#ii shattered glass au

[chunkofchaos]

I forgot to post this here oops

Chapter 6 or whateva

[trenchcorporation]

i offer SG mephone4 do you like it

[maxphilippa]

GOTTA GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS!

for @chunkofchaos , congrats on finishing Shattered Glass!!!

[someonenamedriptide]

Hehaghrgrh.. shattered glass…. This inanimate insanity au has been rotating in my brain for a while.. it’s by PieceOfChaos on Ao3 :3 go give it a read if you haven’t already.

[weirdkit1k]

July 9 2024

Um insert text here

Shattered Glass if it was aga

Basically where freddy loses it one time and hits goldie super fucking hard on the skull making goldie have brain damage and goldie goes absolutely nuts and kills Bonnie and then himself at the end

You should read shattered glass

Find it on ao3 it's an inanimate insanity fic

[number1mephonelover]

mephone zhattered glazz fanart becauze the ending deztroyed me and even thinking abt it getz me choked up

[ojsart]

SPOILERS FOR SHATTERED GLASS, II AU FANFIC ENDING

TW: blood, character death

(sorry for the over dramatic mature warning. I do not know how else to censor this.)

”Oh, you moron!”

(Mephone4S’ death with my character designs hahahaha)

[alltheirdamn]

Rotten | cowboy!joel x f!reader

Part II

Summary: Joel just can't leave you alone, and you hate it. Rating: 18+ Explicit MDNI Word Count: 6.5k Warnings: No-Outbreak AU, banter and arguing, mentions of guns/violence, smoking, explicit language, sexual tension, brat taming, mild dubious elements, spanking, slapping, choking, rough unprotected piv sex, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, squirting, facial/cum eating, joel doesn't really take no for an answer, lots of angst A/N: I just couldn't get enough of these two. all my love to @lotusbxtch and @mermaidgirl30 for squealing over the filth every single day with me. ride that cowboy girlies, it's worth it ;) Part I

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Your fingers were wet from the condensation rolling off your glass of sweet tea, the steady stream of droplets splattering against your bare thighs. The day had been exhausting; the cattle were abnormally restless and decided to drift too far out in the fields. Hours riding Mac left your legs sore, and honestly, you just wanted to smoke your Marlboros and sip on your tea. With your boots kicked up on the porch railing and a cigarette between your lips, you were blissfully content. 

That is, until your peace and quiet were shattered.

Dirt kicked up in the distance, and the steady rhythmic hum of an engine grew louder as it drifted closer to your house. You groaned in frustration, already knowing who to expect. Dear God, was Joel Miller relentless. You reached behind your porch chair, fingers curling around the shotgun propped up against the wood. You warned him. 

His beat-up Red Chevy stopped beside your home, and you tracked his movements as he opened the door. Lifting the gun to your eye level, you aimed the barrel toward his truck. Your finger hovered over the trigger, steady and calm. Joel stepped out of the driver's seat, adjusting his belt buckle against his stomach. You wouldn’t kill him; you weren’t that mean, although it was tempting. 

One quick pull of the trigger and you sent a warning shot into the side door of his truck, rupturing the metal with a resounding bang. Joel ducked down, letting out a startled grunt before turning his head to inspect the damage. Whipping head toward you, Joel stared you down with narrowed eyes.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he huffed. “That how y’welcome all your visitors?”

“Only the ones who piss me off!” You shouted.

Joel ran a hand down his scruff, swaying in place as if deciding whether to approach you. Do it, you thought. He made one cautious step, and you rewarded him with another cock of your shotgun, the barrel loaded and ready to fire. 

“Take it easy, darlin’. I only wanted to come talk,” Joel cautioned, his hands raised in defeat.

“S’nothin’ to fuckin’ talk about, Miller,” you said, your eye squinting down the barrel line.

Each step of his cowboy boots crunched the earth below, slow steps progressing forward. Joel walked to the edge of the porch; his shoulders hiked to his ears and arms still raised as if he were approaching a wild bull. Serves him right to be scared of you. You may have let him get the best of you the first time around, but you wouldn’t let that happen again.

“Can y’put the damn gun down, darlin’?” He barked.

“Can y’take your ass back to your side of the pasture?” You tossed back.

The closer he got, the clearer his features became; the scruffy graying beard with small bare patches against his jawline, the worry lines deeply etched into his tan skin, and those damn brown eyes that plagued your thoughts night and day. You still thought about how soft they were when he looked at you before he left the stables, a kindness that flickered through the amber specks and filtered out that rage. It was truly unfair that such an insufferable man could be so damn handsome. 

Joel’s boots knocked against the first step of the stairs, and your grip tightened around the shotgun. His eyes tracked your fingers as they flexed around the metal, your knuckles tense.

“I ain’t take you for the murderin’ type,” he said cooley.

“Reckon you don’t know much ‘bout me to be assumin’ that. Who knows, maybe I got myself a pile of bodies lyin’ in the grass behind my house.”

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest as he advanced another step, still testing the waters with you. You rocked back in your chair, propping the heel of your boot on the railing for stability. 

“Wanna show me all them dead bodies then, darlin’? Prove that you’re not all bark and no bite?” He smirked.

You angled the shotgun past the side of his head and sent a shot flying out into the yard. Joel flinched hard enough to knock himself into the stair railing, his weight jostling the porch. With a coy grin, you lowered the gun an inch and shrugged your shoulders.

“Can’t show ya’ if you’re dead,” you grinned.

Joel lunged at you, ripping the gun from your hand and tossing it feet away from you. He gripped the back of your chair and drew his face closer, his pupils dilating the longer he glared at you. Rolling your tongue across your teeth, you raised your hand to his neck, drifting it up the scruff under his jaw. A shallow breath exhaled from his lips, and he stared at you in anticipation. Oh, he thought you were going to kiss him? Cute.

With a quick snap of your wrist, you smacked your hand across his cheek before shoving him out of your face. Joel barely moved an inch, your hands smacking into solid muscle that wouldn’t budge. All that softness in his eyes was displaced with an unmistakable sense of rage, his friendliness shattering away as his cheek flushed from the impact. 

“Now y’done pissed me off, you fuckin’ brat,” Joel snarled.

His hand shot out to your throat, yanking you from your porch chair and to your feet. His grip was hardly as tight as last time but still forceful enough to render you powerless. Your eyes flickered toward the gun across the porch, so far out of reach and unattainable. You should have shot him when you had the chance. 

“Be a good girl and invite me in,” Joel ordered, nodding toward your front door. 

You wagged your head back and forth, your lips curled up and ready to spew venom. Joel only brought your face closer, his upper lip twitching under his mustache. 

“Do it. Now. Or I swear to God, I’ll make last time look like a goddamn walk in the park.”

“Surprised y’got any sex drive left in you, old man,” you gasped, his fingers tightening around your neck. 

“Christ, you fuckin’ infuriate me,” Joel grumbled.

He used his grip on your neck to propel your feet backward, guiding you toward your front door and over the threshold. The heel of your boot snagged on the lip of the door, sending you flailing back, only for him to grab you by the waist and yank you forward into his sturdy frame.

Even with his hand wrapped around your throat, Joel had never looked more gorgeous than he did at that moment. Swimming through the rage inside his eyes was a hint of worry, as if he genuinely thought you’d stumble to the ground. The reaction time of his arm circling your waist and the small exhale of breath off his lips, a quiet I got you in his own way. 

The moment dwindled as fast as it came, a flickering flame extinguished somewhere between the threshold and the entryway of your tiny farm home. Joel reverted to his aggressive tendencies, manhandling you onto your worn-down floral sofa. The springs beneath the cushions squeaked under the weight of your bodies as he pinned you down, his face a breath apart from yours. 

“You ready to play nice, darlin’? Or am I gonna have to ruin that pussy again just to shut you up?” He questioned. 

Your hands grazed over his torso, tracing the outline of his soft stomach and over the buttons traveling up toward the collar of his shirt. You watched Joel’s eyes flutter closed for the briefest moment, only to fly wide open as you sunk your nails into the hair at the nape of his neck. You tugged hard on his salt and pepper hair, enough so that his neck strained back. 

“Get the fuck off me, Joel,” you seethed, the words snarling out between your teeth. 

“We both know that ain’t fuckin’ happenin’.”

Joel wrangled you over and onto your stomach, his hand still firmly clasped around your throat. He quickly caged your legs in between his muscular thighs, molding your body into the sofa cushions. Half your face was smothered into the dingy couch, your hair tossed in streaks over your eyes and clouding your vision. With his free hand, Joel cupped the curve of your ass, his fingers digging into the flesh that peaked out beneath the cut-off of the denim. 

“Y’still got my handprints branded into your ass, darlin?” Joel asked.

He didn’t care to know the answer as he smacked his hand down, the bite of his skin against the fabric sending electric jolts of pain up your spine. Truth was, the bruises he left were still there—yellow, horrid welts that were a ceaseless reminder of last time. You wouldn’t ever admit it, but sometimes you found yourself in the mirror tracing the outline of his fingerprints, fantasizing about his hands on your body. 

“Answer me,” Joel commanded.

“Fuck you,” you said, your voice muffled into the couch.

“Always gotta have an attitude, don’t you?”

Joel’s hand connected with your ass again, this time hard enough to elicit a small whimper from your lips. You could deny it all you wanted, but it was making you unbearably wet. You squirmed under his grip, finding some sort of relief within the friction of your shorts. Joel caught onto your movements and chuckled at your lost efforts.

“Got you all riled up, huh? This sweet lil’ pussy need takin’ care of?”

He cupped your sex through your jeans, the roughness of his hand spurring you on even more—stupid body for responding the way it did to this man. Joel pressed his fingers against the seam of the denim, finding your swollen clit hidden beneath. You exhaled loudly, your body sagging further into the cushions as he rubbed rough circles over the aching bundle of nerves.

“Right there, darlin’? That feel good for you?” Joel taunted. 

“Mhmm,” you whined.

“You wanna cum for me?” 

You sunk your teeth into your bottom lip, holding back the plea for release. Joel knew what he was doing; he knew you wouldn’t beg. You were too stubborn and too defiant to ever beg for it. At least, not again. But his fingers worked faster—harder—keeping you on the edge of ecstasy the longer you stayed silent.

“C’mon,” he urged. “Ask nicely, and I’ll let you cum.”

You turned your head into the sofa, burying your face into the cushions as you let out a frustrated cry. Fuck this man. Fuck his ability to turn you pliant and easy. Your body bucked against his hand as he worked at you in tantalizing movements, the friction of his palm against your sex becoming dizzying. 

“Please,” you muttered, your voice muffled and quiet.

Joel’s hand unwound from your neck, taking its place within the tresses of your hair. A swift tug back, and your eyes strained to meet his as he loomed over you. 

“I didn’t hear you,” he growled.

You swallowed thickly, trying to form another plea, but you couldn’t make a sound. Joel tugged on your hair harder, enough to make you cry at the pain. Your nails dug into the couch, and you managed a small please through a strangled moan.

“Too bad, darlin’. Bratty lil sluts don’t get to cum. I just wanted to hear y’beg for it.”

He released his grip on your head, shoving you back down. You groaned in frustration as his hand vanished from between your legs. The couch shifted beneath you as Joel rose to his feet, wandering around your living room and into your kitchen. 

“Where’s your smokes?” He asked, rifling through the drawers as if he owned the place.

You lifted yourself, stretching your neck and detangling your hair with your fingers. Your clit painfully throbbed against your panties, your core still fluttering from the phantom orgasm that never came. Joel continued his search, slamming drawers shut and opening cupboards without a care in the world as if he didn’t just have you pinned down and begging for release. The temptation to run out and grab your gun was thrumming inside your veins; just one shot and you’d be free of him. Joel glanced up at the exact moment you shot to your feet, gunning for the door. 

“Don’t even think about it, darlin’,” Joel warned.

“You expect me to let you roam ‘round my house uninvited?” You questioned. 

“I expect you to be a good host and find me a damn cigarette,” he snapped. 

“Well, they’re on my porch. So, if you’ll let me leave for a damn second, I can bring you one.”

Joel leaned against the kitchen counter, considering you with eyes narrowed. You folded your arms over your chest and stared at him, both of you in a silent showdown. With a lift of his chin, he motioned for you to go ahead and retrieve them. Disappearing out onto the porch, you scooped up your pack of reds and lighter, lingering an extra moment as you considered the gun lying on the ground.

“I’m waitin’!” He called from inside.

“Christ, I fuckin’ hate you,” you said, walking back into the house.

Joel had made himself all too comfortable on your couch, his legs spread open and arm lazily draped over the back cushion. You immediately noticed the bulge in his jeans, a telltale sign that he was just as worked up as you were. Tough fucking luck. If he wouldn’t get you off, you wouldn’t help him either. 

“Y’ hate me, huh?” Joel asked, his lips curving into a smug grin.

You didn’t respond as you smacked the bottom of the cigarette carton against your palm. Joel flicked his fingers, urging you closer, yet you stayed planted to the ground. 

“Gonna give me one of those, darlin’?”

“Why should I?” You huffed. “Y’come into my home uninvited and act like you own the damn place. Actin’ all demandin’ and rude.”

Joel let out a low whistle, rolling his neck back and forth. You continued smacking the carton, your lips set in a firm line.

“What’s rude is tryna kill someone who only came to talk. So, come here and sit.”

“And if I don’t wanna?”

“For one goddamn minute, can y’just not be so fuckin’ stubborn?” Joel huffed.

“Fine.”

You strode toward the couch, aiming to sit beside Joel, only to have him wrap an arm around your waist and pull you into his lap. Your thighs pressed against his as you settled into his body, the rugged muscles of his legs flexing beneath you. You were too close to him, too aware of the way his eyes sparkled with rich amber flecks in this nearness. Joel studied you without an ounce of anger as if none of what had happened between you ever existed. It made it terribly hard to continue hating him when he looked at you that way.

“Y’gonna be a good girl and give me a smoke now?” Joel asked.

Rolling your eyes, you removed a cigarette from the carton, offering it to him. Joel only shrugged, parting his lips ever so slightly to invite it into his awaiting mouth. Your fingers brushed against the scruff of his jaw as you placed it between his lips, his mouth quirked up in satisfaction. 

“You trust me with a light?” You questioned.

Joel squeezed your waist softly, his other arm still thrown across the couch. You twirled the lighter between your fingers, your thumb rolling over the sparkwheel haphazardly. One good flick of the lighter, and you could send him up in flames—burn your whole house down with him inside, and you’d finally be at peace. He was a ceaseless man with little regard for you or your damn peace, and you were growing tired of entertaining him.

“Light it,” he ordered, the cigarette hanging between his teeth.

You sparked the flame, letting the heat of it ripple over your skin as you brought it to the butt of the cig. The tip ignited with a flicker of embers, the cherry end burning bright as Joel took a long drag. He lifted his hand from the couch—still keeping one firm on your body—and situated the cigarette between two fingers.

“Wanna tell me where y’learned to shoot like that?” He asked, his head tilted to the side.

“My parents. They taught me everything I know,” you admitted.

“Everythin’ aside from manners,” Joel countered.

“Shut up,” you snapped. “I ain’t gonna sit here and let you speak of my parents like that.”

You didn’t like talking about them; the reminder of their absence was sometimes too much to bear. You had so many responsibilities thrown onto your shoulders when they died, and although you took those responsibilities willingly, it didn’t quell the grief still lingering. You didn’t have your parents anymore, but you had their land to care for and their wishes to uphold. 

Joel took a sharp inhale from the cigarette, letting the smoke plume between your faces. The stench of smoke was something comforting to you, always had been, but coming from his mouth, it pissed you off. 

“Hey, now,” he said softly. “Was only kiddin’, darlin’. Didn’t mean to strike a nerve.”

“Your entire presence strikes a fuckin’ nerve, Joel. Why are y’even here?”

“Like I said, I came here to talk.”

You pulled the cigarette from his lips, taking it to your own and inhaling a long drag. Joel arched a brow, watching as you hollowed your cheeks around it, the flicker of the butt burning brightly in his face. 

“Then talk,” you hissed, tilting your head to exhale the smoke.

You leaned back, discarding some of the ashes against the tray on your coffee table. Joel’s hand urged you back to his chest, pinning you closer than you wished to be. You adjusted yourself on his lap, absentmindedly, shifting your body over his hardened cock. Joel choked on a breath, his fingers digging into your waist. Oh. Funny how you had all the power now. 

“Talk,” you repeated, grinding your body down against his again.

“I know what you’re doin’,” Joel grumbled.

“Y’gonna talk or what, Miller? I’m waitin’.”

Joel cursed under his breath, grabbing the cigarette from your fingers and returning it to his lips. His eyes never left yours as he drew in a breath, letting the smoke linger inside his mouth a second too long before exhaling. The smoke billowed around your face, and you scrunched your nose in annoyance. 

“I wanna negotiate,” Joel offered.

“No.”

It was a quick response, one without a second thought. You wouldn’t even entertain the idea of negotiations. Why? Because there was nothing to fucking negotiate. This land was yours, passed down through generations, and would remain that way. No amount of bitching and moaning from Joel would make you reconsider. 

“Y’didn’t even let me finish,” Joel remarked. 

“I don’t need to listen to you. I ain’t negotiating my land.”

You reached for the cigarette again, yet Joel suspended it in the air and out of reach. You glared at him, trying to grab his hand to drag it toward you. Joel’s strength outweighed yours, and he had you beat every time you tried aiming for it again. Shoving at his chest, you moved to swing a leg over his lap and climb off, but he dragged you right back to his chest. His hand roamed up your side, curving along your hip and over the swell of your breast. Cupping your face with one large hang, Joel squeezed your cheeks together and forced your lips to part. 

You struggled against his grip, your eyes full of rage as you watched him take another drag of the cigarette. With your mouth partially open, he leaned close and blew the smoke over your lips and into your mouth. The fragrant odor of the smoke licked up your nose as you inhaled, your lips inches away from his. You didn’t like it. You didn’t want him close. Joel’s eyes bounced between your eyes and lips, the temptation of drawing you closer palpable in his body language. The nicotine buzzed inside your head, and you pulled away from his face right at the same moment he leaned closer. 

“Don’t,” you warned, smoke exhaling from your lips. 

Joel dropped his hand from your face, a clear shift in his mood arising as you watched his eyes flicker with disappointment. It was all over his face: the furrow between his brows, the downturn of his lips… He wanted to kiss you. You wouldn’t let him, though; that was too much. If he wanted to manhandle you and fuck you however he pleased, that was fine. You welcomed it, actually, because you knew one taste of his mouth, and you’d be ruined. You didn’t want intimacy with Joel, not when your family’s land was hanging in the balance. He’d reel you in with false pretenses and have you aching for more, only to tear it all away.

He cursed under his breath as he pressed his body to yours, leaning forward to discard the cigarette into the ashtray. The bulge beneath his jeans prodded your sex at this angle, eliciting a ripple of pleasure up your spine. A small gasp bubbled out of you as Joel readjusted himself beneath you. 

“You don’t wanna talk?” Joel asked, raising his voice. “Fine. Better not say a damn word unless it’s my name while I fuck you.”

In a millisecond, Joel had you pinned down to the couch again, your hair splayed around you and your breath whooshing from your lungs. His fingers worked at the zipper of your jeans, yanking them down your legs and discarding them over his shoulder. Propping a knee onto the couch, Joel undid his belt buckle and freed his cock from the confines of his jeans. Precum glistened on the tip, and he stroked himself slowly as he pulled your legs apart, molding you into the position he desired. 

“Only wanna hear y’scream my name. Y’understand that?” He growled. 

Joel coated the head of his cock with the slick covering your folds, pushing himself in with one deep thrust. You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut as your body adjusted to his size. This angle was so much different than last time, and you could feel every vein and ridge of his cock rub against your fluttering walls. You focused on your breathing while he plunged deeper, breaking you open and fucking into you with hard thrusts. 

Caressing the back of your knee, Joel drew your leg up and over his shoulder, bending you in half until he was spearing into your core. 

“Look at me,” he ordered. 

You shook your head, whimpering at the sensation of his cock splitting you in half. Searing pain bloomed across your face as Joel’s hand connected with your cheek. Your eyes shot open, tears welling on your waterline, the sting of the pain churning into a wave of pleasure through your core. You forgot how addictive his touch could be when he was angry. His pupils swallowed the entirety of his eyes, a dark, endless abyss staring straight back at you.

“Do. You. Understand?” He grunted between thrusts.

You didn’t respond, a tear slipping down your cheek. The phantom touch of his fingers on your skin lingered still, and your clit throbbed with a sudden flurry of arousal. Joel’s hand wrapped around your jaw, forcing your mouth open. He leaned down, pressing his weight into you as his face neared yours. A trail of spit fell off his tongue and crashed into the back of your throat, and you flinched away from Joel as he pressed harder. 

“Swallow, brat.”

You struggled to swallow it; your throat constricted as his grip around your jaw tightened. He plowed into you, drilling your core with violent strokes until a gargled wail left your mouth. His spit slid down your throat, and he hummed in approval. 

“Good girl.”

He stretched your other leg up and over his shoulder, your ass lifting off the couch. You wanted to beg him to stop, yet nothing would leave your lips. Not even a sound as the noise of his hips slapping against yours filled the air. The thrum of your heartbeat vibrated through your chest, the pressure inside your stomach growing stronger as you propelled closer to the edge of your orgasm. Every muscle in your body grew taut, your clit aching to be touched…aching for relief from the violent flames lapping at your spine. So close. It was so close you craved for more. 

Maybe you didn’t want him to stop. 

“If you ain’t gonna listen to me in a normal conversation, then you’re gonna listen now,” he gritted. 

You flexed your jaw under his hand, trying to shy away from his piercing stare. You didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to listen… didn’t want anything but the opportunity to seek release. You could handle the pain—you welcomed it. The harder he fucked you, the less you had to think. And if you kept thinking, you’d drown in the consequences of your doubt. Keep him angry, you thought. Keep him the enemy. You couldn’t let him be anything more. 

“I don’t want your land,” Joel punched out through clenched teeth. “Keep it. I don’t give a shit.”

The buzzing inside your skin dulled out at his words. It was so hard to focus on what he was saying when your mind was melting from the inside out, his cock driving into you with brutal speed. He didn’t want…

“What?” You choked out.

Joel’s hand clamped down on your mouth, muffling your words as he bottomed out and kept himself seated inside you. The rhythm of his thrusts stopped, and he let his hips press into yours as he stared down at your tearful face. You were so fucking full of him you couldn’t breathe.

“Listen,” he snapped. 

You muffled out his name, the sound slipping through the space between his fingers. He only pressed harder, your body folded in half beneath his weight. You clenched around his cock, rocking your hips slightly to quell the need curling inside your stomach.

“I ain’t gonna take your land from you, ‘kay? All I’m askin’ for is permission to come ‘round without you tryna kill me.”

No. The word was lost inside the palm of his hand. You wanted your land, and you wanted Joel gone. You didn’t trust him when he said he didn’t want your land. How could you trust him when he had you pinned to the sofa? 

“This is what’s gonna happen,” Joel offered, snaking a free hand down between your legs. “You’re gonna agree with me and let me come and go as I please. Then maybe I’ll let you cum.” 

Calloused fingers circled your clit, forcing a cry from your mouth. Tantalizing, slow draws over your sensitive bud pulled desperate sounds out of you, each one of them stifled against his warm hand. Joel worked himself into shallow thrusts, pulling out to the tip and driving right back into you. You couldn’t fend off the orgasm bubbling under the surface, the nerves inside you lighting on fire. 

“Please!” You screamed between his fingers.

Joel’s lips twisted into a sneer, beads of sweat rolling down his temples as he pressed his fingers harder against your clit. Your eyes glossed over with fresh tears as you fought off the impending release rolling through your body.

“Say it.”

Your back arched off the couch as you chased the strokes of Joel’s fingers. Circling and circling… You were so close to the threshold of ecstasy, and you knew he’d tear it away from you if you didn’t relent. 

Joel ripped his hand from your mouth, tangling in the hair at the crown of your head. He forced your eyes down to where your bodies connected, your focus on his cock as it disappeared inside you. 

“Y’wanna cum on my cock, darlin’?” Joel taunted. 

“Fuck! Please, Joel!” You gasped.

With your chin tucked into your chest, your legs dangling over his shoulders, and his cock spearing into your core… you couldn’t hold back your orgasm any longer. 

“Say it!” Joel commanded.

“Okay!” You sobbed. “Just let me cum, Joel! Please!”

Joel assaulted you with a repetition of thrusts, each stronger than the last, until your orgasm exploded through your body. His name tore from your lips as your back curved off the couch and your legs squeezed around his neck. He kept his thumb circling your clit, your orgasm never ceasing to end as the inferno burned inside your core. Wet, hot arousal gushed out of you, splattering onto Joel’s navel and staining his denim shirt. His eyes flicked up to yours, a wicked grin splitting his face. 

“Look at the mess you’re makin’. Just drenchin’ my fuckin’ cock.”

“Joel!” You whined, squirming against his hand.

“Nuh uh, darlin’. Wanna see how messy y’can get. Keep goin’.”

He released his grip on your hair, forcing your head to fall against the arm of the sofa. Shuffling his knees forward, Joel continued his brutal thrusts until your arousal sprayed around his cock and dripped down the seam of your ass. There wasn’t enough air in your lungs as you alternated between screaming his name and begging him to stop. 

“Since y’wanted to cum so goddamn bad, you’re gonna keep takin’ my fuckin’ cock ‘til you ruin this damn couch,” Joel grunted. 

You were crying… hard. Your mind was on the precipice of hysteria as waves of your orgasm bolted through your veins. Lewd sounds of his body slapping against your wetness echoed through the room, the cushion beneath you soaked from your arousal. You attempted to claw yourself backward and away from Joel, but his grip was violent, and he only yanked you closer. 

“I can’t—I can’t anymore!” you sobbed. “Please, Joel…please.”

“Gimmie one more,” he demanded. 

You shook your head in protest, your sobs hiccuping inside your chest. Your core was too fucked out, your clit was painfully sensitive, and you were sitting in a pool of your arousal. How did Joel manage to turn the events of the day around in his favor? You had control at the start—you had the gun— but now he had you folded in half and strewn out in a heap of tears. 

“I can’t!” You wailed. “Too much—too much…”

“Poor thing,” Joel taunted. “Always beggin’ for it but can’t take it.”

You writhed beneath him, your body twisting and bending to alleviate the painful sensations rolling through your nerve endings. This was it; this was how you died. Drunk on pleasure and torn apart by the man you wanted to hate. 

Another orgasm tore through your body, consuming you from the inside out. Your scream pierced through the air, and you collapsed into the cushions, soaked with sweat and tears. Joel made a strangled noise above you as your sex clamped down around his cock, no doubt pulsating harder than it had the last several orgasms. His cock slipped from inside you, leaving you hollow and aching to be filled again. Your body craved the fullness, yet you sagged with relief knowing he stopped.

“C’mere,” Joel grunted. 

He slung your legs off his shoulders and yanked you down the couch by your ankle. Positioned over your face, Joel stroked his cock above you, his fingers glistening from the arousal that stuck to his velvety skin. 

“Open that fuckin’ mouth, darlin',” Joel urged. 

Your head was so hazy you hardly registered his words. Parting your lips, you whined softly and stared at him…waiting. Joel’s eyes connected with yours, that deep furrow in his brow more prominent than before. Rage still sparked behind his eyes, but in your delirium, you saw more. You saw right past his facade, just as he saw right past yours. Whatever terror etched itself into your features, it caught his attention, but he was painting your lips and face with his release before he could decipher it. Hot ropes of cum spattered against your lips, the salty taste covering your tongue as it trailed into your mouth. Remnants of his release coated your chin and neck, warm reminders of his futile efforts at staking his claim.

He hadn’t claimed you, no matter how hard he fucked you. You wouldn’t let him claim you. And you most certainly wouldn’t let him claim your land. 

Joel slid his finger through the mess along your neck, scooping his cum onto the pad of his finger and dragging it across your lips. 

“So fuckin’ pretty all covered in my cum,” he praised.

“Fuck you,” you whispered, though your words meant shit, as you rolled your tongue over your bottom lip.

Joel gave you a soft grin, smoothing down your hair and cleaning the mess off your face with one hand. The same hand that had inflicted pain just moments ago, the hand that brought you to release more times than you could physically endure. 

But now the touch was soft—caring, even. And that frightened you more than the violence he showed when he was provoked. It was this side of Joel that made you scared, and you wanted to run as far from it as you could. 

“Let’s get you up, darlin’,” Joel said, hoisting you by the shoulders until you sat under his shadow. 

He massaged your legs as you swung them over the couch, attempting to relieve the tension within your muscles. You shrunk away, standing on unbalanced limbs, and distanced yourself from his wandering hands.

“I need a shower,” you decided. “Y’can see yourself out.”

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you.”

“Well, I’m done fuckin’ talking!” You argued. 

You spun on your heel, your hands clenched at your sides. Joel’s eyes stayed focused on you as he worked at stuffing his cock back into his jeans. Half-naked before him, you felt a million times smaller than you had when he arrived. 

“Why are you so hateful?” He questioned, rising to his feet.

Your lips curled up, a slew of spiteful words dancing on the tip of your tongue. But Joel wasn’t finished. 

“This is your land,” he said, stepping closer. “I ain’t gonna argue that anymore ‘cause it’s a lost cause. And I ain’t tryna steal it from you. I can promise you that.” Another step closer. “So, why do y’hate the idea of me comin’ around?”

“Because I hate you,” you responded. 

“You hate me, huh? Is that how y’feel ‘bout me when I’m pullin’ orgasms from your body? ‘Cause I think you fuckin’ love it. You love bein’ fucked by me. You get me all riled up ‘cause y’know what’s comin’ for you.”

“I hate you,” you repeated.

Joel lifted his hand to your face, cupping your cheek with a featherlike touch. You wanted to shy away, but you were too tired to move.

“I don’t think y’hate me at all, darlin’,” he whispered. 

He leaned closer, placing a kiss on your forehead. You squeezed your eyes shut, holding off another round of tears brimming over the surface. Pushing your hands against his chest, you shoved Joel away, your body staggering back with the force of your action.

“Get the hell outta my house,” you cried, no longer keeping the tears at bay. 

Joel stared at you with a pained expression, his eyes searching through your glassy eyes for the falter within your words. He didn’t budge; he didn’t move an inch. You shoved at his chest again, but it was no use as he wrangled you into his arms and lifted your chin to meet his eyes.

“When are you gonna quit fightin’ me?” He asked softly. 

It was a sincere question; you saw it swimming behind the rich chocolate of his irises. Pleading. Begging. He wanted the truth, but you wouldn’t give in. You couldn’t.

“I’ll quit fightin’ when y’learn to leave me alone.”

“What if I don’t wanna?”

He was a breath away from your lips, the rich scent of farmland wafting off his skin as it mixed with the smell of sex. It was intoxicating being this close—close enough to wonder what his lips would feel like on yours. While your body ached for him in one way, your heart ached differently. It was an ache you wanted to keep fighting because the moment you lost that battle, you’d lose everything. 

“I don’t want you comin’ here anymore, Joel.”

“Why?” he pressed. 

Silence blanketed over you, weighing down the words lodged in your throat. The rapid beating of your heart matched his as he kept you tight to his chest. You were suffocated by the emotions you couldn’t say, and you were slowly sinking further down. 

You struggled against the arm that bound around your waist, helplessly trying to break free of his hold. He finally relented in defeat, letting you shuffle back until there was a healthy gap between your bodies. Running a hand down the scruff on his chin, Joel gave you a simple nod and retreated toward the front door. 

“Until you can give me a reason, I’m gonna keep comin’ back.”

He left without a glance over his shoulder, the room around you shrinking in size without his presence looming over you. Searching for your shorts, you quickly dressed and hid behind the window curtains as you watched his truck rumble to life and speed down the dirt roads. There was no goodbye between you, and you knew there wouldn’t be. Joel wasn’t giving up, no matter how hard you pushed him away, and eventually, he’d win. 

And you hated knowing the truth. 

**

Behind the billowing dirt trail of his truck, Joel watched as your house faded from view. His knuckles were white around the steering wheel as he thought about the way he left. He was doing this for fun; at least, that’s what it felt like at the start. Getting on your nerves, pissing you off, seeing you completely unraveled underneath his hands, Joel loved it. He loved the thrill of having you tamed down and quiet, compliant to anything he asked and did. 

Then he had you pinned underneath him, and he saw the fear in your eyes. You weren’t scared of him. You were scared of the emotions electrifying between the both of you. Then you pulled away from him, denying him any affection, and he fucking hated it. 

He couldn’t understand why you got under his skin the way you did, nor why he cared so much. It wasn’t supposed to end up this way, yet Joel wanted to keep tearing down your walls. He wanted to hear you tell him the truth.

He wasn’t going to stop until he got it.

[todorokis-girl]

I Never Knew You Were Alive - Soulmate AU (III)

Chapter III: Belive or be Doomed

Touya x f!reader

I've actually been supper excited about this story, and I MIGHT be stretching it out more than I have to.

No actual dabi in this one

Chapter I: So it starts Chapter II: A late arrival Chapter III: belive of be doomed Chapter IV: What are we doing? Chapter V: Last minute encounter Chapter VI: Deciding to fall in love with you

masterlist

Next chapter

She walked the dark streets, carefully considering whether she should really do this. Hawks had insisted that it was both stupid and dangerous, and she couldn't disagree. But there was no way to avoid it; she had to see this through.

The city's seedy underbelly had a foreboding air, a stark contrast to the vibrant, bustling areas she usually patrolled. The broken streetlights cast a dim glow, their flickering bulbs only accentuating the shadows. Graffiti marred the crumbling walls, and the stench of decay permeated the air. The occasional rustle from a nearby alley or the distant clatter of a can reminded her of the ever-present dangers lurking in the darkness.

Dressed in plain clothes rather than her hero suit, she tried to blend in, taking what appeared to be a casual stroll in the middle of the night through a dangerous part of town. The quiet, deserted streets gave her a moment to think, her footsteps echoing in the silence. She passed by boarded-up shops and derelict buildings, their windows shattered and interiors long abandoned. The eerie silence was punctuated only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional distant siren.

When she opened her eyes, she saw him, standing at the end of the sidewalk, staring at her. The moment she noticed him, he turned and walked into an abandoned building.

"Wait!"

She followed him without hesitation, her steps guided by an almost instinctual pull. The building loomed ahead, its facade covered in grime and ivy, windows like dark, empty eyes staring back at her. The entrance was a gaping maw, swallowing the faint light from the street. She didn't take the time to look where she was going, and soon found herself enveloped in pitch-black darkness. The interior smelled of mold and rot, the air heavy with dust that clung to her throat with every breath.

Despite the lack of light, she somehow knew where to go. The name on her arm itched, urging her forward, and with each step, the pressure in her heart intensified. The entrance to the abandoned building loomed ahead, a gaping maw of darkness. The doorway, framed by crumbling bricks and overgrown with ivy, seemed to invite her into its depths. Shattered glass crunched beneath her feet as she crossed the threshold, the air inside heavy with the scent of mold and decay. The faint, distant sound of dripping water echoed through the cavernous space, adding to the eerie atmosphere.

She turned to her right and sensed his presence, but instead of moving to grab him, she just stood there, facing the darkness.

“Any reason you’re not jumping to arrest me?” The darkness spoke, his voice resonating through the void. It was the first time she heard him speak, and the calmness in his tone was oddly soothing, almost addictive. Yet she felt defensive, knowing that his awareness of her intentions made the situation precarious.

“No need to feel so anxious, just making an observation,” she replied, her eyes slowly adjusting to the surroundings as she searched for a place to sit. The interior of the building was in a state of advanced disrepair, with broken beams and collapsed walls casting jagged shadows. Debris littered the floor, and the smell of dampness and decay permeated the air. The scant light filtering through the boarded-up windows barely illuminated the space, casting eerie, shifting patterns on the ground.

Dizzy and overwhelmed, she was determined to go through with this. She spotted a precarious-looking chair against the far wall and cautiously made her way toward it, her heart pounding with every step. She could feel the tension radiating from him, adding to the heaviness in the room.

“I’ve been looking for you ever since the fire last month.”

“Isn’t everyone?” he responded, his voice carrying a hint of amusement and challenge.

The tension between them was palpable, a mix of unspoken words and unresolved emotions. She knew this encounter was fraught with danger, but it was also a chance to confront the truths they had both been avoiding.

She sighed, the weight of her thoughts pressing heavily on her chest. Of course, everyone was looking for him; he was one of the most wanted villains right now. But she wasn't here to arrest him, at least not at this moment. “My soulmate,” she began, her voice trembling, “he died when I was 13. I never got to meet him.” She swallowed, trying to find the right words to explain herself. “Your quirk… I think it could turn into ice at some point, not as a quirk awakening, but… just as growth.”

The room seemed to close in around her as she spoke, the shadows dancing with her unease. She could barely make out his silhouette, a dark figure in an even darker void, but his presence was unmistakable. The oppressive silence that followed her words made her skin crawl, each second stretching into an eternity.

Her mind raced with thoughts and memories, the pain of her past intertwining with the fear of the present. The abandoned building, with its haunting atmosphere, felt like a physical manifestation of her inner turmoil. Every creak and groan of the old structure seemed to echo her doubts and regrets.

She shifted uneasily on the rickety chair, her eyes darting around the room. The walls, covered in graffiti and grime, seemed to close in on her. The only light came from a flickering bulb somewhere in the distance, casting a sickly yellow glow that did little to alleviate the darkness.

The intensity of his silence was almost unbearable. She could feel his gaze on her, piercing through the gloom, and she fought to keep her composure. The weight of the moment pressed down on her, and she felt an overwhelming urge to flee, to escape the suffocating pressure that threatened to crush her.

But she stayed, determined to see this through. The name on her arm itched again, a reminder of her purpose. She took a deep breath, steeling herself against the fear and uncertainty that swirled around her like a tempest. She had come this far, and she couldn’t turn back now.

“Your flame…” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper, “it felt different. It wasn’t just fire; it was something else, something more. I need to understand why. I need to understand you.”

Her words hung in the air, a fragile bridge between them. She could sense his internal conflict, the struggle between the persona he had created and the remnants of the boy he used to be. The tension crackled like static electricity, a palpable force that threatened to snap at any moment.

The room around them seemed to close in, the darkness pressing in from all sides. The distant sounds of the city outside were muffled, as if the world had shrunk to just the two of them. The air was heavy with dust and decay, the scent of old wood and forgotten memories mingling with the sharp tang of rust and mold. Every creak of the building, every flicker of the dim light, seemed to underscore the intensity of their confrontation.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low and filled with a complexity of emotions. “You think you know me?” His tone was laced with bitterness and curiosity, a challenge and a plea wrapped into one.

“I’m not claiming to know you, I’m just… trying to figure this out. I felt it on me, and I’ve stood in fire; I’ve been burned by fire, caused by quirks or naturally occurring. Fire doesn’t feel like that, not to me. Fire terrifies me. I have to concentrate a million times harder to keep myself from burning just to walk through it, and I can never manage it well during an active fight.” Her heart rate increased, driven by a mix of hope, desperation, and confusion. “But I wanted to stay in it. I wanted to stop and be in your flame… forever. It was so calming… nostalgic.”

Her voice wavered, and her eyes started to water. She paused to process her emotions, waiting for him to respond. Yet again, nothing. The silence felt like an abyss, threatening to swallow her whole. The shadows in the room seemed to grow darker, the faint light barely holding them at bay.

“I’m going to say something that I’m not even sure of, but the fact that I looked for you all this time should be a clear sign of what this means to me.” She took a deep breath, tears spilling onto the ground, glistening briefly in the dim light before disappearing into the dusty floor. “If I’m wrong, I hope me letting you go will allow you to forgive me for putting this on you; if I’m right… well, I don’t want you to answer either way.”

The air between them was thick with unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, each beat a reminder of the gravity of this encounter. She was walking a tightrope, one misstep away from disaster, but she was determined to find her way across.

In the dim light, she saw him shift, his outline becoming clearer. The vulnerability in his posture was almost imperceptible, but it was there, a flicker of the person he once was. It gave her a sliver of hope, a reason to keep pushing forward despite the darkness that surrounded them. Her heart pounded in her chest. She was nervous, but she felt most of that anxiety was coming from him, even if she had no way of knowing for sure.

“Dabi. I think you’re Touya. I think you’re Touya Todoroki, and if I’m right, you’ve known who I am for a long time.” She stopped, fighting back a sob, overwhelmed by a river of emotions. This was more than she had anticipated, and it was tearing her apart. She wanted to cry, but that had to wait. “If that’s true, why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you try? I wanted to be with you, all my life all I’ve ever wanted was you, however that was. You left, faked your own death, and came back a villain, but never once did you think that maybe you could send a letter. A sign of life.”

The room felt like it was holding its breath, the silence after her words echoing louder than any noise. Her tears fell freely now, and she didn’t bother to wipe them away. She stood there, raw and vulnerable, waiting for a response that might never come. The light flickered again, casting long shadows that seemed to dance around them, as if the building itself was listening to their exchange.

He remained silent, and unchaging, his figure a dark silhouette against the faint light. The seconds dragged on, each one an eternity. She could see the conflict in his eyes, the war between the persona he had become and the boy he once was. The vulnerability in his posture was almost heartbreaking, a reminder of the pain and loss that had shaped both of their lives.

Deep down, she knew she was right, and she wasn’t crying for herself; she was crying for both of them. She stood up from the spot she had taken on the rusty chair, deciding to return to UA. She had said what she needed to, and his lack of reaction showed that even if she was right, he didn’t care. She meant nothing to him.

Either way, Touya was dead. Even if his former self was standing in front of her, he was gone. She swallowed and took a step back, ready to let go; let Touya be burned and dead. Insisting on a connection with him would be dysfunctional and selfish on both their ends.

She heard footsteps approaching, slowly coming closer. She could feel him standing in front of her, the intense warmth radiating from his body. She was tempted to reach out and touch him. He was less than a step away, but she couldn’t see him. She couldn’t even see herself in the darkness. She quickly braced herself for whatever was coming. 

“You want me to believe you didn’t know?” The question struck her like a physical blow, her heart plummeting into a deep chasm of despair. An overwhelming heat surged through her body, intensifying the gravity of the moment. This revelation shifted the narrative drastically; to him, it meant she had deliberately rejected him. He had kept his distance, believing she didn’t want him.

“I never stopped feeling things, yours or mine,” he continued, his voice laden with the weight of suppressed emotions.

“What?” she stammered, struggling to process the accusation. Her mind raced, searching for a coherent response. “I… I didn’t… I swear,” she pleaded, her voice cracking under the strain.

“Try again when you believe your own lies,” he hissed, his breath hot against her face. His hand moved deliberately, slowly wrapping around her neck. The gesture was a mix of threat and disdain, his fingers pressing just hard enough to convey his dominance. The heat of his touch sent a shiver down her spine, an unsettling mix of fear and something else, something she didn't want to acknowledge. The proximity of his body, the intensity of his gaze, it all created a confusing blend of emotions that left her feeling raw and exposed.

“For the sake of giving you a chance, I’m not killing you today. Next time, you might not be so lucky.” He tightened his grip momentarily, a final warning, before releasing her with a shove. The force of his push made her stagger, and she barely managed to stay on her feet. Her hand instinctively went to her neck, where the heat of his touch lingered, a ghostly reminder of their encounter.

The room felt suffocating, the air thick with unspoken hatred and a twisted undercurrent of something almost primal. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat resonating with a confusing mixture of anger, fear, and a strange, unwanted attraction. The darkness seemed to close in around her, amplifying every sensation, every emotion.

She watched as he retreated back into the shadows, his silhouette disappearing into the black void. The oppressive silence returned, only broken by her ragged breathing. Her mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, the realization of his hatred cutting deep, while a small, treacherous part of her was drawn to the intensity of his presence

The dilapidated room around her seemed to echo her inner turmoil. The flickering light cast eerie shadows on the cracked walls, the air thick with dust and the scent of decay. She felt a profound sense of loneliness, the weight of their encounter pressing down on her like a physical burden. Her tears fell onto the dusty floor, mingling with the dirt and grime, a stark contrast to the heat and passion she had just experienced.

She stumbled back, pressing a hand to her throat where his grip had been, feeling the residual heat from his fingers. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a reminder of the danger she had narrowly escaped. She looked around the abandoned building, its dilapidated state a stark contrast to the turmoil within her. The silence was oppressive, broken only by her ragged breathing.

For a moment, she struggled to gather her thoughts, her mind a whirlwind of fear, confusion, and the painful sting of betrayal. How could he think she had rejected him? The realization that he had misinterpreted her actions cut deep, adding to her emotional turmoil. She sank to her knees, her body trembling as the weight of the encounter settled over her.

The room seemed colder now, the earlier warmth from his presence dissipating into a chilling emptiness. Her tears fell onto the dusty floor, creating tiny dark spots that mirrored the growing darkness in her heart. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to find some semblance of comfort in the stark isolation of the moment.

Her eyes welled with tears as she replayed his words in her mind. The venom in his voice, the coldness in his touch, and the haunting promise of a darker future if they met again. She knew she had to pull herself together, to find a way to make him understand the truth, but for now, the enormity of what had just happened overwhelmed her.

In the stillness of the night, she felt an aching loneliness, a stark contrast to the brief, terrifying closeness they had shared. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to steady her breathing and gather the strength to stand. The path ahead was fraught with danger, and she knew she had to be stronger, more resilient, if she was to survive and find a way to reach him.

The building creaked around her, the sounds of its decay echoing her own sense of disrepair. As she stepped toward the exit, the flickering light seemed to fade, casting the room into deeper shadows. She was alone, but she carried with her a glimmer of determination, a faint hope that maybe, somehow, she could reach the boy he once was and pull him from the flames of his own making.

As she walked away from the abandoned building, her mind churned with a tumultuous mix of emotions. The encounter with Dabi, or perhaps Touya, had left her shaken to the core. Each step felt heavy, as if she were carrying the weight of the entire world on her shoulders.

Her thoughts kept circling back to the words he had spoken, the accusations he had hurled at her with such venom. How could he believe she had rejected him? How could he think she didn’t want him? The pain of his misunderstanding cut deep, slicing through her heart like a knife. She had spent years searching for him, longing for him, and now he stood before her, believing she had turned her back on him.

The night air was cool against her skin, a stark contrast to the heat that still lingered from his touch. She shivered, a shudder running down her spine, but it was not from the cold. It was from the knowledge that the path ahead would be treacherous, filled with obstacles and dangers she could scarcely imagine; but she would not falter. She would not give up. She would find a way to break through to him, to make him see the truth, even if it meant risking everything she held dear.

She picked her phone from her pocket to check the time: 4:00 a.m. The early hour felt like a cruel reminder of how little time she had left before her morning patrols began. Groaning bitterly, she realized she had to get ready quickly. The promise she made to her best friend to call him if and when she found Dabi lingered in her mind. Reluctantly, she scrolled through her contacts, the screen's soft glow illuminating her weary face. She decided to call him, even though she hated the idea of disturbing him. He was an early riser, and she was almost certain he’d be awake anyway, but there was always a chance he was still sleeping, and she hoped she wasn’t waking him up.

After a couple of rings, he finally picked up, his voice sounding wide awake, which relieved her a bit. “Hey there, lovely morning today,” he greeted, his tone bright and cheerful.

She raised an eyebrow in confusion, her exhaustion making it hard to process his upbeat demeanor. “Yes?” she responded, her voice tinged with disbelief.

“Yes,” he repeated, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “What’s up, birdie?”

“I found Dabi, and we talked,” she said, swallowing the lump that was building up in her throat again. The pain of the interaction was still fresh, her arms wrapping protectively around herself as she spoke. The night had started hopeful, but now she felt lonelier than ever. Her soulmate had just threatened to kill her, and he thought she didn’t want to be with him.

“How’d it go?” he asked, still sounding chipper and blissfully unaware. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he might know more than he let on about the villain's feelings for her.

“Well, I have a target on my head, and my number one hater is the one person who is supposed to love me,” she said, her voice breaking as she struggled to hold back tears. The weight of her words hung heavily in the air.

“Whoa, what do you mean?” he asked, his tone shifting to concern, the seriousness of her situation starting to sink in.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “He thinks I rejected him. He said I lied, that I didn’t care. He nearly killed me, but he decided to spare me this time.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, the tension palpable even through the phone. “That’s... intense,” he finally said, his voice softer, filled with empathy. “Are you okay?”

“Physically, yes. Emotionally... not so much,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I just don’t understand how everything got so twisted. He was my soulmate. I’ve been searching for him, trying to find a way to reach him, and now...”

“Now he’s a villain who thinks you don’t want him,” he finished for her, the reality of her words sinking in.

“Exactly,” she whispered, feeling the tears finally spill over, the emotional dam breaking. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t just let this go, but I don’t know how to fix it either.”

Her friend sighed deeply on the other end of the line, the sound filled with both frustration and determination. “We’ll figure it out together, okay? You’re not alone in this. We’ll find a way to make him understand.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her, the gesture bringing her a small measure of comfort. “Thanks,” she said softly, her voice filled with gratitude. “I needed to hear that.”

“Anytime, birdie,” he replied gently, his voice a soothing balm to her frayed nerves. “Now, get ready for your patrols. We’ll talk more later.”

She ended the call and took a moment to collect herself, the stillness of the night wrapping around her like a heavy blanket. Despite everything, she felt a glimmer of hope. With her friend’s support, she believed she could find a way to reach Dabi and make him see the truth. She wiped her tears away, took a deep breath, and steeled herself for the day ahead. The path would be challenging, but she was determined to navigate it, one step at a time.

With one last breath, she continued on the path back to the school, hoping that for some miraculous reason she could stay in and play chaperone to the kids. Despite only living there for one week, she had already almost fallen in love with the class.

[spacebabesuki]

Join Me in Death {Hellcheer Halloween Special}

Chapter 2/? 8K | MDNI

READ PART 1 HERE

Warnings: Death, Dark Fiction, Abusive Relationship (with Jason Carver), Violence, Blood, Sex [+18] The Crow and Phantom of the Opera AU  @hellcheerweek

Summary: In the haunted town of Hawkins, Chrissy Cunningham must restore the old theater to help her husband, Jason Carver, win the mayoral election. However, upon entering the abandoned venue—site of numerous deaths and murders over the past 50 years—she realizes that it is not just a town tale. Inside, she uncovers much more than just the killer. “Would you die tonight for love? He would—and kill, too.”

Playlist here

{ACT II - ELIZABETH}

In ancient myths, it is said that a crow carries the soul to the world of the dead. However, when death comes wrapped in a pain too deep to bear, the soul remains trapped in the shadows of the living world. And if it does not stay there, it returns too soon, in another body. Elizabeth, a name that brings grace and light, also carries sorrow. Her essence lingers among yellow flowers that bloom in silence, each petal a whisper of her return. She is guided by kindness, called to restore what has been shattered. Upon stepping once more into the fragile world of the living, she bears the weight of love and the presence of the messenger with black wings, the one who first loved her soul.

Hawkins, Indiana, October 7, 1992

On the days when she cried, Chrissy didn’t fix her bangs, nor did she wear yellow or dresses. That day, she took a deep breath, dressed in pants, a white shirt, and a small gray vest, ready to clean without dirtying her favorite clothes. Or to die. She didn’t know what to expect when she entered that damn theater.

She was without bangs, her eyes tired and slightly swollen. Without bangs... and the bangs were the only thing that distinguished her from Elizabeth—or at least from the photo of that woman.

Chrissy took a deep breath, standing in front of the theater, trying to muster the courage to go in. Her sad, anxious eyes fixed on the building, where a dark cloud seemed to linger perpetually, and a single crow watched the gate. It could have been the brightest sun in the world on the road, but above the theater, it felt like eternal darkness. She stared, as if that would help her prepare.

She felt calmer when she saw that the stained glass windows in the wooden doors only reflected emptiness, but the calm lasted only seconds because she knew very well that the place was far from unoccupied.

It had been a week since she last slept well, reliving the image of Elizabeth in her dreams, and it was impossible to forget since she saw that photo. She knew now that ghosts were real—and they could be dangerous killers. Edward Munson, if it really was him inside the theater, seemed more like a bitter spirit, a murderer who continued to kill even after death. All the newspapers she read said he was responsible for more than 50 deaths, and she didn’t want to be another one. Since then, she carried the headlines in her mind, obsessed with the story, yet frightened at the same time.

Chrissy brought candles in her bag and, this time, a very sharp knife, although she knew it would do little good if the ghost of a strong, vengeful 27-year-old man was lurking, ready to attack her with a shotgun larger than she was, along with an army of crows guarding and locking the doors.

The fear was strong; her hands trembled as she pushed open the rusty gate that creaked. Chrissy parked the car closer, left it open in case she needed to flee, and took one last look before entering the cursed place once again, where the saying went that once you entered, you could never leave.

She would have preferred to be anywhere else right now, but everything changed when Jason, in his campaign for mayor, discovered that she planned to back out of the theater renovation. After a confrontation and a new mark on her arm, Chrissy understood that she had no choice.

Facing this theater now felt less scary than facing Jason Carver.

She swore she would never return, but here she was again.

Her heart raced, fear pulsed, and she didn’t know if she would come out alive by the end of the renovation on October 31. Today, however, she didn’t plan to stay until nightfall; before the sun set and the crows took over, Chrissy would be far away.

With fear and trembling hands, Chrissy carefully stepped onto the muddy floor at the entrance and advanced slowly, glancing back constantly, afraid of a single crow that watched her like a doorman. And now she wondered, on that night, where those 50 crows had come from. And why had they flown away the moment that monster dropped to his knees before her? Too many questions; she felt like she was losing her mind.

Taking a deep breath, she felt the key in her hand, fitted it into the rusty door, turned it twice, and swallowed hard. When she opened it, Chrissy was so nervous that her chest rose and fell rapidly. She stood still, trying to gather her courage. She squinted her eyes; there was no turning back now. She pushed the door and stepped inside once more.

She saw the empty interior just as she had left it. If she hadn’t been so scared, she might have smiled a little, as it looked cleaner and tidier compared to the first time. Her footsteps echoed in the empty theater. She slowly closed the door and made sure to place a small stone to prevent anyone from locking her in, or the wind from shutting it, letting daylight filter through the stained glass and cracks in the windows. She swallowed hard; her heart was pounding so loudly it drowned out her own thoughts.

Chrissy looked around, fearful, taking deep breaths as she searched for any sign or shadow of the monster. And she admitted that, despite her fear, she just wanted to see his face again, just to confirm that he wasn’t the man in the newspaper photo, that he wasn’t Edward Munson. In fact, she prayed that nothing would happen today and that she would find out that, on that day, it was just a teenager messing around, some crazy person with a toy gun obsessed with the story.

But deep down, she knew... she knew it was all too real. She knew everything was too interconnected to be mere coincidence. She had read everything in the newspapers and... Edward, it was Edward. She was almost certain; she wished she was wrong. But she knew she wasn’t.

She shook her head, trying to push those thoughts away. Trembling, she walked through the empty space, her footsteps echoing on the floor. She crouched down slowly, trying to calm herself. She knew he would only appear at night, like the crows, creatures of darkness. If he was a "crow keeper," he knew that too.

She was counting on that—that he wouldn’t show up in the morning and that while the day lasted, she would be safe. That’s why she planned to leave before the sky began to darken. That was her escape plan.

Today, Chrissy didn’t want to listen to music; she preferred to stay alert to any noise. After ten minutes inside, in complete silence with daylight illuminating everything, she began to calm down. She was there to work on the restoration, but as she fidgeted, she realized she wouldn’t be able to fix everything. Many things were up high and required strength and heavy labor. Tomorrow, if she was alive and returned, she would bring a ladder to reach the top.

After a while, Chrissy became fascinated by the tall, red velvet curtain that hid the stage. She wanted to pull it aside to see every detail of the stage: what was up there, the size, and what it must be like to stand there. Something inside her called her to do it. When she was a silly, dreamy teenager, she participated in school plays and always loved to sing, dance, and act. But that dream died within her, along with her marriage.

Chrissy tried to pull the curtain, but it was too big and heavy. The only time she attempted to move it, she coughed loudly and had to step back from the dust. She reflected, realizing that there was so much to do and that she had no idea how to remove such a tall curtain and connect all the electrical installations of the place, understanding that the restoration would take much longer than she expected. But now, all she wanted was to open the curtain, thinking that by doing so, the theater would become a real theater again, filling with life. She was also eager to see the stage, to step onto it, just to remember the thrill in her stomach that she always loved when performing in school plays.

After cleaning a lot, exhausted, she sat on the floor near the window, dusting off some old chandeliers. She looked up at the ceiling filled with golden details, with gold plaster—it was beautiful but abandoned and marked by tragedies. She wasn’t sure if people would have the courage to enter again when it was reopened, but she hoped so; after all, the last death had been over ten years ago. Maybe the place could finally stop being a stage for tragedies.

She looked around; everything seemed so gray. Chrissy hadn't brought her yellow flowers today—her beloved daisies, her favorites, which she believed had the power to brighten everything and bring happiness. Since childhood, she had loved yellow, but it was the yellow daisies that had always fascinated her the most.

She observed the stained glass windows and was startled by a noise. Any sound made her nervous, but she soon realized it was just the rain.

It started to rain, and before the fear of thunder could take over her again, she noticed there was no thunder at all. The rain was falling outside as well, not just in the theater area. This calmed her.

Looking through the old stained glass, she wiped the dirty, ancient glass to see better and saw the road, the rain outside, and the faded colors. It felt like being in an old movie. Chrissy sighed as she watched the heavy rain fall, knowing she wouldn’t be able to leave now; the road could flood, trapping her tires in the dirt, and she didn’t want to be stranded without help for hours. She took a deep breath and glanced at her small wristwatch; it was still 3 PM. She had time before it got dark.

But amid the sound of the rain, she felt that bad thing again, that sudden chill that froze her stomach, a shiver down her spine. The feeling of being watched returned. 

Chrissy trembled in fear. The sound of the rain echoed, only worsening the sensation, but the daylight still illuminated the space; it couldn’t be possible for him to appear in the daylight. He should be a creature of darkness, appearing only at night, like a crow, and not in the middle of the afternoon. Her plan to leave before sunset, when it was still light to ensure safety and avoid seeing him, seemed to have gone down the drain.

The safety plan had failed.

The feeling of being watched by something invisible sent chills across her skin, as if unknown eyes were following her every movement.

She turned quickly, despite her fear, as if she could catch something, but found nothing but the empty theater and the abandoned seats. The silence enveloped her like a thick fog, amplifying the sound of her own heartbeat echoing in her ears. Each creak of the old building sent her pulse racing, and she couldn’t shake the sensation that she was not alone.

She looked out the window again, trying to distract herself and convince herself that it was just in her head, but once more, that feeling gripped her tightly. She knew, you knew, we all knew how terrible it felt to sense something watching us from behind, like an invisible presence that our bodies could perceive and react to. She felt it.

Chrissy slowly turned back to see if she could find something to make the icy knot in her stomach disappear, but all that happened was a chill creeping up the back of her neck. She could have sworn there was something watching her from the shadows of the curtain behind her. Her heart raced, pounding in her chest like a drum. Her breath came in quick gasps, and a cold shiver ran down her spine, making her tremble.

Startled, she scanned the theater again, her eyes desperate for any sign. She saw nothing, but she felt it; she wasn’t crazy. She sensed the tension in the air, felt someone behind her, an invisible presence watching her. There was no sound, but the feeling was all too real, as if someone were right there, lurking, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal itself.

In another situation, she might have said it was all in her head, but she knew it wasn’t. Chrissy trembled; she hated that feeling. Her cold, shaky hands gripped the candelabrum as if it could protect her. The pulse echoed in her ears, each beat resonating in her mind. A wave of anxiety washed over her, tightening her chest as the air felt thicker and heavier.

She was alone, but she didn’t feel lonely, and that was the worst part. Because she knew someone was there. She hoped that the events of the previous week had just been a delusion or a cruel Halloween prank by some troublemakers. But she felt it, as if he were a shadow, something supernatural, as if he embodied the entire haunted theater. The sensation followed her, churning her stomach and chilling her body, and even without seeing him, she felt that something was watching her.

Again, Chrissy felt observed, as if he were in the air surrounding her. She quickly stood up, refusing to feel vulnerable. She went to her bag, thrust her hand inside, and felt the cold blade of the knife against her palm, as if it were sweating. She swallowed hard, her heart racing, glancing around desperately, fearing that he might suddenly appear before her again, scaring her to death like he had the week before.

She knew he only showed up at night, and it was still light outside; he shouldn’t be here now. In fact, that’s what she thought, but she wasn’t sure of anything.

But she sensed a presence, something watching her. And she knew it was him... she knew... or was it just in her head?

She desperately hoped it was the latter. But considering her life, everyone knew she had no luck.

A voice in her head nagged at her, reminding her that she had been there for hours. It said that if he hadn’t killed her yet, maybe he wouldn’t. Or perhaps he was angrier now, wanting to kill her more slowly. Torture her, get revenge for last week. She was sure he would remember her; killers were calculating and intelligent. Someone who had killed as many as he had and never let anyone escape—except for a lunatic and now her—would not make the same mistake twice.

The knife in her hand felt useless when she thought of his height, the power he had to create thunder within the theater, that weapon, and the fact that he was over 70 years old but seemed trapped at 27, that he was not something human that even prayers could heal. To make matters worse, she was shaking so much that she could barely hold the knife.

She felt watched, a presence behind her, and a bad feeling grew in her stomach—fear, tension—as if the walls of the theater were closing in around her, turning it into a cage. The rain was pounding outside, likely flooding the dirt road, which would make it impossible to drive away without getting stuck in the middle of nowhere. Even if she tried to escape, she knew she couldn’t leave now.

There was no way to flee.

Trembling, a survival instinct kept her alert and restless. Chrissy preferred to rip off the Band-Aid quickly. Afraid that her racing heart would kill her from panic, she decided to find out if she was going to die and stop putting it off. The tension from was torture. She needed to know if someone was there or if it was just in her head, spurred on by last week’s fright and everything she had read.

“Hello?” Chrissy called, her voice trembling and low, filled with fear.

The voice echoed in the empty theater, the quiver betraying her weakness, fear vibrating in every syllable. She would have preferred to die quickly than to be the protagonist in this suspenseful game of murder. She was certain he would recognize her. But what if no one was there? What if it were just a product of her imagination, fueled by fear and loneliness?

No one answered.

But that didn’t make her happy; obviously, a killer wouldn’t respond to her. He would strike from the shadows, just like last week, and perhaps finish what he hadn’t completed.

She shrank back, gripping the knife more tightly, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts and doubts, remembering the terror she had felt that night. The tension in the air was almost palpable, as if the atmosphere itself was bracing for something to happen, the oppressive silence broken only by the occasional drip of rain outside.

A wave of desperation swept over her, and Chrissy, overwhelmed with fear, decided to try calling him by name. She didn’t want to see him; she just needed to know if he would respond, to prove he was really the ghost of that man, the Edward Munson of 1947. And she had no idea what she’d do if he appeared, if her call confirmed he was indeed the murderous ghost, and that she was surely his next victim.

“Edward?” she tried, forcing his name out with difficulty. Her voice came out weak, trembling, nearly a whisper that echoed softly in the empty theater.

Chrissy was terrified of what she was doing; she didn’t know why she’d done it. Calling him felt like admitting she knew him, and killers don’t like leaving loose ends. Her hope was that he would respond, manifest himself somehow, so she could confirm he was the Edward from the newspapers, the ghost, the lost soul haunting this place—and that she wasn’t just losing her mind. Honestly, she hoped desperately that she was wrong, that nothing would happen.

“Edward?” she tried again, and suddenly, she heard a noise that cut through the rain and sent her heart pounding.

Footsteps.

She froze, instantly regretting it. She heard the sound of steps creaking on the wood behind her, near the stage curtain, from where she had felt herself being watched.

Footsteps.

The sound of heavy boots on the old wooden floor.

Chrissy kept her eyes fixed on the door, making sure it was still propped open by the small stone she’d wedged there, that she could run at any second—if only her legs weren’t frozen in place.

More footsteps.

The steps drew closer, and panic tightened around her like a vice, as though he’d been behind the curtain the entire time. The thought terrified her—him here, watching her every move, waiting to kill her from the moment she arrived. Chrissy gripped the knife tightly, feeling the cold metal press against her skin, as though it might somehow protect her, as if she knew how to use it to hurt anyone. Her breath turned ragged, each heartbeat pounding in her ears, a reminder of her vulnerability, of his power, his height, his looming presence.

“H-hello?” she stammered again, her voice barely a whisper, strangled by fear. The anticipation gnawed at her; she didn’t want to see his face, didn’t want him to get closer. She only needed to know if he was that man who should’ve been dead for 50 years, if he was real, if he was still that lost spirit. The idea that he might not be just a figment of her imagination terrified her even more.

Silence stretched around her, but something in the shadows seemed to shift, and all she could hear was the creaking of his steps growing louder, as if in response to her call.

The footsteps grew closer, clearer. It was as though he were walking right inside her mind, his heavy boots echoing with each step.

And as if answering her call, he slowly emerged from behind the red curtain. Tall and dressed all in black, just like last week.

Her eyes widened. Trembling with fear, she gripped the knife tighter. Chrissy didn’t say another word. Her heart pounded erratically, lodged high in her throat, as if she might spill it onto the floor at any moment.

He stopped, taking two steps beyond the curtain, then stood still, silent, a dark statue against the heavy red drapes from which he’d emerged.

Today, she realized he’d approached slowly, different from last week when he had appeared with a thunderclap, deliberately scaring her. Even though he stayed at a distance, she still felt her fear flare, because she knew he wasn’t human. He was a monster, a haunting presence, a killer—something deeply, irrevocably wrong.

Trembling with fear, she began to cry softly, almost without noticing, her entire body prickling with terror. It felt like an overwhelming weight pressed against her chest, suffocating her, making her gasp for air. Every part of her shook with shuddering jolts of dread, as if she couldn’t contain the fear any longer. Her knees felt weak, as if they might give out under her at any moment.

He was real. She could see him again. He was here, and now she saw him in the theater’s clarity—not cloaked in shadows as before.

And in daylight, he was even more horrifying.

In the soft light, he seemed taller than she remembered—tall, imposing, and powerful in a sinister way, as if he could crush her with just one hand. Dressed all in black, she noticed the leather glinting faintly in the dim light.

He wore a long black coat, nearly skimming the floor, and heavy boots that creaked against the old boards. His hair was long and disheveled, hanging down to obscure his face, which was angled downward and eerily still, yet painted in a way she would never forget. The white paint remained, as she remembered, with dark smudges under his eyes that trailed down like endless black tears. His lips were painted black, the color bleeding from the corners, forming a sinister, clown-like grin. She wondered what had transformed him into this, because in the newspaper photo, none of this had been there. He looked like a normal man, only with the horror of war in his eyes. But there was no painting, none of that.

What unnerved her most was the crow perched on his shoulder—the same one she had seen guarding the gate when she entered.

Edward stood motionless, like a statue, unblinking, unmoving, simply existing there. It was as if the ominous sound of a church organ might fill the silence any second, deepening the thick tension between them. He looked at nothing, a figure poised like a statue waiting to spring to life. That was what frightened her most: what he intended to do, what he had in store for her.

Chrissy almost felt relief seeing that he carried no weapon today. But even so, his frozen, statue-like stance—his sinister, waiting stillness—terrified her more than if he’d rushed at her.

Chrissy looked at his hands, searching for any weapon or object he might use to hurt her. But his hands, covered in black leather gloves, looked so large and strong that she knew he didn’t need anything else. The gloves seemed to absorb the light, the leather gleaming darkly. He was dressed entirely in black leather—fitted pants hugging his tall frame, a long coat brushing the floor, and a strange black shirt beneath, almost like a bulletproof vest, covered in leather straps that wrapped tightly around him. His hair looked damp, falling messily over his face, nearly to his shoulders. She wanted to look directly at him, but couldn’t—some primal instinct warned her not to.

He kept his painted face hidden behind the cascade of hair, his gaze cast down, unblinking, while the crow on his shoulder shifted, observant and silent. It was larger than she’d realized when she first saw it at the gate, with feathers so black they seemed to absorb the darkness around them.

It was him. Now she could see it, despite the paint—his eyes, the shape of his face. It was Edward Munson, the man from the newspapers who had killed himself here in 1947, nearly 50 years ago.

Chrissy didn’t know how to process this realization; a wave of despair washed over her, and she felt as if she might faint from fear. Her body shook, her legs wobbled beneath her, and each breath grew more labored. She knew he had killed over fifty men who had wandered in here, and now, looking at him, motionless and foreboding, she couldn’t bear it. He terrified her, yet a grim curiosity pulled at her, making her want to see his face, to compare it to the photo, to understand what had happened to him, to know if he intended to kill her too.

He was still as a statue, unmoving, only staring at the floor, and somehow that made her even more afraid. Chrissy was paralyzed as well, though she trembled and wept, caught in an absolute state of terror. But she was so frozen that her sobs were silent, her chest convulsing in quiet, soundless panic as tears clung to her lashes, refusing to fall.

Desperate, she couldn’t take it any longer and broke into a run, her steps quick and stumbling. In her haste, her bag slipped from her shoulder, and she tripped over it, landing hard on the old wooden floor of the theater with a heavy thud. Pain shot through her elbows as she hit the ground, and she began to cry in despair, struggling to get up, gasping for breath, each sound catching in her throat as panic took hold. She looked back, terrified he might have followed, but Edward Munson remained exactly where he’d appeared, unmoving, as if he hadn’t budged an inch.

She tried to stand. Her legs shook, her arms buckled. The fear kept her glued to the floor. She took a deep breath, willing her muscles to obey, then glanced back. He hadn’t moved. She looked again, frantic, feeling her heart hammer in her chest, but he remained distant, like a fixed figure in the theater, a wax statue in a haunted house, sinister and unchanging.

She thought he’d start running after her at any moment, closing the distance in seconds. She was sure he was standing there so still because he was sadistic, letting her believe she had a chance to escape, only to catch her in the end. Maybe he enjoyed watching his victims, weak and pathetic, scramble for the door. It was all she could think.

Chrissy’s eyes darted to the door. It was slightly ajar. Just a few more feet. She crawled forward, struggling to keep her eyes on him. Any second now, he could start running. She forced herself not to hesitate.

As she clawed her way across the floor, grunting with desperation and glancing over her shoulder in terror that he’d be on her in seconds, she thought:

If he hasn’t killed me yet… is it because he isn’t going to?

She pushed herself toward the door, dragging herself across the floor, too afraid to stand, worried the crow would swoop down and attack. Relief surged as she saw the door still open, no dozens of crows blocking the windows like before—just the one perched on his shoulder, watching her.

She looked back, needing to know where he was. And then, finally, Edward lifted his face, slowly, and their eyes met. Terrified, she averted her gaze and scrambled faster, her body tense as if he were chasing her, though he hadn’t moved an inch.

She managed to pull herself to her feet and stumbled toward the door, almost there.

Chrissy trembled, trying to glance back to make sure he wasn’t after her, but she couldn’t hold her gaze for long and looked away, breathing heavily.

He still hadn’t moved a muscle, but suddenly, his raspy, ancient voice echoed through the theater, slicing through the silence and into her ears.

“You’ll be soaked in the rain. The sky’s coming down,” his voice rasped, deep and hollow, like an echo from another time. He stood there, unarmed, watching her as she hovered on the edge of escape.

At the sound of his voice, Chrissy froze. She shivered. She knew she should run. She was standing so close to the door, her hand nearly on the handle. All she had to do was pull it open and flee, but something kept her rooted in place.

The truth was, despite the danger, a part of her wanted to understand what kept him here, to know who he was, if he was real or a ghost, even with terror pulsing through her veins. If he wanted to kill her, wouldn’t he have done it by now? Still, she knew not to tempt a killer, knew it was foolish.

Chrissy shrank back, pressing against the door, poised to flee the moment she needed to, her heart pounding so hard it felt as if it echoed through the silent theater. Her sweaty palms clenched the handle behind her, but fear locked her in place. Her legs trembled so much that she struggled to stay steady, and her chest rose and fell in a frantic rhythm.

Even from a distance, he terrified her, his face painted pale, his gaze vacant, as if lost in another world. She didn’t want to look at him, but couldn’t resist. He stared back at her from afar, dark eyes framed by smeared paint that looked like shadows etched into his skin. Everything about him felt like it belonged to another time, another century. The floor-length black coat, the heavy boots, the dark shirt with almost military details—all seemed relics from an age long past hers. He was a figure from an older world, and his stillness radiated a darkness so intense that any movement he made seemed like it would be a threat.

He remained rooted, watching her with a peculiar gaze, as if seeing her through memories long buried. His voice filled her ears again, lacking the menacing, frantic tone it had held yesterday; now it was just a voice, worn and hollow, from another era:

“You never liked getting caught in the rain, my dear Elizabeth. Do you remember my coat between you and the sky?” he murmured, melancholy woven into every word. “You always loved the sun, and yet, here… there’s no sun at all. I always believed the darkness of this theater kept you away from me all this time. The flowers withered in the garden, but with you here… they might bloom once more.”

Elizabeth. He called her Elizabeth again.

She didn’t respond; she couldn’t. She didn’t even know what to say. Silence seemed her safest option, though she knew there were no truly safe choices here, only those that might delay her death.

He spoke as though he belonged to another time. And he did.

Could it really be him? Edward Munson from the newspapers? The one who died here in 1947? Could it be true that his spirit had never left this place? There was no way he could be human, standing before her, young and frozen in time.

It was him. Edward Munson, the one from 1947. Young, even though he should be well over seventy years old.

She continued to tremble, the fear overwhelming her to the point that his words barely registered. She didn’t know if he was simply insane or if this was the kind of game he played with his victims—pretending they were all his elusive Elizabeth.

The crow on his shoulder cawed suddenly, and Chrissy flinched, her whole body shrinking back at the unexpected sound. It echoed through the empty theater, amplifying her panic, a fear so overpowering that she wondered if she would lose control completely.

Desperately, she tried to summon the courage to run, but her legs felt paralyzed. Her mind raced in a thousand directions—was this all a game, a trap to kill her slowly? Tears streamed down her face, her chest quaking with the kind of silent, internal sobs that suffocated her from within, the kind too feeble even to escape as a cry. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if she could will herself out of existence, out of this place. But when she opened them again, he was still there, unmoving, his gaze still fixed on her as though he saw through her, through time itself.

Her eyes flickered between the looming figure before her and the empty space around her, uncertain whether it was better or worse that he seemed to think she was this Elizabeth. Tonight, he was unarmed, unmoving; he didn’t seem dangerous. Or perhaps he was one of those killers who enjoyed weaving a performance before ending things. She stared back at him, unsure of what to say, her voice caught between panic and uncertainty.

He had called her Elizabeth again, and Chrissy’s heart nearly stopped. She fought to respond, her voice weak and trembling:

“I… I’m not her, I’m not…” Her throat was nearly closed up with fear, and she clung to the door behind her, whispering, her voice barely audible, though he remained far off and gave no sign of moving toward her.

She didn’t know whether to look him in the eye, her instincts tugging her between the urge to look and the fear welling up in her chest. It was the feeling of a human seeing a monster for the first time, that unsettling mix of curiosity and dread—wanting to see, yet terrified of what she might find.

But he continued to hold her gaze with a steady, intense look, as if he saw something far beyond her.

His eyes were cold, hollow, filled with pain and a darkness so deep that it made her turn away. She couldn’t hold his gaze; there was something too raw in it, something that clawed at her chest, too intense to face.

“I knew you’d come back to me, my dearest Elizabeth. I’ve waited all these years for you, my beloved,” he murmured, each word dipped in a dark tenderness, the kind of courtesy a gentleman from another age might possess. “Time may have stolen you from me, but it has not taken my hope.”

He took one step forward. Then another, finally breaking his stillness. Chrissy froze as he began to move toward her, disregarding her whispered denial that she wasn’t Elizabeth.

He was coming. Her heart raced wildly, terror filling every beat. Chrissy, panicked, reached to push open the door to escape. But in a desperate, clumsy twist of her back, she slammed against the wood, closing it with a sharp, echoing click. The stone that had held it ajar rolled outside, leaving her locked in with him.

She slammed her fists against the door, trying to force her way out, but there was nowhere to go. Now, with her only escape blocked, a raw, paralyzing fear surged through her as she watched him approach, step by step.

Desperation coursed through her; she kept her gaze fixed on him, unable to look away, all she could see were his steady footsteps drawing closer. The crow perched on his shoulder, his coat trailing behind him, each step moving the fabric, his long hair slightly lifting with each stride.

Chrissy swallowed hard, terror pounding in her chest, her heart feeling like it would burst. He was so close now. Unlike before, when he lurked in the shadows, now, in the daylight filtering through the theater, she could see him fully. And with every step, her fear grew. Everything about him radiated death and danger. It wasn’t just the crow.

The closer he came, the more she shrank back, her whole body shaking, barely registering the press of the door against her back.

He didn’t stop, coming ever closer as though he might collide with her. She trembled harder, gripping the door behind her as if it could shield her, though it was no protection at all.

Now, he was so near she could smell the leather and something cold, an old scent, like a museum or a time long past. Chrissy’s eyes scanned his face frantically, searching for any trace of humanity, a flicker of expression—something. But there was only that vacant stare and a faint curve of his lips, like a shadow of a memory.

And then he stopped, just a few steps away, watching her in silence. Chrissy pressed herself harder against the door, caught between the overwhelming urge to flee and the terror that rooted her to the spot, her body trembling so violently she could hardly breathe.

Chrissy looked at him with trembling eyes, horrified, realizing… was he trying to smile as he drew closer? But instead of reassurance, the twisted, strained expression only deepened her fear. It was a smile that held no warmth, laced with a pain that seemed centuries old. He didn’t know how to smile; it looked more like a silent promise of death. The makeup on his face distorted it further, turning any hint of humanity into a monstrous visage, and a chill rippled down her spine. Every step he took was slow, deliberate, and under the daylight flooding the theater, his tall, imposing figure came into stark relief. The smudged, pale makeup brought out the haunted, melancholic look on his face, an expression carved with anguish from another era.

He was a monster. Not human. Not good. She could feel it. The newspapers hadn’t lied.

She pressed herself harder against the door, her heart racing, unable to tear her gaze away from him. The crow on his shoulder regarded her too, tilting its head, as though it was part of him, a single entity with a dark, ancient consciousness, watching her alongside him.

For a moment, he halted, and in a slow, rehearsed motion, he spread his arms wide, embracing the emptiness of the theater around him, as though offering himself to the shadows or to the memory of something lost.

“I’ve waited so long for this moment…” His voice was rough, laced with longing. “Finally, Elizabeth… finally, you’ve returned.”

He didn’t understand that she wasn’t Elizabeth; he wouldn’t listen.

Then he stepped back twice, expanding the space between them to five paces, though it was hardly enough to give her a sense of safety. He made no attempt to touch her, only stood there with arms open, as if inviting her into an embrace. But she couldn’t move; all she could do was stand there, clinging to the door, confused and weeping with fear. She thought his arms might call the crows outside, as though he were a scarecrow summoning them to land on him.

A minute passed in tense silence before, slowly, he let his arms fall, having received nothing of what he hoped.

She didn’t understand, too terrified to think straight. Chrissy watched him, seeing the melancholy etched on his face, a confusion in his eyes. His head drooped, as if wounded, and he clutched at his chest like he’d been struck by some invisible blow. But despite the sadness in his expression, the entire scene—the dark clothes, the painted face—was too terrifying for her to think anything sympathetic.

Still, beneath the smeared black paint, she caught a glimpse of something deep and hollow in his eyes, a torment long buried. His face held anger, and an even deeper sadness.

“Elizabeth… my dear,” he whispered, looking downward, his hand clenched against his mouth as if holding back some raw emotion. Even if he’d once loved the woman he was waiting for, Chrissy saw him now for what he was—a madman, a killer. His eyes betrayed the insanity, the lost look of someone untethered from reality. “I’ve waited, resisting time… resisting even oblivion.”

His voice filled the room, an echo from a different era, and he waited for her to respond, but she remained frozen in place.

Chrissy’s heart raced faster as he and the crow held her in their eerie gaze. She noticed his face looked different than it had last week—today there was sadness, though the terror was still overwhelming.

Gathering a last shred of courage, she looked up just as his heavy boots moved forward once more. He closed the distance between them, three steps now.

She couldn’t bear to look up. Instead, her gaze dropped to his boots—large, battered, the combat kind—and they were much too close to her own delicate yellow flats.

Then, to her horror, he kneeled, coming down close to her level. She tried to recoil, but there was nowhere to go.

Chrissy, trembling, looked down and saw the fragile, haunted desperation in his eyes. Beneath all the madness, his gaze held a deep sadness, something akin to longing, tinged with an old wound and a desperation barely contained.

“Elizabeth, my Elizabeth,” he murmured, emotion flickering behind his cold eyes. His voice shook slightly as he spoke, and Chrissy shrank back, avoiding his gaze. “I waited for you here, night and day, knowing you’d return. How did you leave that night? When I saw you, I thought you were a mirage, my beautiful lady. I can’t leave—I never could. Tell me how you did it. I’ve been trapped here, counting every one of these endless 365 nights without you.”

"A year?" Chrissy frowned despite herself. The absurdity of it made her curiosity almost overcome her fear for an instant.

"My Elizabeth..."

“I… I’m not her,” she said, her voice cracking with a tear slipping down her cheek as she tried to push through her fear, the words barely a whisper. But he didn’t hear her; or if he did, he refused to listen.

He was a killer. She knew it. He’d murdered more than fifty people and had almost claimed her life, too. She remembered the terror in his eyes that night, the way he held that shotgun, the horror of seeing those black crows fluttering in the shadows.

He ignored her denial, again.

Chrissy didn’t know what to do. Should she pretend to be Elizabeth? Maybe, if she could make him believe it, he wouldn’t harm her. But what if that made things worse? What if he took her captive here, unable to let her go? Or what if he killed her, thinking she truly was Elizabeth, just as he’d likely done to the original?

Swallowing, she shook her head. “I—I’m not her, I’m not.”

“You’re only lost, my dear. In the beginning, I, too, didn’t understand who I was… but in time, my memory returned.” His voice was filled with a strange patience as if speaking to a confused child.

She fought the urge to look at him, trembling. This was too much—a ghostly killer, clinging to the delusion that she was a long-lost lover he’d murdered. He thought she was Elizabeth’s spirit.

And he noticed her shaking.

“I won’t hurt you, my love. Don’t be afraid. It’s me, your Edward,” he said, attempting a smile, though it was clear his face had forgotten how. The smile was ghastly, more a shadow of a memory than anything real. “Look at me. I know…” he hesitated, as though aware of his monstrous appearance, “I know you didn’t know me this way, but losing you took my mind from me.”

"My love…" His words hung in the air.

He wouldn’t kill her....or...But should she continue denying she was Elizabeth? If she fed into his illusion, would it save her or seal her fate? Chrissy recalled General James’ words: Edward had been so obsessed with Elizabeth, he’d murdered her. That had to be why he called her my love.

She shivered, pressing herself against the door, her teeth chattering as fear paled her skin. Dressed in a white blouse, she realized she must look even more ghostly in his eyes, playing into his deranged fantasy.

Chrissy tried to steady herself enough to speak, wondering if there was any chance he’d let her go. Or maybe he’d just keep her here forever, chained to his twisted memories. She needed to know if he really was the killer, even if it was already obvious.

“D-did you… did you kill all those people?” she whispered, wanting to know her fate. If he admitted to it, she would know that it was over for her.

She expected him to get angry at the question, but he just continued to kneel on the floor in agony.

“I lost my mind, my love. I wasn’t like this, not before…” He slumped further, as if worshipping her, the depths of his madness only making Chrissy more certain of his guilt.

Beneath the layers of makeup and years of torment, she could see it now—the brokenness that had twisted into something monstrous. He’d taken lives, torn apart by the very obsession that kept him trapped here. The man she’d read about in the newspapers didn’t exist anymore; he was a creature bound by his own madness.

His voice was a cracked whisper as he continued, “I left that cruel world to find you, my love. Finally… finally, we’re together again. One year without you, and my mind unraveled.”

There was a strange rhythm to his words, almost hypnotic, yet Chrissy’s terror blocked her from sinking into it.

She shivered, her heart pounding as she realized his obsession went far deeper than she’d feared. His sense of time was warped, his memories stretched and tangled by the years. He didn’t know how long it had truly been. He spoke of “365 days,” but the reality was so much more—45 years separated the last night of his life from now, the jump from 1947 to 1992 a vast gulf he couldn’t see across.

Trying to catch her breath, Chrissy felt a dreadful chill seize her throat, paralyzing her with a primal, instinctive fear.

"Did you… kill them?" she asked again, even though she already felt he had practically confirmed it. She couldn't tell what scared her more: the ghost in front of her, or the realization that this ghost had killed over fifty people and now believed she was the spirit of the poor girl he had also murdered, just as the newspapers had said.

"Forgive me." He shook his head in a lost, disturbed way, so unsettling it was frightening. He was completely insane; it was clear in his eyes. Now Chrissy understood why the town had always thought him mad. Had he always been like this, or had something turned him into this?

He had killed. Yes, it was him. He’s been killing people here for years.

He stood up, moving closer, his face almost pressed against hers.

Chrissy flinched and shivered, pressing herself against the door as if trying to escape. The crow followed him, perched on his shoulder, and the smell of old leather lingered. She trembled, barely able to withstand his closeness. He was too tall, powerful yet powerless. She shrank back even more, terrified.

Suddenly, she saw his hand rising toward her face. Chrissy closed her eyes, fearing he would strangle or hurt her. She trembled, tears already streaming down her face, but all she felt for a moment was a single, slow touch on her cheek, just the tip of his cold, gloved finger in a near-gentle caress.

He pulled his hand away, lowering it, but stayed close, his gaze softened, pained by her reaction.

"I can’t believe you came back to me, my Elizabeth. Look, my love, I’ve kept it safe for you. See? I’ve held onto it all this time. I feared your family might not bury you with it, take it away from you forever."

Chrissy opened her eyes and saw a shining ring resting in his palm, supported by the thick black leather of his glove. In a quick glance, she noticed bloodstains on the glove—from the people he had killed before her, or so she thought. Maybe he believed they were all Elizabeth; maybe he enjoyed playing this game before ending their lives.

He held the ring carefully toward her, and the brilliant stone caught Chrissy's attention, standing out starkly against the leather.

“Come, my love, let’s leave this cruel world behind,” he said, holding the ring as if he were about to slip it onto her finger, but Chrissy remained frozen "Come, there's something I want to show you. Let's go outside; you'll be fascinated, my dear. I can’t wait to see the look of wonder on your beautiful face when you see what I’ve prepared to welcome you."

Ghosts shouldn’t be able to touch people, and yet she was still reeling from his touch on her cheek—it had been so real, everything felt so… tangible. She could still feel the cold leather glove on her skin, even though he no longer touched her. Chrissy trembled and cried, pressed against the door with him standing before her.

“Oh, my darling, don’t cry. I’m here,” he whispered, mistaking her tears of terror for tears of emotion. This Elizabeth must have loved him, or perhaps he was just a madman who had killed the poor girl, leading him to think she was crying from happiness and not seeing the horror in her eyes.

“I—I’m not her,” Chrissy said quickly, fear in her voice, nearly shouting to see if he would understand. “I’m not, I’m not Elizabeth!”

“Of course you are. I’d know you anywhere, my Elizabeth…”

“It’s 1992!” she could barely speak now, shouting for the nightmare to end, her voice breaking with despair. “It’s 1992, not 1947!”

He froze, looking at her with a strange, terrifying expression that made her skin crawl. His eyes changed, dark and troubled beneath the black paint, seeming utterly lost.

She kept trembling, barely able to speak.

“M-my name is Chrissy, Chrissy Cunningham, Christine. I’m not Elizabeth. I—I was born in 1967, and I’m not her. I’m not Elizabeth Campbell. I’m not! I’m sorry, you must be mistaking me for…”

The look on his face changed, filled with anguish, despair, and darkness, and he began to tremble, cutting off her words.

“No, my love, you must be confused. It’s normal; I was confused too when I came back. We’re in 1947; I lost you a year ago.”

“N-no, no, look!” Chrissy pointed at the newspaper that had fallen from her bag on the floor, the one she had read that morning. Her arm trembled so much that she couldn’t hold it up for long. “October 1992. See? I’m not her, I’m not! I’m sorry, but I’m not!”

He walked over, his heavy boots echoing like a funeral march, and saw the date. His expression twisted into confusion, pain, and rage. She saw the light in his eyes shift, heard his breathing quicken, and witnessed the despair wash over him as the crow on his shoulder flapped its wings in a desperate manner, making her scream.

Terrified, Chrissy watched as he crushed the newspaper with force, tearing it apart and throwing it away as if it were on fire.

He turned and unleashed the most insane, terrifying scream she had ever heard in her life.

“IMPOSTOR!” he shouted, slipping into a frenzy of rage, his voice piercing through the sound of the rain and echoing like thunder. “HOW DO YOU KNOW? HOW DO YOU KNOW HER NAME? HOW DARE YOU? HOW DO YOU KNOW ABOUT MY ELIZABETH, ELIZABETH CAMPBELL, EVEN HER MAIDEN NAME BEFORE SHE BECAME MINE?”

In response to his roar, crows began to swirl in the sky, flying in a chaotic whirlwind. Dozens of them crashed through the window with their heavy wings and entered the theater.

Chrissy screamed in fear as the crows poured in and spiraled around him like a hurricane, creating a maelstrom of feathers and shrill cries. He shouted in fury, and the sound blended with the storm outside, as if the sky itself were responding to his pain. Fifty crows flapped their wings in unison, resembling an army of lost souls. The rain intensified, each drop pounding against the ground.

Knowing she was going to die, Chrissy began to pray in fear, hoping to secure her place in paradise. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy will be done. Please grant me a place in heaven.”

“Fuck your God; your good God doesn’t exist, didn’t exist when He took my sweet Elizabeth.”

Startled, Chrissy closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face. She was terrified—not just of the crows but of his pain and desperation. She had never witnessed such a scream; it was more agony than rage.

When she opened her eyes, he was no longer there, but the sense of terror lingered, lurking like a shadow. The last thing she saw was his tall figure walking away, dressed entirely in black, without the overcoat, facing the shattered circular window that the crows had broken. A thunderclap echoed in the sky with even greater force amidst the rain and she saw the way he clenched his wrists, as if he had a very bad plan in mind.

Suddenly, something warm, orange, and intense emerged, and Chrissy opened her eyes to see. Fire. She panicked; it was fire. But she calmed down when she saw that the flames were only outside, and she could see through the broken round window the tall, dancing fire that not even the rain could extinguish. Never before had she seen so much fire battling against the rain in this way. Through the stained glass, she watched the fire consuming the abandoned lot behind the theater, its flames reaching skyward like malevolent fingers.

Struggling against the fear that paralyzed her, she dragged herself to the back window and pulled aside a torn curtain, her breath quickening and her heart pounding erratically. She cried out in terror, watching the fire.

The fire was away from her, confined to the garden she had never known existed in an abandoned, lifeless theater.

Outside, Edward burned it all: brush, trees, and now what appeared to be remnants of a dark past. The crows, now in a frenzy, continued to circle around him as if they were harbingers of calamity. He ripped things from the ground with unbridled fury, his expression twisted in despair and pain, a lot of pain.

The scene was surreal; she had never seen rain and fire simultaneously; it was as if the sky were both angry and weeping in a chaotic symphony feeling his pain.

She had never seen a man cry before, and now she saw him cry, while destroying everything, with hatred, pain, screams of agony, in the middle of fire and rain.

And that's when…oh my…in that moment, Chrissy finally discovered what he was destroying and setting on fire.

Her eyes widened, and for just a fleeting moment, fear evaporated, replaced by a strange and painful sensation. Chrissy understood, amid the whirlwind of crows, rain, fire, and his screams, where her gaze was fixed.

It was a garden, but not just any garden—it was a garden of yellow daisies.

Her favorite flowers, Chrissy’s favorite flowers, and now she was seeing hundreds of them—the largest garden she had ever seen in her life. Cultivated for fifty years, but the flowers weren’t large because the soil was poor. They were wilted, their petals faded and contorted like lost souls, all of them closed; they had been born but never bloomed. And now there was a vast expanse of yellow flowers that he was burning while screaming in the midst of the storm.

The scene was terrifying: the flames devoured the daisies with a crackling pop, leaving nothing but ash and smoke in their wake.

This was what he wanted to show her when he called her to come outside for a few seconds, because he wanted to show her something that would fascinate her. If it weren’t for the fire, she would have been fascinated by what he called a welcome surprise. But it wasn’t for her. Flowers. Yellow. Daisies. Yellow. Chrissy's favorites; they always had been. Chrissy froze, wondering... could he really not be crazy for calling her Elizabeth? She didn’t believe in reincarnation or any of that, but... no, she stopped thinking about that nonsensical madness. They were just flowers. It was mere coincidence; many people liked yellow daisies; they were the most basic flowers in the world.

Deep in her mind, a question echoed: did she and Elizabeth have more in common than just a love for yellow flowers and that photo? Had he really killed Elizabeth, or had he gone mad and lost his mind because he lost his Elizabeth? Chrissy remembered him saying that “God took her.”

And now, as he destroyed everything, she felt a knot form in her throat. The garden he tended, the only thing that could have brought him any comfort, was being consumed by fire and madness—a fire that he himself had ignited.

Through the window, she saw him begin to walk back inside, and Chrissy clearly saw the moment he passed through the fire unscathed, as if he were immortal, a spirit that nothing could kill. He passed through the window and re-entered the theater, the crows flying around him.

Chrissy, desperate with fear, noticed a murderous look on his face as he walked in, the fire reflecting off his leather clothes. He entered, soaked to the bone, with wet hair falling over his face, the flames casting an orange glow on his painted face, now even more smudged with black, as he roared with hatred and rage like an animal ready to attack. It was the most hateful look she had ever seen in her life.

She was certain she was going to die now that he knew she wasn’t Elizabeth.

Chrissy trembled so violently from fear that she felt she might faint. It was as if he were coming for her, roaring.

No, she couldn’t faint now; she tried to reach for the door, but she felt weak, her strength slipping away. She couldn’t faint and surrender to a killer; she couldn’t faint in front of a murderer and give herself up like that. If she passed out, she would die. She was trying to hold it together, but the fear was overwhelming.

"I can’t faint; if I faint, I’ll die. If I faint, I’ll never open my eyes again; he’ll kill me, and it will all be over," she thought desperately as darkness began to cloud her vision, everything spinning. The ground felt as if it were shifting beneath her feet, and the walls of the theater seemed to close in on her. If she fainted, she knew it would be the end. Chrissy felt her strength draining, her head spinning, her vision blurring. And then, everything went dark.

As the saying goes, no one who enters the Hawkins Theater comes back to tell the tale.

{to be continued...}

Thanks for reading! Leave a comment if u liked it and want more 🤍

[chunkofchaos]

The new beethoven over here folks.

[trenchcorporation]

Silly! ((BLOOD WARNING FOR SECOND VER))

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[maxphilippa]

shattered glass am i right

[siriusleee]

ii. sage green

Zombie Apocalypse AU | SIMON RILEY x f!READER

↳ SUMMARY: The world is trying to knit itself back together after fracturing apart. You're trying to put yourself back together with it; Simon Riley is just trying to stay alive. ↳ WORD COUNT: 2.5K ↳ TAGS: mentions of cannibalism, mentions of shooting things, mentions of dying. smut to come. canon typical violence to come. additional tags to come as the story progresses. female reader. no mentions of "your name". reader is given a nickname later on. nc-17. ↳ AUTHOR'S NOTE: I want to desperately thank @gazs-blue-hat, @lethargicluv, and @victoria-writes-sometimes for proofreading this for me when I was in an exhaustion field brain melt. If you'd like to help wake me up, my Ko-Fi is always open for commissions and donations. ↳ TAG LIST: There will not be a tag list for this story, as Tumblr has issues with letting me tag people. To get notifications of updates, please subscribe on AO3 or turn on notifications for my blog.

additional chapters | ao3

At first, you think it’s the sun warming the attic enough to be stifling, to wake you up from the heat pulling the air from the room. 

But your nose catches up with the rest of your brain when the acrid smell of fire catches your senses. You’re awake in an instant, shooting up from your spot. Blind panic overtakes you first; your hands scrambling in the darkness for something . Instinct has you reaching out for a fire extinguisher, for a way out of the room, fingers scrambling against the splintery wood before the rest of you catches up with the situation. It takes almost a second too long before your brain finally processes that there is no fire extinguisher, nothing to do but try to escape.

You scramble to tug your boots on, shoving your thermal blanket into your pack at the same time. Slinging it across your back, you fumble for your bow and arrow pouch; your fingers pull against the rope you’d tied to keep the attic door shut, and in the darkness, you can’t undo it. 

The blind panic starts to rage inside of you. Smoke is filtering faster through the cracks in the flooring, obscuring what little you could already see in the moonlight filtering in through the little attic window. 

“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself, repeating it louder as your fingers slip against the rope. “Fuck.”

When the hint of flames shows themself at the edges of the attic door, you abandon the attempts to pull the rope off. You pick your way across the attic, lungs screaming as the oxygen is pulled into the fire. The little window overlooking the back garden shatters easily under the weight of your bow slamming into it. But as you watch the glass shards tumble onto the roof, you know that even if you could slice yourself to bits and not attract the Biters, you would never fit through the window. Gulping down the fresh air, you try to hold it in your lungs as long as possible before you’re forced to turn back to the rest of the smoke-filled attic.

Your feet stumble against what you can’t see - you have to pull the rope away from the door. The only other option is to -

The floor falls from beneath your feet. Rotted drywall and insulation rain down with you; your back slams into something solid, a sharp pain shooting through your spine and rib cage. The blaze from the hallway illuminates the sage walls; as you try to catch your breath around the lack of oxygen and the pain spitting through you, you realize that you’ve crashed into the empty nursery.

From the first floor, just loud enough to be heard over the fire, the groans of the Biters come to you around the ringing in your ear. Struggling to breathe around the smoke and moldy insulation that fill your mouth, you scramble to your feet. The taste of iron coats your mouth; through the dirty window, you see a group of Biters congregating on the front porch of the little house.

Whatever human instinct has forced you to survive these past 5 years takes over; you push through the half broken bedroom door and stumble directly into a Biter. 

There was a saying - it slams into your brain as you watch the burning mass roll towards you - that whenever soldiers go to war and their adrenaline starts to pump, explosions turn into little “poofs” and gunshots no more than a “pop.” You wonder if it was the adrenaline that turned the Biter’s unearthly wailing into a soft whisper as it flails on the landing, hand reaching for your ankle. 

Without thinking, you kick out; the flames bite at your boots, at the skin that shows above the leather. The bottom landing is ablaze, the floor beneath you buckles; the house groans with the weight of the fire and the Biters groan and wail in hunger. Any minute the entire place is going to crumble down into a pile of burning bodies and dust and take you with it.

You stumble past the burning Biter, shoving it away with the end of your bow so that it falls down the steps. Feet heavy and lungs screaming from the lack of oxygen, you punch your way into the other bedroom. Without thinking, you throw yourself through the half open window.

The ground races up to meet you; you try to catch your feet beneath you, but you collapse into darkness instead.

The ringing in your ears is thunderous; the hands that pull at you try to rip you apart. In the darkness, you feel yourself slam into something hard and cold, feel hands slap at the fabric covering your legs. You try to lift yourself, to swing at the force but your body won’t do what your brain is telling you and you wonder if you’ve already been bitten and this eternal blackness is just the beginning of the end.

The ground pulls from underneath you and vaguely you realize that you’re moving. The growling of an ATV cuts through the darkness you’re hovering in along with the feeling of cold metal biting into your back. Your sight is the last sense to come - the sun trying to break through the horizon just barely illuminates the hulking figure driving the ATV - fuzzy at first and then coming into sharp focus. 

You thrash out, becoming keenly aware of ropes wrapped around your ankles and feet. You teeter dangerously on the back of the ATV as you roll. In the corner of your eye, you can see the entire village ablaze, the howls of the Biters nearly drowned out by the crackling of the flames. One large hand reaches back to grip the front of your shirt and pulls you back before you can fall off. Too scared to fall off of the back, you lay still.

Like a deer, dressed and ready for slaughter, you ride on the back of the ATV until the flames of the village are gone, and the forest swallows the two of you up. Heart in your throat, you wonder if finally, the body snatchers had gotten to you.

You struggle against the rope binding your hands together. If you can get your hands free, you can fight against him - you’d rather be subject to the Biters, to starvation, than end up the dinner of a savage from the woods. 

But the struggle is for nothing: there’s a blinding pain crawling up your legs, and you’re distinctively aware of a pain in your side that you think might be a broken rib. The inside of your mouth and throat are covered in the thick taste of ash and burning Biter and iron. Your soot lined lungs can barely pull in a breath - there’s just not enough strength for you to break free. 

The sound of the ATV changes to a lower purr and the vehicle jerks as the driver downshifts. You nearly tumble off the back, but your kidnapper’s hand reaches back around and grips your shirt again.

He doesn’t let you go until the ATV cruises to a stop beside a felled tree, propped up against a second fallen tree, ivy and moss trailing down from where the two meet. When he shifts in his seat to turn the ATV off, you see your bow and pack on the front of the ATV behind a dusty red gas canister and a rifle. 

You can’t tell if it’s the angle you’re laying at or if the guy is just huge; there’s not a chance in hell you can fight him off - especially not with the pain that’s radiating through you as the adrenaline wears off. 

But it kickstarts again when he turns to you - his eyes are dark in the shadows cast by his mask. A graying skull stares down at you, and you know he’s going to take you to a body farm, that you are fodder beneath his gaze. 

He reaches towards you; you jerk back, heart in your throat. The little animalistic part of your brain that’s kept you alive for so many years takes over; you thrash away from him, rolling off of the ATV and slamming into the ground. Your teeth clack, pinching your tongue in between, and fresh blood blooms in your mouth. 

“Stop it,” he growls out, peering at you over the edge of the ATV, annoyance written into the wrinkles around his eyes. 

You wiggle away from him in the dirt, but this time you don’t escape his hands as he grips the front of your filthy shirt and hauls you upright. 

You don’t know what to do, so you spit on him. Saliva and blood spray across his faded black jacket; he doesn’t let you go, and doesn’t even seem phased by your actions. Instead, he drops you down onto your feet; you teeter, struggling to stand with the rope wrapped around your ankles; he keeps one steady hand on your elbow to keep you from falling.

“That make you feel better?” He asks, voice rough and low. You keep your mouth shut; if he’s going to take you to a body farm, he’s not going to get you to talk or beg. 

“What were you doing there?”

The silence stretches through the forest; the man breathes heavy through his nose, the sound muffled by the black fabric and skull. This close you can’t tell if it’s real or fake, but you don’t want to find out. 

“Are you one of them?”

“One of who?” The question escapes you before you can stop it. But once it’s gone, you realize the ball is in his court - the only bit of power you had was your silence, and you gave it away.

“Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.” 

You chew on the possibilities, but you have to admit that if you don’t answer he may just leave you tied up here for the Biters to find. 

“I’m moving north, to where it’s too cold for them during the winter.”

It’s not a good enough answer; he squeezes your elbow. Beneath his fingers, the joints rub together, and you can’t help the yelp you let out.

“I was staying the night there! My group has stayed there for years on our way through.”

“Where’s the rest of your group?”

It’s iron and pennies to say it.

“They’re all gone; I’ve been on my own for the past year.”

He must believe something written on your face because his grip on your elbow loosens. Slowly, he reaches down to tug on the ropes binding your ankles and then your wrists until they fall loose. He keeps one hand on you as he drags you over to the ATV. 

“You’re not going to let me go?” Your voice rises in pitch with each word.

“Dunno who you might run back to.” 

He shoves your pack in your arms. Beneath it is another pack, this one dark black and dusty. He slings it onto himself, along with your bow and arrow carrier. The rifle also comes off of the ATV and over his other shoulder. He never lets go of the grip on your arm, pulling you around painfully as he moves.

“Go move the ivy out of the way,” he says, shoving you towards the two fallen trees. You eye the rifle on his back - it would drop you before you could get ten feet. So you follow his directions, pulling back the ivy. Behind it is a cut out in the hill, a dark pit, and for a moment you think he’s going to push you in. But then, without a sign of a struggle, he pushes the ATV into the hole and you realize it’s a hiding spot. 

He pushes you out of the way, rearranging the plant life until it again looks like just two trees toppled onto each other. With a smooth, practiced motion, the rifle slides into his hands, and he gestures toward the open forest with it.

“Start walking.”

You don’t know how far the two of you walk; the cold starts to seep through the thinning material of your boots, and with each step the burns and bruises you acquired during the house fire grow more painful - the sharp pinch in your rib makes it hard to breath, but you don’t want to show a sign of weakness. If he thinks you’re not eatable, he might just shoot you where you stand. 

But you know that if your feet are beneath you, you have a chance of running free.

The horizon grows gray with the threat of snow; some flurries that must have fallen in the nighttime cling to the highest branches of the tree. It isn’t until your feet are numb, and you can’t feel your pinky toes that you finally ask the question that’s been nagging at you for hours. 

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

“You can just slaughter me now if you think I’m going to let you take me to that farm.”

His footsteps don’t falter behind you, but when he speaks you can hear the amusement in his voice.

“I’m not going to eat you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The trees start to grow thicker around the two of you, the snow growing heavier on the limbs until finally, it starts to dust the ground. Your whole body is numb at this point, and whatever has been keeping you together is starting to fall apart. Your tongue is dry and fuzzy, stomach empty. You think for a second that he might be trying to walk you to death, that he might find some sort of pleasure in watching you break down as you walk.

The rough edges of a cabin peek out at you from the trees and snow. The barrel of his rifle digs into your back, pushing you towards the cabin. You stumble over your boots, nearly tripping from the weight of your pack and empty stomach. Your kidnapper herds you towards the door, pushing you out of the way to unlock it with a key tucked beneath his jacket until he can shove you inside.

Inside it’s dark and dusty; your eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness when the door finally shuts behind you, trapping you in the place with your kidnapper. A thread of fear tries to go through you at the thought of what he might be doing to you in the dark, but you’re too exhausted for your heart to beat faster. 

He leaves you standing there to fumble with something in front of you. A moment later his face is illuminated by an oil lamp blazing to life. It illuminates just enough of the room that you can see a small fireplace and little couch on the opposite sides and a little kitchenette you’re standing in. 

You stand awkwardly as he shuffles around the room, shrugging his pack off, lighting another oil lamp, but never dropping his rifle.

He turns towards you, gun held loosely in his hand and studies you over the top of his mask.

“What’s your name?”

[number1mephonelover]

more. itz been. like a day. i cant ztop thinking abt it.

will probably do more of 3gz zoon. idk tho

[st6rly]

gods no longer.

SYNOPSIS: love, as in the feeling, is fate. love, as in the choice, is conscious (or in other words, 4 times where zhongli gets close enough to the truth of the matter and the 1 time he does) | word count: 1.8k

characters: god!office worker!zhongli x deity!barista!gn!reader

categories: apocalypse au, modern au, angst, hurt / comfort, fluff, 4+1 fic

warnings: mentions of typical apocalypse stuff ( blood, injury, death, etc.), mentions of food & drinks, ooc zhongli sorry TwT

notes: i went a little too silly and related falling in love to the cycle and formation of a rock. ok the au sounds confusing but i promise it makes sense- also i ended up using parallels as a writing device way too much in this my bad :’D

surprise surprise @lychniis / @ainescribe !! im your astro twerk secret santa :DD im sorry if this fic is messy in structure and probably doesn’t make sense in the long run but i hope you enjoy some parts of it at least TwT happy holidays !!

I. WEATHERING & EROSION.

The world was crumbling to its knees and yet, all Zhongli could think about was how his morning tea was bitter. 

Gravel crunched under his foot, topsoil turned over to reveal the small bits of life that had yet to fall through the cracks. The pavement had split, rumbles having left long and jagged fractures in the ground and buildings tilted. Sun bore down on skin battered with small cuts and contusions, a layer of dirt covering both his forearms and the formerly white dress shirt he wore. His shoes scuffed along the deserted road, steps deliberately languid. He screamed, thrashed around in his mind, prayed that others had survived. In the back corners of his mind, he hoped none did. 

Selfish; maybe that’s all he’d ever be to the people. Gold ran down his arm, trickled from the punctures left from stone and debris. The ichor in his veins served as a shackle of what he could not have and Zhongli stared down at it in disdain, fist clenched. For the better, he assured, pulled free a steel pipe from the framing of a store, and continued on. Gods couldn’t die by a knife to the throat. They could if forgotten. 

Zhongli knew he tore a seam in the dress shirt he wore when range of motion wasn’t such a struggle, able to lunge himself up over fallen street lamps and what once used to be apartments with ease. There was no destination and he was sure that if he had one, it wouldn’t be standing. 

He walked because if he didn’t, then nobody else would. Zhongli does not die easily; not in this way at least.

II. TRANSPORTATION.

The world was at an end; you wished it had come sooner or not at all. 

You pulled yourself from beneath the rumble and broken frames of the shop you had so dearly loved, clawed a hand through sharp edges and chipped paint, to come face to face with the remains of flattened machines and shattered glass panes. The first thing you noticed was the front entrance that withstood the initial fracture. The next was the blood and dusty limbs that laid on the floor. 

The grief was worn like sticky sunscreen on a beach day, a protective and mocking cover over your skin as you ran, scuffed sneakers thundering along ridges and bumps in the uneven lane. In hindsight, it was stupid of you to exert so much force when there wasn’t a place you could run to; you just needed out, to scrub the dirt and grime and blots of red and gold until the only thing that was leftover was whatever shred of dignity you still kept. Flee and leave it all behind, there was nothing for you anyways.

Until him.

“It’s you,” the man stated, finger poised accusingly, “you gave me the wrong order of tea.” 

You blinked back owlishly, lost for words as he pointed at you with a scowl. Hesitation in your actions, you slowly lowered the plank of wood with one nail stuck through it in your hands and squinted your eyes. The sleeves of his shirt were ripped and rolled to his biceps, hair tied back loosely, and posture high on alert as he clutched onto a metal rod with a death grip. 

“And you are…” you trailed off, voice cracked and lips dried as your throat protested the strain of letting the words out. It had been months since the dirt beneath your feet started to split; weeks since you’d seen another share the means of language. 

“An unsatisfied customer.” The reply was blunt and left no room for argument. It was not a final answer. 

If he hadn’t just been locked in a stare down with you mere minutes ago or held himself in such a manner, you would’ve snorted and laughed it off. 

“Listen, I really don’t think now is a good time to be talking about tea.” you groaned, a heavy sigh falling from your lips. “It’s not like I can fix it either.” 

The stranger responded with silence. His eyes darted quickly over your figure and you shifted your weight from foot to foot.  

“Travel with me.” 

You blinked once, twice, stared at him until your eyes burned and forced you to close them again. Words died out on the tip of your tongue, the embers and syllables smothered out in the muddled mess of your own thoughts.

“What?” you croaked out. He looked back as if it were common sense. 

“You’re one of them.” It was only after those words that you realized he had fixed his gaze to your arm. A shaky breath left your lips, the sting of the cut underneath a flimsy wrapping of torn cloth grounding. You could feel it now, the way the liquid gleamed when caught under the light, its brilliance shown as it started to trickle down your skin again. 

One of them. 

“There’s nothing left here,” he muttered, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Your jaw went tight and nails dug into the soft flesh of your palms. 

“You think I don’t know that?” The words were bitter as they left your throat. “Do you think I’m that detached?” 

He ignored you. 

“Come with me,” he took a step closer and held out a hand. “You won’t be forgotten.” 

It was neither warm or inviting, but enticing nonetheless. He knows, you calmed yourself, he knows he can’t kill me. 

“If not for that, then for the company?” 

Blindly, stupidly, you took it.

III. DEPOSITION.

Tin cans rattled softly, the noise muffled by the worn fabric of what you called a backpack, as you rummaged through food and water supplies. The box you pulled out was supposed to be white, the plastic smooth and red cross marked in the centre bright and bold. Somewhere underneath the dirt, it still was. 

He’s all too familiar with the furrow of a brow and the soft brush of fingers against his shoulder. He suppressed a shiver when your breath tickled his neck, held in a sigh when you blew gently on the cut after cleaning. With careful movements, you wound the bandage around his arm, the occasional ghost of your skin against his startling. Zhongli found it wasn’t unwelcome. 

It was you who broke the silence. 

“You aren’t who you say you are,” you stated, words hushed and still rough around the edges. He locked eyes with yours, searched them only to come up empty; not a single bit of malice or spite was present in the look you gave him. That was either a good thing, or an equally bad one. The ground was stained with tinges of gold, bits that clumped up dirt, left shimmer in its wake. The small pads of cotton used to wipe the bleeding were stained vibrant yellow. 

He barked out a laugh; the sound was foreign to his ears. 

“You’re one of them. One like me,” you whispered when his voice died down. 

“And we’re different in every way,” he said, hand clutched to his ribcage at the cramp that began to form. “Why do you insist on fighting so hard?” 

“What?” 

“We’ve lost what makes us like this. Why do you continue to try?” 

“We were, I was, never a proper god to start with,” you spoke carefully, considerate. “It was never up to me what went on.” 

“In the blink of an eye,” Zhongli matched your tone, “you could wish this all better.” 

“Just as you could make it all the worse.” You hummed and leaned your head back, eyes averted away from him. “I guess I just found something worth trying for.”

Zhongli’s heart pounded.

IV. METAMORPHISM.

“Grab my hand!” 

The Earth groaned and rumbled, opened its mouth, swallowed up buildings and wires without much thought. You braced yourself against the broken chain fence, glancing up at where Zhongli stood up on the roof opposite from you, having made it before the cracks had begun again and the distance grew. 

Grave desperation set his nerves alight, every fibre alert, and arm reached out to where the joint could’ve pulled loose had he gone farther. His face pulled into a cruel grimace as the concrete ledge of the other building dug into his stomach below the ribs and something in him burned, shouted and throbbed beneath layers of flesh and bones, in an intelligible mess of tightness and ache. 

“Please, Y/n!” he shouted. Begged. He’d bare his throat to you in a heartbeat if it meant you believed in this, believed in him.  

You jumped. His heart dropped to his stomach, legs weak, when your hand grasped his wrist and met his eyes. Feet dug into the cracks of the barrier, he pulled you to him, the quiet gasp of relief he let out once you touched down on solid ground lost to the wind. 

God can’t die. Gods cannot die, he repeated to himself, a mantra of painful reassurance. Zhongli’s hands melded with the fabric of your shirt, cloth twisted in a similar way that could only mock the feeling in his chest. 

You tugged on his hand, laced your fingers slowly with his before the rumbles started again. Down the both of ran, across unsteady roofs and rusted fire escapes, until the sky turned dark and the shakes stopped, 

Adrenaline, nerves, the worry he’d lose you again, whatever it was, he fell for it. It was winter when he first kissed you under the moonless sky; it felt more like early spring with the warmth that still laid heavy in the air and the dry crust of dirt that coated everything. 

“You should have just let me,” you had mumbled against his lips the same night. 

“I made a promise and I intend to keep it,” he replied back, the words sitting just right as he spoke. “I wish it were more. You deserve more.”

“This,” you hummed, a hand cupping his cheek, “is more than enough.”

V. ROCK MELTING.

It was summer when the ground beneath his feet first began to give out and the streets ran rampant with silence; it’s summer again when he found a new life with you.  

This was all laughable, really. Hands intertwined, the sun that peaked over the horizon and set alight to the dust in the air, the domestic nature, it all was a joke. You’d, turned and brushed stray hairs from his face with light touch and features set into a grim, yet foolishly hopeful, face. 

He gazed at you like you could craft the universe anew, match his destruction blow for blow and reverse everything. In some sense, you could. Not this one though. 

“You could find them again, you know,” you mumbled, not so he couldn’t hear but it felt right. “What would you do if you did?”

Zhongli paused, licked his lips as he stared out into the open expanse of the wasteland. 

“My love is a choice,” he smiled as he spoke, a delicate thing, “and that choice is you.” 

“Took you long enough,” you chuckled with a soft nudge to his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Zhongli released a long sigh, squeezed your hand and traced an outline around the joints of your thumb, before letting out a small ghost of a chuckle when you squeezed back. How low he had fallen, mad at something as simple as the grime that separated the true touch of your palm in his. “It did.”