that ‘Sergeant’ is always so needy. Nothing like those films”

She tells you to get home safe and drives off. The road is swaying but it’ll do.

You walk towards your….mostly empty flat, getting ready to feel the severe lack of an annoying ass man child in the atmosphere and entitled angry cat screaming at you for daring to have a life outside serving him.

You focus on the semi-rhythmic pat pat pat pace of your barefooted walking, red stilettos in hand. Why did you wear those anyway?

Thud You imagine getting home, ignoring Simon’s food demands, and throwing up instead. Let him watch you vomit for a change. You lean on a wall for some stability. Maybe you should’ve drank less. Your mind felt fine but your body was swaying! You think.

thud

You want food, you think, still laying on the wall listening to your footsteps.

thud

And water

thud thud

….those aren’t your feet…..

Thud Thud

You turn too fast and stumble

Taptap thud thud thud

You straighten up to look at your pursuer and find no one. You keep walking

thud thud

Nothings there

thud thud thudthud

You turn faster and see a shadow duck away

shit.

you’re being followed

You look forward, your flat is close, but if you try to go there, he’ll know you live here. Yeah there’s a bunch of others but he can walk in, see where the elevator stops and know which floor, go to it and find your flat using your mailbox. And if he doesn’t come in, he could tell which flat was yours due to seeing light from the window when you turn them on. You could try keeping the lights off but he might follow you in the elevator and find out anyway. Sides you didn’t want to be drunk in the dark. You lean on the wall, looking behind you, trying hard to somehow immediately sober up and become Batman.

You think to what Johnny taught you as you watch out for the man

“Had tae take a different route Bonny! That’s why I took so long tae come back. Cannae have every bastard Ken where I am all the time. Never leave a straight trail. Try doin the same”

No, brain! That’s useless now! You’ll change your routes to places later.

“Try tae take videos of any lad ye dinnae like! I’ll take care o’ it”

Nope! Already did that with Milton and it’s too dark to do it with this guy.

“I Ken yer behind me Bonny. Cannae scare me.”

“How’d you know”

“I always check who’s behind me when looking though glass”

No. You already know who’s behind you! A bad man!

“-Was in a secure safe house. But the dust on one widow was slightly too clean for anyplace we’d be in. Looked closer, It was smudged dust. An’ the a chair was turned the wrong way. Knew right then and there it wasn’t secure.”

“How?”

“If it’s clear then someone must’ve been usin’ it. Went through the window instead and saved us all. Never give them a straight line tae follow”

“That doesn’t explain why you jumped though our window Johnny. There aren’t hostiles here other than Simon when he’s hungry”

“You dinnae Ken tha’! T-they could’ve noticed the lift’s number and found out which floor”

“yes I would have known. I noticed you. And you're telling me they'll notice elevator numbers but not a drunk scott crawling into an apartment?”

“……….aye…”

“Johnny.”

“…..I lost my keys.”

“Then Call me”

“An' my phone died”

“Knock?????”

“Nae. Dinnae wanted to wake ye up. Tis was faster this way”

“Johnny we’re on the fifth floor-“ !

!!!

💡

You got it! You got a plan! But it might be dumb…….

thud

After your suspicions have been confirmed by seeing a head poking out, you decide your plan wasn’t that dumb.

You ‘discretely’ order and Uber and keep stumbling to your flat, making sure to keep the volume of those footsteps low. Was your internet always this slow or did the inebriated anxiety slow time down?

Once you reach the building, you enter with one plan in mind:

survive

You walk towards the elevator and press it. You look towards the door and there’s a man in formal (as in like, office, not tuxedo) wear leaning by the door. If he follows you now you're fucked

DING!

You enter, press the highest floor and shut it. After it closes you hear the building door open harshly and footsteps walk toward the elevator as it goes up. You were right. You focus on not throwing up. Both from alcohol and fear. You focus on counting how long it takes to make it to this floor. Once your reach the top floor, you leave and you look back to look at what floor the elevator is in. It stays at the highest. Good. He’s not coming up.

Now to frame someone else.

You check how long it'll take for the uber to come before executing the next part of your plan....Yeah You're too drunk for math so you go off feeling.

Once you're satisfied with how close the uber was, You dash drunkenly to a random man’s apartment (the names are sometimes written on their mailbox) and bang the door loudly, ring the bell over and over, just overall being a ruckus. Sorry to whoever this ‘Dutch’ guy is but you’re gonna lead this guy right to him. He wakes up, the light turns on and you dash back to but not in the elevator to hide.

Dutch opens the door grumpy and looks around. He finds no one and starts to scold like an old man, saying things like “damn kids! Get off my property! This ain’t right” Till an older man tells him to “just leave it Dutch it’s not worth it.”

He closes the door and lights and you breathe a sigh of relief, almost forgetting your plan. You look at the elevator number, it’s on the ground floor.

He’s coming

You know that stairs are dangerous too, but what are the chances of two creeps? You have these stilettos and they don’t call it that for nothing (It's derived from an Italian word meaning knife). You go use the stairs and quietly go one floor down, holding on the rails for dear life.

You get to that floor and check the elevator number again, they just made it. You press the button to use it while they go bother the old guy with a western accent. You get back to the ground floor and wait your Uber filled with anxiety. You look to the building and see the lights on the highest floor open. You hope those old men are okay. (They’re fighting him for disturbance)

Now all that’s left it to communicate that you don’t live there. You need not to. From the window you see him looking at you. Looks like he forced his way in? You scowl and flip him off. He runs off from the window and your blood runs cold. You see the two men’s faces look at you. You can’t tell their expressions but they make “shoo shoo!” Hand gestures, making you panic more and stumble away.

Your Uber arrives and you hop in.

“Where to?”

“Drive!”

He’s shocked but does so. You look through the window to see that man walk out of the building. He’s out of view a moment later.

“Are you aright ma’am?

“Yes I’m fine.” You whimper, keeping an eye out for any signs of the stalker

.

.

.

“Got a place in mind?”

“Oh! Sorry. I’m drunk….a hotel…”

“Which?”

“…..”

“Hotel it is.”

.

.

“Sir?” You pipe up

“Yes ma’am?”

“You’re going slow. Speed up please?”

He opens the window

“Don’t throw up in my car” he speeds up fast.

“I’m fin-”

You throw up out the car But hey by the time you’re done you made it! And you’re slightly more sober.

“Thanks” you rasp out “I’ll tip you”

“Just don’t tip over on your way to bed. Goodnight”

You make it to the hotel and request a room telling them “if anyone asks. I was never here. Especially if it’s a guy”

One hasty payment later you’re safe in a hotel room. What a way to end the night. since when were you so clever while intoxicated? Good job Batman! and Thanks Johnny!

You look at your phone. 3% Great. Took too many videos apparently, either that or your phone recently just spontaneously decided to have shittier battery when you needed it most. Is it the company telling you to buy a new one? Ugh, thanks capitalism!

You lay in the bed and…just…sleep…sorry Simon but you wanna live. You can go a day without eating.

Shorter pt6

[nyxianwayfarer]

The Merchant Queen and The Hound AU

Hello, all! Major apologies for the lack of activity on my blog as of late! Work has been stupid hectic, and I've got to deal with a dumbass coworker on top of it all... 🙄

Anyway, if you checked on some of the last things I reblogged here, you'll probably remember these screenshots featuring Du Ruo. You all should already know that I'm a sucker for a pretty face, and Aisno definitely has those type of women in spades! 😂 Thus, I present you all with another new AU idea, starring one of my favorite Eastian women!

Ah, and I'm tagging @risilence specifically because you mentioned you might be interested in this. 👀

Disclaimer: This is NOT an actual fic yet. This is more of an outline that I'm presenting to gauge interest.

Pairing: Du Ruo x Fem!Reader (Fem!Chief)

Rating: M

Content Tags: Mostly angst and implied dubcon (although that's based more around Reader and previous clients rather than anything involving Du Ruo)

Setting: Since this is an AU, this fic is going to deviate heavily from canon. Sinners still exist, but they serve more as living accessories to the wealthy. Organizations like the MBCC act like... upscale boutiques when it comes to presenting their rich clientele with said accessories to either buy or rent.

The number of Sinners a person has can often be indicative of their affluence, but the rank of said Sinner can also be taken into account in that regard. For example, a person having a single S-rank Sinner would be seen as having more power than someone else with several A-rank Sinners in their entourage.

Hound Reader/Chief:

You are a S-rank Sinner.

Your code name at one point was The Hound due to the fact that you could locate and subdue enemies for the MBCC.

If you're paying attention to the pairing/tags, then you'll notice that I have Chief mentioned just because the power that Reader has is similar. They can be used interchangeably, but like all my fics, you're never specifically mentioned by name though. You can either imagine the Chief or yourself in the role.

Reader can "shackle" other Sinners in a sense with her power, but it's tied to her singing, which paralyzes her foes for the MBCC to either add to their "inventory" if they're Sinners or be imprisoned by the FAC.

Due to the nature of your abilities, you were seen as too valuable to the MBCC to ever sell.

Instead, they loaned you out to the clients that could afford your exceedingly high rental price. Your job was mainly for protection/security.

However, because these rich clientele were already paying so much for you, they felt entitled to more than just your power, and by the MBCC's decree, you weren't allowed to say no...

This type of treatment eventually led you into growing jaded with your purpose in life at least until you meet one particular client...

Du Ruo:

She is a high-ranking Ambassador from far Eastia, sent by her clan to negotiate a formal trade agreement between them and the West.

Du Ruo is also considered to be one of the people next in line to rule as the leader of a rich, mercantile city. It isn't strictly a hereditary role; rather it's a title given to someone who can best see to the needs of the people and help the city prosper.

The other candidates for this role see that goal in different ways though, which is mostly through violence. They're weapons merchants whereas Du Ruo specializes in Eastian medical goods and supplies.

Both your paths cross when Du Ruo rents you while she's in DisCity on business.

Truthfully, you didn't expect much from Du Ruo when the MBCC informed you of your latest contract. As far as you were concerned, a client was the same as any other, regardless of where they were from. Thus, you resigned yourself to your normal routine when it came to such contracts: protect the client but also make yourself as unobtrusive as possible so as to not to draw any unwanted attention from them.

However, despite your best efforts, Du Ruo seemed to always want your attention but not in any way you had ever expected.

While she was every bit as polite and diplomatic as one would believe any dignitary to be, she had a playful side as well. She'd lean down towards you to whisper an amusing comment or two regarding a fellow diplomat. The first time it happened was enough to startle a smile onto your face despite your best efforts, and she took it as a victory to repeat whenever she could.

She always seemed to want your opinion in everything as well, preferring it over that of someone more high-ranking than your position. Du Ruo cited she wanted an unbiased observation even though your opinions of certain establishments had only been gathered from the few clients who'd been willing to treat you there.

Du Ruo only smiled at you, remarking, "Then that allows me ample opportunity to gift you with new memories of those places."

For the weeks that Du Ruo was in the city, she would spoil you with anything that caught your eye for more than a second. Each time, you always expected that she would want something sexual in return for her generosity just as all your past clients had, but the most Du Ruo would do was gently tuck your hair beyond your ear or chastely press a kiss to the back of your hand.

She was a gentlewoman in every aspect when it came to you.

It left you all confused but incredibly touched, and after some time, you couldn't help yourself from daydreaming that you were just two ordinary people getting to know one another rather than a Sinner and her client.

Unfortunately, your daydream was shattered when one of Du Ruo's rivals attempted to assassinate her.

You were all taken by surprise at the group that had surrounded you all, and Du Ruo's regular bodyguards were quickly subdued. Faced with the idea that she was in danger, however, your instincts kicked in immediately, and all you had to do was sing a few notes to paralyze your attackers long enough for you to dispatch them with your weapons.

All the while, you could feel Du Ruo's gaze burning into the back of your skull. Although she had been aware of your power when you were first assigned to her, this was perhaps the first time you had ever demonstrated it to her.

You weren't a normal person like you wished to be.

You were a Sinner.

A living weapon.

And so far beneath Du Ruo to ever be a worthy suitor to her.

You don't bat an eye when squad cars full of MBCC personnel come to collect you in the aftermath—not even when you can hear Du Ruo calling for you over the chaos.

You don't say a word over the debriefing of the situation nor when you're later confined to your cell. Your latest mission was deemed a failure by the higher-ups over the fact that you allowed the enemy to get far too close to your client—nevermind the fact that Du Ruo's own team hadn't sensed the danger until it was far too late.

You're punished for your failure, but you feel nothing from the pain, save for the heartache over a woman who you'll likely never see again. You selfishly guard the memory of ivory hair and gentle, sage green eyes in the depths of your soul, allowing them to warm you during those lonely nights in your cold cell.

Life goes on like it always has.

Until it doesn't.

You get another contract, where you're specifically requested by Du Ruo.

It turns she's been in DisCity for months because it was far too volatile for her to return home due to her rivals plotting against her. She's been hiding out in the outskirts of WhiteSands in an attempt to throw them off her trail, but she's requesting a high-risk extraction from the region until she's able to get back to Eastia and ease the turmoil that's taken it over by storm.

Or at least that's what Du Ruo's plan was.

In reality, her ruse for remaining out in the WhiteSands was a simple ploy. She was trying to find a way to free you from the MBCC's endless abuse and manipulation. Du Ruo couldn't stand the thought of you being nothing than an accessory—and little more than a toy at worst—by those in power.

Of course, nothing is ever that easy.

Her rivals have allies in high places, and the entire situation nearly gets turned on its head when more assassins come out of the woodwork. Your activate your powers just like last time, but you're taken by surprise when some of them have earbuds to cancel out your ability, having learned from the last incident.

The assassins nearly make a successful attempt on Du Ruo's life, but you throw yourself into the line of fire instead and die to keep her safe.

Or at least you would have died were it not for Du Ruo's own Sinner ability of resurrection.

You wake with your head atop her lap in the middle of a private plane that's taking you both back to Eastia. She's relieved to see you awake. Even with her power, you were unconscious for so long...

Seeing how confused you are though, she reveals that the MBCC believes you to be dead, likely caught in the explosive battle that rocked WhiteSands. She was able to smuggle you out of the city thanks to her own connections within it.

"And... what do you wish to do with me now?" you can't help but ask.

Du Ruo smiles as she always does, but you can see the tinge of sadness within it. "That isn't for me to decide. You were denied choice long before I ever met you, so I want you to have it now. I will never keep anyone unwilling to be within my company, so wherever you choose to go, I will accept it."

Because Du Ruo loves you.

She fell for you in those quiet moments together with you, and you found that you cared for her long before you ever knew she was also a fellow Sinner.

And that begins the adventure of you and Du Ruo trying to navigate love and political duties amidst a lot of pushback by her rivals and the MBCC likely trying to get you back since they figured out you weren't dead. 😅

It should go without saying that this fic idea is meant to be a slow burn. There will be some spicy moments between you and Du Ruo as the romance starts to heat up, but for the most part? It's fluff.

If there's interest in this, I'll go ahead and add it onto the list of WIPs. If not, I'll go back to my usual smut I guess. 😂

[elizabeth-holland24]

Snowed In at the Country Inn-Chapter 1

New York City glistened like a snow globe in motion, every corner of the bustling metropolis sparkling under the glow of twinkling Christmas lights. It was the kind of scene that made postcards look dull, but to her, it was just another day in the endless chaos of December. She sprinted through the slushy pavement, her breath puffing in clouds as she muttered a string of apologies and excuses to the strangers she bumped into. Clutching her oversized planner in one hand and a precariously balanced coffee cup in the other, she came to a stop at the curb, waving frantically at an approaching taxi.

“For a woman who plans every detail of her life to the second,” she muttered under her breath, “you really have a knack for running late.”

The taxi whizzed by, splashing her boots with icy water. With a resigned groan, she adjusted her scarf and glanced at her phone. The glowing screen reminded her of the looming flight she could not afford to miss. A dozen notifications blinked across the screen: frantic texts from her assistant, a last-minute change to a corporate party she’d been organizing for weeks, and, of course, the message she was avoiding—a cheerful reminder from her father about her plans to spend Christmas with him.

She sighed, her grip tightening on her phone. “Merry chaos,” she muttered, stepping back onto the pavement.

Her phone buzzed again, this time with a call. She swiped to answer, keeping her voice light despite the irritation bubbling under the surface.

“Claire, I swear, if this is about the Henderson wedding—”

“It’s about your flight,” Claire interrupted. “Check your email. There’s been a mix-up.”

Her stomach dropped. “What kind of mix-up?”

“The kind where your seat doesn’t exist any more. The airline overbooked, and now you’re waitlisted.”

She closed her eyes and counted to three, inhaling deeply through her nose. “You’re telling me I’m stranded in New York one week before Christmas?”

“I’m so sorry! I’ve already called to see if there’s anything we can do, but the earliest rebooking is the day after Christmas.”

“Fantastic,” she said tightly. “Because that’s exactly when I planned to travel.”

She ended the call, ignoring Claire’s flurry of apologies, she'll apologize for her rudeness later. She stood frozen for a moment on the crowded pavement. Around her, shoppers hurried by with their bags and holiday cheer, oblivious to her growing panic. She stared down at the planner in her hands, her lifeline in the storm of her hectic career, now rendered useless by one simple change. Her gaze fell to a photograph tucked between the pages—a faded snapshot of her and her mother, laughing in front of a snow-dusted gazebo.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the photo, a sudden ache blooming in her chest. She remembered this moment vividly, though it felt like a lifetime ago. Her mum had loved Christmas, the magic of it, the traditions. It had been their thing, once upon a time. But those memories belonged to another world, one she’d locked away years ago.

A booming laugh interrupted her thoughts. She turned to see a man dressed as Santa ringing a bell beside a donation bucket. He was smiling warmly at passers-by, his laughter echoing through the chilly air. Something about him drew her in.

“Rough day?” he asked, his voice kind.

She managed a small smile. “You could say that.”

He glanced at the photo in her hand. “Sometimes, people lose their way. All they need is a little help to look back at where it all started.”

Her chest tightened. “That’s what my mum used to say.”

“She sounds like a wise woman,” he said. “You know, I couldn't help but overhear your predicament. If you want a place to escape for the holidays, I used to visit a little town called Sweetwater around Christmas. Magical place. Feels like stepping into another world.” He winked. “Might be just what you need.”

She hesitated, then typed the name into her phone. Sweetwater. Her heart raced as she found a flight and booked it.

“Sweetwater,” she whispered to herself. “Here’s hoping you live up to your name.”

The plane touched down in Texas under a heavy gray sky that promised snow, the kind of weather that seemed out of place this far south. She bundled herself against the cold as she stepped into the small airport, her breath curling in the air as she dragged her suitcase toward the exit. The town’s name, Sweetwater, greeted her from a modest wooden sign outside. It was quaint, the kind of place where time seemed to slow down.

The cab ride was quiet, the driver a friendly older man who chatted about the approaching snowstorm. “You picked an interesting time to visit,” he said with a chuckle. “Storm’s coming in strong. Could be a while before the roads clear.”

She looked out the window at the swirling snowflakes, a mix of nerves and curiosity stirring inside her. This was a far cry from the meticulously planned holidays she usually orchestrated. She felt free in a way that was both unsettling and thrilling.

The cab stopped in front of the inn, a charmingly rustic building with a wraparound porch draped in Christmas lights. She stepped out, her boots crunching on the fresh snow as she took in the scene. It was straight out of a holiday card: a roaring fireplace visible through the window, wreaths hanging on every door, and the faint sound of carols drifting through the air.

She was halfway to the entrance when the door burst open, and a tall figure stepped out, lugging a suitcase. Before she could react, they collided—her heel catching on an icy patch. She flailed, teetering backward, only to find herself caught firmly in his arms.

“Whoa there,” he said, steadying her with ease.

She looked up, her breath hitching as she took in his sharp features. Tousled hair framed a face that was rugged yet annoyingly attractive. He raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a grin.

“You okay?”

“I—uh, yeah,” she stammered, pulling herself upright.

It wasn’t until she dusted herself off and glanced down that the horror-struck. Her beloved planner—her lifeline—was dripping with hot chocolate, the brown liquid seeping into the carefully organized pages.

Her gaze darted to his other hand, now empty. The Styrofoam cup that had once contained the drink was lying crushed in the snow.

“You let go of your drink to catch me,” she said, her tone caught between disbelief and irritation.

“Seemed like the right thing to do,” he replied, unapologetic.

She held up the planner, its ruined state glaringly obvious. “This is my life. Do you know how long it’ll take to fix this?”

He shrugged, that infuriating grin still in place. “Could’ve been worse. You could’ve ended up face-first in the snow.”

Her glare could’ve melted the frost under their feet. “Thanks for the silver lining,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Anytime,” he quipped, brushing past her and heading toward the door.

Inside, the warmth of the inn wrapped around her like a hug. Penny, the innkeeper, greeted her with a wide smile and a steaming cup of cider. “Welcome to Sweetwater! You got here just in time—the storm’s rolling in fast.”

“I noticed,” she said, glancing out the window at the thickening snow.

“Good news is we’ve got plenty of space,” Penny continued. “Well, almost. Looks like you’ll be sharing the last suite with one of our other guests.”

Her jaw tightened. “Sharing? With a stranger?”

“Only option left, I’m afraid,” Penny said, her tone apologetic but firm.

Before she could protest further, the door opened again, and the man from earlier strolled in, brushing snow from his shoulders. His eyes widened slightly when he saw her, then narrowed as Penny handed them the key.

“Wait, we’re sharing a room?” he asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

“It’s a suite,” Penny corrected, her smile never wavering. “Plenty of space for the two of you. And with the storm coming in, it’s better than being stuck out there.”

They exchanged a look, equal parts wary and exasperated. Finally, she sighed. “Fine. But just for the record, I’m not thrilled about this.”

“Noted,” he said, his tone matching hers.

Penny clapped her hands together. “Great! Now, let’s get you two settled.”

A/N: So the first chapter is up, I hope you guys like it and live up to your expectations. I'll probably update after I update a chapter on my other story. But yeah, I this one might be shorter than The Beast Within, but well see. Love you all, don't forget to like and reblog. Also, this chapter is dedicated to @bellaireland1981. Happy Holidays <3

[serenastark-official]

🖤✨ 02: How to Not Ship People: A PSA from Serena Stark ✨🖤

Alright, Tumblr, we need to talk. Specifically about the very weird habit some of you have of shipping me with literally everyone I’ve ever shared air with—and I mean everyone—from Stephen to Wong to TONY to Peter to Dani to Laurya (like, seriously??).

And no, this isn't a "How to Ship Serena Stark" guide (because apparently, everyone on here thinks they’re qualified to play matchmaker)

Understand the Basics of Platonic Relationships

Not every interaction means romance, folks. Sometimes, people can just...I don’t know...exist in the same room without being soulmates.

For example:

Stephen Strange? My best friend and highly respected mentor. Not my boyfriend. Not my soulmate. Last time I checked, calling someone “Old Man Wizard” every five minutes isn’t exactly romantic. I can’t even get through a conversation without him lecturing me on the multiverse and responsibility. Romance level: zero. Also, he calls me “kid,” so that’s basically “I’m your dad now” territory.

Tony Stark? That’s my dad, y’all. MY DAD. Did we skip basic human decency 101? This isn’t Game of Thrones. Sit down.

Wong? Look, I respect the guy. Love him even (in a totally platonic way). But the man is way too busy dealing with magical disasters to worry about me. Plus, I’m not about to ruin his zen vibe. We’re too busy exchanging takis, not vows.

Peter Parker? Do you people hear yourselves when you type? Peter can’t even win a staring contest with me—how would he handle dating me? As I said already, he's my too-kind-to-be-a-real-kid brother.

Daniella Romanoff? Practically my sister. (Though she could definitely crush me in a fight, I’m not even gonna lie.) She’s got enough trauma to handle, she doesn’t need me adding fuel to the shipping fire.

Laurya? I can practically hear you all— “Oh, they’re so close! It’s so obvious! Sisterly love... or, y’know, whatever!” NO. She is literally my sister in arms, not in love. If she were reading this right now, she’d be laughing so hard, she’d probably throw a shoe at me. So let’s not, okay?

Bruce Banner? Bruce Banner and me? Are you seriously trying to make that work? Listen, I’m all for the science nerds’ club (believe me, I’m practically a founding member), he’s in the “dad” zone with Tony and Stephen. I don’t need a third one of those.

What next? Are you going to ship me with Jeff, the land shark?!

Now that I’ve screamed into the void, here’s your 101 on how NOT to ship people (especially me):

Step 1: Don't Assume Every Glance = Love Story

Just because I looked at someone for more than 2 seconds doesn’t mean I’m secretly planning our wedding. I could be judging them. I could be plotting their demise. Or I could just be zoning out because I’m thinking about pasta. You don’t know.

Step 2: Don’t assume everything is subtext.

Just because I exchange sarcastic banter with someone doesn’t mean I want to kiss them. Sometimes, I’m just being me. (Which, let’s be honest, is fabulous enough without adding romance into the mix.)

You don’t marry everyone you talk to. Shocking, right? Sometimes, people just have good friendships. Not every bond needs a kiss at the end. I know, mind-blowing.

Step 3: Stop Projecting Your Ships Onto Others

I get it, shipping is fun. But hold your horses. Ask yourself:

Is this ship actually plausible, or am I just bored?

Have I considered how weird this might be for the people involved?

Would Serena personally come for me for this? (Hint: Yes.)

If you can’t explain it without sounding like a total creep, then just… don’t. My life isn’t your rom-com script, and I’m not auditioning for a Netflix special.

Step 4: Respect Boundaries

If I say “No,” it’s a no. If I roast the ship in public, it’s definitely a no. Stop trying to make me and Tony a thing. That’s therapy-inducing territory, and I already have enough on my plate.

Me and Stephen = Two sarcastic nerds saving the multiverse.

Me and Peter = Sibling energy with a side of web-based competition.

Me and Tony = Snark battles + family dinners.

Me and Laurya = Sisterhood, no strings attached.

Me and Dani = Chaos and platonic love, no ships allowed.

Me and Wong = Team Sorcery and food buddies. (he has a lot of takis in the Sanctum, if you'd be more responsible about your ship, I'd give you some)

Me and Bruce = Science buddies and, he’s already got enough on his plate with, y’know, the Hulk and being an honorary member of the “dad” squad.

Step 5: Focus On YOUR Ships

If you’re feeling the itch to ship someone, look in the mirror. Find your own love story. Or ship Jeff the Land Shark with world domination; he’s working on it anyway.

Step 6: Put that energy to better use.

Instead of shipping me with everyone I’ve ever breathed near, how about you create fanfic where I absolutely obliterate HYDRA agents in a beautifully dramatic showdown?

In conclusion:

Stop it. Get some help. If you keep shipping me with random people, I’ll find you. And I’ll make you explain yourself to my face. Let’s stop pretending every time I make eye contact with someone, we’re about to enter a rom-com montage. Please, for the love of all things sarcastic and logical, stop.

[countfreakout]

wod meet cute event with @spookebee!

I had a blast working with @spookebee on this event! writing this really helped me get my game back and finally gave me an excuse to write something set in the world of darkness; and it definitely helped that I got to write about my brujah, alan, going up against @spookebee's brujah, ryker! his piece featured in this post is just one of the many masterpieces he has to offer, and they're currently taking commissions, so make sure to check out his blog! without further ado, here are the finished pieces!

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amazing art by @spookebee:

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writing piece by @countfreakout (~3800 words):

The crowd roared when the first fighter made his way towards the ring. 

Cheers and shouts erupted from nearly every direction, regular and first-time viewers alike eager to see what the moustached man had to offer; though even to those aforementioned regulars, this would be the first time they’d ever heard of Alan Harvey. They all watched as he pried his sunglasses from their perch on the crooked bridge of his nose, taking a few good glances around the arena now that his vision was fully unobstructed.

The Black Flag Combat Club was as advertised: nothing special, and a little shabby at that. It was sheer coincidence that had even informed him of its existence. He’d been out scouting for a safe place to squat, hoping to save himself the $100 he’d have otherwise had to spend on an AirBnB. Instead, he’d found a nondescript brick building whose only manner of decoration was the poster on the door and the banner above it, announcing the establishment’s name. The poster hadn’t been particularly eye-catching—it had looked like something designed by someone with no prior knowledge of graphic design on one of those apps plainly titled “Photo Editor”—but they’d already had him at the word “combat.” And their hold on him was cemented once he’d read the text on the paper, boasting the opportunity for seasoned fighters to participate in a match for a cash reward; $500 for participation, and another $1,000 if he happened to win. Which was guaranteed, seeing as he hadn’t yet met a mortal who had stood a chance against his preternatural strength.

The interior looked much the same as the exterior had, which was to say that it was practical. It wasn’t designed to please, just to provide a venue for sparring matches so the owners could presumably rake in some extra cash. And if they could afford to throw $2,000 total at every pair of brawlers, it was probably working.

The arena was small, capable of accommodating maybe two hundred people shoulder-to-shoulder, and was less of an arena than it was a large room with a boxing ring in the middle of it. There were no seats, leaving the space completely empty save for stanchions bolted to the ground, paving a much-needed path for fighters through the tightly-packed mob. Floodlights mounted on the ceiling trusses illuminated the ring, leaving the cramped audience with a clear view of the action. Alan had a feeling that might impede his vision during the match—unaccustomed as he was to bright light—but he supposed a little challenge was always fun.

There wasn’t a bar, or posters plastered on the brick walls, or even shelves, for that matter. Practical felt like the right word, though someone without his prior experience may have called it lousy or under-decorated. All in all, it wouldn’t be televised anytime soon. Still, Alan smiled at the audience as if he was, willing his dormant heart to pump blood through his veins and make him look some semblance of alive.

He tucked his sunglasses into his pocket, slipped his jacket off, and entered the ring.

He’d been right about the brightness of the floodlights. The onslaught initially blinded him, forcing him to squint as the crowd hollered, louder this time around. A few chants of “Ryker! Ryker! Ryker!” managed to make themselves heard over the general cacophony, prompting a grin from the second fighter as he approached the ropes.

The man who appeared in the ring only seconds later wasn’t what Alan had been expecting. Well, he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting. Maybe someone brushing if not breaking six feet tall, sporting a five o’clock shadow, decked out in little else but a tank top and scuffed jeans, like he was. Of course, he’d long learned his lesson about not judging a book by its cover, but the individual in front of him looked more like someone you’d find at a hole-in-the-wall record store and less like someone you’d find in a fight club. Though he figured the two scenes did have a bit of overlap.

Layered black hair framed the man’s angular face, ending just above his shoulders, the colour briefly intercepted by white stripes forming a raccoon tail on his left. His eyes were a deep brown, his skin somewhat lighter. An array of piercings Alan couldn’t name off the top of his head decorated his ears and lips, glinting in the overhead light. Clothing wise, he wore a spiked choker, a beat-up grey hoodie, a studded leather jacket adorned with pins, hand wraps, a studded belt, and a pair of pants that looked like they were actually two separate pairs of pants Frankensteined together; one leg red, black, and white plaid, the other just plain black.

Whoever this guy was, the crowd seemed to favour him. He carried himself with a confidence that suggested this was far from his first rodeo, or maybe even that he had professional training.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the PA system, surprisingly loud.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, for our final matchup of the night! This one’s bound to be exciting, so feast your eyes and show our fighters some hype!

“In the wifebeater is our first fighter, coming all the way from Kingston! Weighing in at 76.1 kilograms with a height of 179 centimetres, he just barely qualifies as a super middleweight! I, for one, think he’ll put up quite a fight, and I’m sure you’re all eager to see what tonight’s guest has to offer! Please welcome Alan ‘Whizgig’ Harvey!

“In the leather jacket is our second fighter, a local talent many of you are already familiar with! Weighing in at 72.6 kilograms with a height of 173 centimetres, he may not look like much, but those who’ve seen him in action know he packs quite a punch! With an astonishing win-loss record of six to none, our undefeated champion is sure to take your breath away with his tactics! You know him, you love him, please welcome Ryker Kessgowasse!”

The crowd had cheered when Alan was introduced, but that was nothing compared to the uproar Ryker’s introduction prompted. Ryker drank the near-deafening noise in avidly, glad to be back in his element.

“As you’re all aware by now, this club doesn’t shy away from a little ferocity. That’s why we only have one golden rule…”

What was probably hundreds of voices all shouted in unison;

“Don’t kick ‘em when they’re down!”

Alan had known this wasn’t a professional club since he’d walked through the door; professional clubs didn’t throw money at whoever showed up itching for a fight. No, this was the kind of place that masqueraded as your regular, law-abiding gym by day, and bared its fangs as your erratic, wayward fighting pit by night. The audience wasn’t here to watch two people take harmless jabs at each other. They were here to see brutal swings and ruthless beatdowns.

They were here to see blood. And that was what they were going to get.

“I won’t keep you folks waiting any longer! Something tells me this one is going to be a close call, so give it up for our fighters and let’s see some action!”

With that, the bell rang, and Ryker crossed the entire ring in a few quick strides, delivering a nasty right hook to Alan’s jaw. Alan took the hit, slipping out of the way as his opponent thrust his knee forward in what would’ve been a jab to his thigh. He backed off to briefly plan his attack as the announcer said something about Ryker coming in hot.

He knew Ryker’s type; rash, relentless, speed over smarts. It wasn’t the first time he’d fought one of them, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. There was no real “trick” he’d discovered to taking them down besides just waiting for them to tire themselves out, though he was sure there was something he just hadn’t picked up on. He had the advantage of sheer size, but that was only useful if he could tank through the barrage ahead of him; and judging by the blow he’d already received, Ryker was no light hitter. Tanking through wouldn’t be his first course of action. So he had to think of something else, and he had to think of it fast.

A hand gripped his shoulder as another whizzed past his face, missing him by a hair’s breadth when he leaned back to avoid the strike. He immediately realized that doing so had put him in a nonoptimal position, but it was too late. The hand on his shoulder moved to grasp him by the throat, and he was heaved across the ring with alarming strength, ropes straining with the effort of catching his full weight. People howled at the sight, breaking into their chant from before.

“Ryker! Ryker! Ryker!”

He stared at the other man in disbelief, attempting to rationalize how someone ultimately smaller than him could’ve pulled that off in the first place. The last time he’d been hurled across the ring like that, the guy who’d done so had been several weight classes above him. And even then, he’d been like Alan was; cursed to spend his days asleep and his nights hunting for blood.

Ryker liked that look, the disconcertment that always made its way into the eyes of his opponents. It was especially satisfying to see in cocky mortals who underestimated him, to watch their air of superiority falter in the face of an adversary stronger than them.

He’d grown to expect it, just like Alan did. Every fight was a cakewalk, in the ring or outside of it, something the two of them could breeze through as if it were a minor blockade on the road to whatever goal they were chasing in the moment. Unlife had taught them nothing was unachievable; so long as you had the money, power, or fame to coax it into the palm of your hand. But they were still fledglings, new to the game with only the basics on how to play it. And fighting others of their kind wasn’t in the basics.

Alan was the first to notice something was wrong about his opponent. After a feat like that, Ryker should have stopped, panting, heart hammering against his chest. He shouldn’t have thrown Alan a smug look while motioning for him to approach, visibly unaffected despite having thrown a seventy-six kilogram man through the air only seconds ago.

He understood why the crowd had cheered so loud now. The guy was good. Too good.

Suddenly determined to prove himself to the audience, he lunged at Ryker, grappling him to prevent any further assault as he attempted to force his jaw to the side, expecting to meet skin moist with sweat.

But he wasn’t sweating. He was cold.

Dead cold.

Fuck.

He’d gone up against other licks a few times now. None of those experiences had been anything less than agonizing, and he didn’t care to repeat a single one of them; at least, not until he’d learned what to expect. And that was the problem. With mortals, he could almost predict their every move. Sure, some were more skilled than others, but so long as they weren’t armed with flamethrowers or machetes, they were relatively harmless. With vampires, on the other hand, he could never be sure they wouldn’t screw with his head, or vanish out of thin air, or become impossible to move, or grow a whole ass pair of claws.

His momentary hesitation cost him a blow to the side of the head.

And then another. And another. And another.

Before he could even register it, he was down on the ground.

“One!”

The light caught him right in the eyes with a sharp glare.

“Two!”

Over the PA system came a snarky remark about Ryker mopping the floor with him.

“Three!”

Rage threatened to take hold of him, but he reigned it in.

“Four!”

He picked himself up and settled back into a fighting stance.

Caution had gotten him nowhere. Not right then, and not in the past. He’d spent the entire round riding the wave and analyzing Ryker’s moves, forgetting that wasn’t what places like these respected in their fighters. They only respected brute force.

Now that he knew what he was dealing with, he’d show them that and then some. With mortals, he had to maintain a careful balancing act; he reigned himself in just enough not to breach the Masquerade or cripple his opponent, but still took enough advantage of his vampiric strength to end up victorious. It was an ordeal, which was why he didn’t fight as often as he had before his Embrace. But tonight was going to be different. Tonight, he fought against someone on even ground. The next round wouldn’t be a repeat of the first; at least, not for him. He’d show this Ryker guy what it meant to harness the might given to them by unlife.

As round one took its leave—signified by the bell—so too did his wariness.

The two men retreated to opposite corners of the ring, waiting out the break. Neither of them needed it, though Alan, for his part, tried to pretend he did. Not just for the sake of maintaining his mortal facade, but also because he suspected Ryker hadn’t figured out he was going up against one of his own yet. That was an advantage he couldn’t just dump down the drain.

Soon enough, the bell sounded again, and Alan surprised Ryker by hurtling forward in a reckless lunge, not unlike the one he’d received himself at the beginning of round one. The difference between his and Ryker’s attack, however, was that he wasn’t holding back. His fist connected with the punk’s nose, cartilage and bone dislodging themselves as a consequence of the brutal hit. No blood seeped from the injury, but if the audience was disturbed, they didn’t show it. A cacophony of glee filled the room, which only increased in volume as Alan kept going.

A forearm strike to the throat sent Ryker staggering back, leaving him free for only a moment before Alan enveloped him in a crushing bear hug. Bones splintered, a telltale sign of less-than-natural force that was thankfully drowned out by the crowd’s cheering. Despite his newly-broken ribs, Ryker grabbed Alan by the hips, pushed himself away, and delivered a knee strike to the other man’s groin, forcing him to relinquish his hold. Had he been mortal, that move would’ve surely given Ryker an opening, allowing him to put Alan on his ass.

Definitely not his first rodeo.

The pair retreated and circled one another for a moment, that same look of realization slowly working its way onto Ryker’s face. But Alan wouldn’t let him have time to think; or to use the power of his Blood to will his bones back together.

He came in high with an overhead punch, but just as Ryker moved to block it, he used his left arm to grab him in the abdomen with a low uppercut. Ryker soon found himself forced back into the ropes by a series of relentless jabs, doing everything he could to keep up and parry before regaining his footing and spinning away.

The rest of round two continued on in much the same way, roles reversed; Alan now on the offensive while Ryker tried to keep up and defend. Eventually, Ryker did manage to regain some of his earlier aggression, placing the two on even ground just before the bell rang.

Ding, ding, ding!

While the announcer gave a brief recounting of the events of the last two rounds, Alan and Ryker locked eyes, now both in possession of the knowledge that the other was a lick. There was a challenge there, in that moment of eye contact, one that wasn’t hostile, but instead friendly. The two had at last met their match; someone who could keep up with their preternatural abilities in a similar fashion. A common sentiment pervaded the arena: this is fun.

Ryker smiled, baring his fangs, and Alan smiled back in much the same way.

“Now, folks, for the moment you’ve all been waiting for! While the last two rounds may have awarded each fighter with a victory of their own, this third and final round will be the tiebreaker; whoever takes this one will take home the prize money! As a show of your admiration, I’d like you to give our brawlers a huge round of applause!”

There was less actual applause than there was people screaming at the top of their lungs, which was unsurprising. Controlling a crowd that rowdy was practically impossible, unless you were the Toreador Alan had once seen lure an entire neighbourhood into one bar using only her voice. In his experience, the announcement of the final round was always like floodgates being opened. That wasn’t to suggest the audience had been tame for the past two rounds—far from it—but there was always a detectable change in atmosphere when the grand finale hit. People were on the edges of their seats, eager to see if their bets would pay off or sometimes just if their championing idol would retain their streak. It was all held breaths, wide eyes, and slack jaws. Alan had come to appreciate the humanity of it in the years since his untimely demise.

This time around, there was a countdown before the bell rang. The announcer began at five, but by the time he’d reached four, every other voice in the building had joined in.

“Three!”

Alan could just barely make out the sound of Ryker’s bones welding back together.

“Two!”

Ryker rolled his shoulders, ignoring the Hunger digging its claws into him.

“One!”

The two men readied themselves for action.

Ding, ding, ding!

In what would be the first time since the beginning of the fight, both brawlers charged each other at once.

The audience fell speechless when they watched the pair land their attacks on each other, Alan punching Ryker in the jaw with enough force to dislodge it completely, Ryker wrapping his hands around Alan’s throat until there was an audible crack. Both were giving it their all now, and the sight was grisly. Assault after assault came that should’ve had both of them on the ground, bleeding, groaning, dying. The only thing more disturbing than the arena’s dead silence was the sight of them tearing each other apart, strike by strike, bone by bone. And every single time, they got right back up. Like it was nothing.

The fighters, on the other hand, were having the time of their unlives. Being able to unleash their full potential was a luxury they seldom came by, let alone under a circumstance where neither party was trying to kill the other.

Eventually, the Hunger started to get to Alan. He’d been so enthralled by the action, he’d forgotten that every healed injury cost him more and more juice. He really should’ve grabbed a drink before diving head-first into a match he’d presumed would be a dull, easy win; but it was too late for that now. Not too keen on frenzying out in front of hundreds of mortals, let alone on one of his own, he slowed his pace marginally and stopped healing his wounds.

But marginally was a big difference when it came to fights like these, and Ryker soon seized the upper hand.

The round was almost over when Alan felt the world start to slip away from him. Neither of them were on the ground yet, and he wasn’t sure how the judges would be able to score something like this, but in any case, the outcome was clear: he would lose. For once in his unlife, that prospect didn’t bother him. Especially when, on the other path, there was torpor. And his experience with torpor wasn’t one he cared to repeat; mostly because sneaking out of the morgue was never fun.

When the next blow came, he let it knock him down.

“One!”

Ryker backed off, abiding by the one rule.

“Two!”

The cool feeling of the mat bit its way through his tank top, soaked with artificial sweat.

“Three!”

At last there was a moment of stillness, one that allowed him time to think.

“Four!”

Events hadn’t unfolded like he expected them to. But he was glad they hadn’t.

“Five!”

“After a beating like that, folks, we’re not sure if he’ll be able to get up!”

“Six!”

He healed the worst of the damage he’d received, reeling his Beast in as he did so.

“Seven!”

What a fight.

“Eight!”

A smile worked its way onto his face.

“Nine!”

Yeah, he’d like it here.

“Ten!”

The round came to a close with a final ring of the bell.

The silence that had permeated the arena shattered all at once, replaced by the ruckus of the first two rounds; somehow amplified to the point that the announcer could barely be heard over it all.

“And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen; we have a winner! While Harvey proved himself to be a worthy adversary, tonight’s fight undoubtedly goes to Kessgowasse! Please show your appreciation for your champion before you head out the door!”

The crowd’s appreciation was shown indeed, as the hundreds of people within it lent their voices to a third chant: “Ryker! Ryker! Ryker!”

The noise trickled out of the building just as the audience members did, and soon enough, the arena was left empty save for the announcer, a few staff members, and, of course, the two fighters.

As he steeled himself for standing up, a pair of worn-out Docs entered his field of vision, shadowed by the presence of the man they belonged to.

“Hey.”

In an attempt to preserve what was left of his dignity, Alan sat up, squinting in an attempt to make out Ryker’s face through the torrent of fluorescent light.

At the very least, Ryker was every bit as roughed up as he was. The entire left side of his face looked like it had been hit by a truck, and his nose was more broken than it had been when the fight started. He may have won, but there was a reason he hadn’t healed himself; and it was very likely the same reason Alan had let himself lose.

The two exchanged a glance much like the one they’d exchanged just before the last round had started, but there was a difference in the one they shared now; something akin to admiration present in each of their gazes. Teeth flashed in a grin just before a hand reached down, palm open, in front of him. Immediately, Alan recognized the gesture.

Sportsmanship.

That was difficult to find in mortals, and nearly impossible to find in those like the two of them. And yet, there it was. Clear as day.

Smiling back, he took the hand offered to him and heaved himself up.

Ryker stuffed his hands into his pockets once Alan got onto his feet, speaking once more.

“Welcome to Montréal.”

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thank you so much to @porcelainseashore, @crownedinmarigolds, and @vampemoqueen for organizing this event!

[whereserpentswalk]

Forest of the Damned

Authors note: this is the longest piece of fiction I've posted on here by far. If you want to see more long pieces of writing by me, please check this out and reblog this. I am considering this a test run on if my tumblr is a good place to post my longer pieces.

The woods seemed endless. They seemed as if they would end the world, as if they would swallow the last remnants of humanity, as if they had mostly swallowed everything that had already existed. There was a naïve expectation among those who first left the city that the mainland would be filled with undead, and scavengers, and the armies of other factions, perhaps for those who listened to certain whispers a cryptid or a ghost. But the truth was it was mostly empty, not filled with anything other then endless woods, all who once lived there being slowly eaten away. To those who had only ever lived in the city it was completely incomprehensible just how large all that was outside the city was. And just how gone everything was, the structures that existed, ruins of what were once the city’s satellite towns, and old highways and malls, graveyards of dead cars that were more visible then any human bodies.

They walked west, they had been walking westward for a long time. The snow fell harshly the night before. What would have been a sea of green in the summer was instead of sea of browns and blacks, as the vines on the buildings were nothing more then twisted leafless veins of wood, and the trees beyond them nothing more then endless rows of wooden columns. The entire ground was cloaked in a pale white, under a cold blue sky with little warmth in its shade. They walked on the ruins of a highway, the road long since too broken to be of any vehicle’s use, but still a good road for mortal feet. It was a clear path back to the city if anything happened and they had to turn around anyway. They could see so far, see out in so many directions. Though they were as low to the ground as they could be without being swallowed by the ocean, they could see as far as people in the city expected to see from towers, with so few buildings to black their way. At the very least if anything came after them, they would know, they would always know even if they couldn’t run, even if all they could do was fight and pray.

The sun was a distant, and quiet and uncaring eye that day. A dot that failed to warm a cold sky, star that it may have been.

Eric looked at himself. The layers of coats and armor barely made him look human. The green and black painted metal armor covering him to protect him from the dead, and the spikes on his wrists and lower legs serving as a reminder that they will be his last weapon if blade and bullet fails. Over them the layers of clothing, and black hood over his head, covered him even further, keeping him safe from the winter’s light. He wondered, if someone saw him on the road, how human would he look? Might they even think such a soul belongs to the army of the dead.

Behind him stood his comrades, the people who he left with, and the only living souls that he had to trust out in the endless expanse of ruin. It was strange, in the city there were so many people, to see, to talk to, to be with, one had such liberty with who they were able to interact with, and hold comradery with. Yet when venturing out into the mainland there were so few people, so few that every single one was precious, some would forge great bonds over such circumstances, though it was likewise a breeding ground for the darkest of human behaviors. It wasn’t good or bad as much as it just was.

The first person he could see Gail, a tall and strong man with heavier armor than anyone else there, the steel plates so thick and padded that no protection was needed from the cold. Spikes lined his armor well, and blades and shotguns, and a massive shield, were strapped for his quick deployment. He was so ready for danger and potential death, and he had been outside the city for nearly twice and long as everyone else on the mission combined. Young as he was a face like his was doomed to never live to be old. His type knew they would die in the ruins, and in a way they cherished such thoughts dark as they may be to know.

Behind Gail was Ava, a younger recruit, with their helmet not fully covering their face, and radios and wires and computers well-worn and affixed across their body. Though they may not have been as well built to fight the dead or the living, they had communications technology in good numbers upon them, and would be the first to send out distress signals, or identify certain threats and allies. Though from their nature and face it could be told they would rather not leave the city again after such a situation.

The forth and furthest back in the order that they walked in was a new recruit, by the name of Gen. He wore well made green armor, with polished surfaces, and a thick trench coat over it, a gas mask covering his face, making his body entire obfuscated. A mechanical hawk kept watch on his shoulder, and in his hands was a long rifle, that from the looks of it, had a better form for taking the lives of humans then of members of the army of the dead. The eyes of his gasmask were backlit, with bright red shining from them in such an inhuman way. Eric would have given a lot for just one more pair of human eyes looking at him out there.

As they marched across the corpse of the highway, leaving fresh footprints in the white void of snow, they saw something in the snow. It was laying down but it’s head could be seen, rotten and skull like, with it’s mouth open, and a claw like hand sticking up. They back away at first, the image was so clearly of the army of the dead, so clearly ready to attack. And then they drew weapons, they were ready to fight it, and if countless more would be there they would fight them too. Suddenly they stopped, and Ava wordlessly tapped Eric on the shoulder, telling him to slow down, to check something. And meanwhile the body in the snow didn’t move at all. And when Eric looked at the photos Ava took of it he suddenly understood why. The body in the snow had fallen snow inside its eye socket, it had been laying there in that pose for days. The body wasn’t undead, it was simply dead, a corpse in the winter, that resembled the undead that stalked the lands around it.

Night fell, and they found themselves making camp. In earlier days Eric would have pushed his men to march on, but it was no longer in him to commit such acts. The sky above them was dark, but far from the city the stars could be seen, and to those new to the mainland they were a strange and eldritch thing. To Eric they were old friends, looking down on them in the cold of the night. Around them were pine trees, that would be sure to be good cover if the army of the dead did come for them in the night.

They used lights to find their way through the tangled remains of the world. It wasn’t like the city, you couldn’t see anything at night. It was a disturbing paradigm for those who had grown up in a world where the lights of the buildings and the streetlamps made it so they were never anywhere where it was too dark to see. The city lights could sometimes be viewed from the mainland, but they were too far to witness at this point. There was a dead mall in the distance, it could really be seen, just a massive black spot that blotted out the stars, as a dark reminder of a world that was lost.

As they lit the fires, and prepared for sleep. They began to retreat into their hobbies for the small time that they had. Gail prayed and then went to sleep, as he often did, not speaking in the slightest to the others. Ava was already in their sleeping bag, though they used a light to read an old copy of the works of Philip K. Dick.

Gen sat next to Eric, neither of them ready to sleep, the shock of the world around them keeping both of them awake for few minutes more. Gen looked up, an expression Eric would never know shooting at him from under the red eyes of his mask. He asked Eric, or perhaps told him, “I would love if we were doing this in spring you know.”

Eric replied, “I’m sure the undead would enjoy that too.”

Gen seemed legitimately confused, “What do you mean?”

“Many of their bodies are more fragile then ours, and they don’t have access to the same defenses against weather that we do most of the time. They have advantage during better weather. It’s why expeditions are only ever in the summer or winter. We try to go south for wintry expeditions and north for summer expeditions but I don’t know how much that matters. At this point I think they know they have to watch out for humans more during the very cold or very hot months, so they’re less aggressive.”

“They know?”

“What do you mean?”

“They know what seasons are?”

“Of course. They used to be human. They know when it’s colder and warmer.”

“I always assumed the undead were mindless.”

“No. Not mindless. Even when their minds are distorted and courted they can always understand the world around them. Even their lowest ranks, who’ve lost many of their higher functions, still are able to sense danger, and make tactical decisions. The undead swarm views bodies as tools to use for their own gain, they take away what’s not of use to them, and keep what is.”

“Are there any that are truly smart, the way humans are smart?” Though Eric couldn’t se his face, Gen seemed afraid.

“Some, the higher ranks, the swarm’s elite commanders, vampires and liches and the like. The lower ranks have their minds limited so that they’re easier to control.”

“You speak as if there is a will to the hoard.”

“There is in a way. The undead weren’t created by an virus or alien gizmo. They’re from humanity’s very own will. It’s like how a ghost is the will of unfinished business, or how a witch can use their will to cast spells, how even humanity’s civilization itself is our ancestors’ will to climb down from the trees and to strike back at the wolves and the big cats.”

“How can the undead be the will of humanity.”

“You’re young, you don’t have any living relatives who remember the world before it ended do you? Back before the undead there were more mundane ways that humans were turned into the living dead, offices, and schools, and prisons and army camps and all those things, hierarchies where people were made to be something other then human, where their freedom and their will to live was taken, and they were turned into a state of living death of sorts, into mindless tools for others to enact their wills. And when so many people began to feel as if they weren’t human, as if they had lost their lives as they still walked, that feeling echoes as a great wave of psychic power…”

“Were things better or worse before the undead came?”

“I can’t say that. It was better for some people… but death for most. It is not such a question that would be good for many to ask. Darkness fell, and some have built a better world where it did not touch them, one does not require the other.”

“At least most people live in the city where its safe.”

“But during the time of the fall most people died. The city only contains the majority of humanity after the dead rose. In the times before the fall there where six billion people on this planet, now New York’s ten million or so make up the majority of all souls.”

There was a silence for a time. It must have set in to Gen’s soul how much had been lost, perhaps truly for the first time.

Gen finally chose to ask, “It’s strange. Before going out here it was like the city was the entire world. And it wasn’t bad it just was. This was all just void, able to be entirely forgotten, it was like we could just think of the entire world as what we had, and not think about all that we had lost before it. And now that we’re here it feels like an entirely different realm. In the city I worried about the factions, about my relationships with other humans, about politics and about… human things. Here there is nothing to think about other than my own fate.”

“That is the way it is,” Eric replied, “and when you return you will never see the world the same way, and perhaps you will apricate humanity, and there peace that there can be between us, and the joys of existing as a human within a human life somewhat more.”

“I wish it did not take this void to know that.”

“It does not have to. One does not mean the other.”

“When we get home we’ll still have to worry about factions. I haven’t had a chance to think about it, but in the city we’ll be dealing with Incubus faction and Awakeners faction trying to gain new power over Terminous and our allies. Not to mention Elise faction favoring us less, our allies in Valerian favoring us less even. I’m worried I’ll be fighting there too.”

“You can rest. And when you return home it may be fresh, like a blanket newly turned upside-down.”

They slept, and let the cold of night wash over their warm shelters. Sleeping outside is not a skill almost anyone in the city is raised to have, so those venturing in the mainland had to learn quickly. They’d be awoken by the sun, and then they’d go from there. Eric assumed they’d be heading home soon, they needed to be home before March truly began, and then beyond that they’d be home soon, they needed it, nobody can take the world as a place to wander forever.

It was Ava who woke them up, tapping restlessly on Eric trying to warn him of something, fumbling his body into an awakened state he asked, “What is it?”

Ava replied, “There’s signs of human activity. I want to hope it’s someone safe but we should be prepared for whatever it might be.”

“Just humans, no undead?”

“No undead detected.”

“What faction do you think the humans are from.”

“They’re more likely scavengers. Most people from the city don’t make it this far out. Though if it is another faction I have to warn you I don’t think they’ll be any peace between rivals this far from the city. So we should be prepared for aggression if it’s Illumin, Awakeners, Incubus, Keatteal, even Newsoc or Mechanacous.”

“What do you mean don’t make it this far out, this route is…”

“Further then you may have thought. We made good time but it took more then we’ve gained. We’ve gone too far south and west, from my readings we’re quite far from the city, and far from any continental bases that might be in reach.”

“As for the humans, is there anything else I might need to know.”

“Scavengers this far out are unlikely to know about the city’s existence at all. We’ll have to deal with them assuming they’re from families that have had no idea there was any bastion of technology and safety left in the world. Be prepared for the best and worst of that.”

“I’ve done first contacts before, that I can handle.” He looked at Gen and Gail, they had their weapons so ready to attack, almost eager from experience and lack there of for something to go wrong, and for the superior nature of their technology to shine through. He told the two of them, “Remember, it’s better to have peace then war with the scavengers, they may not be the same as us but we are reclaiming this land for all of humanity, not just for ourselves, they are allies to the mission of Terminous faction.”

Ava ominously pointed their hand at the mall, “Well, whoever it is, they’re over there.”

Eric looked at where they were pointing. It was the great abandoned mall. A place which he dreading going. Those places tended to be dens of something. And, though Eric would never be the type to admit it, there was the much more simple reason why it made him shiver; those places always creeped him out, they were ghostly ruins of a dead world, the most explicit and disturbing reminders of what the world looked like before the swarm of the dead attacked. Before they walked ahead Eric told Ava, “Damn your computers” it was meant to be playful but it was likely less so then he thought. He could never read Ava’s expressions though anyway.

The abandoned mall, like most structures of it’s kind, was surrounded by a massive empty lot, filled with the corpses of cars. The fact that the cars weren’t removed implies that it wasn’t evacuated when the dead attacked, perhaps the ruins of a scavenger colony existed in there, or perhaps they were turned undead early, and signs of a slaughter would be there instead.

But beyond it’s signs the empty lot was… disturbing. It was the size of entire neighborhoods, yet at the same time it was essentially nothing, just this vast void of concreate. The cars were these strange corpse like dead machines that repeated endlessly, there being more of them in one place then one would think possible. And beyond everything else it was just empty. It was a sign of neither nature nor civilization, a place where nobody lived, where no human history existed, but at the same time somewhere where nonhuman life had no place either, the plants struggled to penetrate their territory into cars’ lots even when they could overtake most ruined structures. It was just nothingness, deep nothingness, so cleared of life that no human nor biome had been able to conquer it years after its destruction.

He had hoped for something in the lot, some sign that someone over the decades of it’s ruin had touched one of the cars, had done something to make them somewhat human. Even that some animal had made them its nest. But there was nothing, just these endlessly repeating metal structures, more and more of them, all so much the same, one after another. One could taste the void there.

The mall itself stood similarly strangely. It was massive, and looming, though not taller than many of the buildings in the city, it was certainly quite wider and longer then any of them, if it had been within the city its footprint would have eclipsed multiple blocks. The best comparison in the city would have been a structure such as the Oculus or Grand Central Station, but even those were likely smaller, and even those had things surrounding them, this just existed alone, as a single fortress in the middle of an empty lot in the middle of the forest. The malls of the world before the fall must have been like islands of civilization in a sea of nothingness, a disturbing and unreal break of all humanity’s patterns of construction. No signs of human civilization existed around it, only the forest, only the lot, only nothingness, though it would be filled with stores inside one wondered who would have traveled so far to come to them.

They slowly crept inside. Even with the sky at its bluest blue above it was dim inside, and flashlights helped them navigate. Snow had fallen through holes in the roof to coat some areas cloaked in light, while others parts that lay in darkness were entirely dry. Once pristine bright colors had faded into chipping paint, yet even centuries onward one could tell it was incredibly garish. The entire place felt inhuman, as if it was built without culture, without community, without humanity. They passed stores that had existed when the mall was still functioning, though mold and rot had effected them they mostly stood as they did then. Advertisements, signs, sales, the sweet glowing allure of consumption calling beyond it’s grave. The fashionable clothing, the newest products, the upcoming movies, of the days before the fall were all preserved there forever. The place was built as if there was no outside at all, it was such a massive labyrinth that it felt unground even when one could see the cracked windows and the snowfall. Eric almost hoped to see something, a raider, a wolf, even an undead, something that wasn’t so very dead, and so very preserved.

Ava snapped him out of the cynical contemplation of the dead, telling him, “I’m getting readings of human warmth a few stores down from here, near the south edge of the mall.”

Eric replied simply with, “sounds good.”

Wandering to the south edge, past the huddling roaches, and past the shining silicone signs, and advertising calls to do what could no longer be done, stood one of the larger stores of the abandoned mall, white and pale, with red circles marking it’s sign, and what seemed to be an inventory of goods of all varieties. It was well preserved, despite the rot and decay and the obvious lack of light, it wasn’t hard to tell exactly what such a store looked just from seeing it’s most fall state.

Inside the human activity was quite obvious. People had recently looted it. It wasn’t an act to be condemned, there was no person alive in the great hall for it to be stolen from. But it was clear, they had taken things, canned food, sporting equipment that could be used as weapons, clothing, a lot of clothing. It had to be scavengers then, anyone who had been to the city would have had higher quality options for all those things. For someone to want to take clothing that had been rotting there for so many decades they would have had to have had so few better options, cold as the weather was.

They saw the first hint of a scavenger running from them, far across the store but they had spotted them. Eric didn’t get a good look at them, it was just a shadow in the darkness running from them. Though Eric could easily see that this person was in no fighting condition. There had been a few scavengers who could truly stand up to the city’s troops, often those close to the city who were able to raid arms and rations from them. But these would not be them, they were to skittish, and likely too far from the city to be at all prepared to deal with such beings.

Ava looked at their readings a bit more, “There should be a couple of them down there, do you think it would be a good idea to approach with how they seem to be acting.”

Gail was the first to speak, “We’ve delt with far worse odds, I see no danger.”

Eric replied, “We must make sure not to come towards them as an enemy. If these people know not of our world, then it would be a tragedy for them to learn of it through violence. It may have been before any of us were born, but remember that these people were once of the same nation as us.”

As they walked deeper in they got the first look at the scavengers. They clothed themselves in the ruins of the old world, with most of their clothing being from abandoned stores rather then from their own creation, likely what survived within plastic wrapping, with the occasional leather from the flesh of an animal supplementing them. They wore backpacks, and sacks and containers, and other things to carry things on their persons, the only way they could possess anything it seemed. And though they lacked armor or much in the way of proper firearms, they wielded makeshift weapons, forged from pieces of metal and wood, baseball bats, and crowbars, and knives mounted to sticks. They appeared like apparitions at first, their state of ragged dress the first feature that could really be made out about them before all else could be surmised. And their thinness, he could see their thinness, they looked as if they had to reliable source of food out in the ruins.

Getting closer Eric could see the scavengers faces. They were pale skinned for the most part, with long uncut hair, and forlorn looking eyes. There were six of them, the oldest being about thirty, and the youngest likely being younger then a teenager. They were shivering, all standing with the less experienced members of their band standing behind the more experienced members of their band as some sort of system of protection. In the front stood a tall man with a black beard, a woman clinging to him with a long makeshift spear in her hands, and a second man with a missing eye and face marked with deep scars. Even those defending seemed so afraid, shivering and staring into the darkness and into the light of the flashlights.

Ava, who at that point was probably the least threatening of Eric’s group (though all of them would have seemed threating to people who had likely never seen any people other than scavengers in their lives) walked up to the scavengers, their weapons to their side, and their face visible, extended their hand and asked the group, “Greetings. We are a party of explorers from the city. We are searching for knowledge, resources, and further victory in the battle against the undead.”

The long bearded scavenger asked them, “Who are you, and where dose your band come from?”

Ava replied again, “From the city… from a place where humans are safe, and retain the resources and technology from before the fall of the last world.”

The scavenger replied, nearly yelling, with a strange sense of anger at the suggestion, “Where! We’ve never heard of any such thing! Never heard of any way that humans could weather such a fell storm!”

Ava went on to explain, “We’re from what you would have called New York. We blocked off the bridges and tunnels to escape the swarm when it first came, and then we started rebuilding. We have technology now that surpassed even that of the old world.”

“What are you doing out here, what do you want to do with us?”

Gail interjected, “Slay the dead. Gain knowledge. Gain resources. Closer to the city we defend and take territory from the army of the dead.”

Ava added, “And to contact people like you!”

The scavengers with scars on his face asked them harshly, “And, what do you have for people like us.”

Ava replied, “We have resources to help you. And if you wish you could travel with us, even return to our territory. We need as much of a population as possible. We can give you warm clothing, or better weapons and armor. As part of our mission we are invested in the survival of any human against the dead…” they spoke as if their faction was the entire city, ignoring on purpose that most other factions had far different views of scavengers, “…We can give you food.” They reached in their coat for rations specially set up for such situations such as this, “Here, take some. Salt water taffy, and sweet bubble tea, and salmon’s meat.” They made their voice enthusiastic, perhaps to calm the scavengers, perhaps because they were excited to make first contact.

The scavengers, all of them, looked at the rations. Alien things to them. None of them had seen such food before it seemed, living off mostly what they could hunt it seemed. Only of them, the women with a long spear picked up the can of bubble tea, and began inspecting it before drinking it. It must have been like one of the greatest things in the world to her, she looked as if just nourishment alone was a gift to her, and this was meant to go far beyond mere nourishment. The bearded man ate some of the taffy, likely never having had true candy before in his life, and gave a look of concerned ecstasy as he ate.

One of the scavengers, the bearded man, told them, “I think it’s best if we are allowed to discuss this among ourselves now.”

Ava nodded and walked back. The rest of the group gave them their space. Walking into a different section of the broken down stores, between different shelves but still close enough to hear, as the scavengers discussed what to do with their new information.

Gen asked, “What are they going to do.”

Ava tiredly replied, “Their best.”

From the other side of the shelves they could hear the scavengers arguing among each other. The voice of the scar faced man cried out, “How can you trust them? They’re strangers, wearing strange clothing, with strange masks on their faces and metal on their chests, they have no reason to care for us? I know you’ve wanted this kind of rescue before Ron, but there guys are probably going to kill us.”

The voice of the bearded man replied, “And how is this better? We’ve lost so many already to the ghouls, we’re going to lose more. Maybe if we go with them we can at least have a chance of survival. Even if there was as much a chance that they kill us as that they don’t, it would be a better chance then we have out here. Even if they were cannibals it would be a less humiliating death then to be turned into a member of the dead’s army.”

The other voice replied, “We’ve survived out here for generations and you’d give it all up for this! What would your parents, your grandparents, who carved out life and tradition in the ruins think? Don’t think they’re going to be like us just because they’re human. Don’t think they have honor!”

A woman’s voice added, “It was God that sent the dead, don’t think those who avoided them through trickery are beyond His judgment!

The scar faced man added, “And that man… or perhaps that woman who handed us food, his hair, his tattoos, his makeup, would you let a degenerate like that hold your life in his hands. If one of us looked anything like that we wouldn’t let him walk with us, much less put our lives in his hands. These are degenerates, sodomites who bare the sins of the old world…”

Ava seemed to cringe to hear such words. But their reaction didn’t last long, as the technology they held began flashing red, as an alarm began to play.

The noise sounded throughout the massive room. “Undead in area. Undead in area. Undead in area. Undead in area. Undead in area.” Ava clicked it off before the sound got louder but the message was quite well received.

Gail stood up and broke down shelves to speak to the scavengers, “The undead are here, either fight with us or help us protect you.”

The bearded man looked at Eric’s group, and asked, “We don’t have an alliance with you yet?”

Eric replied, “In the face of the undead there is an alliance between all humans. The factions of the city fight each other, yet when those creatures appear there is a truce between even the most antagonistic of factions.”

The scavenger replied, it seemed his people had a similar understanding among each other, or at least they understood well enough what would be a good idea to do in the moment.

Like any confrontation with the undead, preparation was the most important factor in determining the ability for humanity to succeed. Gail stood in front, alongside the scar faced man and the long speared woman. Meanwhile the group built up a makeshift fortress out of the shelves that laid around them. Gen, Ava, and the bearded man camped behind the barricade of shelves with ranged weapons, ready to use them to defend the main group of fighters. Meanwhile in the back, Eric stood guard of three younger scavengers who would be the easiest targets for any undead breaking through.

Ava spoke to the group before the undead had a chance to show themselves, “Stay in positions, don’t be afraid to go into melee if the undead get too close, protect those around you. Remember, every undead is a threat, but their largest threat to humanity is their numbers. If their force is too strong don’t be afraid to fall back.”

The scar faced man added to their comments, “And remember, aim for the head and limbs. You’re more likely to kill these fuckers with a blade then with a gun, but anything to slow them down. Don’t die. Don’t let your friends die. And being alive makes you a friend at the moment.”

There was a long moment of tension between when they stopped talking and when the dead arrived. Nobody could know when their fate was to come walking in. And it felt like perhaps it wouldn’t. But if they moved at all they could doom themselves. And soon every shadow passing by them felt like a ghoul.

But then they saw them, slowly walking in, stalking the grounds like hunting animals. The first of the dead to come were human like, and numerous, heralding them the eternal buzzing of flies, they looked like humans at first glance yet there was something deeply wrong with their bodies, stiff and plasticky, and dead eyed. The wore the clothing of past memories, of those who died in the fall, and others of those who died hunting the dead, from lost peoples of the world after the fall, and lost generations of those peoples who still existed. Some of them still held weapons, crude yet effective things like batts and pipes that they could have picked up discarded from the grounds of the places that they wandered through. It took coordination to not attack the first group, but it couldn’t be done, there was too much about the attack they didn’t know yet.

The next group of undead to walk in, following the first group, were far more monstrous. Their heads were twisted and disfigured like a body killed in a terrible accident, their heads forever open and bloodied, with wounds that no human would survive, looking almost like raw meat in some parts. What eyes they did have were shining and silver. They were tall and large, naturally proportioned in some way, as if they had been changed by the curse of the living dead to make them better at committing acts of violence. Their clothing was eternally covered with blood, and pieces of metal were bolted onto them, over even their clothing, as permanent armor, and in their hands were weapons taken from the rangers of the city, halberds and swords well made to kill. There were only three of them it seemed, unlike their weaker more humanoid comrades, but they were more aware, not stumbling or bumping into anything, and moving with exact militant purpose, even herding the weaker undead at times. Everywhere they walked they seemed to leave stains of blood.

The final one to walk in was somewhat humanoid, pale, with her only largely inhuman feature being her arms which were far too long for her body, with even longer clawed fingers. Her skin was inhumanly white and plasticky, but held no visible wounds or rot. Her eyes, shining red as they were show intelligence, as did her movements. She had weapons on her, high quality, either forged by the undead or taken from newly killed warriors of the city. Her clothing was all black, and looked at if she acquired it after joining the undead swarm, and alongside it were human teeth and fingers that she wore and jewelry. She stayed back behind the others, commanding them perhaps, or at least waiting to see what happened.

The time for waiting was over and the bearded man and Gen took initiative, shooting one of the massive blood-soaked creatures. The bullets didn’t significantly slow the creature down, more wounds being added to it’s twisted body was of little concern for it, but it did cause it some sort of primal anger, turning it’s mutilated face to look at the makeshift fortress, and running with its polearm in hand. The lesser undead that it commanded following behind it.

The lesser undead were able to be mostly held off by Gen, Ava and the beard man’s bullets. Few of such creatures would die in one shot, but it made them have difficulties walk forward, a few even being wounded enough that they had to retreat. Though for the stronger one, running with blood sloshing off its back, bullets may have weakened it, but it had no intentions of turning back.

Gail and the blood creature clashed as they stood together at the front of the fortress, the long speared woman and scar faced made peppering it with lighter attacks, as Gail and the creature’s polearms locked. Gail was relatively more agile, able to dodge and parry attacks, meanwhile the undead he fought could take nearly any hit, even on the parts of it’s body that didn’t have armor bolted to them.

While they clashed the undead spoke to Gail, in a voice that sounded like it was choaking on it’s own fluids, “You fight only for your only doom little man… we have achieved eternal life.. All you fight now is progress, join us and you will never feel sorrow or pain…”

Gail gave no reply as he sliced off the creature’s head. Finally bringing it to it’s doom.

However, as the larger creature died, countless of the smaller less sentient ones began pouring in, destroying the fortress with teeth and clubs and hands. Ava gave the signal, “Overwhelming force, abandon the fortress now! We’ll see if we can fight them in one of the small stores.” It was a good plan, if Eric had the chance he would have given the order himself, the undead tended to hold a larger advantage on an open field where their numbers could mean as much as they could. As soon as they could everyone ran, as the dead became so numerous even the stores seemed to fade behind them into the eternal swarm.

While the group fled Gen took charge to try to take out one of the larger undead perusing them. Having the least experience with the dead out of all of them, he didn’t seem to realize just how little his bullets would do against a creature that tough. Thinking he was brave he shot the creature again and again. But it didn’t make him a hero, it slowed the blood soaked beast, and almost certainly gave it quite a bit of anger, but he did nothing to protect a single soul.

Eric tried to call out for Gen, screaming his name into the winter’s halls, and waving for him to go forward. But the soul didn’t hear, he must have thought he could fought the creature and then come back, must have thought himself a type of hero that exists only in song.

Gen tried to step back but he didn’t know the creature’s reach, as one of the bloodstained monster’s swords cut into the poor soul. Gen saw himself fall to the ground before he was struck by the blade again, taking his head. Eric wished he could cry, wished he could take the body and mourn, wished it would do anything other than stay there forever and rot. He wished he could have reminded Gen not to be a fool before. He wished they were safe in the city, somewhere warm where none would live in such fear. But there was only the winter, and there was only blood.

They fled through the dark hallways, the cold eating at them as the place seemed to swarm with more and more undead. Soon they could see nothing behind them, and there was only what was ahead of them. Eric soon realized that he was the slowest to move, and the one likely in the back of the group. He kept thinking Gen was in the hall behind him, but of course…

As he failed to catch up to the rest of the group, slowed by grief, Eric felt a long cold hand on his shoulder, and as he looked behind himself he saw her, the pale skinned woman who seemed to be commanding the rest of the group. Before he could think to draw a weapon he was frozen in place. She told him, “You will not regret this.”

Her head dove near him, bit into his face, he could feel his doom as the fangs stuck into his head. Then she skittered off into the darkness, too fast for him to reach.

The world went black around him, he didn’t know what he was looking at. He didn’t know weather he was falling asleep, or feeling something else. It was almost like being high, but not quite. Sick perhaps. He felt the need to lie down but he realized his legs were still walking. He felt cold. He felt cold.

Eric woke up out in the snow. Inspecting his surroundings. Anyone who he was with before was gone. For a moment he thought he had seen Gen but… he didn’t. There was blood on the snow around him but he wasn’t actively bleeding. That could mean a lot of things. He looked further towards the landscape around him, and realized how far he must have gotten. He was deep in the forest, with black trees sticking up from the earth at every side, and snow below him. Meanwhile he could see no sign of the mall of the lot that it was in the middle of. He had gone a very long way without remembering it, or someone or something had moved him, neither of them being a good sign.

Eric felt as if something was very, very wrong, but had no way of telling exactly what it was.

He stood up. He expected it to be hard but it was disturbingly easy. He felt no resistance from his body at all, not even the type that one would expect from getting up from a well-rested sleep. He could just so easy stand as if he had been lying down completely conscious for the entire time.

Of course, there was a distinct and horrifying possibility.

Eric tried to think back. He could remember going to the mall, fighting alongside the scavengers, what happened to Gen… and then nothing. It was like there was something missing. There was an undead with her hands on him but he couldn’t remember what she was doing to him or how he had fended her off. He couldn’t tell what was happening, it was like his brain couldn’t accept it.

Eric started walking forward which felt so unquestionably right. It was as if there was a little voice in the back of his head that was telling him to keep moving. But he couldn’t hear the words at all. It was as if there was a god who would not allow itself to be prayed to. He kept moving. He kept moving.

While walking at first there was shaking, not the type of weakness he ever had when he was tired, it felt as if sometimes he would just randomly shake or shiver. But that was it, outside of that single defect he felt the perfect image of health, with no sense of tiredness or even really pain or reaction to the cold. He found himself uncomfortably fast. The woods around him felt strangely normal, the feeling of loneliness didn’t even have a chance of catching him in any meaningful way. It wasn’t as scary as the danger that he knew to be there, it just was, he felt excited.

He walked and walked, realizing just how far he was from any familiar land. He had been to the continent many times but he had never seen that specific part of it before. And for all the talks of ruined structures, and undead, and rival factions, and scavengers, walking through the forests of the mainland could give an idea of just how much of it was unclaimed wilds.

He must have been walking for hours, no days, time felt strange. The sun was his only ally, it would have been about a day from walking from that. Twenty four hours. Time felt strange. Days didn’t exist when there were no other people around. He hadn’t eaten in the entire time but felt no hunger, it didn’t bother him in the slightest.

He saw undead, he passed them, but they were disturbingly passive, none of them did anything to attack him. They just looked at him, twisted and mutilated, marking the snow with the colors of gore, but they didn’t seem to see him as a threat… they didn’t seem to see him as a human at all…

No… it couldn’t be possible.

He eventually saw in the night a house with the light on, the snow whipped off of a  path in front of it. Something inhabited by humans. He walked towards, it, it was as if some primal instinct was giving him instructions, giving him orders, true orders like the ones people were given before the fall to go there, to go to humanity, to seek humanity out.

Looking closer at the house it was a pre fall home, though it looked as if it had been reclaimed. It was blue, well built, could have been hundreds of years old, with twisted brown vines on it that he knew would have been a lovely green in the warmer months. And though not large for the ruins, it would have been massive if it were in the city. He could see the shoreline behind it, the grey green of the Atlantic marking the map’s edge, the sun was rising, it would have been beautiful if that clouds had allowed it to be. It made the world feel small enough for him to be in.

At the house’s steps he knocked on the door. It felt weird to knock, as if his hands weren’t made for it. As if something within him was yelling to break the door down.

When someone answered they answered with a shotgun. A human in scrappy power armor that looked like it had been repaired out in the ruins, and a shotgun in their hands. Far from the city as they were they held symbols of Mechanacous faction on their person, a proud red and gold emblem of a hammer and gear. The machinery and rivets of the armor clicked into place as the human stared him down. At least it was a human.

Eric raised his hands to the person and told them, “I am no threat to you, I too am of the city, I seek only refuge from the cold and darkness.”

The person in power armor replied, “You’re human?”

Eirc frantically replied, “Yes, yes, I’m very human. I was attacked…” he wouldn’t say he was attacked by an undead, just attacked, make it sound like it was nothing, “…and separated from my group. I am a ranger of Terminous faction, a loyal soldier to humanity.”

The person was confused by him for a few moments, looking him over perhaps, but eventually said “I’ve seen faces wounded similarly by human weapons. It’s possible. Come in and I’ll patch you up as best I can. It’s been awhile since I’ve had a chance to talk to another human, there aren’t many in this area of the mainland, and most of the local scavengers wound just try to raid this base.”

When Eric walked inside he was surrounded by half forgotten wood and hoarded memories. The person in power armor had only somewhat changed it from its original function, filling it with anti-undead and scientific equipment, but keeping elements of the original decor and furniture. Light and electricity was functioning, probably from a generator somewhere outside, meaning the base was at least somewhat permanent. It all seemed so strangely comfortable.

Eric asked, “How long have you been here.”

The person replied, “Longer then most. It’s been about three years since I’ve seen the city.”

“Long term expeditions like that are rare.”

“I know. Mechanacous was experimenting with them a few years ago. But they never work. Better to stay near the city and only leave for a few months, or else you lose too many to the dead in the end.”

“And you stayed out here.”

“Yes. The others died or left. But I decided that my place was here, alone, with my computers and my tools. I never did people well.” Eric looked at the person, was it possible that they were undead. One could distort it’s voice and hide in power armor, some might be shambling and mindless but it’s been well proven that not all of them are. This would be the perfect trap for it, the perfect way to get travelers from the city.

He asked, trying to figure out what they wanted with him, “Would you like to know anything about me?”

“Might as well.”

He wouldn’t give anything to make himself an easy target, maybe even puff himself up a little, “I was born and raised in the East Village. I’ve been a member of Terminous faction basically all my life. I’m quite dedicated to the destruction of the undead, having been on five missions outside the city, not including the one I’m on now.” He wanted it to sound personal, tough maybe, something that showed them who he was, but it felt oddly mechanical as he listed his aspects off. When he thought about his past, when he talked about himself, it was like he was looking at another person’s life. Still worried the person inside the armor was somehow undead, he asked them, “Would you take off your helmet, it would make me feel more secure to see your face.”

The person in the armor agreed, pressing a button to cause their helmet to lift up. He saw their face, female, somewhere between age thirty and fifty, light skin, curly hair, some major scaring on her forehead and cheeks likely from power armor malfunctions, a few monochrome black tattoos on her neck. Certainly not undead. He noticed how mechanical his perception of the person’s features were, like analyzing a battlefield. After an odd moment of silence the person in armor told Eric, “Hanna, she/her.” Eric didn’t fully get what she meant by that, what those words meant, but felt like he should have, felt like he would have a few days ago. Eventually the person in armor asked him, “Do you have a name?”

“Eric… he/him… sorry I’m still a bit messed up from the attack.”

“Looks like it. Let me run some medical tests, could you just sit here a moment.” She pointed to the couch, it felt like a fine enough place to be.

While she was out of the room for a moment he looked at a painting she had hung on the wall of the city. What looked like a specific street though he couldn’t tell which one. Massive art deco architecture shining with polished brilliance, contrasted by plants growing alongside it, red with the autumn glow. He didn’t understand why it felt so distant, as if before he would have had such an affinity for the image, the nostalgic glow had worn off, and he had a harder time connecting with it then he should have been. It was as if part of him knew, as if there was some sort of sinking yet sure feeling, that he’d never be there again in his life.

When Hanna came back to him she asked, “Can I have your arm” in a detached way. She wasn’t wearing her normal armor, she had changed into a work uniform of some sort, grey, as an engineer would use, stains from some sort of red liquid on it. She put some sort of medical device on his wrist and took some tests. He told him, “You’re very cold, I need to make sure you’re as healthy as you look before I try to clean up your wounds.”

Eric tried to joke but it seemed to hard, as if there was a weird sort of tension in the air, “You know, the last time I had a piece of metal strapped to my arm it was under less friendly circumstances.” He wondered what he was even implying those circumstances were, armor, something involving a kink, maybe handcuffs but there wasn’t any practical use for them outside of a kink in his lifetime.

Suddenly Hanna said in a foreboding voice: “Oh god.” She wasn’t reacting to what she was saying she was reacting to what she was seeing on screen. Within the culture of rangers ‘oh god’ was a specifically bad warning, variations of ‘oh fuck’ or ‘oh shit’ were mundane, for harmless mistakes or bad news. ‘Oh no’ was slightly worse. But ‘oh god’, that was serious and dire.

He asked her, trying to sound frantic feeling strangely unable to switch his voice’s tone away from humor, “What happened to me?”

She asked him, “Would you consider yourself a man of honor?”

He thought about the question for far longer then he should have. “Yes.” It felt weird to say yes to.

With a dark nervousness in her voice, she spoke to him, “You’re undead. Obviously not fully undead but you’re in the early stages. Usually people turn more quickly but you’re… determined. There’s no way you can resist the infection for much longer, and no way you’d ever be let in the city. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know I just met you but it sucks to have to say this to someone who seems, so very human. Your life will be over soon, but if you want to make sure there isn’t one more undead in the area…” She handed him a small pistol. He understood exactly what it meant. It would be the honorable thing to do, to take his life, and take down one last undead. He wanted to. He held the dagger and knew that it was the right thing to do. If he didn’t feel so… strange he would have done it without another thought.

He felt a voice in the back of his head, in the back of his neck, telling him that if he did survive, did become undead, he would live forever. There was some part of him that desperately wanted to live, a primal survival instinct that believed in death before dishonor. He raised his knife and looked and Hanna standing before him, unarmored. And there was a voice in the back of his head telling him survive, survive, survive, survive. There was a feeling within Eric that he had to survive, that he had no other choice, that he would live weather he wanted to or not.

Survive…

He could barely recall what had happened to him. Not if he recounted it action by action, moment to moment, like comic panels marching on.

He looked down. The house in the night. The blackness of the windows outside. Blood. Blood everywhere. Hanna’s corpse below him. It looked beautiful. It looked so sad. He was so sorry. It looked tasty. He wasn’t supposed to think of human bodies as tasty. Not yet at least. He didn’t want this to be who he was that night. Though he knew he had no other choice, he didn’t want to have died there, didn’t want to die at all…

He looked at his hands. They weren’t fully dead but his skin was greyer, and red veins showed underneath, his fingertips slowly turning black. He couldn’t even feel pain in the wounds on his face anymore.

His eyes shouldn’t have been able to see the beach, it should have been too dark. But they could. They could. The sky was black yet he could see the water flowing in and other, the sands below his feet, the ruined and overgrown boardwalk rotting below a dark and dim moon. The seagulls flew away when he got close to them, seeing that he had become something unholy. He walked the sands, thinking of what would happen to him. For a moment he thought he had stopped feeling cold, but he did, the cold flowed through him, and nothing inside him was warm at all, and for that he felt as if there was no more cold, as now there was no more contrast. There was only the night and there was only inhumanity.

He saw another figure in the distance, a woman, with long arms and pale skin, he realized it was her. It was her. The undead who had bitten him. She didn’t feel undead when he looked at her, she just looked like herself, like someone she knew. All the unnaturalness, and all the disgust was gone. The idea that she had taken the lives of human, the idea that she took his life, that she took Gen’s life, it didn’t mean so much anymore. She seemed almost beautiful. Not in a lustful way but like a beacon. Like if even he had neither freedom nor honor he may at least have duty, have purpose, have a place in the world and a power within him.

He walked up to her, almost expecting to attack her, but his body did not. He spoke, he had a choice to speak, but it felt as if he was reading off words that were already in front of him. “Sire. Creator. What words may you have for me dear friend?” Why did he say those words.

She replied, “Near friend, dear friend, you are but so young in your creation.” Her dead eyes shown like the most radiant of all stars.

He then felt as if he could speak for himself once more. “Who are you? What do you want? What are you doing with me? What have you done to my soul?”

“You know what has happened to you, but you do not want to say the words. In her doom she told you. And you knew before that? How could you not know?”

“I don’t want to be this.”

“That is not yours to decide. Progress is nobody’s personal choice to resist or to not. It will become you. There is only the choice of acceptance, the choice of power. Or the choice of failure and desolation.”

“It doesn’t seem as if there’s a choice at all. No choice but two deaths.”

“Oh. They didn’t tell you? Did your scholars never find out?”

“Find out what?”

The undead laughed, her fangs shining in the subtle light of the night. “When we embrace humans into our kind, there’s a reason why some of us keep our minds, our ability to think, to reason, while others are mindless and shambling.”

“What is it‽ What do you mean‽”

“Those who submit willingly, who let the infection do what it does, when they become the swarm’s loyal servant, are allowed to keep everything that they had as a human. But when someone resists, the infection has to remove parts of the person’s mind until they’re able to submit. It’s a brutal process. But everyone is satisfied eventually, everyone happy within the swarm, even if they need the tragedy of being forced.”

“I didn’t expect this cruelty even from your horrid kind.”

“From our horrid kind. And it’s not cruelty, it’s mercy. It would be wrong to force someone to be something they didn’t want to be. So we turn them into things that will accept being undead. Even if it takes some modification.”

“I don’t want to be lobotomized‽”

“Well there’s a pretty simple solution to that isn’t there.” She reached out to him and held his face, tenderly, like a lover, a mother, a goddess? But there was cruelty, as she had not life to give such tenderness with. Her hands were so cold, they were like weapons, in a way they were weapons, but they wouldn’t want to hurt him, not anymore. “Join us. Don’t resist. Few of us have kept as much of their minds as I have, but it’s quite possible. Be someone the swarm doesn’t need to take anything from to become part of it. We could live forever. Humanity will die out, it’s inevitable. And then we’ll have a perfect future, nobody will die, nobody will be born, we will be an unchanging race for thousands of years. Nothing will matter and there will be no more progress to be made, and no way the light of progress can be reversed. It will happen. Choose where you will sit within that future.”

Suddenly the beach was full, and countless undead were around him, but they did not attack. He had only before seen the undead as twisted parodies of soldiers, yet these were twisted parodies of worshippers, creatures that rejected spirit in favor of flesh worshipping their rejection. If not killed they’d live forever, and rejected all comforts death could bring, cast out of Christ’s heaven, and Buddha’s endless cycle, of the kingdoms of Hel and Hades, of even the sinners hellfire and the rationalist’s oblivion. They had rejected all of humanity’s feasts of death for something darker, something eternal. They marched onto the beach, dressed as they did in life. Though some seemed like they could have been the city’s scouts or scavengers, the vast majority of undead were turned at the moment of the fall; businessmen in ragged suits, highschoolers forever in their uniforms, policemen and soldiers with their ancient kevlar vests still hanging off their bodies, service workers whose tattered uniforms were still marked with long dead corporations’ symbols. Some who were once tourists still carried merchandise for the sate of New Jersey, and others still carried political symbols, advocating for forgotten candidates in an election that would never happen. Their bodies were inhuman in different ways from each other, some were wounded, deformed but not in a way a human ever could be, they bore wounds that would never heal, but would never kill them either, eternally in a state of gore. Others had become monstrous, and looked as animal as human, with sharp teeth or claws, long tongues and red eyes, like living weapons ready to kill. And others yet were truly dead looking, corpses either fresh or desiccated still standing, refusing to go into that great beyond. Yet the majority of them weren’t that way, at least half of them had their distortion be more subtle then that, they looked like they did in life, but drained, expressionless, and ridged in their movements, neither asleep nor awake, their eyes dead, and the color drained from their cheeks. Recognizable, yet without personhood, their higher selves, their place outside the massive swarm of the dead, gone.

They bowed to him, looked at him, they worshipped him. That’s what they worshipped in this new faith, this faith of the dead, endless expansion, endless conquest, until nothing was left. They were the apocalypse, and they worshipped their own apocalypse, worshipped growing forever until they had taken everything, all humanity until there was nothing left.

He stepped back, but they reached out their hands, like a congregation begging an apostate to return. Their dead eyes staring him down.

He yelled to them, “I am a human! A mortal human!”

The pale woman who had bitten him spoke again, laughed, and asked him, “Not for long. Do you even remember your name anymore little one?”

He yelled back, “Of course, I’m E… Er… Eren? Erel? Ervin?”

“You don’t even remember, soon they’ll be nothing left. I’d recommend submitting now, you haven’t lost that much of your mind, there’s still a lot more to lose. We’ll need a name for you though? Since it’s your face that I sired you with is face a good name?”

He had no name. Had no place to run. Had only his voice, his fading memories. He prayed, but felt no peace, so there was no peace. He yelled to the sky, “Old gods hear me, and see my voice. Great Zeus spare me from these creatures of darkness, and Poseidon let the great Atlantic swallow them whole. Sekhmet and Thor let your wrath burn them and boil their blood. And great Anubis, Lady Hel and Dread Persephone destroy these creatures that have rejected your great kingdom! If any god exists here may you give these demons no mercy!” The yelling hurt his mouth but it healed so fast, and became even more inhuman, by the prayers end his voice sounded nothing let in did in his mortal form.

And suddenly there was rain.

It began slowly, but the clouds hung high above the beach, and drops of water began falling, faster and faster and faster, and thunder struck, and the Atlantic churned, and undead looked in fear as if there was an invading army at their feet, and they fled as if death itself threatened them and they feared for a moment that they were being called to the home that they had been denied by the swarm.

As the rain fell they were soon all gone, to take shelter from a storm that could destroy their broken bodies. And he realized that he was of the same fate as them, he too had to flee, his body likewise weak to the storm.

He stepped into the dark woods, they seemed so comfortable. Decided that it was time for him to sleep. Sleep would be good. Sleep would protect him.

He did not know how long he slept. His sense of time was off, and he had not dreamed at all. When we woke up it was midday, but that was all he could know. He tried to remember his name, he had to have one. She had called him Face, face would be his name for the time being. He tried to remember his old name, the best he could do was remember it started with E.

Looking at his arms was shocking. As Face got up he noticed his arms had changed, or at least they weren’t what he expected them to be. Face’s arms were grey, with their veins very visible, and black fingers like a body dying of frostbite. There was skin flaking off them, in tiny pieces, and it wasn’t even red on the inside. The cloth that covered some of his body was also different, ragged, and already showing signs of age, he realized he had been wearing it for many days without even taking it off. He neither urinated nor defecated, he hadn’t since he was bitten, so it didn’t really come up. Face tried to feel his face, his mouth had changed, it had healed so strangely, his mouth was twisted, not really shaped like a line anymore, and some of the teeth in the front were sharp and long like a bat’s. He didn’t think he teeth used to be that way.

He started walking. The rains had washed away most of the snow, but it would still be weeks (at least assuming he hadn’t been asleep for weeks) until anything began to bloom. It made the entire landscape a grim place, with no snow capping them the trees were just these black and brown wires, leafless and crooked tangles of branches. The sky above the forest was blank, white and pale but with few visible clouds. Or maybe it was all clouds. Either way the entire thing was not the most pleasant sight in nature. But once again Face started walking, it felt like what he was meant to do, he had been walking for a while. He was probably walking before he was bitten. He didn’t remember much of the day he was bitten, like that specific day was hard to remember for him for whatever reason. He realized he seemed to be able to remember less and less as time went on.

He walked further. The trees all looked the same. Occasionally he’d be greeted by the mercy of an evergreen, the only type of tree that still looked like a tree. The sweet mercy of autumn was so very far, any reminder of it was a kindness. Though the winter was only grey now, the coldness had faded, or more specifically Face could no longer feel any pain from coldness, he felt the coldness, coldness that could kill people, coldness that did kill people. But that coldness gave him no pain. It was around the time that he was thinking about his lack of pain from the cold that he noticed that he had stepped on a spike and it was now sticking out of his leg. It didn’t impede his walking at all, nor did it hurt, he realized he didn’t care at all. It was never a very pretty leg.

Occasionally he would see a ruined house, or road or rest stop. They were all dead. All signs of dead things, the animals alone found them to be good shelter in the state they were in. Perhaps some members of the swarm, or even a few scavengers had utilized such ruins, but he didn’t pass any ruins with such signs.

There was a pack of wolves at one point in his journey he saw a pack of wolves, eating the body of a large animal that he had forgotten the name of. He forgot how much bigger their bodies were compared to dogs. They were small in numbers when he was young, but as humans became rarer and rarer on the mainland their old rivals who had not been entirely driven to the grave had slowly regained their old populations. Wolves again roamed the woods, and sharks once again were a common sight in the Atlantic. These wolves were thriving, well fed, strangely real, blood on their mouths. He stood to admire them for a moment.

For some reason, Face began to feel something other than admiration for them. Jealousy, a desire to feast on that large creature he had forgotten the name of alongside them. No instead of them. That was his red stuff to eat. These wolves had nothing that he couldn’t claim. He jumped down and screamed and hissed at them. Oh the noises that his mouth made now. The wolves looked at him with yellow eyes of fear, as if they were looking at something deeply unnatural. They didn’t bother to fight. They knew to run. They knew he outranked them.

He began eating the creature whose name he forgot. It tasted good. It had a hard shell that was hard to penetrate, but it had a bunch of meaty bits on the inside. It wasn’t the wolves that killed it, it looked like it had been dead for a few hours, maybe days before the wolves got to it. He realized he wasn’t eating like he did when he was human, he felt neither hunger nor any satisfaction, just an intense desire to eat what was in front of him. It was almost like he wasn’t eating at all, like he was just observing the act of eating happening with his body in front of him. It was the same way he’d watch an illness overtake his body, like he was looking at the symptoms, it was something his body did but that his mind and his soul had no part in. He would just eat. He would just eat.

It took less time to eat then he expected. He just ate and ate, with the only breaks being to find something else that was edible within the creature, and his definition of edible seemed to have become far more open.

Suddenly he noticed himself coughing, choaking on something. As if by instinct he didn’t bother trying to remove it from his warped and distorted mouth. He ripped open his neck to pull out whatever he was choaking on. It only dawned on him just how brutal an act it was to his body after he had done it. Didn’t hurt very much.

Though what he found he had been choaking on was more terrifying to his soul. It was a dog tag, a badge of NewSoc faction rangers. How could whatever he was eating have one of those? But when he looked down at what he was eating it wasn’t a creature, it was a vehicle, a crashed jeep. It must have crashed and then the wolves started eating the corpses of the people inside… and they he  started eating the corpses of the people inside. He had done it. He had eaten human flesh. Those fleshy bits he had gone after…

For some reason he was less shocked then he felt like he would have been. Maybe he always knew it would happen. They weren’t alive when he was eating them. He didn’t kill them. He would try not to eat dead human bodies again, it seemed like a bad idea to do.

He walked more. It took time but the time didn’t feel like time, it just was. The sun set. The sun rose. The sun set. The sun rose. Though he had no desire to keep track of the days, didn’t even know if he could keep them in his head if he needed to. But they passed and there were a lot of them. At least a week it seemed, maybe more. The forest grew thicker, and it started to snow again, more harshly then before, to the point where he could see the horizon fade, and the precipitation pile on the ground as he walked further and further. Yet still he walked, still he walked, for there was nothing else he could. The alternative would be just to sit, and he knew that would somehow be more painful.

He thought he saw things, but they weren’t there, hallucinations and visions and whispers in the dark that existed in his mind alone. Like some part of his mind was trying to see things he would never see again. He saw false images of people’s faces, soldiers, rangers, of some sort, people who he felt he had once traveled with, but who now were long gone to this world. And then they disappeared, as he realized they were nothing more then visions, nothing more than suppressed memories. He saw a young man who he knew was dead, and wished to call out his name, even though he knew the man was merely a hallucination, merely a construct of his depleted mind, he wished to call out a name to place upon that face one last time. But it was too late, he remembered nothing.

He saw for a moment, a street from his childhood, a part of the city he had once known for so long, with old stone buildings, and murals on the walls, and pigeons resting on the windowsills. It was autumn there. Early autumn. Warm autumn. He was no fool, he knew it was a creation of his mind, knew it was no more real then a dream. But he ran towards it, ran towards the hallucination because he knew that such a vision would be the only way he could stand there again. But when he came close to it, it was gone, and he saw nothing but the forest around him. And soon he didn’t remember those streets at all, and there was nothing left for his mind to fool him with.

All hallucinations ended. And he could see no more human face to be familiar with. No more sweet memories.

After further days of travel Face found himself spotting humans again. It was snowing harshly, the sky white, and the snow half hail and half rain, falling almost sideways, Face feeling it within his wounds. But he had found humans, hadn’t gotten a chance to see them but he saw the light of a fire, the type of bonfire rangers used to keep warm, or perhaps scavengers trying to just survive the night and day. If they were warm, he could be warm, he forgot exactly why he wasn’t traveling alongside other humans, or why he couldn’t create fire for himself. But he needed to go closer. As much as his body didn’t want to be cold, he was cold nonetheless, it wasn’t painful be he understand the lack of benefit for his twisted form’s dear health.

Yet as he approached the human flames a vision struck him, not a hallucination, for his mind had lost that ability, but a vision of the divine, an experience mystical. A tall and powerful god, with fiery eyes and a long beard, and a hammer in his hands, Thor great protector of humanity. The spirit turned to him, and for a moment Face felt comfort, for this spirit had protected him before. But this time the god did not protect him, Face felt the gods power turning him back, the howling winds picking up and sending him further and further from his path, hoping to destroy his body, hoping to make him suffer more. And Face understood, he understood that he was no longer a creature that such a deity would protect, he was now a being that such spirits must protect humanity from. His dearest gods were no longer his to prey to, now others prayed to them to protect themselves from him. And he understood. As much as he wept he understood too well. It was a rare night when such invocations worked so well, and when face turned away from the fire, the vision ended, and the people who needed such protection were safe.

There were no friends, no gods, no glory upon Face’s new path. Only the winter and the forest knew him, for he was of the winter, and he was of the forest. There was no going back for him now.

He walked through a strange sort of snow. He began to feel nothingness. Days meant nothing. Weeks meant nothing. Time meant nothing at all. He would just march on, towards his death. But he would never get a chance to even die. He just walked. He just walked.

He thought for a moment that he could protest, resist the curse of the dead, refuse to join the swarm. But that’s what most did, and most lost their mind, their reasoning. He would join the swarm, that was predetermined, it was up to him if the swarm forced him to or not.

There was nothing for him to get back to anyway. He would never be let back into the city. He barely remembered what the city was like. He would never again know again what it was to feel pain, to fall into a warm bed and feel it’s graceful comfort, never know again what it meant to taste sweet wine on his lips and chocolate on his tongue, never again make love, never again cry. His body was not human. He was cold now, he had realized there was no more internal heat within him. His blood was cold and black and as thick as honey. And it was always dripping behind him now, yet never running out. He had no more humanity within him. When he felt the shape of his own face it no longer resembled anything human, it was twisted, with teeth everywhere, eyes where they shouldn’t be, a mouth that opened in a way mammals jaws weren’t meant to, twisted and strange. And for some reason he wasn’t scared. Face tried to remember his old face, his human face, with a name that started with E. But he didn’t know how it looked. If his eyes still could weep they would have, he didn’t even remember his human face, didn’t remember his mother or father, he knew there was someone waiting for him at home but didn’t know who they were. There was only the forest, and there was only the now.

He decided he didn’t want to walk anymore. He found and old stone church, a human structure still standing in the winter woods. He lay down and started sleeping. Not really sleeping, just laying down and trying to think of nothing. It was no rest. But the snow began to cover him, and it felt as if he barely was anything at all.

The snow fell and it melted, the church roof long gone. There was no more freedom in his heart. He was just there. And that was just his fate.

He thought back to memories watching them fade as he slept, seeing their last resolve. Seeing the memories that stayed strong. A black and white poster placed up by Terminous faction in the west village, saying over a printed illustration of a ranger the words “humanity is not dying, it is being murdered. You can defend it!”. Singing with friends his last night before leaving the city for the firs time, the hope and fear in their eyes, not knowing if they would die. Seeing the view of the city surrounding him, on the hill of Sunset Park, seeing the entire city, a human life in every window, a world that looked so massive, all the humanity he needed to protect. A kiss, someone he cared about, below the above ground rails, they told him to stay safe, told him not to die. He told them he wouldn’t. He didn’t know he lied. He begged the void. Begged for forgiveness for betraying such a sweet voice.

He realized he was gone. There was no more denial. His body now a corpse.

There was only sleep.

There was only sleep.

And suddenly he woke up. It was the edge of spring. Still winter but the first hint of warmth of spring barely peaked through as the snow melted. It was right when, yes, right when the rangers would be preparing to see the city again. Perhaps a few of them have already stepped through the city gates. And then he remembered, he wanted to die as he remembered, he would not be going with them.

He sat up. His body feeling mechanical in its movements, it was flesh but not living flesh, it didn’t move with that animating force of breath but instead an uncomfortable supernatural power. He looked around him. Other undead looked at him, they must have woken him up. They were what Terminous would have called standard ghouls. Withered, almost skeleton like, with sharp teeth and claws, and glowing white eyes. There must have been an entire pack of them looking down at him. They would have lost parts of their minds, but they wouldn’t be entirely drained for sure. Smart enough to hunt and plan like cats or wolves at the very least.

They looked at him. They didn’t help him up. It wasn’t in their nature. They were wondering weather he could walk with them or not it seemed. Wondered if he was fast enough for them, if he was strong enough for them, if he could get up at all. And he could, and he did. And when he stood with them he just started walking with them, the same type of walking, but suddenly in a group.

For a few hours he was in a larger group, but as they split, likely to try to increase their chances of finding humans, Face ended up in a group with just three others. It felt almost like a group of friends, or coworkers. But it didn’t truly. For one none of them could talk, Face and another one, in an Incubus faction ranger’s armor, with him had no ability to talk it seemed, likely both because of mouth shape. Another could only seem to repeat the same phrase over and over again, “we’re reducing prices by fifty percent this holiday weekend”, judging by his pre fall suit and tie it was a phrase from his old life, echoing as the last memory of who he once was. The third that was traveling with him, never spoke, but sang, her song being rather beautiful though rarely intelligible, taking bits and pieces from music she once knew. By her dress it seemed she had been a high school student when the swarm attacked, still wearing her old school uniform.

They passed by a sign that said, in vivid yet rotting letters, far bigger then the human scale but perfect for the now dead and rusted automobiles, “Garden State…” the rest of the words rotted off. The sign should have been humorous in such a harsh winter. But winter as it was, February showed the first signs of winter’s end. As he looked upon the frigid landscape he could see the first budding flowers, hear the first songbirds coming up from the lands to the south. Spring would come, and he thought that if he was to be undead it would be good to at least be undead when everything was in bloom.

There was no kindness between the dead who traveled together. They were not friends. They would help each other. Those who had been rangers helped navigate the woods. They pointed out targets to each other. But they helped the swarm, not their friends. Face once saw the suit wearing ghoul start hitting the uniform wearing ghoul as she was distracted by something. He wanted to yell out “she’s just a kid” but he had no mouth that could scream such things. She was fine, the singing, and the repetition of “this holiday weekend” did not end at all during the whole interaction. It wasn’t in their kind’s nature to have mercy on each other. It wasn’t in his kind's nature to have mercy on each other.

They found an old man caught in a simple leg trap. From his age he had to be a scavenger, there were no rangers that old, if he’d been from the city he’d have been in the city, layers of coats from a lifetime out in the ruins were on his back. Face wondered what a man like that would be like, proud, he would be proud, having avoided the swarm his entire life. He would have been one of the few humans old enough to have only known the undead as an adult, to have truly lived in the pre swarm world before that. He may have even been one of the few people alive to remember the 20th century. He’d have learned as a grown man to fend off the dead, and had years and years of stories of surviving as a scavenger… one could even imagine him sitting around a scavenger campfire, telling stories of the old world and of the first days of the swarm to his children.

But it would be best for Face not to imagine. Because he knew what would happen to him. The old man screamed for help, his bearded withered face crying into the woods, hoping that a human of any sort would come. But it wasn’t a human that was coming. Face and his fellow ghouls slowly walked towards him, looking only to make sure he was properly restrained, harmless, of course he was, the trap had broken his leg, left him stranded there. There were people who could help him, but they wouldn’t find him in time.

Face tried to distract himself. Looked at the trap as if it helped him any. Black metal, well made, too industrial for the swarm or the scavengers to have laid. Rangers, not from Terminous though, his people would have never put down something that could so easily harm a random human. Perhaps a rival faction such as Incubus. He thought that as his new people prepared to devour a human alive, for a moment Face realized just how far he’d fallen. He’d gone all the way from being a defender of humanity to something that attacked humanity at it’s weakest. He realized he shouldn’t have thought any more of such things, else the curse of the undead would take that from him too. He’d let himself ignore rather than forget, evil as it seemed.

The old man began to scream as the creatures began eating him. They didn’t bother to do anything to make him dead first. They just chewed his flesh, barely bothering to taste and swallow. There was no distinction between what was eaten and what was spit out, the instinct of the swarm was to destroy over all else. It didn’t matter if it could be utilized, it mattered that it could be conquered, that it was the swarm’s and not another free being’s.

Everything within his body told him to join, it was like the deepest hunger, the most ravenous lust, the most pressing need to sleep. His mouth wanted to chew flesh, his hands wanted to feel it being torn between their fingers. The last of his mind knew that it was wrong, that it was so very wrong, but his body wanted to more then anything. He was so far beyond doing anything to stop it, but he felt if he could just look away, just stand there and watch it would mean something. But then he felt it, then he felt the force of the swarm telling him that he had to partake, that the swarm would take as much of his mind as it needed to until he could no longer resist eating that flesh. His time of standing on the sideline had ended, he would submit or he would be forced to submit.

Better to keep his mind and eat then to lose his mind to eat.

He ran towards the old man, let his body take control, as he sunk his teeth into that succulent blood filled neck, tasting the organs on what remained of his lips, feeling the death between his hands, smelling the moment the old man died. And it smelled so good to him now. A few minutes into the feast he didn’t think about the morality of what he was doing anymore, he just was. His actions all became things to be said in a passive voice. He wasn’t eating anyone. The undead swarm wasn’t even eating anyone. Someone was being eaten. It’s not like there’s anything he could do about it.

They walked on, left the old man’s bones to dry in the sun. Perhaps help would finally come for him, only to see him nearly entirely gone. There’s was something almost funny about it. And once to eating was done, the singing began again, and once again was “this holiday weekend” continuously repeated.

He wondered as he wandered, what would happen if he died of natural causes, some sort of disaster, at that point. Would his body be identified as his own. Would he have a chance to be known as himself. Would anyone get a chance to see him, or would he just be another body in the melting snow. He thought he knew the answer too well. He hoped no ranger would see and recognize him at all, then perhaps his legacy would be nice and pure. He wanted to say nobody would blame him if they knew what he had become, but he couldn’t say anything at all.

There was some peace to the forest when he was alone. With other ghouls near him it lost the little charm the frozen ruins ever had. But he didn’t have a choice. He realized he didn’t have a choice when it came to anything anymore. The storm wouldn’t permit it, even if it made him desire what it forced him to do. All that happened simply was. And in his final moments, as he realized the last of his humanity was gone from him utterly and completely, there was no more difference between the things he did, and the things that happened to him.

He could fantasize, think about attacking one of his fellow undead, taking them out, and the swarm let him fantasize, as he was so utterly submissive to it that it was like fantasizing about growing wings and flying. No part of him would act against the swarm, and even if he did kill his fellow undead, he would not stop being undead himself.

Eventually, as he was walking along, he realized he was very close to the city. The amount of ruins, and how clearly they’d been touched by rangers made it obvious. He could almost see the hint of the skyline on the horizon. He knew he couldn’t actually go much more near it, any undead who was close enough to threaten the city walls would be destroyed by the forces of the city. But he could just almost remember what it was like to see the first hint of the skyline all those years ago. He felt the city close to him, as if he could almost be there again, but he knew he never would. As close as his body was it was too late for his poor little soul.

Suddenly he heard gunshots. To his undead mind the sound of a gun no longer seemed as though it was from a natural yet brutal weapon anymore, but it seemed like something of cosmic horror, barely understandable, and so very alien to the form he had taken. Everything the weapon represented, every person such machines had killed, and every person such machines had saved, were all in qual parts alien to Face now.

The undead around him didn’t have much to do when hearing gunshots though. It was not in the swarms plan for them to scatter, but they didn’t see what they needed to fight yet. They just merely stood, knowing something would happen soon…

And then suddenly it happened. That repeated phrase that Face had been forced to listen to for so long finally ended forever. “We’re reducing prices by fifty percent this-“ The ghoul who had been saying it again and again stood with a bullet in his head, standing upright longer then a human would, stumbling back, and then being hit by two more bullets from what must have been a vantage point in the woods.

There was a fear between all three undead as they walked into the woods. There was something all undead seemed to know, that perhaps none of them could admit, that would be unseemly to admit, that humans were terrifying. Humans who could fight back, who were good at fighting back, were truly terrifying. Most humans were prey, it felt natural for them to be prey, which made it so horrifying when they fought back, and reversed such relationships. Face realized he knew what the lions and wolves must have felt when they first saw humans mastering fire and holding spears and clubs, what it must have meant to see humanity reverse it’s place in the food chain, and tell the world; no hierarchy is sacred. In past tellings Face had been on humanity’s side in such a parable, but he saw them now from the other side, and wanted his natural and genetic superiority in tact and the end of the day.

Then suddenly a human could been seen running out from the woods, a fully armored one, his actions so fast, so deliberate, so full of life, nothing about him could be confused with an undead’s equivalent actions. And suddenly Face realized that it wasn’t just a human warrior coming out from the woods, in was a human he had known in life, it was Gail. Face wanted to hide his appearance, to make it so they wouldn’t know, wouldn’t seen what he had become. He just hoped his body was too distorted for anyone to tell his human self.

In a moment he saw one of his undead companions destroyed by Gail’s polearm. It was so fast there was no hope of survival, like a wolf pouncing upon its prey. Face knew to just run. He wondered why he remembered Gail’s name but not his own, maybe his name just wasn’t worth remembering, or it was worth too much to the swarm.

For a few moments he ran through the woods, and there was nobody but himself. Only the singing ghoul near him could be seen, and her voice always heard even as she felt the fear of destruction. There was only her song, and only destruction.

Then suddenly the song ended, and he could see the human that had shot her. They had tripped! The human who had shot her had tripped, he had the perfect in the attack them. He ran over to the fallen human, ready to strike.

His body was so very hungry, he saw the human who had been shooting at him, who had shot his fellow undead. Their body was small, slight, easy for him to overpower just by jumping on top of. He held them down, touching their soft living flesh, thinking about how nice it would be to bite into them. He was so very lucky that they had tripped. And Gail was nowhere to be seen.

But then he saw their face! Oh god he saw their face! Ava! It was Ava, somehow he still remembered them, still remembered that even if he had lost his life they didn’t have, and suddenly mourned that they would, so certainly would as long as they were below his body. He wished so desperately he had not those urges, that they didn’t trip, that it could have been anyone else to fall that way. He hoped Ava did not know it was him, hoped they could not know that he was the one who was going to kill them.

He looked in Ava’s eyes, their crying face, he didn’t expect it to hurt so much to see them crying, and realize that he couldn’t comfort them, couldn’t protect them. He wanted to hug them and say it was ok, but it wouldn’t be, his body needed to eat flesh, and their flesh was there.

And then he realize he could protect them. Even if the swarm would destroy him for it.

He jumped off of them, Ava looking shocked as he did. Of course they did they had never seen the undead spare someone before. And he did, he knew the swarm would turn him into something that can’t spare soon, take away everything that made him himself until he didn’t remember an Ava to spare. But it didn’t matter, he wouldn’t last that long against them. He could see Ava raising their gun again, to give them more time, as he felt himself forgetting, felt the swarm rotting his frontal lobes away, he tore himself apart, ripped off his jaw, ripped off his arm, broke his legs on the stones below him, made himself harmless to Ava as the swarm made him forget who they were. He would stand back no more, he would not be complicit in another human’s death, even if it killed him.

The last thing his dead eyes saw was Ava raising their gun towards him, and firing their shot. He was rapidly forgetting who they were, but he was proud of them, he was so very proud.

[ajastu]

thinkin about...how much i appreciate the way that talking about death and grief was handled in veilguard. I've been thinking about this topic a lot for the last several years bcs of...many reasons. So it was nice to see.

I guess maybe the best way i could put it into words is...Veilguard did not present grief/loss as purely a tragedy, but also as a part of life? the worst happens, and it might feel world-ending, but you will still need to get up the next morning and eat breakfast, you know? the unrelenting flow of time can be both a comfort and a pain, but no matter what it is in the moment, the fact remains that life Does Not Stop. And we have to deal with that somehow.

i guess one important distinction here. There is a difference between personal loss and like. A massive tragedy. I'm mainly talking about personal loss here, because the two are kind of different topics (that the game addressed differently, also, but this isnt about that right now)

Before i talk about the like, companion questlines, a very brief aside to the environmental design. Admittedly, i havent rly gone looking around the maps for the making of this post specifically, so it won't be too involved, but like. Arlathan, man. Loss and tragedy is etched over every part of it. the ruins, yes, but also...the tree people. At first glance, it is a sunny, beautiful location. And it is! It is also full of little stories of loss and desperation and everyday lives cut unexpectedly short. And you see it the moment you stop and look at it. It is easy to run through without paying much mind to it, but once you notice it you can't really unsee it. And it is still so beautiful and sunny. It's something i liked about the first Dishonored game, too, the juxtaposition of the environment with the tragedy. The sky is blue and the sun is shining when Corvo escapes Coldridge. etc.

Grief will find you again on a nice summer's day. You know?

You can't untangle it from the joys of life. And that isn't necessarily a bad thing, it's just...neutral. That's just how it works.

One of the ways people deal with grief is through rituals to remember the dead. Funerals, tending of graves, etc etc. I think Emmrich's quests touch on that in a very nice way.

What i appreciate about that is, like...some people tend to have a fear and aversion to topics related to death. But these quests present it all in such a mundane manner. And you get the option to treat it as such, too. Of course, there is the option to freak out, also, but i'll admit i never checked that one out.

I think part of processing grief is accepting it. And it might mean many different things to many different people, but for me personally those funerary rituals, both big and small, become a first step. And it won't stop being painful, but life does not stop either. You have to choose to live it, eventually. But when you're afraid of taking that first step, well. The grief might just eat you alive.

Every creature's existence brings along with it the death of something else, whether intentional or not. Death is as much a part of life as breathing is, and so getting somewhat comfortable with the concept will help soften the blow whenever it comes. Because it will come.

Funny thing happened while i was playing the game for the first time. I got spoiled about Manfred dying, and when i found that out, i was like. OH NOOO not Manfred....im definitely 100% reviving him.

And then i actually got there, and...the game prepares you so beautifully for acceptance of personal loss. Of course, there is the bias of Ive Been Thinking About This Exact Thing For Years, but still. It felt more...right? to let Manfred go. It still took me a while to decide what to choose, but the fact remains that i had to really sit there and think about it, even though i thought i have already made up my mind.

And just...the whole Cyrian funeral bit. Oh my god. That was so beautifully done. Bellara's story in general was something i really appreciated, but that part was especially hard-hitting for me. Yes i cried. Life goes on.

I feel like it touches some more on the importance of processing the grief, so that you can remember those you lost with fondness and joy instead of just pain. Again, you can't untangle the two, but you can find balance, eventually. Facing that loss instead of running from it...it helps.

And this bit the game itself said in a way i do not think i need to paraphrase:

Death, loss, grief...all of that is difficult. It is also a part of life. And the thing is, life goes on!! I'm not saying that in a "get over it" way. I am saying that in a. ''Holy shit why are things happening'' way. I'm going through this paralyzing grief and life just keeps on happening. And you have to adapt to it, you know? You stop thinking about it constantly, in time. You find joy with the living. But grief will still find you on a nice sunny day...

I don't know. I'm probably not saying everything i wanted to, but it's kind of hard to keep my thoughts in order (plus, this post was a spontaneous decision n im too lazy to go thru the whole game for more examples).

But i guess the main thing i wanted to say is. I appreciate that the game gives you space to sit with it. To think about it. To come to terms with it, even, maybe. DATV did a wonderful job with handling this topic.

It is also tied into the main plot in ways that other people have talked about already. But yeah. The only thing i missed was the lack of a "let the bugs eat me" dialogue option when Emmrich asks Rook what they'd like to be done with their body after they die, but i guess we cant have it all dlkgjdfg

I'm just gonna conclude this with my all-time favorite screenshot from Disco Elysium

[whetstonefires]

Headcanon meme: A Yuan (real name not working right now)

Well A-Yuan isn't not a real name, assuming you've attached it to the right (fictional) character. His birth name was Wen Yuan, and then his adopted name was Lan Yuan. Which looks like he kept the personal name but iirc Lan Wangji had never seen it written down, and everyone who might have known the spelling was dead, so he wound up picking a different (written chinese) character. So it's a whole new name.

And then his formal grown up name is Lan Sizhui. Which is probably the name you wanted.

Headcanon 1:  Realistic

Very realistic, I do not think Sizhui is formally adopted as Lan Wangji's son. It would be neater if he was, but I don't think in that case he would say that Hanguang-jun had been 'like a father and a brother' to him. He'd just say he was his father.

The Lan did not allow Lan Wangji, disgraced and maimed, to put this child of dubious provenance down on the paperwork as his immediate family. Sizhui does have the name and is probably in the clan somehow, but he has not had parents since the ones that created him were killed, and he doesn't even know who those were. Neither Wei Wuxian nor Lan Wangji is legally his father, or has ever claimed the title.

This point is vaguely enough addressed that there's space for other interpretations, so this counts as a headcanon.

Headcanon 2: May or not be realistic, is definitely funny (at least to me)

Going forward, Sizhui is the only person who can consistently make Jiang Cheng feel bad about himself without triggering any kind of violence.

Not that Jiang Cheng is incapable of losing his temper with Sizhui or anything if he wants to, but Sizhui has a knack for slipping right past the places where he'd normally get reflexively outraged enough that he didn't have to allow the thing he didn't like much space in his mind. So he feels bad, and would have to acknowledge that he's getting mad to distract himself from that, on purpose, so it wouldn't work very well.

Headcanon 3: Evil and heart-breaking why would you do this

Oh I have one of these already on tap for this kid! :} Okay so, time is very loosey-goosey and vague in mdzs. And we know nothing whatsoever about A-Yuan's birth parents other than that his father's surname was Wen, of the Wen clan of Qishan; possibly a fairly close relation of Wen Qing and Wen Ning's, though not necessarily.

(They were the children of Wen Ruohan's favorite paternal cousin, and thus second cousins to his sons, but Wen Qing was a favorite so it was in practice more like being first cousins. Not that Mandarin distinguishes those degrees of kinship like that, any more than English automatically tells you which parent someone's related through.)

But if you cut the war down to the low end of its potential runtime and assume Wen Chao went home to check in with his dad (Wen Ruohan) at some point between throwing Wei Wuxian into the Burial Mounds to avoid the risk of his ghost coming after him for revenge, and Wei Wuxian catching up with him anyway a few months later...it's totally possible that Wen Yuan was in fact Wen Chao's legitimate (posthumous) son.

Wen Chao canonically had a wife. He canonically fucks. He evidently didn't much like his wife, but getting a kid on her was expected of him; dropping in to try when he happened to be in town wouldn't be unlikely.

That's not the awful part of the headcanon though; that's mostly sort of funny, sort of dramatic and even a little bit of a fix, in that no one should feel bad for ignoring the existence of a parent like Wen Chao so no need to worry about that, just act like he had only two father figures ever.

No matter whose kid A-Yuan is, there'd be decent odds Wei Wuxian killed that person horrifically, even if he didn't torture them to death in a horrible extended campaign of vengeance. He killed a lot of men surnamed Wen during the war. He knows he might have killed A-Yuan's father, but what's the point in dwelling on that?

The evil part is that in this Wen Chao scenario, I am presuming that the reason Wei Wuxian knows nothing whatsoever of A-Yuan's dead parents is not just that he did not ask. It's that Wen Ning and Wen Qing et al deliberately avoided the subject.

He couldn't be trusted with that information. What if he changed his mind? Wei Wuxian wouldn't care that A-Yuan was the last direct descendant of the otherwise extirpated Wen main bloodline the way the Jin would have, but he might care about Wen Chao specifically, and you are just not gonna take the chance of flipping the guy keeping you alive back into murder mode.

And especially you're not going to risk the baby.

Headcanon 4: Doesn't align with canon (or maybe even reality) but I do what I want

Mmmmmm let's see, how about Sizhui does get adopted after all later on, after Wei Wuxian has had time to wear the Lan down, and then Xichen never has kids and the chips fall so Sizhui winds up Sect Leader Lan.

Which is the point at which someone leaks that he's the only survivor of the Burial Mounds Wen enclave! He's invalid! The Lan must have a succession crisis immediately!!!!!

(Not unlikely the leading challenger in this scenario would be Jingyi, which feels like trying to hype a Serious Duel To The Death when the combatants are holding pool noodles, in that there is simply no way I can imagine either of them growing up into someone who could be persuaded to hurt the other over a matter of inheritance.)

But then the public get the idea that A-Yuan was in fact Wei Wuxian's biological kid (with ?????Wen Qing presumably????) and decide that adopting a stepson isn't even scandalous really, and lose interest. Because the Yiling Patriarch has by this point rendered himself passé as a subject of drama by just kind of being around for 20 years and mostly only getting into funny trouble, and the Wen Sect are even less scary because that was all ages ago, and anyway (say random uncles knowingly) what else is a gay man supposed to do for heirs?

Can you imagine Lan Wangji with a concubine.

[tokoyamisstuff]

Fragments Pt. 3/3

Homelander / GN! Reader

Summary: Before he'd be able to meet you again, Homelander has a realization.

Warnings: None.

A/N: Let's be fr he would not fucking say that, but let's pretend he's self-aware. Not proofread and pretty messy.

“I care not for his sanity. I care for his happiness. I care for his soul. Let him be mad if mad is what he needs.” - Queen Charlotte (Bridgerton)

Homelander fit seamlessly into his old life - or rather role.

There wasn't any time to process what had happened, since a throughoutly investigation was quickly followed by bland boring routine again.

Vought almost immediately released a statement concerning Homelanders abscence, something about a secret mission that required him to be undercover. They're even planning to make a movie about this fake bullshit already, unbelievable.

The physical examination that followed was the worst part, at least if you asked him. He loathed hospitals for obvious reasons, their bright white enterior reminding him just a tad bit too much of the Bad Room. Yet in the end they were unable to find any residue of the drug, poison or whatever depowered him in his system.

And while yes, the threat of an unknown enemy having the basis to one day potentially render all supes human again sure was concerning - but the fact that the short time Homelander spent without his powers was the happiest he's ever been left a bitter aftertaste.

You on the other hand had been released after a brief interrogation and background-check. Even now they still worried you might leak top-secret information to the public, but they feared Homelander's fury even more - and he made it absolutely clear that anyone daring to lay just a finger on you would meet a terrifying end.

Both of you had never spoken a word about what else happened between you back in the arctic, but that was none of their business either way.

After all, you were no one.

Your whole existence was insignificant compared to his greatness, there's no way you could ever become a threat to him. Simply live your measly little life and stay out of his one...

...easier said than done when you've practically ingrained yourself into his heart, still consuming his every waking moment.

For the people at Vought somehow a quiet Homelander was even more unsettling than his usual, duplicitous benignity.

They are used to randomly fall victim to his whims, constantly being on edge around him. Basically anything could happen at any time, to anyone and without even so much as a warning.

But as of late...

"Homelander?" Maeve was the only one bold enough to wave in front of his face, making him break the reminiscing. "You there?"

"Hmm?" The man looked around, seeing all eyes on him - business as usual. Ashley was standing in front of the Seven, yet whatever she was babbling about went on deaf ears with her superior.

It was like this ever since his return, this nagging feeling as if he was only physically present. He heard people talk and go about their day but everything was so far away...most of the time he just dozed off into the distance, eyes staring right through until he lost focus of his surroundings.

One corner of his mouth begins to twitch, feeling even more irritated by those oppressing trifles than ever before. He takes a moment to collect himself, hands folded neatly on the table. "Do what you want, I couldn't care less" was his firm answer, even though he didn't know the question - or if he was even asked one. "Excuse me."

"The fuck is his deal lately?" A-Train dared adressing the elephant in the room, albeit still being in super-hearing range, pointing over his shoulder to the door their leader had just rushed out of.

The Deep shrugged, tension leaving his shoulders now that Homelander's overwhelming presence was gone. "Beats me. Let's just hope it stays this way for a while."

He would make a quick getaway, his firm, aggravated steps audible before the man itself came into one's field of view. Anyone who had the misfortune to run into him in this state lowered their heads in hope they wouldn't meet an untimely end just for him to let off some steam.

There's a stench of fear lingering in the air, in every corner of this damn building.

"Vermin" he clenched his jaw as he turned around the corner, slamming the door to his penthouse with so much force that the frame breaks. "Every single one of them."

Ordinary humans were so pathetic-fucking weak, and yet they dictated simply everything. It shouldn't be this way! They should worship the ground he walked - or floated - on, build monuments in his name, but instead what?!

The masses idolized him of course, but that fact came at the extend of his own dignity. He had to perform in order to put on this perfect disguise, always smile and say his lines like a damn puppet...with Vought pulling all of the strings.

Was that really the only thing he was good for? So many abilities, all this potential and yet there he was, doing nothing substantial.

Right now he had everything: The greatest power in the world, wealth he could never fully spent even if he tried and influence beyond one's imagination - and yet he felt as empty as never before.

What a fucking joke.

Employees at Vought knew about his true wicked nature, so he had to rely on fear to control them. It was all he ever knew and felt comfortable with, after all...

...until you came along and willingly chose him. You had peeked into a part of himself he swore to never let anyone too close to - and embraced it. Saw him at his lowest, hell, even got hurt in the process and chose to stay at his side nevertheless.

Even though you missed the whole picture among fragments of himself, he was sure you'd be the only one worthy to know his story.

What he had with you may have been make-believe, but still way realer than anything about his corrupted existence.

Was his heart really nothing but a bottomless pit that could never stop aching?

Homelander's suit had always been like a metaphorical armor - functioning against inconsensual touches of fans as well as sort of a disguise, so people would always only see the hero and never the broken shell of a man beneath it.

But now it felt as if the fabric was burning into his skin, eating away what's left of him. Feeling as if suffocating, he curses beneath heavy breaths as he tossed it away.

It wasn't even the same suit you had repaired for him back then - and right now he painfully regretted having Ashley get rid of it.

There was still the oversized shirt he had worn when he left you, though your scent was only faintly lingering now, even to his keen nose. Well hidden under his pillow to lull him to sleep, he now puts it on as he feverishly tried to imagine the sensation of your warm embrace encoating him like a safety west.

That night, he was woken by an eerie realistic dream. No nightmare for a change, no - and yet it was leaving him just as exasperated.

A memory, about that one time you had convinced him to travel to that small village near your ecological research station. Apparently a bunch of savages were holding a festival to celebrate the returning of daylight, and opposite to his expectations it was actually quite enjoyable - mostly thanks to your presence, of course.

He could still hear echoes of your laughter spinning in his head, goosebumps rising where you had touched him as you danced in the cold streets. Snowflakes were entangled in your hair, making it shimmer ever so slightly as you took his hands, trying to steady yourself on the ice. Your breath was visible as white mist, holding onto him for dear life.

Just when he had mustered up the courage to bend down to your height, maybe steal a kiss or two, even if it was only at the crown of your head, both of you lost balance and fell right on your asses.

Homelander heard his own boisterous laughter mixing with yours, remembered how absolutely flabbergasted he was when you suddenly tackle hugged and started kissing him senseless.

"Shit. Shit!"

"Yeah, sure is." Oh for fuck's sake, not this again. But the voices kept returning, it's not like he had a say in the matter of his own mental illness. He never really has a say in anything, not even regarding his own life. "What are you so upset about?"

Well, it's not like he'd be able to fall back asleep anytime soon either way, so he followed the sound of his own voice back to the great mirror across the room.

"You're new" he states the obvious, seeing a reflection that doesn't resemble his current state at all. The man in the mirror was unkempt, with a scruffy beard and greyed strands standing out from his blonde scalp...

...and yet he seemed as happy as Homelander could only hope to one day comprehend. "Did we really look this shitty back in the Arctic?"

"Well, there's not exactly a stylist in the middle of nowhere" his counterpart shrugged, smugly adding "And Y/N liked it."

Homelander exaggeratedly rolled with his eyes, but the verbal jab had hit his weak spot. "You're just a farce, a cheap excuse of me, the real deal!"

"Nope" his amnesic alter ego scoffed at the insult, his smile never faltering. "I'm everything you always wished to be! What you could still become" he adds, his remark yet another fatal blow to Homelander's fragile ego. "You've got all the means to find her, so what's holding you back?"

"Because this is beneath me!" he roars so loudly, it's good that his apartment is big enough that no one could eavesdrop. "Why the fuck would I miss playing house with some nobody?"

However John is not accepting this bullshit for an answer, waving a scolding index finger. "Nah-ah, the real reason. Say. It."

With more force than necessary, Homelander scatters the mirror - would be too easy if that'd make them shut up, though.

"You know we don't just disappear." Several copies of himself are now talking, a medley of misery from each shard, reopening gaping wounds that never had the chance to heal.

"You think Y/N was just nice out of basic human decency. You think the kiss and everything else only happened because of the isolation before you came to that doorstep."

"You're afraid you won't live up to the John Y/N met. The ideal version of yourself that doesn't exist."

"That Y/N will find out what a freak you really are and runs away scared and disgusted, just like they all do eventually."

"You'll get bored of this at some point. Why bother?"

"Y/N will break under the pressure of this burden. It'd be selfish to do this. You can't expect this from anybody."

"Maybe you're even afraid of her coming in harms way because you know exactly what you're capable of."

"You already managed to destroy her life even without being your true self, just imagine what could happen. Stay away, at least for Y/N's sake."

"This whole farce just weakened you, and will continue to do so. We should just get rid of-"

"Shut. Up!" Homelander warns the last one, menacingly calm. "Don't you dare implying I could ever hurt Y/N. I-I'd rather fly myself into the fucking sun!"

"Oh boo-hoo. Someone gives you breadcrumbs of affection and you wag your tail like a dog in heat" the more depraved materialization of himself mocks, "Fucking pathetic, as always. Did you forget that people only exist for our fickle amusement?!"

"Don't listen to them, John." The only shard still attached to the wall was what he'd like to believe is his good aspects. "Listen to me: This is the one and only chance to get what you've always craved for - a real, loving home. Try it, at least. Remember Y/N's words - you deserve happiness."

There was no use in trying to catch up with sleeping. In fact it took all of his patience to wait the few hours until sunrise to wait for this confrontation...

...not with you, however.

Of course Madelyn would come to work this early. Typical. But Homelander was already expecting her - not waiting in front of her door to avoid seeming desperate, but a safe distance away, his glare seeping through the walls.

As soon as she appeared at the tower, he let himself into her office like so many times before. She was pouring herself a cup of coffee, and at the sight of him adds some liquor to it. Hard to believe she was bothered because of something important. "This early? Seriously?"

"You know what's funny?" he didn't really acknowledge her question as he jumped onto the sofa, picking up a decorative snow globe to fidget with. "I thought the enemy had somehow deactivated my transponder...but a quick visit at the tech department later, I found out it worked just fine. This whole time."

Madelyn quirked a brow at the hero, tentatively leaning forwards over her desk. Showing some cleavage usually never failed to soothe his nerves, but not today. "If you want to imply that we're the ones behind all this, I can assure you tha-"

"No" he raised a warning hand, softly shaking the snow globe before putting it down again. "Nonono, I'm sure if you had the means to threaten me, you would've long since done it by now."

Homelander then leapt to his feet, strolling through the room filled with countless photographs of himself - but right now, it was like looking at a person he doesn't recognize anymore.

"Here's another interesting thing I found out: Not even a full week after my disappearance, you made the pathetic attempt to replace me with Black Noir. It wasn't until the public and your sponsors demanded answers to my whereabouts that you gave in and started actively searching for me. Isn't that correct?"

Checkpoint.

"Hey, I've been gone so long, I need to make up for all our missed conversations, don't I?" he huffed bitterly, viewing a snapshot of him and her without being able to feel anything but nauseous. "I've lived among...inferior people for the first time in my life. No fans, no people of Vought, just...Y/N and I. Living the life I only ever knew from textbooks or scripts. And it made me have a realization, wanna hear?"

The vice president closed her eyes in negative anticipation, taking in a deep breath but not being able to bring out a single word before being interjected again. Homelander knew her ways of manipulation and the effect he could have on her if he let her talk too much.

This time it was his turn, and he'd be heard.

The woman in front of of him crosses her arms in defense, giving an approving hum as she knew denying him was never an option.

"Let me tell you my theory first, you're gonna love this: So a boy of sixteen years is finally released from the laboratory he was raised in. Despite all the horrible things he had to endure there, he wanted to use his powers for good, so no one has to suffer like he did. He knows nothing about the real world, let alone care about profit or any of that bullshit. And then he meets this aspiring woman who sees her chance to be influental through him. Can you follow me until now?"

She nods and nothing more, her expression unreadable. "Good, very good. So the boy is now kept around the most rotten, selfish and greedy people on the planet. He was never inheritly evil, he simply adapted to his environment, as clueless as he was thinking this is how the world operates. And at the time any of you realized you had created a monster it was too late. You regretted it - but not out of moral concerns, no. Simply because you knew you couldn't possibly control him forever."

The silence was so loud that it was deafening, automatically answering everything.

"Even if that person was your most valuable asset, your figurehead, you'd be damned if you didn't use the lucky coincidence of him disappearing, no questions asked. Right? Right?!"

Madelyn Stillwell was a lot, but not a liar - at least not in the easy definition. She knew how to twist words, to withheld information just enough to get through with whatever she wanted. But she'd never lie so openly, so blatantly. Especially if it served no purpose, like right now that there was no use anyway. "We'd be damned if we didn't."

"So then why do you keep acting like any of this is right?" He looks deep into her, quite literally for his abilities wouldn't tolerate deceit. "Look, we've located you and the dot was moving. We knew you were alive. I do care about you, Jo-"

"Don't call me by that name. You don't deserve it." His jaw tightens into an almost-snarl, slapping Stillwell's hand away at her disgusting attempt to distract him through seduction. "Don't you dare touching me, and don't fucking lie to me again! Ive been lied to all my life...I'm so, so sick of this shit!"

Homelander's eyes turned from cold coal into glistening embers, threatening to destroy everything in their path shall the answer not be to his satisfaction. "Say. It!" he orders, his hands slamming on the table punctuating every word.

"Goddamnit, I'm afraid of you!"

"...what?" His voice was barely audible, laced with a hurt that surprised him - since deep down he knew the truth for a long time already.

"I'm afraid of you" she repeats, voice shaky at first but then practically yelling as if she knew it could be her last words. "I am fucking afraid of you, John! We all are! Everyone was relieved when you were finally gone, because no money is worth being subjected to you!"

"You- Vought...destroyed me for fucking nothing" he practically whines, his face running through various expressions at once as the last remains of his sanity crumbled. "I was robbed of any chance at normalcry and then tossed away like a broken weapon, and you seriously expected me to not return for a vengeance?!"

Countless possibilities rushed through his brain, one atrocious act more vile than the other - about how he could make the responsible pay the price for their wrongdoings, with Madelyn being the first one...

...but all his fury vanished when for the fraction of a second, his mind wandered back to you, who was still out there somewhere.

Maybe it was not too late for him after all.

All his life Homelander was comfortable trapping himself in a cage that was never locked, fearing whatever awaited outside could be even worse - but you, without even trying, had given him the hope to set himself free.

"Thanks for finally being honest with me." John shakes his head as if to cast all his violent impulses off, musing "I allowed you to use me because I never knew anything else...but that stops right now."

He breaks one of the windows with ease, grossed out by past memories when she dares taking ahold of his wrist. "Wha- where do you think you're going?" She looks sickishly pale, dreading that this would be the day he would go on a murderous rampage all those decades of madness had inevitably caused.

"I'm the Homelander, and I can do whatever the fuck I want." He rose into the air, not biding her another last look. "If anyone of Vought even tries to come near me again, I swear to god I'll end every single one of you."

___

Being in the US for the first time since your childhood made you realize: Damn, you didn't miss this shit a bit. Nostalgia is a real phenomenom, as it seems.

And even in this small town your...is it right to call him 'ex'? Anyways, his face is plastered on every square centimeter you'd fix your eyes on. Posters, screens, even goddamn groceries!

Hard to heal from something you couldn't even label, especially when basically everything reminds you of the love your heart still holds for John - or rather an illusion of a man that never actually existed.

You currently sat in front of your laptop, several tabs opened that made you feel pathetically nosy - but hey, there was hope that harvesting information about the real Homelander would help you overcome those silly, irrational emotions.

Then it should be good for you that everything you found out about him was freaking disappointing.

Vought...you were sure you had heard that name before. Typical monopolist corporate with a finger in every pie, unethical practices and too much influence on politics. It was as obvious as it was enraging, and yet no one cared enough to act against them - not that you were any better. To their defense, supes can be pretty scary so you get the sentiment of not wanting any beef with their bosses...especially after seeing John go apeshit in the past.

But as they all did, Vought still cared about their public image, and so they did a lot of charity to appear ethical. Not that it actually helped to cover any of their crimes up - this was more like an unofficial etiquette, a rule to behave like they're actually the good guys.

A few years ago you had applied for sponsoring your cause, and of course they denied the request. Vought couldn't give two shits about the environment, and if you didn't know any better they'd even go so far as destroying it themselves if the cause - profit, in this case - justifies the means.

Interesting enough, shortly after your return to society an official letter of the company magically appeared at your new address: A pledge of secrecy in return for money, summed up.

No thank you, metaphorically selling your soul to the devil wasn't your kind of thing.

A walking incarnate product, you thought as you closed the interview. No civil life, always performing. And that fabricated all-american backstory...ugh.

And about Homelander...

All videos you sporadically saw of him were kind of unsettling. His eyes were just as empty as his words, movements robotic and fake as if he had only learned to mimick normal behavior. Seeing him like this made you wonder if he even had a soul, or if Vought had sucked all humanity out of him decades ago.

How comes no one seems to notice...or do people simply don't want to acknowledge the truth about their heroes and the ones that lead them?

You sound like a dang conspiracy-theorist for someone that just got dumped by a supe in the most humiliating way possible. It's possibly just a coping mechanism to cover up the hurt caused by the indeniable truth: Someone like you was inadequate to the infamous Homelander in every single way.

The display of your old laptop almost snapped as you closed it in sadness and frustration, turning your attention to building that stubborn IKEA shelf again.

Wanting to regain an objective view on the situation at hand, you remind yourself that the two of you led fundamentally different lives that could never work out together. You hate modern civilization, you hate being the center of attention, you hate events and big cities...

...but you don't hate him. And maybe with him, for him, you could have endured.

Funny, isn't it? You've been alone ever since the death of your parents, keeping to yourself even while pursuing your education. Never able to form any close bonds, even if you tried. Ironically, you were exactly as lonely as him - not made to be among others just the same.

"Still a horrible taste for furniture, I see."

That familiar voice made your blood run cold, collecting yourself impossible as the blue-reddish silhouette belonging to it came into your field of view just seconds after.

All questions and accusations died on your tongue when you reminded yourself just who was standing in your living room right now. Homelander could find you no matter where, and literally tear away the roof of your house without anyone ever daring to object.

"You look great" he cannot help but notice, but you grimace as you see your own reflection in the window: grey sweatpants, a messy bun and an old T-shirt of his. Sure.

"Well, in case you forgot: I'm still in tremendous debt, so I'm not exactly drowning in luxury" you scoff, face fixated on the clash of wood and screws. John narrows his eyes in confusion, stating "Vought was supposed to recompensate you."

"Financially? Well, not without a catch." For a moment he thinks loudly, talking about 'ripping Ashley's head off', which made you finally turn to look at him. "Metaphorically" he added, raising his hands in a placating manner.

"Oh, yeah...Ashley." The name only forcedly escaped your throat, which did not go unnoticed by Homelander. "Your girlfriend and I had a long talk back then. She explained your outburst was caused by PTSD. So no worries."

"My wha-" John made a dramatical gagging sound, crinkling his nose at you. His fists were on his hips, expression grim ike always when he was about to rant about something, making your lips twitch as you resisted smiling at the adorable sight. "Gosh, no. Ew. She's everything but that."

You had almost forgotten how cute he could be when one pushed his buttons - good to know it's still this way. "So, what brings you here all of a sudden?"

"Well, I-" He opened and closed his mouth several times in an attempt to come up with something, anything, but it sure took him a while. "Y-You didn't publish anything."

"I searched for your article. You've been talking about it nonstop back then." He dared stepping closer, making himself as small as humanly possible. "Actually I hoped to be mentioned and showered in praise as your assistant."

"Huh?" You narrow your eyes at him, and his tension is barely veiled. Great, just great Mr. Charming.

Okay, that one made you laugh. You had almost forgotten how refreshing those little exchanges were. "Well well well...I had to start from scratch after a certain someone wrecked my laboratory." He nervously rubs the back of his head, unintelligibly chuckling "Right...sorry about that."

"It's alright" you dismiss the guilt in his voice with a cheerful remark, "I'm teaching at a university temporarily, until I got enough money for another try." He knew. All this time he never lost track of you, craving to walk this path together with you but too cowardly to ask for your permission to join. "Seriously, Homel-"

"John" he corrects you, showing no ill intend. "Please, just call me John." Oh, how he missed the way his name sounded in your voice: Neither shallow, nor demanding or afraid - just John, no strings attached.

"Oh. Oh. Okay, John. But..." you intertwine your fingers to keep them from trembling, biting the inside of your cheek. "Really, you don't owe me anythi-"

"I owe you every-fucking-thing!" John blurts out, his insistance showing as he softly grabbed your shoulders. "Y/N, you helped me despite gaining nothing from it. If that isn't heroic, I don't know what is. I mean, without you I'd be a fucking icicle right now."

How often did he say this corny trademark quote 'You are the real hero(es)' before? This is the first time that it felt genuine - after all, you had saved him in more ways than just one.

You cackle shortly, more out of attachment to the man than his joke actually being funny. But the longer his hands remained stubbornly on your body, the harder it became to act like acquaintances merely sharing a crazy story that's long in the past.

"But you can't give me what I want..." You don't know what moved you to speak from the heart, but after all that had happened you deserved to drown in some self-pity. John's forehead wrinkled in an attempt to make sense out of you, insisting "C'mon, let me indulge you a little. For old time's sake."

Nothing to lose after already having everything taken away from you, right?

"It's my fault, honestly" you try to keep it together, but you knew there was no hiding your choked sobs from his senses either way. "I fell for something fake. And I know, I know it's stupid, but-"

"Not everything was fake" you rudely got interrupted again, but the content of his rambling made you forgive him easily. "My feelings weren't."

It took you a while to have John's confession actually dawn on you, releasing a breath you didn't even realize you were holding. "Your...what?"

"Took me long enough to realize" he snickered as he pulled you into a long-due hug, pressing a wet kiss into your hair out of habit. "I've tried to continue my old life, I really did. But fuck it...this whole time all my thoughts revolved around you."

He could barely hear over the sound of his own fastened heartbeat, but clearly your pulse was racing as well - not out of fear, that much he could tell.

And yet as much as the shared sentiment partially relieved you, there was something else laying heavy on your chest.

"I- don't know what to say, John" you try to wring yourself out of his embrace, but he stubbornly narrows the space between you, making you gasp in surprise.

Homelander was not someone taking no for an answer, used to always get what he wants no matter how. And people not acting like he anticipated was like hitting the bulls eye of his fragile psyche.

He'd be damned to just accept his loss after everything he put at risk.

"Hey big guy...look at me."

Your voice alone made him snap out of a downward-spiral that usually was an unstoppable force, always ending in tragedy. As he met your eyes he detected the plea in them, a vulnerability he had yet to allow himself.

"I have very strong feelings for you, John." Good. Then where's the fucking problem?! "But I've spent a lot of time thinking about" you pause, awkwardly gesticulating between the two of you. "This. You and me, us...John, you were talking in your sleep a lot back then. If you were not busy screaming your lungs out, I mean. About burning, drowning or being cut up alive..."

Your eyes begin to water at the memory, clawing a fistful of blue fabric from his suit. "Just...tell me the truth, and not that fancy propaganda bullshit. If we continue this, then I want to know you inside and out."

"What if..." John's voice cracks, only notices he'd been crying as he feelsbthe salt of his own tears prickle on his lips. He fucking hates this weakness, this sickness of his, especially if he cannot hide behind a facade. "What if the truth if so much more horribe than you could ever imagine?" His hands squeeze yours now, as if he fears you'd disappear if he let go off of this emotional anchor you had become.

John was about to pull back, bracing himself for the rejection. His only solace was the thought that it's probably the best for you.

If you'd know this relationship would eventually turn you into the moral support of a malignant narcissist and subsequent homicidal maniac, there was no way on earth you'd still voluntarily be a part of his life.

"Then I guess we've got to figure it out."

Whatever the extend of his pain, you are aware it's going to put a huge toll onto you as well. He most likely can't live normally, let alone love.

You cradle his face in your hands and he subconsciously leans into the touch, whining at his own neediness. "I can't say that my love is going to erase your hurt, but I can promise to be at your side through all of it."

"That's about the best fucking thing someone has ever said to me" he half-cries, half-laughs when you finally pull the man on his collar down to your height, sealing your promise with a kiss.

"And now get out of that costume" you tease, pinching one of the pads on his chest. "Looks even more hilarious now that I know you're not all that muscular underneath."

"Well, to my defense, other clothes aren't really fit for breaking sonic speed." He twirls you around skillfully, embracing you from behind as close as humanly possible. "And besides, that makes me the perfect candidate for a long-distance relationship, don't you think? You stay in this boring chaff, hell even the end of the world if you want to, and I could still visit you everyday. Or I'll just kidnap you to wherever you want."

Seems like he had already planned it all out. Not the most concerning action of his, though. Almost sweet, if you want to see it this way.

Won't be the last time, surely.

"But what do you want?" The question was so simple, so downright basic that not knowing the answer left him empty inside. His wishes? Does he even have any dreams or aspirations?

There was never a 'John' - the boy with this name died in that lab so Homelander could rise. For so long he had existed for the sole purpose of others that he completely forgot he was in charge of his own fate...

He leans to kiss you again, more tender this time as he savours the way your tears mix with his."I want to enjoy this until I can give you a proper answer one day."

...until you opened his eyes, through sheer kindness and willpower.

Maybe humans aren't so weak after all.

Finally, he smiles. It's the kind of smile that reaches up to his ears, making his whole face crinkly. One that matches with his eyes, genuine and radiant just like back when you first met.

"There you are...welcome home, John."

[animereaderinsertwriter]

we give what we can give (and take what little we deserve)

ch 6

pairing: alpha!kakashi x omega!reader

tags: omegaverse, arranged marriage, angst and fluff and smut, plot twist!

description:

Kakashi agrees to marry an omega princess-- the adopted daughter of the daimyo. However, what he agrees to and what he gets aren't exactly the same thing...

Excerpt: “You’re hurting me,” she cried, those glistening tears making glittery tracks down her cheeks. Her pain wrenched at his heart even as he held her fast. “Let go, let go!”

“If I let go, are you going to hit me?”

“No,” she sniffled piteously, and like a fool, Kakahshi let her go.

She poked him in the eye and made a break for the door.

masterlist

ao3

Kakashi returned from his mission late one night a few weeks from the end of his wife’s heat. He’d thought he’d slipped into his bedroom window undetected, but minutes after his return, a little note was slipped under the oak door to his bedroom, informing him that a warm dinner had been made for him and was sitting on the kitchen counter if he would like some. Kakashi did not want dinner— he certainly did not trust anything his wife might have prepared for him even if he had been hungry enough to eat— but it had pained him unexpectedly to read her handwriting and smell her scent on the parchment. 

If she had been angry at him, if she had cursed and berated him and asked him where the hell he had been, why the hell he had left so suddenly, Kakashi thought it might have been easier. As it was, her little note was kind, if short, and the fact that she had not even knocked on his door meant that she was respectful of the time and space he might need to recover from his mission. Thoughtful she was, and kind above all.

The next day, it was all he could do to meet her gaze and not keep his eyes on his feet in shame. 

Still, though, as time passed, Kakashi realized that (Y/N) did not seem upset or angry at all. She greeted him the same way each morning at the bottom of the stairs— “Hello, husband. Would you like breakfast?”— and then, having breakfasted, she would disappear, and Kakashi would be off to train Naruto. And so it was that Kakashi and his wife existed peacefully— and most importantly, distantly— together in politically-matched harmony, until one hot day during Naruto's training, he felt something trigger the wards to his home. No, not trigger them, he realized. Something broke his wards entirely.

“Keep practicing,” Kakashi called over his shoulder to Naruto. “I'll send Tenzou to keep tabs on you. I'm going to go check on something.”

Naruto protested— his favorite pastime these days— but Kakashi was already leaping through the trees. The midday sun beat down hot on his back even through the shade, but he barely felt it. Something was wrong, wrong. He could feel it in the air, smell it on the wind. The wards were one thing, but this feeling of dread… that was quite another. Kakashi had learned at great personal cost to listen to that feeling and prepare himself accordingly. 

He made it to the compound in record time. Externally, there was nothing to indicate that something was amiss, but when he opened the door, he was assailed by the soured sweat scent of battle and blood. When his eyes caught up to his nose, he realized that the fight was already over, and two bodies lay sprawled across his living room floor. One was unfamiliar— a long, lanky man with dead blue eyes staring at the ceiling— and the other was his wife. They lay side-by-side, their heads nearly touching. The man was dressed in common court fashion, the nice striped fabric of his clothing marred by a shade of red that did not suit the yellow pattern at all; (Y/N), lovely as ever, was dressed in a gray linen slip that brought to mind the feathers of a graceful dove. If it had not been for the gaping hole in the man’s chest and the short spear through (Y/N)’s, Kakashi could almost have believed that they were friends taking a break from life together on the beautiful green-patterned rug.

His wife stirred. Her head lolled to the side. Kakashi hurried to her, kneeling. She smiled a bloody-toothed smile at him and said,

“I got the bastard.” 

She lifted up her hand. In her palm she held a heart, large and weighty. Red blood ran in rivulets down her bangled arm, dripping over her gold and silver bracelets like liquid garnet. 

Genius shinobi or not, Kakashi did not have the brain capacity to unpack why that sent a nasty little thrill up his spine. He compartmentalized, shoving that terrible desire into a box and putting it aside for later as he quickly assessed the situation.

The spear, he found, was lodged firmly, oddly; when he propped his wife up, he had to dislodge the point of the spear from the floor to ensure that she could move freely. As he did so, she gave a gasping inhalation of pain, but Kakashi found himself distracted by the cylindrical shape the wound had made. Surely, if the spear had pierced her body, it would have ripped much more flesh than the inch and a half diameter of the haft. 

Whatever— it was unimportant for the moment. Kakashi had reached his capacity for handling this situation; Tsunade could deal with the rest at the hospital. Quickly, he summoned Pakkun and sent him off to the Hokage with an urgent summons, then turned back to his wife. 

“I’m going to carry you now,” he said, working his arm beneath her shoulders and her knees. “You need to get to the hospital.”

She laughed at him, though it had to hurt. The hand that held the heart dropped the organ and placed itself on his knee. The hand was heavier than it ought to be, and the wet warmth of the blood seeped sickeningly into his pants.

“Don’t waste your energy. I’m dying, Kakashi.”

He shook his head

“You’re not dead yet.”

Her hand tightened on his knee. 

“It’s alright. I’m not afraid. I’m only sorry for the mess. I just mopped, you know.”

Kakashi didn’t waste time arguing with her. He stood, lifting her, and said,

“Try not to talk.”

Dying. There were many ways a body could die. Kakashi counted them, cataloging modes of expiration with every thump of his foot against a tree branch. Strangulation, with hands wrapped thickly around an unguarded throat. Thump. Lacerations, many small red lines rent in flesh, or perhaps just one large one made ear-to-ear. Thump. Fire, of course, could kill, and slowly, hideously, from one easy mistake or thoughtless act in a restless kitchen as well as a jutsu. Thump. Poison, perhaps the kind that kills quietly— or perhaps not. Perhaps the kind that melts the innards and, in agony, the poisoned shits out their own organs, going screaming into the hereafter. Thump.

A spear through the chest.

Thump.

What seemed like a thousand nightmarish maybes passed, and Kakashi finally made it to the hospital. A nurse, dressed all in white, shouted medic codes, and Tsunade burst through a doorway.

“This way. Yes, lay her down— gently, you oaf!”

As Kakashi pulled away from (Y/N), he noticed that blood had dripped in a trail of stains out from the hallway. Splotches of red colored the white tile floor like red rose petals, and he nearly slipped as one of his sandals landed in one puddle of it. It was a lot of blood.

It reminded him of Obito. 

“We need to remove it,” he heard Tsunade tell one of her assistants, “But it’s strange— like the spearhead didn’t make an entry wound— and the amount of blood is abnormal. You know what, call someone in to check it for hidden seals or traps. And poisons, while we’re at it.”

There was a loud clatter as the nurse bumped into a table of equipment, and Tsunade laid down curses that could curdle milk. 

“Quickly, shinobi! If this woman bleeds out in this hospital bed because of your clumsiness, I’ll have your guts for garters!”

Kakashi could bear it no more. He forced himself to walk out of the operating room and out through the nearest exit. There was nothing he could do, after all. If he'd stayed, he'd have just been in the way. It was best if he left, surely. 

It wasn't like he was fleeing. Besides, there were things he had to do. 

He returned to his home. With sharingan bared, he combed over the bloody scene in the living room. He interrogated each bloodstain, each toppled item, and every abnormality for its story. Clinically, he noted the details— forced entry that broke the door handle and triggered the wards, an ensuing struggle that ranged from the kitchen to the living room like a tornado— and tried to piece it all together. Assailant entered, breaking the door. He grabbed (Y/N) as she stepped towards the door— she’d been in the kitchen, Kakashi thought— and she’d struggled with her would-be killer, shoving him back hard enough to topple the dining room table. From there, she'd made it to the living room, almost to the door, but from the broken pane of glass in the front door, the attacker had slammed it shut before (Y/N) could escape. From there, he'd pressed her into the living room. There was a long, ugly gash in the floor— perhaps from an attempted jab with the spear— and Kakashi would have bet anything that (Y/N) made it to the stairs before the attacker had made a throw with the spear to stop her that missed and made the huge scratch on the third wooden stair. From there, it was hard to tell what had happened, but Kakashi assumed the attacker had dragged (Y/N) back into the living room where Kakashi had found them. After that…

Well. One of them was alive as of yet, and the other was dead. 

Kakashi was still puzzling over the hole in the attacker’s chest when a medic-nin came to fetch him. He could not find a second weapon no matter how hard he looked. How in the world had she done it? It had been a big hole, too. She could hardly have done it with her bare hands. 

And yet there was the body, and the heart that had once beat inside its chest. 

A puzzle indeed. 

Kakashi picked up the heart. The sinewy muscle was heavy, squishy in his hand. Gripping the trophy tightly, he offered it to the medic-nin and said,

“Preserve this for me. My wife will want it. Tell her I'll come to her when the house is fit for her to return.”

The medic-nin looked a little green, but took the organ. 

It took two hours to get the living room squared away. The body of the attacker had to be sent off for analysis, and after that, Kakashi spent way too much time fighting to get the bloodstain out of the floor and the rug. Surprisingly, the rug cleaned easily, but the floor, unfortunately, refused to be cleaned at all. In the end, Kakashi just moved the rug over a few feet to cover the spot. 

When he finally knocked on the door to his wife’s hospital room, Tsunade opened the door, sweaty and tired, but smiling.

“She’s stable,” she said. “Weak, and she’ll need care, but if the antidote to the bleeding poison on the spear works as it should, she should make it through this.”

Kakashi bowed low at the waist. 

“Thank you, Hokage-sama.”

As he straightened, he paused to speak quietly in Tsunade’s ear, near-silent and deadly calm.

“Did you notice anything… out of the ordinary?”

Tsunade looked up at him with those big green eyes, and Kakashi knew she had. The seal, the one at the base of his wife's skull— she had seen it, known it. 

“Nothing to be concerned about, in any case,” she said, which Kakashi knew to be code for that’s not your business. “Your wife and I have been in close contact these last months, and I would know if anything was amiss.”

When that had happened, Kakashi wasn’t sure, but it only made him more suspicious. In what world did Tsunade trust an outsider so easily? She was as paranoid as any shinobi, more so because she had been alive longer than most. It made no sense, but he could hardly press her about it here and now. Besides, he doubted it would do any good. His wife was the one with all the answers. Sooner or later, he would extract them from her. 

“I’m glad to hear it.”

He bowed again, then entered the hospital room. 

The lighting was dim. A vase of flowers were sitting on the nearby table, and the window was cracked to air out the strong scent of antiseptic herbs. Kakashi sat in the chair that had been left out for visitors and looked at his wife. 

(Y/N) looked terrible. She was laying propped up on some pillows, and her chest was wrapped in bandages. Her hair was a rat’s nest that clung sweatily to her head. She had no shirt, no hospital gown, and the sheets pooled at her waist, leaving her belly exposed. Silently, Kakashi watched her breathe. Her body seemed soft and vulnerable like this, but still very beautiful; utterly unlike a shinobi, she slept deeply, never turning or stirring. As he studied her, Kakashi realized at once how relieved he felt. It was as if an unseen, unfelt hand had been squeezing inside his chest and had been released on seeing his wife alive and breathing.

A moment later, the medic-nin from earlier popped in and offered Kakashi a large jar. Within it was the heart, preserved in liquid. Kakashi thanked the shinobi and placed the heart next to the flowers. 

Just how had she ripped the damn thing out? And why had someone tried to kill his wife in the first place? Just what the hell had she been up to?

Kakashi slouched and pulled out the copy of Icha Icha he had with him. As he scanned the well-worn pages, his mind looped endlessly, folding in and in on itself as he wondered what the best way to approach those questions might be. Surely she would tell him herself when she woke. A bit of patience, that was all it would take. 

Surely. 

Right?

It was a week before Kakashi was able to bring his wife home from the hospital. 

The entire week, he’d stewed over what he might say and how he might say it. He'd tried to temper the demand for information with empathy and sweetness, but it sounded even worse out loud in the mirror than it had in his head. Eventually, he'd just tried to put it from his mind, but it was like trying not to think of elephants. By the time (Y/N) was discharged, Kakashi was near to boiling with it, and so once they crossed the threshold of their home and the big oak door had snicked closed behind them, all bets were off. 

“You’re hiding things from me.”

(Y/N) had stalwartly refused to be carried or wheelchaired to their home. Even so, her movements were slow and pained, but she held herself well. Only the crease of her brow betrayed the strain of it.

When Kakashi spoke, though, that crease smoothed coldly away. Those eyes, previously alight with feeling and sincerity, dimmed and narrowed. Her expression was one of terrible coldness. The change was disconcerting, as though she had pulled down a curtain over her real self and Kakashi was now looking at a painting of a woman rather than the woman herself. 

This mask, Kakashi liked less than all the ones she had shown him before.

“And if I am, what difference does it make?” she asked quietly, her eyes dark and piercing. “You keep secrets from me, I know you do. I know you must.”

“I am a shinobi.”

“And I am a princess.” If her face was ice, her eyes were fire. Kakashi felt at once that he had been cast into an icy lake that did not quench the flames that gnawed at him. “You aren’t fooling me, shinobi-san, with your ninja egotism. Do you think my responsibility less than yours?”

“The fact that you are a princess is what makes you dangerous,” he replied just as icily. “You aren’t a member of this village— you have no stake in its success. Rather, you stand to benefit greatly from bending domestic policies to suit your own agenda, whatever that might be.”

“Not a member���” she cut herself off, incredulous. “Kakashi, exactly what agenda do you believe me to have? I— I work with children! Not that you would even know. You're never around!”

“I’m around enough,” he shot back dryly. “The Hokage tells me the two of you are close. Am I supposed to believe that your weekly dinners with her are purely friendly, with no ulterior motive?”

“Yes, if you’d like.” She crossed her arms. “Or, if it suits you better, would you believe that I actually like to play cards, and that it gives me an opportunity to hear her opinions on my work and how I can improve? Because if you ask her, she will tell you the truth.”

Kakashi did not point out that he had asked, and that Tsunade had stone-walled him. If you want to know, she’d told him, you could show up now and then, brat. 

“Alright, if that's how you want to play it, then surely there's a tidy explanation for why someone tried to kill you. Once on our wedding day was a coincidence— a second time in our home is more than that.”

(Y/N) scoffed. 

“How should I know? The bastard was an assassin, not a politician— he didn't give any reason, and pardon my thoughtlessness, but in my battle for my life it slipped my mind to ask him!”

“Really?” Kakashi stepped closer, using his height to his advantage. He cast her in his shadow, arching his neck until they were nose-to-nose. “So I'm supposed to think that the attack had nothing to do with how you were mysteriously able to rip his heart from his chest with no weapon? Coroner says you went straight through the guy's chest plate— almost like how the wound in your chest is a perfect circle instead of having jagged entrance and exit wounds.”

Kakashi brought a hand up to touch her neck. He slid his hand over the sensitive scent gland there, then snaked back towards the seal. 

“And I suppose there is no connection whatsoever between anything of this and that seal on the back of your skull, is there?”

(Y/N)’s eyes widened— the mask she wore slipped for just a moment— then she was all cold marble again.

“So that’s what this is about.” Her laugh was dry and cutting. “Go fuck yourself, Kakashi.”

She turned to go, but Kakashi caught her arm. As he did so, her shoulder bent weirdly, and she cried out in pain as the wound in her chest doubtless twisted.

“I need answers,” he said, softening his voice apologetically. “I need to know what you're up to, and I need to know why someone might target you so that I can keep the village safe from whatever your presence might bring to it.”

The mask was gone. There was now a queenly outrage in her eyes that was hot like tinder catching, and she fisted her hands into white-knuckled balls at her sides. 

“Fine.”

She told him much. She told him about the after-school and weekend lessons that she gave kids from the village, how she had worked closely with Tsunade to develop a well-rounded curriculum of art, music, dance, and languages for interested learners. 

“Wouldn’t you agree,” she said, looking up at him with those soft and bottomless eyes, “that it is best that a Konoha shinobi’s first experience with the alluring, seductive dances of the Land of Wind is with beautiful Konoha men and women and not their deadly enemies? What charm can exotic seduction hold when it’s been seen before? And is it not prudent to know enough of a foreign tongue to become a fly on the wall, privy to information that would be kept private?”

She did not wait for him to agree. Following that, she gave detailed information about the schedule she kept and the places she invested her money; she was even transparent about her desire to influence village politics regarding mental health and required health evaluations. The information she spouted at him might have overwhelmed a lesser shinobi, but Kakashi knew this tactic. It was Misdirection 101. 

Give all of what you can to the interrogator— things he is likely to already know or guess himself, with some things that he might not— but hold the important cards close to your chest while overwhelming them with information. 

It was a good game she had going, but Kakashi refused to play. 

“And the seal? Your wounding, your odd familiarity with ninjutsu?”

Her eyes hardened. 

“Will you torture me to get that information? Earn your name as a Friend-Killer, as Cold-Blooded Kakashi?”

“Will it come to that?”

Her chin raised.

“I will not give it up any other way. I have a duty to my nation to keep its secrets.”

Her face did not betray her fear, but her scent was acrid with it— and with pain, he realized. Kakashi looked down and noticed that blood had seeped through her bandages and into her shirt.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Oh, what do you care?” she snapped. “You’ve made it abundantly clear that you want nothing to do with me, that only your marriage oath keeps us under the same fucking roof, so why don’t you go fuck off somewhere and send Iruka-sensei in your place? At least he’ll eat my food instead of throwing it out the window when he thinks I’m not looking, and I’m sure Gai could use a sparring partner now that I’m out of commission.”

Kakashi colored through his mask. He really thought he had been sneaky with that. But— she’d kept training with Gai? Why hadn’t he known that? And— and Iruka-sensei? Was that really who she would replace him with, given the chance?

“That’s unfair to me.” His voice was much calmer than he felt. “During your heat—”

“Don’t you dare throw that back at me! How dare you, you— you—!”

Words failed her, and she just growled hotly before turning from him.

“I can’t even look at you. Oh you make me sick! You left me there, Kakashi. I was so frightened, I thought— I thought—”

Her scent scrambled with distress, then disappeared altogether. Someone had been busy, then, learning scent suppression— but before Kakashi could think very much on it, his wife was walking away from him, and he just couldn’t make himself leave well enough alone. 

“We’re not done here,” he called after her as she attempted walking up the stairs. “I’m not sending for Iruka-sensei.”

She whirled on him. Suddenly, she was all fire, no ice. The change made his teeth itch.

“Oh yes you are!”

“I’m not.”

“I—I’ll make you!”

“Yeah?” he remarked casually, hands in pockets. “You and what army?”

“You can’t keep me here,” she declared, advancing on him though it had to hurt her to move so quickly. “A man has to sleep sometime.”

“Yes— but his clones don’t.”

Her face scrunched nastily.

“You’re insufferable, you overbearing asshole!”

Eh, he’d been called worse by better. When he said as much, she turned away from him again, and Kakashi thought the argument was finally over. In hindsight, he should have realized that the best projectiles in the room— a vase, a very expensive plate imported from the Land of Wind, and a baseball-sized uncut gem— were behind her, and that no amount of injury was going to stop her from making him feel her wrath. The plate was the first to go. She threw it like a bloody discus, and it hurt Kakashi’s hand to catch it. 

“Do you have any idea how horrible it is to live with you?” she screeched, hurling the vase. She missed him, unfortunately, and the vessel shattered against the wall behind him. “It’s like— it’s like living with a ghost! I never see you except when I least want to, and yet nothing is ever where I placed it last! When I try to touch you or speak to you or ask you about your day, it’s like everything I do passes right through you!”

“Don’t,” he warned her as she picked up the gem. “You’re going to tear your stitches if you—”

“I swear to all the gods above and the devils below,” she growled low and dangerously, “if you word one more statement to me as an order, I’ll set this stupidly big house on fire and lock us both in it!”

With that, she threw the gem. Kakashi caught it with his off-hand, but dropped it like a hot potato when his wife cried out then collapsed in a heap, clutching her chest. It took him less than a heartbeat to reach her, but before he could so much as lay a hand on her, she started screaming at him again. 

“Don’t touch me!”

“I’m trying to help you, so if you’ll just stay still—”

His face turned and his ears rang. Distantly, he realized that she’d struck him. He didn't know why he hadn't dodged it; he'd seen it coming a mile away. Only, he hadn't thought she'd hit him so hard. 

“Get me Iruka-sensei!”

Kakashi grit his teeth.

“No.”

“Yes!”

He gripped her shoulders, and she kicked and fought him like a hissing wolverine. At one point, her head slammed into his nose, and his eyes watered with the pain of it, but he did not let her go. 

“Damn you, Hatake Kakashi!” she screamed as helpless tears began to fill her eyes. “May you burn in every hell and die screaming!”

“Maybe,” he allowed, but pinned her hard and fast against the stairs. His knees pressed against the fat of her thighs, keeping her from kicking him, and he held her wrists down so she could not scratch him. “But not before we work this out.”

If she would not relinquish her secrets willingly, then he would not torture her. That was entirely unpalatable. There were yet more… solicitous means of coaxing them from her, but first he had to get close. To get close, he had to change tactics. And to be able to change tactics, he had to ensure that she didn’t die on his watch or grow closer to another shinobi. Iruka-sensei, of all people! 

Oh, but Kakashi had never been good at honeypot missions. He ever and always felt too much.

“You’re hurting me,” she cried, those glistening tears making glittery tracks down her cheeks. Her pain wrenched at his heart even as he held her fast. “Let go, let go!”

“If I let go, are you going to hit me?”

“No,” she sniffled piteously, and like a fool, Kakahshi let her go.

She poked him in the eye and made a break for the door.

Kakashi cursed, but he needn’t have worried. In a karmic stroke of luck, her shoe caught on the carpet and she fell face-first onto the floor. She didn’t move, but there was blood near where the exit wound on her back should be, and he was willing to bet she’d torn both sets of stitches wide open. Great. Just great.

“I won’t say I told you so,” he said as he turned her over, brushing carpet fuzzies from her forehead, “but you did tear the stitches. Normally, I’d just stitch you up myself, but with a wound that size, we’ve got to go back to the hospital to make sure you didn’t make yourself bleed internally.”

“Iruka-sensei,” she groaned mournfully past her tears, and Kakashi was starting to get irritated.

“Quiet now, don’t strain yourself.”

The second time they entered the Hatake compound, (Y/N) was much more subdued. The painkillers the nurses had given her were working miracles for her mood; she even let him carry her up the stairs. Instead of bringing her to her own room, he brought her to his and laid her gently down on the mattress. As he helped dress her for bed, he noticed bruises on her thighs where his knees had been. He regretted those marks. For all her ferocity, his wife was not a shinobi. It was an easy thing to forget. She had always had an uncommon spirit that had shown itself to fit well with even the most strong-willed shinobi, but her flesh was softer and more yielding, unenhanced by chakra.

“I’m hungry,” she complained weakly, cracking her eyes open. The drugs had her sleepy to the point of crankiness, but the way she said it was almost cute as she pouted at him from under his dark sheets. 

“It’s about time to eat,” he mused. “I’ll send a clone out for take-out.”

“No,” she whined. “I want Iruka-sensei’s miso soup.”

“I’m sure we can get miso soup.”

“Not just any miso soup, I want Iruka-sensei’s.”

Kakashi did not clench his jaw.

“Let’s not bother the sensei on his day off.”

“But he promised me! He said he’d bring me some when I was out of the hospital!”

As if on cue, a sharp knock sounded from the front door. Unwilling to take his eyes off of his wife, Kakashi sent a clone to answer the door. Moments later, none other than Umino Iruka himself strode through the door and greeted both of them politely.

“Kakashi-san,” he dipped his head in greeting, his smile wide and soft in that sweet omega way that could make any alpha’s heart skip a beat. “Princess. I hope this isn’t a bad time? I heard you were home from the hospital, so I brought soup, as promised.”

(Y/N) beamed at him.

“Not at all,” she said, patting the bed next to her. “Sit, Iruka.”

Iruka handed the soup to Kakashi and obeyed. For the next hour and a half, Iruka and (Y/N) chattered away in their shared foreign language. (Y/N) would look at Kakashi and laugh now and again, and Iruka would blush and shake his head a little guiltily in a way that told Kakashi that he was being made fun of. It was fine, he supposed. He could let them have their fun for now. The long game required patience. He could be patient, even if it meant being humiliated in his own bedroom.

By the time (Y/N) was hungry enough to reach out to Kakashi for the soup, it had gone cold. When Kakashi said as much, his wife pouted, but Iruka smiled easily. 

“I’ve taken enough of your time,” he said, rising from the bed. “I’d better get to the mission’s desk and let you rest, princess.”

“Don’t go,” she whined, reaching out to him. “Oh, I hate to be alone.”

“You won’t be,” he assured her. “Kakashi-san will take excellent care of you, you know that.”

Her sulky expression said no such thing, but Iruka kissed her cheek and murmured something in her ear that made her eyes go wide as saucers and look at Kakashi with newfound interest.

“Be good,” Iruka told her, almost as he would a child, and then he turned to Kakashi. 

“A word?”

The words were spoken lowly, almost at a whisper, but there was nothing subtle in Iruka’s look. Kakashi glanced over at his wife, wondering if she would try to escape, but Iruka touched his arm.

“She’ll be fine. We need to talk.”

Defeated, Kakashi nodded. He handed off the cold soup to his wife, and she opened the packaging, clearly intent on eating it cold. Reluctantly, he left her there to enjoy her meal and followed Iruka out of the room.

Iruka led him down the stairs. Kakashi followed silently until they came to the front door, and Iruka turned around, smiling almost sadly.

“You know you’ve wounded her pride,” he said casually, crossing his arms. 

“Today was… regrettable,” Kakashi admitted, “but there won’t be a repeat performance.”

Iruka shrugged.

“Whatever happened today remains between the two of you. I meant generally. Almost from the moment she arrived, you’ve wounded her. You were late to the wedding, then you abandoned her during her heat. After that, you’ve avoided her, and no one around the village has seen the two of you together except Konohamaru, who maintains that she's a spy. She says you don't trust her, that you won’t even eat her cooking, and that she doesn’t know how to make you happy. You must understand, Kakashi— almost from the moment an omega is born, there is pressure to make their partner happy. Can't you see how hard she's trying for you?”

Kakashi frowned.

“She's shady, secretive. She's hiding something.”

“She's a woman,” Iruka countered, “and an omega. She was raised in a court that she could not trust, faced lies and deceit and trickery from every angle. Have you forgotten your lessons, Kakashi, or do you recall the dangers of being royalty?”

“She's not even the daimyo's actual daughter,” Kakashi protested, but Iruka cut him off.

“And that made it worse for her, not better. She was— is— his favorite daughter. Can you imagine the jealousy the daimyo's other daughters and even his wife might have had towards her for it? If the daimyo ever wanted peace in his house, she had to go, and not just to the finishing schools and vacation resorts that she'd been running off to. She needed to be married off, so they sent her here. They meant this village to be a prison for her.”

Kakashi had nothing to say to that. None of it was particularly relevant as he saw it. Everyone has a sob story, and there was no reason that should preclude her from being a spy. Or worse. 

“I can't trust her,” he insisted. “I want to, but she won't let me in.”

“Try differently,” said Iruka. “Don't beat down her walls, or batter or break them. Knock gently. That will yield more than you could have dreamed. You would be surprised at how little kindness a princess is afforded.”

Kakashi remained impassive. 

“If that's all, it's probably best you leave, sensei.”

Iruka suddenly smirked. “One more thing.”

Kakashi cocked his head, and Iruka continued. 

“Your wife is absolutely fucking with you about me. She figured out that it irks you and told me that she gets a kick out of needling you with our friendship— which is just friendship. Try not to let it get under your skin.”

With that, Iruka gave Kakashi a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and saw himself out. 

And so Kakashi began to try.

As soon as the lock clicked behind Iruka, Kakashi wandered back into his living room, surveying the fallout from his earlier marital spat. The fragments of the vase were scattered all across the floor; the plate that Kakashi had dropped had not shattered as badly, but it was destroyed nonetheless, having split right down the middle. The only thing that had not broken was the large gem that sat at the center of the debris. Its color was wine-red and it sparkled richly, twinkling as if to wink teasingly. Beyond the mess lay the entrance to the stairs, and Kakashi squinted, observing it.

The opening of the stairwell was unlit, which gave the path of ascent the look of a great big black hole, the gaping maw of a monster. At the top of it and down the hall a ways, Kakashi knew, was his bedroom— the belly of the beast. To make the trip up would be to relinquish his pride, that tightly-held armor, and to surrender his paranoia, the swift-sharp sword that always seemed to guide him true. Should he ascend those stairs, he would have to face his wife; worse, he would be utterly vulnerable to her. If he meant to do this right, he would have to trust her not to wound him as he had wounded her. 

The glass-strewn trek before him seemed an ordeal, and for a moment, he was not sure he could face it. 

The moment passed. He squared his shoulders. He had faced more formidable foes and more grievous wounds than one omega could inflict. It was time to pull himself together and face the music.

Falling back on old habits, Kakashi managed first the things over which he maintained the most control. First to go was the shattered porcelain; he swept the living room and beat out the rugs on the front porch banister. He mopped, making sure to get every nook and cranny that glass could have escaped to, and then he migrated to the kitchen. The counters— black marble save for one wooden section made of butcher’s block— were so clean that they gleamed, and he pulled some dried herbs down from their hanging storage before heading down to the cellar, which he found fully stocked with the choicest cuts of salted meat. He chose a well-marbled roast and brought it to the kitchen where he rubbed it down with spices and aromatics. Once it was ready, he put it in the oven. Within a few minutes, it began to smell heavenly, and, task finished, Kakashi used the downstairs bathroom to clean himself up before heading up the stairs. 

When he entered his bedroom, he found his wife limping over to his bookshelf. When she saw him, she froze guiltily, but Kakashi closed the door behind himself and joined her. 

“Thieving from my shelf, are we?” he teased gently, eye-smiling. “What caught your eye?”

“The—” (Y/N) cut herself off, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear nervously. “Well— I just saw— there’s a book on the shelf by the same author as the book I gave you. I hadn’t heard of this one, though, so I know it’s not mine…”

She trailed off, looking at him questioningly. It was Kakashi’s turn to be embarrassed.

“Yes.” He sounded a bit hoarse, so he cleared his throat. Must be the dust from cleaning. “Yes, I bought it when I was in Suna. I enjoyed the first one, so I thought I’d probably like this one. I haven’t started it, though.”

“Oh.” She looked away. “I’ll let you read it first then.”

He shrugged. “No need to wait if you’d like to read it now.”

“It’s your book,” she insisted. “I couldn’t possibly snatch it from you before you’ve had a go at it.”

“Well,” Kakashi ventured, taking the book from the shelf, “it seems to me  that there’s a pretty clear solution to this conundrum.”

His wife’s eyebrows knit. He reached up with a thumb to soothe the wrinkle of her brow and said,

“I’ll read it to you. It might take us a while to get through it, but you’ve got a long recovery ahead of you and Tsunade took me off of active duty for the time being. If you’re game, I think we can manage it.”

(Y/N) turned to him, eyes soft and inexplicably sad. Kakashi had thought that this would please her, but as she looked up at him, it seemed as though she was about to cry.

“I mean, we don’t have to,” he backpedaled. Sweat began to bead beneath his mask and down his back. “It’s up to you. I just thought it might be nice.”

Her chin began to tremble, and those eyes got impossibly wider and wider until Kakashi thought he might fall into them if he stared for too long. 

“I’m— s-sorry,” she sniffled. “I just— I haven’t apologized yet for— for throwing things at you, or— or yelling— and I wasn’t expecting—” 

So she had felt bad about that. It was good to know that Kakashi wasn't the only one who felt like an ass. 

“Hey,” he said gently. “We were both pretty nasty to each other. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones if you are.”

His wife nodded, but her tears continued to fall. He swiped one away with a thumb, held her cheek in his hand. She really was so very pretty, even when she cried.

“Let’s go downstairs,” he said, offering her his arm. “I’ll read to you on the sofa until dinner is ready. It’ll be a few hours yet, so you can rest in-between if you need to.”

She took his arm with a tremulous smile on her face.

“I’d like that,” she said.

“Then let’s go.”