#savior complex is coming in clutch

[sketchyfandomgirl]

After reading the comic about Ghost’s past, I so desperately want to make an x reader of Simon meeting a fellow medic who was captured by Roba after a failed rescue mission and the man gets a crumb of hope with his new prisoner friend 😭

[dwaekkilinos]

savior complex (pt. 1) | bang chan

summary: Your father had wielded you to become a machine; a weapon. And a machine you would become. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat. He taught you how to protect; specifically how to protect your family. But he never taught you how to survive with other groups, especially when their leader seems to have it out for you.

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | strangers/enemies to lovers + zombie apocalypse au, angst, fluff, smut word count: 19.9K chapter summary: you'd always known the end, and it had always known you. you just didn't know the beginning would be waiting for you when your time finally came. warnings/notes: zombie apocalypse au so . . . blood, guts, gore, sad, sad, sad. beware. lots of inspo from every zombie thing i've literally ever seen (twd, tlou, train to busan, etc.), typos probably, parental death, actions of violence and murder, religious TRAUMA, religious undertones, reader does not believe in god but she's deeply influence by it bc of her childhood and it haunts her, reader comes from a small toen and it's not explicitly stated where she's from but hollows are mentioned, hunting, reader wishes for death multiple times, chan goes by chris, no smut in this chapter but there will be in every chapter after, i think that's it but let me know if i missed anything, and enjoy! <3

chapter one: i know the end (and it knows me) ( series masterlist | next → )

Sometimes you felt like a ghost. It happened when the world was so silent that you could almost hear the beat of your unsteady heart pounding in your chest; when everyone else was asleep and you stayed up, eyes watchful and searching for threats. That was when you felt like the lost faces that haunted you.

It hadn't always been this way, at least not until the world ended. Most of the time you tried not to think about it. You tried not to think about much except survival these days.

Because that was smart. Surviving was smart. Anything else was stupid; anything else would get you killed.

Ironic, how you used to fear that very thing. Death. Now it was all you knew.

The apocalypse had come.

You knew how it sounded. Honestly, you didn't believe it when it first happened. You had been too afraid to admit it; too scared that if you did, you could never go back. There was no going back anyway. That was something you wished you had known back then. And as you sat on a log in the middle of those dark woods, overlooking your group who all slept silently while you stayed up, bloody knife in hand, and eyes watching for threats, it was hard to ignore the fact that this was your cruel reality.

Because the reality of it all was: you were living on borrowed time, trying your best to do right by your father and keep your family alive. You'd faltered that night, dotting the line between protection and predation.

And now . . . now you couldn't help but think about the beginning. How you would've never ended up like this if things had been different. But things hadn't been different. Things had happened exactly the way they had, and it'd left you with rot in your bloodstream and hate in your heart.

That was what made you clutch the knife closer, nearly cutting your own flesh. Because things hadn’t been different, but they also hadn’t always been this way. You hadn’t always been like . . . this.

You supposed it was because it was easy to kneel when you were just a girl. It was easy to ignore the ever-present scabs on your knees when you didn’t know any better. It was easy to tear yourself down the middle, pulling stitches from the back of your legs when you knew it’d all be re-sewn by morning. It was easy back then when the world hadn’t died.

From the moment you were brought into the world, barely kicking and silently screaming like it was a sin to voice your pain, you had been taught to be that girl; that easy, complacent girl with not so much as a rotten thought. From the moment you were born, you had been taught the foundation of the Church and its vocation, and it had carved its way into your rotten flesh even when the world was no more.

At age four, you were in the pews, listening to the words of God while creating imaginary friends in the statues. At age seven, communion. Then at age eight, you had begun to become an altar girl, fetching and carrying, ringing the altar bell, bringing up the gifts and the book, among other things—essentially being a servant to God. At age fourteen, confirmation. At fifteen, your mother doused you in holy water before your first date with a boy from school. Sixteen, heartbreak, praying to God and begging for him to help ease it all, only to be left with no response . . . even after all you had done for him.

Seventeen and the stitches down your legs remained undone, the scriptures now more of a question than a statement. Then . . . eighteen, the timer clicked into place, and you felt yourself begin to rot along with the world, forcing you to realize your entire life was just a cycle of kneeling before God, praying, and asking for forgiveness for your sins.

It had been easy to kneel when you were just a girl; when you didn’t know any better. And then it happened.

It.

Armageddon.

The Rapture.

The fucking apocalypse.

It didn’t matter what you called it. Doomsday was still doomsday even dressed up with fancy scriptures and sacred wine.

The apocalypse had come. Humans were deemed horrible creatures by some almighty who you didn't give a fuck to acknowledge. It didn't matter. Someone or something had deemed the human race unworthy.

The apocalypse had come, and you were deemed worthless. You were made to die. It was inevitable.

The apocalypse had come. There was talk that it had begun in the North. But much wasn’t known in your town. Now you realized they tried to keep it a secret. It was a way of controlling everyone, you supposed, but not like it mattered much now.

That was just how things were. Your mother refused to let you and your younger sister watch the news, refused to let you search anything about what was going on in the world, adamant that everything was lies and those lies would cloud your mind. A religious town bordering on a commune that resembled a cult perhaps just a tad too much. You realized all this now, of course, but back then your knees were still covered in scabs from kneeling before a God who would never come. Back then your mother kept you kneeling until the final bell tolled, her hand firmly clutching your shoulder to keep you in place.

You were only eighteen then. And while the outside world was torn apart month by month, its people haunted by death piled upon death, your town continued on as it always had. The whispers of a war that would end the world were just whispers, covered up by scriptures that the local preacher would sight every Sunday morning just after you’d collected the eggs from the chicken coop and put on your best dress like your mother had always taught you.

But it was different for you, even back then. Because while it had been easy to kneel when you were a girl, you had begun to grow. Eighteen then, but you had begun to see the flaws within the Church when you were sixteen. And by eighteen, you knew better.

By eighteen, you could see the sweat beading along the preacher’s forehead. By eighteen, you could hear wavering in your mother’s voice when she proclaimed that this was just a test. That this was meant to happen. That the Bible had always predicted this, and if you remained faithful, then you would be saved . . . spared.

But by eighteen, you knew better.

It took one quiet night and a hammering heart for you to sneak into your father’s study and head straight for this desktop. It took even less time to discover what had become of the world. One. Two. Three clicks and then . . .

You remembered the choking feeling bubbling up your chest as your eyes scanned the news articles. A virus. One so horrible and unforgiving that it could take a healthy vessel, and within twenty-four hours, the body would succumb to death. But, you’d seen stuff like this before, right? You knew there had been plenty of diseases and viruses and they all had cures. They all had to have cures. They had to.

That was just the thing: no matter how hard you looked, you couldn’t find any article that explained how this virus came about. It was unknown, deadly, spreading rapidly, and there was no way of telling when it’d reach your town. It was just . . . just . . . (It was the first time you truly felt helpless.)

You remembered staying up with the sun, looking for answers, only to come out empty-handed. And when your father discovered you in his study that morning, you nearly confessed right away, sobbing into his arms. But no shame was brought upon you that day.

Your father had been a good man. He had loved you so. He had loved his family, no matter the consequences or conditions.

This town, your town, was small. It consisted of around only three thousand people give or take, all of which were either Christian, secluded, or . . . your father. In all the years you had been alive, not once had your father stepped into the Church. You never asked. You never worried. Your mother just always told you your father was busy every single time, and you believed her because back then, you’d trusted her with all of you.

As you grew, your suspicions of him did, too, but you remained silent as you always had in life. And it was only until that morning when he wrapped you in his arms and let you cry into his shoulder, did you realize why he never entered the Church, why he never spoke the prayers your mother praised, why neighbors would talk of his name only in hushed conversations.

He didn’t believe.

No, he believed in something just not . . . this sacred word your town so desperately worshipped. And that morning, he told you the truth. From his childhood to how he ended up in a town like this. He told you it all, and then he told you the truth. He told you how your mother was scared (how she always had been) and how one day he hoped with enough trying, she’d see the world for what it was ( . . . she never did). And then he told you about the virus, and everything was so much clearer.

The town had everyone convinced this was some kind of test. There was no virus to them. This was the reaping. The scriptures were true to them. And so every Sunday, you were forced to acknowledge that Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death—the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse had come to earth with the power to destroy humanity.

That was how it had been explained to your town, and all its people believed. A sickness had struck the world, yes, they told that much truth, but they chalked it all up to being some kind of plot point in God’s plan. To top it off, it was said that if the townspeople all repented and did right by his name, then salvation would be given.

That was what was told, and that was what was believed.

You remembered the preacher’s voice even now.

Then I saw when the Lamb broke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, "Come." I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer.

— Revelation 6:1–2

That scripture haunted you just as your father’s face did, but back then you hadn’t realized the detriment it would have on you. Back then, you played your part. Back then, you dressed as your mother advised, went to church, and listened, and then, when all was said and done and your mother had gone to her room, you snuck off to accompany your father on his hunts. And during those times, you’d learn the truth.

While the two of you hunkered down, waiting for deer to pass through your side of the woods, he told you about what was going on with the rest of the world. He explained how the CDC had claimed this thing; Pestilence (as your town believed) was some kind of virus, yes, only they wouldn't release the survival rate except for a few things that stated it was deadly, spread rapidly, and anyone could have it, but by the time symptoms had started to kick in, it would be too late.

As the weeks went by, as the more hunting extravaganzas you went on with your father piled up, his news became more worrisome. At first, the virus was contained in the North of the world, but as it took more lives and less information about it was being provided to the public . . . people began to panic. Hysteria spread throughout the world. Cases of this unknown virus peaked, and the government released statement after statement informing the public that face masks would be required to prevent the virus from spreading and travel restrictions would soon be put into place.

Only by that time, it was too late.

Carriers of this unknown virus had already traveled far and near, spreading the disease throughout the world. This so-called Pestilence might have only been given reign to a quarter of the world, but his disease had spread farther than his radius.

And while you had been young, you realized that this virus had only one purpose: to kill. There was no survival rate. No hope.

The world shut down soon after more and more people started dropping like flies, succumbing to the miserable disease that left them with boils and blisters covering their skin. Hospitals became overrun. Schools were wiped out with kids coming home with this deadly virus. Workplaces were abandoned, the people wishing to stay at home with their families, too afraid to step outside without any real knowledge of how this virus worked.

Your town remained oblivious, too, as the region shut down, gates being made so no one could enter or leave. It was safer that way they claimed. All of those who could be saved would be saved and helping those seeking a refuge was against the rules. It all felt like some kind of sick plan if you had anything to say about it.

By the time your father had taught you how to shoot your first deer without you sniffling in fear, Vaccines were finally attempted, but nothing worked; the disease only spread, and more people died.

Then . . . it all just stopped.

But your town continued to spread its lies.

The story remained the same even all these years later. You remembered how while you had learned the virus was supposedly coming to an end, your town still painted the picture of the Horsemen. Tales of Pestilence’s reign still remained.

They went on and on about how he rose from the depths of Hell. Pestilence had come. He, who sat on his white steed, had a bow, a crown that had been gifted to him by his gods had come, and when he had, he went out conquering. And so he did.

Until he was put to rest; until his conquering had come to an end. You listened with half a heart as the preacher went on and on about how his time had ended, yes, but this was not the end. All you had to do was keep praying, keep repenting, keep . . . kneeling, and you’d be saved.

But you knew better.

While others would attend midnight mass in addition to morning, you claimed you had to pray on your own, and when your mother had left with your sister on her hip, you snuck off with your father to learn of the world. You snuck off to better your shooting arm, to seek comfort in the only person who seemed to have their head screwed on right, to shoot ducks and geese and deer and everything in order to keep your town fed while everyone else prayed to a God that wasn’t doing half your work. And yet, every time, every kill, your father knelt beside the animal and prayed, until you had begun to do the same.

You weren’t sure why he did it. You had never asked. You never thought you needed to. (Now you would’ve done anything to know the answer.)

And so . . . life went on like that. Completely cut off from the world without the help of the internet your father provided for the two of you, life went on.

The virus no longer spread further, and many believed it was all just some hoax. News stations came to life again, but not much else was restored. That was how everyone found out the virus had concluded. Hell, even you remember being twenty-one years old, having your first legal shot with your father in the middle of the woods while the two of you watched news reporter after news reporter claim the virus had mutated and mutated so much to the point our bodies had accumulated a natural resistance to it.

But you couldn't believe it.

Three whole years of this deadly disease taking out population upon population, and then it all ceased. It felt almost too good to be true.

Of course, the town believed this too. Pestilence had conquered, and that was just the problem.

Every day, day in and day out, words spread throughout the hollow, the word in the Church mutated each week, even your mother who had spent the last three years praying to Jesus, Joseph, and Mary; your mother who had gone through rosary after rosary begging for God to have mercy on your family; your mother who had always forced you to attend those days at church on Sunday went around the house, boarding up the windows and hiding the special silverware in the basement, claiming that he would come next.

He has conquered, she had hissed over your shoulder when you and your father came back from one of your hunts.

Pestilence's reign had ended (according to your mother, who you were almost certain had a few screws loose). You didn’t believe it for a second, ignoring your mother's desperate ramblings.

War will come, she warned.

War will come.

But . . . you knew if something did come, it wouldn’t be this War.

And then . . . then he did.

The first sighting of the dead coming back was spotted just months after the virus that had plagued millions had ceased. And this time . . . the town allowed its folk to see the reports. Even your mother had brought the television from the basement to witness the dead rise . . . or rather . . . War. The news stations had captured a recording of these . . . people; people who had suffered from the virus coming back, and then with only their teeth, tearing any live thing apart. The recording was aired all across the world, fear, and hysteria spreading like wildfire.

The government was still up and running at this point with only one mission: to shoot down these seemingly reanimated corpses before they could cause more harm. People believed this to be a fluke, but your mother's words had stuck with you.

War will come.

It was all a little hazy now, but you remembered bits and pieces of the world back then. War had been quick, ruthless, and determined.

This was no man. This was War.

And it all became clear soon after.

While Pestilence had been silent, War had wanted an audience.

The things he could do; the people he could hurt . . . it was all so gutting. Those lost to the virus kept coming back, all with one purpose: destruction. With one bite, their victims would soon fall ill to that same virus, and then once it had taken their body, they’d come back, reanimated with the same gruesome purpose.

The government finally fell when the dead could no longer be stopped. Quarantines dropped, people ran, and everything just . . . stopped. These creatures tore through cities, sinking their teeth into civilians. And you watched it all on the television, until that, too fell, leaving the rest of the world in the dark.

That was when you realized just how real all of this was. That was when you realized the past three years of hunting with your father was not just something the two of you would look back on and laugh about one day when this virus was over. No . . . it seemed . . . it seemed you couldn’t quite see the end or maybe . . . maybe you could and that was the problem all along.

Your father, the man he was, tried to remind you that this was not War; that this was not the supposed God’s plan everyone was convinced of in your godforsaken hollow. And you tried to hear him, but for a while, you wished to be like everyone else in the town. You wished you could believe this was some greater plan. You wished you could believe that this was all because of some Horseman . . . but you knew better, and your father seemed to know this as well.

(And yet, when you thought back on it now, the stages in which the world ended still presented themselves as the Horsemen in your troubled mind.)

Because, well, you supposed that was truly when the world had ended—the day War came.

War will come, your mother had warned, and you knew that to be true the day the electricity stopped working. War had come, and he'd taken civilization with him. And while he reigned over the quarter of the world he'd been gifted, the rest of the world lay in the dark, trying to navigate throughout this new world.

From time to time you had heard talk of distant wars. You, however, had never seen one.

But War's ruthless hand still reached your town.

There was no news or contact with the outside world other than the people you could see with your own eyes. No transportation, no government, no nothing. It was said that cars had even been abandoned on highways as people tried to leave town to find their families. But they never got far; not with this newfound order bestowed upon the earth.

Because truly . . . War did not need to come to earth to corrupt it.

The government had fallen, the world had ended, the apocalypse had begun and that was all it took for chaos to ensue. People became their worst selves at the end of the world, you'd been told all your life through media upon media. But you had to disagree. You thought, perhaps, the end of the world brought out who people truly were deep inside. It allowed people to let go of civility.

And you discovered people really were perhaps even worse than this supposed War himself. Or rather a product of War and his righteous hand.

(Although, how righteous could he truly be?)

While War reigned, the rest of the world scavenged. Your family stood stagnant in your childhood home, holding up there for as long as you could. It was still warm when the second wave hit. You knew you'd need to find a different shelter when the time came.

The cold wasn't your only problem either. People were at their worst. When the news broke out in your town, the scriptures they held so dear began to fall apart. A lot left, some stayed, and others turned on each other, leaving houses with bloodstained splatters and a fear of thy neighbor. Your family stayed, however. Your mother read scriptures every day. Your father recited the truth. And they argued, while you sat by the window, terrified out of your mind as you watched the empty streets.

That was when you realized another truth about yourself. You were just about to turn twenty-two, the world had gone to shit, and you had never been so scared. Pestilence. War. Famine. Death. Their names raged on inside your head and it was as if you were still just a young girl, kneeling in church despite the scabs. Except now, you were a girl who could no longer kneel in church, and yet you were still so scared.

It felt cruel. Perhaps even unreal.

The scriptures had predicted this—the four harbingers coming down to scorn the earth. But you hadn't believed it. You were forced to now.

It was War’s reign back then. But Death would come one day. He had come to kill you all; to finish off everything his brothers hadn't touched, and one day he would.

It had been predicted. The words stuck in your head even now.

When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, "Come." I looked, and behold, a pale horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.

— Revelation 6:7–8

Your mother told you long ago of these scriptures. When you were a child, you'd cover your head with your blankets, hiding from the mysteries of the night. Somewhere in your innocent mind, you'd convinced yourself the devil himself would find his way into your room, wrap his bony hand around your ankle, and drag you to the pits of Hell.

Back then you'd feared death. You'd done everything to steer far from its clutches.

She’s afraid of the world, your peers would hiss under their breath, not knowing you'd heard every word. And you knew they were right. You knew you had always been a scared kid, trying your hardest to keep the monsters at bay.

You wished you'd realized there had been no real monsters . . . yet. You would've lived more. Now you knew the consequences.

Now there was no more living, just surviving.

Still, sometimes you found yourself missing it; missing life. It was a bitter thought—what could've been had the world not ended all those years ago.

Back then—before the end—you'd feared death.

How far will this go? you remembered thinking back then when it was still War’s reign. How long until things are normal?

You didn't have the stomach back then to come to terms with the truth. You barely remembered it now.

But you did remember the day everything truly changed for you.

Up until that day, you'd been following your father's orders, huddling up in your home with your mother and little sister as the four of you survived day by day. Then . . . your house had been broken into, the intruder coming in through your window.

Back then you had feared death. You had thought you were going to die.

You'd thought this up until the very last scream ripped through your throat just as your father emerged from the shadows, a look on his face you’d never seen, moments before everything went red. You remembered that to this day. While everything else was blurry, that moment was clear. You could still feel the blood splatter on your face as you watched your father—the man who used to tie your shoes for you before you hopped on the school bus—kill a man before your very eyes, ripping out his jugular with his bare teeth.

Once a girl who could no longer kneel in church, became one painted with the blood from another. And you remembered a small part of you—the part that had once knelt so much her knees had turned to scabs—that this was all War’s fault.

You thought it until you watched the man pale, falling to your childhood bedroom floor with a thud. You remembered how his eyes stayed wide open, locked on you as he gurgled and choked on his blood, bleeding out onto your pink carpet. He didn't blink. Not once. Not even at all. They stayed cold and empty as your father breathed heavily above him.

And then you looked at him.

Your father was a good man. He was kind and just, despite the town. He believed in science and facts. He wanted the truth. But none of that mattered if his family was at stake.

Your father was a good man. He loved you, and he would’ve done anything for you.

Your father was a good man.

Your father had ripped out another man’s jugular in front of you.

Your father was a good man.

Your father had killed someone.

This was the end. You knew it, and it knew you, too.

(It wasn’t talked about, and you never brought it up again. He simply embraced you in a tight hug and kissed your forehead, leaving a smudge of blood from the man in doing so, and whispered apologies that would never sink deeper than your skin.

(Now you wished you would’ve told him you understood. Now you would’ve looked at him and seen an image of yourself staring right back. Now you would’ve hugged him back.))

That was all it took before your father took it upon himself to gather your mother and little sister, put all necessities in the car, and collect enough portable gasoline as he could before the four of you set off down the road. Where you were going was undetermined. There was no knowing . . . because there was nowhere to go.

The world had ended. There was nothing left. You just had to go.

You have to grow up. No more kid stuff, your father said to you that night on the road while your mother and little sister were fast asleep in the back of the car. One day I might not be here to protect you. You have to learn to protect yourself.

And you'd promised him you would. Because you had to. You had been old enough then, after all. You had been twenty-one . . . technically an adult.

(Now, however, you realized you had still been too young. Twenty-one wasn't old enough to face the end of the world.)

But . . . what happens when a scared young girl is forced to grow up too soon? She turns into a machine.

Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat.

Your father had borne that burden back then, when you first set off on the road. The car hadn't lasted long. Not that it mattered. The world was a wasteland anyway. Walking from town to town on the vacant streets and highways was nothing new now.

You just have to survive, he kept telling you. Survive long enough to keep them alive.

And you always knew what he meant. He was training you for the day when he would be no more. Because when that day came, you would be the one left in charge. He'd turned you into a machine because that was the world you lived in. You were the oldest. Your sister was barely five years old back then. And your mother . . . your mother who once believed this was all some greater plan, was now convinced that if she prayed hard enough it'd stop Famine from following after his ruthless brother.

It was your job to remember what your father had taught you when Pestilence first came to reign—how to hunt, how to shoot a shotgun, and now . . . how to survive.

And when Famine came; when you caught sight of the words Famine has risen spray painted on a billboard on the side of a highway, reminding you of your sick home. It was then you finally learned how to survive. You didn't realize how hard it would be until a year after Famine's birth, your father had passed because of you (because of a stupid decision that you had made which you still couldn't bring yourself to acknowledge).

Survival became all that you knew after that.

Your father was gone. It was just like he had warned. You were in charge now, and you had one purpose: keep your family alive.

The burden became yours to bear.

This was your purgatory and you'd do well to repent for what you'd done; for the man you'd sent out to die; for the father you'd lost.

Survive, survive, survive. It was all you knew.

And when the final Horseman rose, you knew what you had to do. It didn’t matter if it killed you, you couldn’t let your family die at the hands of one of those . . . creatures.

Death had risen. The entire world was a wasteland filled with undead and wars made by man.

If you crossed paths with one of those creatures and let them lay a finger on your family, your oath to your father would be broken. Death would kill you all.

So you kept going, trying to outrun the inevitable.

Because you had to. For him. For your father. For the ghosts that haunted you.

Your father had wielded you to become a machine. And a machine you would become.

Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat.

The routine was ingrained in your brain, going on and on like a mantra. You couldn't escape that. Not that it mattered. Survival mattered. Keeping your group, your sister, your mother, and your family alive mattered. They were all that mattered. You would skip as many meals as your body would let you if it meant they'd stay fed.

Sometimes you found yourself laughing at how naive you had been in the past. At twenty-five now, you were equal parts machine and woman, still oozing blood when wounded despite your protests. You didn't tremble at the sight of blood now. You didn't fear death.

When you were a kid, death was your greatest fear. Now, you envied it. Envied the fact you had to walk the earth; the same earth the dead destroyed. Because you couldn't die. That was the harsh truth: you couldn't die.

You'd feared death for so long and now as you sat awake, keeping watch while your group slept, you yearned for the clutches of death to drag you into nothingness. It was almost laughable.

In a world where people now fought for their lives, trying to outrun the dead, you wished to succumb to death. You knew it was wrong, and you'd never speak it aloud, but you yearned for it. This world was shit. Complete and utter shit, and you wanted to give up. Everything in you wanted to just wait like some brainless sitting duck and let Death or disease or even those wretched beasts you heard groaning in the dead of night have their way with your hollow body.

But you couldn't . . . not when you promised your father you'd protect them. He'd died for you, and it was your duty to keep your family safe. Your duty.

You couldn't die, not when you had to keep them alive.

So you let yourself turn into a machine.

And a ruthless machine you had watched yourself become.

That night had been enough evidence of this. Because that night as you sat on a log, slowly dragging yourself out of the past and into the present, you realized one thing. A bloody knife sat in your hand while you watched over your sleeping group, eyes searching for any sign of the dead, and that was when it dawned on you that you had been right all those years ago—the end of the world brought out who people truly were.

You were a machine. You didn't feel. You couldn't.

Glancing down at the bloody knife in your hand, you realized you hadn't felt anything that night.

That night you'd done something you never thought you would. That night your group was attacked by a man with a gun; a man who wanted to harm; a man who had put his hands on your little sister. She was only eight going on nine, and she was your responsibility, and as soon as his hand clamped down over her shoulder while he held a gun to her head, threatening to pull the trigger unless you gave up all your food, you lost it.

Everything went black. You couldn't see. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't even think. You just felt this pure blinding rage.

When you finally regained your sight, you realized what you'd done—you'd killed the man.

No, killed was too vague.

Like the true machine you had become, you had slaughtered him; the bloody knife in your hand was evidence enough of that.

The man was dead, a chunk of his jugular ripped out while he clutched the many stab wounds piercing his stomach. And you . . . you stood above him, eyes wide, bloody knife in hand, and the bitter taste of blood on your tongue.

You'd never killed anyone before. You'd put people out of their misery, but you'd never taken another life like this. You'd never had to.

But you had that night.

And now you paid the consequences.

It had been hours since then. No one had spoken a word since. And your sister . . . your little sister had only looked at you once since then, and you could see the utter terror her round eyes held. Normally she would sleep by your side, but she'd curled up next to your mother that night.

She was afraid of you, and you couldn't blame her. You had once given your father the same look.

So you sat alone on that damned log, bloody knife in hand as you thought back on how you managed to end up in this Hell. Sometimes you felt like a ghost, and now you knew why.

Your brows pinched together. You couldn't help but think: is this what your father had intended?

How much of a machine had he meant for you to become? Were you supposed to clutch onto the part of yourself that was still human? Or had becoming a monster been part of the deal when you'd signed off your soul for machine parts?

You weren't sure. You weren't really sure of anything anymore.

Your sister had looked at you like you were one of the monsters that plagued your earth, slowly destroying it region by region.

Were you no better than the dead to her?

You swallowed hard.

Had you become a monster?

“You did what you had to do,” you heard a deep voice from behind you, perhaps answering your thoughts.

But you didn't jump as you turned to see Felix sit down on the log beside you, exhaustion weaving through his delicate features. You didn't speak a word, just stared at the side of his face for a second before you glanced back down at the bloody knife in your hand.

You did what you had to do.

You nearly laughed. It was just like him to say such things.

You see: Lee Felix had joined your group around the same time Famine took his reign, and ever since then he'd been following you around like your own personal shadow. That was three years ago now. Your father had saved him, offering him to join your family on the road. Perhaps your father had seen something in him. Or maybe he had just saved him simply because that was just who your father was: a hero.

Not that it mattered. You'd taken a liking to Felix, too. He was kind.

Kind had been rare back then. It still was.

And Felix stayed kind.

When your father passed, Felix stuck by you. Your mother had begun to look at you as if you were a stranger, and your little sister still had been too young to understand much. Felix had made life easier.

You'd taught him everything you knew partly because you needed to and partly because you liked being around him as if he were the younger brother you’d never had. Little bird, you called him . . . because you'd taught him everything. You'd taught him how to survive. And sometimes you thought maybe you would've been friends outside of this. If things were different, if you'd met in a world where the apocalypse hadn't happened . . . then you'd like to think you could have met; that your paths would've crossed.

But things weren't different. You weren't even sure if you could let him in entirely. Your friendship would surely put him in some sort of jeopardy. Because, really, it all came down to survival, and you needed him to live. You didn't care what happened to yourself. You just needed to stay alive long enough to make sure they'd all make it.

That still didn't stop the feeling of relief that washed over you as soon as you felt him lean into you, arm touching yours. He was trying to comfort you in the way that he knew, and you couldn't help but lean against him further.

He was still just as kind as the day you'd crossed paths.

But you?

Well . . .

“I ripped his throat out . . . " you heard yourself roughly mutter before you felt the words tumble from your tongue. You lifted a hand to your blood-stained lips and swallowed. “I ripped . . . throat . . . his . . . with my teeth.” You swallowed once again, harder this time as your eyes drifted to your little sister's sleeping figure. She had been so scared. You had done that. You had scared her. “She looks at me like I’m a monster.”

”You’re not."

“Lix."

“You’re not,” he reiterated, his voice as harsh as he could manage (which was not harsh at all) while he clutched your blood-stained hand and took it into his. “You did what you had to do.”

Your eyes flicked down to your hands. But you didn't look at him. You couldn't. You just kept thinking and thinking and seeing that look on your sister's face. And then . . . then you felt yourself say. ”She says all life is precious. She cries when we have to put down a squirrel for Christ’s sake. I should’ve known. I should’ve—”

”She’s just a kid."

“I didn’t have to kill him,” you continued. “There was a point where I could’ve knocked him out. I thought about it. And I still killed him.” Your eyes finally snapped to his then. “I wanted to kill him, Lix.”

A muscle in Felix’s jaw twitched. ”It’s people like him that make me wonder if this world got it all right,” he admitted after a second. “I’m glad he’s dead. I just wish I could’ve been the one to do it.”

Your breath hitched at his words, not because they'd shocked you . . . but rather because you found yourself agreeing. But that wasn't . . . right. Felix was kind. You were not. He was good, and you . . .

”You don’t mean that,” you mumbled, squeezing his hand. “You’re not . . . “

”Not what?” Felix countered, eyes searching yours. “Hmm? Not what?”

You blinked, your throat constricting. ”Too far gone,” you choked out.

His brows twitched, his expression softening. ”Neither are you."

His hand touched your face a second later, his thumb wiping the dried blood from your chin. You weren't a monster in his eyes. You were just his friend. He didn't fear you, but you knew he should've.

But for a second, you let yourself forget this. Instead, you closed your eyes, allowing him to clean your face of the man's spilled blood. And when he was done, your eyes fluttered open just in time to see him try to reach for the knife in your hand, probably to release it from your tight hold.

However, you shifted it out of his grasp. His eyes snapped to yours then, questioning.

You offered a weak smile—something you didn't do often, but would for him. ”Sleep,” you hummed, patting his shoulder. “We need your brute strength in the morning.”

”We need your brain more,” he countered, tapping a finger to your forehead.

”Sleep, little bird."

He rolled those round brown eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that."

Nevertheless, Felix listened to you. He shifted down onto the ground, resting his head on the log, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes closed. And you watched him until you were sure he was resting soundly. Then, your eyes went back to watching, making sure to keep your promise to your father.

But just as you were sure it was just you and the silence of the night again, you heard Felix’s voice filter through your ears, ”You’re not too far gone."

You swallowed hard but said nothing.

You're not too far gone.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

As if like some sort of phantom, your knees had begun to itch like they used to after mass all those years ago. For the first few days, you tried to ignore it, writing it off as poison ivy or not bathing for a few weeks, but even when you’d scratch, the itch would remain. You came to realize that this wasn’t something you could write off; this wasn’t something that hadn’t been caused by anything other than . . . you.

A few nights ago, you’d killed a man. You’d ripped out his throat with his teeth, and for a second too long, you’d enjoyed it. Now . . . now you wondered just how deep your guilt ran. Now you wondered if given the chance, would you do it again?

But you already knew the answer.

Your knees had begun to itch once again . . .

And you tried to ignore it. Honest, you did, but his screams; how easy it was to bite into his flesh; the bitter taste of metallic blood on your tongue which oddly tasted too similar to honey; the life in his eyes quickly dissipating as you towered over him like a predator to its prey; all of it kept playing in your head over and over again. You couldn’t escape it, not even when night came and you were forced to close your eyes.

His face was always there.

Sometimes you wondered if any of it had actually happened. Sometimes you wondered if none of this was real or if you even were. Sometimes you wondered if this man had been Death; if the tales your town preached had been real and this was your test.

Sometimes you wondered if you had failed.

And you knew you had.

At night, you could hear your mother whispering prayers under her breath, pleading to the heavens that she and her daughter would be spared. And every time, you knew which daughter she meant. Every time you knew she was praying to be spared from you. Every time you knew it was you who she feared the most in this world. And every time you wondered if one day he’d finally answer her prayers.

You couldn’t even blame her, because a few nights ago you’d done the one thing you’d never thought you’d have to do—kill a man. You knew you were some kind of fucked for that alone.

Then, last night, you began to wonder if this was how your father had felt. You began to wonder if this was why he was dead and not you. You wondered if he’d done it to save you, and to put himself out of his own misery.

And then you began to pray, too. You’d stopped believing in God years ago, but it was an old habit that you sometimes indulged in for some sick kind of comfort. And this time, in the dead of night, you’d shut your eyes and beg for your father’s ghost to return to you. You begged for just one more minute. One more minute and he could tell you how to deal with this; how to survive this, too, just as he had taught you how to endure everything else.

But no ghost ever came, only the perpetual darkness galloped in, consuming you whole.

Your father was gone, and it was all your fault. Guilt was your ghost, not him.

He would still be here if you hadn't—

"Mom thinks you've been possessed by the devil," your little sister's voice brought you out of your mind.

You blinked once. Then, you glanced down at her, taking note of her skeptical eyes and furrowed brows. It was almost as if she were inspecting your face, trying to decipher if you, her older sister, really were possessed as your mother had claimed.

It had been the first time your sister had spoken to you in the past week. The four of you had been walking through the woods, steering clear of the main roads ever since you’d come into contact with that man—the man whose blood you could still taste on your tongue.

She’d taken to walking hand-in-hand with your mother, just a few feet behind you and Felix as the two of you led the way into the unknown. You didn’t know where you were going. You never did. That was the thing about the end of the world—the only thing that mattered was surviving day by day. There was no end-point.

But today while you led the group through the woods, eyes searching for any rodents or small animals to capture for food, your head stuck in the past, your sister had taken the chance to walk into step with you. And those . . . those had been her choice of words.

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

And now with the world a ghost of itself, you thought perhaps maybe your mother could be right. You’d changed. The world had changed you. The old taste of blood on your tongue was evidence enough of that.

You’d killed a man. You’d ripped out a chunk of his jugular with your teeth and plunged the very knife in your belt into his flesh over and over again until you were sure he couldn’t do more harm.

Kill or be killed, sure, but . . .

. . . You’d still killed a man.

You’d actually taken a life.

(You weren’t expecting it to haunt you this much. But it had. You could still see his face, hear his voice, smell him, feel him. He was still very much alive in your mind, haunting you like a ghost.

It didn’t matter if he was more monster than man . . . you had still killed him. You had still taken a life without a second thought. His evils didn’t matter . . . guilt still seeped in.)

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

And maybe you had been.

That would’ve been easier to fathom.

But instead of voicing these thoughts aloud, you adjusted your backpack on your shoulders, touched a finger to the knife tucked into your belt to make sure it was still there and tightened your grip on your father’s shotgun in your hand before you finally spoke.

"Mom's off her meds," was all you offered. It was all you could say. And it hadn’t been what your sister was searching for.

Your sister stepped back, allowing you to walk alone. You knew you were losing her. You knew she barely trusted you now just as your mother stopped considering you a daughter.

And you couldn’t blame them.

The end of the world brought out who people truly were, and you were someone not worth saving.

The sun had begun to set when you finally declared you’d be stopping for the night. It wasn’t a solid resting place, which meant another night of no sleep on your part, but that didn’t bother you much anymore. All that mattered was there were no signs of the dead, no low groans in the distance, no immediate danger, and the small creek running just a few meters from your camp would provide just enough for you to wet your face and clean any dried blood from your skin. That was what mattered—a temporary sanctuary.

Felix had taken to accompanying your little sister to the creek, while your mother gathered small twigs and broken branches to add to the fire you had just started. But your eyes never stopped watching your little sister, keeping an eye on her to ensure no danger would reach her or Felix while you were occupied.

That was your only concern. Your second was food. There had to be some crawfish lingering in the creek that you could fry up. That was your second concern right after the fire was steady enough to last until nightfall.

With a soft sigh, you forced yourself to tear your eyes from your sister’s smiling face. You tried to ignore how she smiled at Felix while he splashed water at her. You tried to ignore the soft laughter you could still hear as you stabbed at the fire with a branch. You tried to ignore the thought that she’d never look at you like that; never laugh like that with you; never trust you like that again.

You tried to ignore how you had become more of a loose end your family needed to tie off, than a daughter or an older sister.

But you couldn’t. The thought was always there. There it would remain, you were sure of it.

Clenching your jaw, you added the branch in your hand to the fire, watching it crackle under the embers. And for a moment, you wondered what it would feel like if you were to reach forward and let the flames lick your fingertips.

Had he felt like this, too?

Had your father had these thoughts before he died for you?

Did he ever wonder if—

“You’re just like him, you know?” your mother nearly whispered, tearing you from your mind as she set down the pile of branches she had collected.

You glanced at her once, then glared into the fire. “Is that supposed to hurt me?”

She shook her head only once. “It should scare you,” she clarified, standing to her feet so she could tower over you once again. “God’s plan—”

“God’s plan?” you immediately spat out with a humorous scoff, now standing to your feet as well. You were taller than her now, unlike when you were a kid; unlike when you used to do everything she told you; unlike when she still considered you her daughter. “What does God’s plan have to do with my father?”

A muscle in her jaw twitched. “He has protected us this far. He couldn’t save your father. I’m worried if you continue down this path, he won’t be able to save you either,” she muttered back as she clutched the cross around her neck as if she thought it would ward you off like you had become one of the evils she’d warn you about when you were just a girl.

But you were no longer small; you were no longer moldable by her hand, and now, you were only made of anger. “You think God’s the reason we’re alive?” you questioned her, eyes narrowing into slits.

Your mother remained silent but clutched her cross harder. And you knew what that meant.

Your eyes flicked from her hand to her face. Then, you took a step forward, chin jutted out. “Is it God who kills so we can eat? Is it God who got us here, to this point? Is it God who holds dad’s gun?” you bit out as you touched a hand to your chest. “God doesn’t have a fucking plan.” You drilled a finger into your chest, your angry eyes never leaving hers. “I do. And God couldn’t save dad because it was supposed to be—”

But your words halted in your throat. You couldn’t admit it to her. You couldn’t tell her you were the reason behind your father’s death. It didn’t matter if she already knew. You just . . . you just couldn’t admit it to her face.

“God doesn't fucking exist,” you muttered out instead, turning away from her. “And if he did, he’s sure as hell dead now.”

“Your father filled your head with lies.”

You turned back to her, eyes glaring into hers. “Bullshit,” you scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. “He was the only one who ever told me the truth.”

Ignoring your words, she took a step away from you, her hand remaining on the cross around her neck. "Your father . . . I knew he was deeply flawed when I married him, but I just figured he’d change. I figured he’d see the way, instead he only got worse, but he knew when to control it. He knew right from wrong,” she went on, her voice steady, but her eyes had begun to water. And you knew tears would come, and when they did, you’d leave to kill the crawfish. "But, you, honey . . . I don't know where we went wrong with you. It's like you came out of the womb defective. You got all the bad traits of your father and nothing else. I look at you and I see this angry little girl. And, you know, sometimes I ask myself how in the world we managed to raise a daughter who is even more deeply flawed than her bastard father, but I never seem to know the answer."

There were the tears now.

But along with it came a knife in your chest that kept twisting and twisting the more she spoke.

Twist the knife, and she did.

"There's something wrong with you,” she whispered again after a moment’s silence, the tears starting to roll down her cheeks. “You frighten me.”

Twist the knife, and you refused to pull it out.

This was what you deserved.

Still, you didn’t cry, not for yourself. Never for yourself. Instead, you continued to stare at her with no emotion in your eyes as you muttered, “Talking ill of the dead is a sin, remember?” And then you began to turn.

But your mother’s hand landed firmly around your arm. “Don’t you turn your back on me, girl,” she warned, her words sharper than the knife she’d twisted into your chest.

Swallowing hard, you sucked on your teeth. “What else do you want me to say?” you questioned, but didn’t bother to turn and face her. “I have nothing else to give you, mom.”

She released your arm as if you’d burned her and hissed, “Don’t call me that.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion for a mere second before you realized what she meant; before you realized what you’d said; what you’d done. It was an honest mistake, as well. You hadn’t called her that in so long, and yet it still came out. You hadn’t meant to say it, but it still came out as if you were still small and thought the whole world was in her arms.

“Then what do you want me to call you?” you asked, your voice quieter now as you took a step back. “If not mom, then what should your daughter call you? Hmm? Or is the answer nothing? Is that what we are to each other now? Will that make God come down from the heavens and give us salvation? . . . If you abandon me?”

Your mother remained silent.

And you knew her answer.

Sucking on your teeth, you nodded in acceptance. “What?” you spoke in a whisper as you took another step back. “Am I not being loud enough for him?” You outstretched your hands at your sides, gesturing to the heavens. “Should I scream it? Will he finally fucking answer then?”

“Stupid girl—” your mother quickly scolded, grabbing you firmly by the arm— “don’t you dare put this family in danger,”

But you only tilted your head in question. “Does that include me?”

Her eyes fluttered, taken back. “What?”

“This family,” you reiterated. “Am I a part of this family?”

Once again, she remained silent.

But you knew the truth.

“God’s plan as long as I’m out of the picture, right?” you muttered under your breath, swallowing hard once again. “At least we finally agree.”

Then, you were tearing your arm out of her grasp, but you didn’t move, you didn’t even look away from her. Instead, you kept still. You kept your eyes locked with hers as if breaking that eye contact would sever the final string holding the two of you together. She didn’t speak either, and she refused to move. She wouldn’t move first. You knew that. She’d always been that way. So had you . . .

And when you were sure the world had begun to rot around you, you could have sworn her bottom lip quivered as if she were on the verge of saying something . . . anything. Only, when her lips parted a mere sliver, a shrill scream sounded from behind, and the perpetual darkness of your world crept back in through your peripheral vision.

Beat. Your heart shot to your throat.

It happened too quickly for you to think.

Beat. Beat.

You heard the scream and you knew your sister was in trouble.

Beat.

Without a second thought, you dropped everything and ran toward the scream; toward the creek; toward your sister. It wasn’t far, but it was far enough for you to catch sight of two of the dead. One Felix fought off, while trying to grab his knife from his belt. The other had found its way to your sister, pinning her to the forest floor as she thrashed and screamed, her weak limbs desperately trying to keep the thing from sinking its teeth into her flesh.

And you knew what to do.

For a brief second longer, there was screaming. Then the squelch of a knife being plunged through a skull. Then nothing.

The world faded away. No noise. No people. No nothing.

One. Two. Three seconds, then the world started to return.

Breathing heavily, you watched carefully as your mother rushed past you, tearing the dead corpse off your sister and holding her closer . . . closer than she’d ever held you. Your nose twitched for a mere second as your gaze shifted from your mother and sister staring at you in shock ((?) no, maybe it was horror) to the stilled corpse, and finally to the bloodied knife gripped tightly in your hand.

You’d killed that thing, yes. But you hadn’t even thought about it. You hadn’t stopped to think that this thing was once a person. You hadn’t even seen it as such, unlike your mother; unlike what the town had tried to drill into your head during Pestilence’s reign. And . . . you could see that realization in your mother’s eyes.

. . . You were getting worse.

Your legs had begun to weaken at the thought, but you quickly stabled yourself, afraid they’d see it as another sign to put you down like the violent dog you knew they saw you to be. Instead, you tore your gaze from the knife in your hand and met your mother’s eyes once again (but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet your sister’s tearful stare). “Tell me, mo—” you quickly stopped the word from tumbling from your tongue, then went on— “is this still what God’s plan looks like to you?”

But your mother didn’t reply, and you didn’t wait for her to. You could barely stand to hold her gaze for a second longer. Instead, you wiped the blood from your knife on your pants, shoved it back into your belt, and turned, walking back to the fire you had begun to make minutes before.

And as you walked, you took note of the silence which followed you. You took note of how even Felix hesitated slightly before he followed after you. You took note of how your mother and sister sat near that creek for a few minutes longer and didn’t bother to wander after you as if you were no longer their blood.

The final string tying your family together had begun to wear thinner. You wondered when it would finally snap. You wondered how long it would take for a violent dog to succumb to its instincts; how long it would take you to become the lost cause you knew you were destined to be.

Would they make the decision to put you down then?

Four days. Two sleepless nights. And one squirrel shared between the four of you. You felt a fever coming on a couple days ago. You saw the infected cuts from the fight with that man. You knew your body was weakening day by day.

If you didn’t stop soon, you’d sure become one of the dead.

But you tried your best to ignore it. You had to.

Your mother; however, remained hopeful (of course). You could hear her chattering on to your sister throughout the day while you watched the world.

According to her, no one really knew why the Horsemen came to earth. She claimed the world needed saving from certain people (what you were sure she was leaving out was the fact that she was convinced you were one of these people). So, she went on and on and on, and you quietly listened, too, because you were still a girl who used to kneel in church, after all; because you could still feel the bruises on your knees; because you could still see the scars left behind from the scabs.

So, you listened, but you did not believe.

The world was fucked and needed cleansing. People were inherently bad and God saw no other way for salvation (apparently) than to send his four loyal Horsemen to destroy Earth and its people. . . . Well . . . supposedly. You knew the truth; however. There were no Horsemen. There was just death. Something had gone wrong and no one really knew what, so they blamed it on some higher power.

Whatever.

(Supposedly) Pestilence had been a shadow. War had wanted an audience. The world fell before you could get a proper grasp on Famine. And now Death was here. He’d been walking the earth for two years now, and still no one knew why.

Just like the town, your mother had her theories. And while she believed this God was still on your side, still searching for the good in humanity, you thought him fucked up. The human race was just his playthings.

He’d made sure there was nothing left.

Hell, you knew there wasn’t even a god. The world was just fucked. The end.

Point blank: it didn’t matter. Nothing did anymore.

Survival was all that mattered.

Everything else was fucked.

And as you continued to lead the way into nothingness, listening to your mother’s ramblings about the Bible, all you could do was ignore how your knees had begun to itch once again, while you focused on one thought: survive, survive, survive. But . . . not for yourself . . . for them.

Survive long enough for them.

For your father.

For your sister.

For your mother.

For Felix.

For them.

By sundown, Felix managed to find an abandoned warehouse for the night. It wasn’t much, but it was better than sleeping out in the wild. Perhaps all of you could get some shuteye that night. Sure, luckily it was around Fall or maybe just before where it was still warm, but sleeping on logs wasn’t ideal. (Not that you could be picky. Not that you were.)

But, just your luck, sleep never found you.

Beside you, Felix softly snored, laying on his back with his arms crossed over his chest and his head resting in your lap. Your hand found its way to his dark waves, gently scratching his scalp as he slept. It brought you peace where you normally had none.

Sometimes you wondered when Felix would finally realize the monster you’d become. You wondered what it would take. How many more people would you kill for them in order for him to look at you as if you were a stranger?

You didn’t want to see that day come.

It’d already come for your mother the day your father died. Then for your sister when you’d butchered that man. You couldn’t bear living through Felix’s realization.

With a sigh, you glanced over your shoulder, eyes landing on your mother’s sleeping figure as your little sister curled up into her side, miles away in her dreams. You hoped it was better there; that her dreams were still pure and innocent despite the world.

You tore your eyes from them a second later, instead opting to glance out the large opening in the warehouse where a window used to be. The world was so bleak now. Even the sight of the empty lands before your eyes stirred nothing within you. It was just so . . . distant.

Nothing was left.

Truly.

Reluctantly, you shut your eyes, trying your hardest to drift off into sleep, but the pounding in your head and the scratch in your throat kept you up. You were getting worse. You squeezed your eyes tighter, hoping this fever would subside soon. The world was darker now, the nothingness intensifying. You weren’t even sure if you could sleep anymore. Had you been? You couldn’t remember.

But just when you were sure sleep wouldn’t greet you that night, forcing you to keep watch, you could’ve sworn you heard an inhuman howl echo throughout the darkness beyond.

Your eyes snapped open, heart hammering.

No.

It couldn’t be.

Another howl echoed throughout the air. But this was no howl from a wolf or even a beast.

You’d heard stories from survivors in the towns you’d passed through in the two years Death had taken his reign over your lands. You’d heard the stories of Death and his steed. His steed, pale in color similar to a corpse, was rumored to have this cry.

The cry was no ordinary cry. Death’s steed cried similar to a wolf or rather a beast, hungry for blood. It was a war cry—a warning sign.

Of course, Death was not real and there was no horse with their cry. No, you knew what this was. You’d heard these cries in smaller amounts. You’d heard these cries as you plunged your knife into each undead’s brain, killing the parasite living within. And a howl like this only meant one thing—a horde.

You swallowed hard.

Death was near.

You’d thought the undead didn’t horde unless . . .

The man.

Your eyes widened.

The night the man had attacked your group, you had managed to hotwire a car. That had been your plan. You were going to use that car to get your group farther and safer. But because of that man . . . because of what you’d done to him, you’d accidentally popped one of the tires in the process, forcing your group to stay the night in those woods when you should’ve been on the road.

And his screams . . .

You’d slowed down and made yourself known, and now they were following the noise.

And . . . it was all your fault.

You exhaled a shaky breath.

Death was coming.

Immediately, you swung into action, quietly waking Felix up. His eyes questioned yours before he, too, heard the war cry.

Death was coming. Felix knew this now, too.

The two of you silently awoke your mother and sister, Felix informing them of the matter they had on your hands, while you gathered your father’s shotgun, crouching near the window for a better look. If they were near . . . how near?

You swallowed hard.

Maybe you could still run. You could still get everyone out if you ran. It could work—

But then you saw it.

In the distance, you caught sight of the undead as they cried, following each other.

You checked the gun’s chamber, removing and reloading the cartridges just to make sure they were in place in case you were forced to fire. Your grip tightened and loosened, and you could hear Felix whispering your name, but your eyes were transfixed on the horde up ahead.

Death was here. So close. Too close.

They couldn’t see you now, couldn’t hear you, but . . . if you ran, they’d catch sight of you. They’d kill your family. They’d kill Felix. They’d kill you all.

There was no way you could outrun the horde. Not when they were this close; not when they could smell you; hear your every breath.

Fuck.

You wanted to scream.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Your father had trusted you. They all had. And now you were going to let another person down all because you’d been stupid one night. You’d fucked all of you.

“Snap out of it,” Felix whispered, his hand on your shoulder. “Ideas?”

You could only shake your head.

Felix swore, running his hands through his hair. "There's no way," he nearly gasped at his words. "Fuck."

You swore you felt your heart drop as you slumped against the wall. They were going to die. Because of you.

There was no way out; no way any of you would make it past the horde without them noticing. The moment they saw any of you, they’d follow you until they could get their teeth into your flesh. And while you had no care for your own life, you still had care for theirs—the people you'd sworn to protect.

Your father had died for all of you. He knew it wasn't safe, and he still went out. He'd traded his life for yours. He'd made you swear to protect your mother and your little sister, and along the way, you'd sworn to not only keep them safe but to keep Felix from harm. You'd sworn that, and you were not one to fall back on your word.

There was no way out together. But . . . there was one way out.

You knew what that meant.

This was what your father would've wanted. This was what he would've done; what he had done.

It was always going to turn out this way. You'd known that.

And in that moment, you accepted that. After all, you'd always been told you were your father's daughter.

This was how you made things right.

You nodded at your thoughts.

Then, you felt your eyes burn, your brows scrunching in confusion. Wetness slipped down your cheek and you briefly touched a finger to the tear, finding you were crying. You hadn’t cried in so long.

Angrily, you wiped the tears away. You didn’t get to cry.

This had been your fault in the first place. This was how you made it right. You didn’t get to cry. You didn’t.

So you sent one last glare at the horde up ahead, then turned to Felix. Fuck. He would be the one in charge now. You trusted him, yes, but you knew how heavy that burden was. That was what you would regret the most—putting Felix through this agony, too.

Still: "Little bird," you whispered.

Fearful tears were already in his eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that."

"Can't help it. I taught you how to fly," you hummed, voice soft and unlike you.

You both knew what you meant. You'd taught Felix how to fire a gun, taught him how to gut a fish, you taught him how to survive—you taught him how to fly. But he didn't need any more teachings. Like a baby bird, he'd flown from the nest ages ago. He could fly without you. The thought brought a melancholic smile to your chapped lips as you fought back the burning in your eyes when they met his worried gaze once again.

"Makes me feel important." You touched a hand to his cheek. He felt soft under your calloused skin. "But . . . you don't need me anymore."

Felix exhaled with a strained choke, his eyes widening in realization. "No," he rushed out, shaking his head as his soft brown eyes searched yours. "No." His hand enclosed around the one you'd touched to his cheek. "Don't. Don't."

You knew what he meant. Don't be the hero.

But that wasn't his decision to make. You had debts to pay; people to protect.

Living had never been something you wanted in a world like this. Sometimes you felt like a ghost; when the world was quiet and your heart beat a little slower—you felt like one of the many corpses you'd passed by on the daily.

Years ago, you promised your father you'd take over his job and protect. You'd never wanted to live, but you had forced yourself. Back then, you made a promise to yourself—you had to stay alive, not for yourself, but for them; you had to stay alive for the one you had lost. And you'd upheld that promise, but now . . . in order to save them, you had to break it.

You knew this.

Felix did, too.

He rested his forehead against yours. "Please. Don't. It's supposed to be you and me."

Your eyes squeezed shut. "I'm the reason he's dead."

The two of you knew what you meant. This was how you repaid him; how you repaid your father.

"Then let me do it," Felix muttered, hand dropping from yours to grasp the shotgun in your other hand.

You were quick to rip it from his hold. "It was always going to turn out this way," was all you said, and he knew what you meant.

The sound of the cries coming closer made you spring back from him. Your head swiveled, taking in your surroundings as your hands found their rightful place on the shotgun. Your eyes briefly found your little sister's—her round eyes wide with fright, only furthering your decision. You knew doing this for them, for her.

"Fine," you heard Felix hiss in a quiet whisper. "But I'm coming with you."

Your head snapped to him. "Like hell you are."

"You don't get to die."

"Neither do you."

"Then I guess we have a predicament."

Your eyes softened. "Lix."

His brows pinched together. "You don't get to die."

And you almost felt yourself smile. "Little birds are meant to fly," you hummed. Little birds are meant to fly; they aren't meant to die.

He shook his head.

You swallowed hard.

The cries grew closer, and your heart raced. You were out of time. This was your last goodbye.

You gripped his hand. "Protect them."

He latched onto your shoulders. “No. No. I’m not ready. Don’t make me say goodbye to you.”

Against your will, your bottom lip trembled. “It’s not.”

But it was. You both knew that.

Felix could only shake his head. “Please.”

“See you later, little bird,” you hummed, weakly, kissing his forehead before you tore yourself from him. And he reached for you, begging you to stay.

But . . . no amount of pleas could change your mind. You were already moving before Felix could stop you. You didn’t have the heart to glance back at your sister or your mother. You never wanted to live in a world like this, but if you looked back, you feared you might’ve found salvation in their eyes. You couldn’t put them through that. You’d put them through enough.

You worked quickly. You had to. For them.

The quiet cries of the horde approached, moving slowly. You kept your eyes on their figures, stealthily stepping down the creaky stairs to the bottom floor. From there, you moved to the woods surrounding the area. You quickly crouched down in the dark forest, clutching the shotgun even tighter. This was your father’s, now it was yours, and you were going to use it to save your family.

You weren’t naive enough to think that you could actually kill all of them. But that didn’t matter. You were solely supposed to be a distraction. You would fire that damned shotgun at those things over and over again, not caring if it even did any damage. You just needed to keep their attention long enough to get them to follow you in the opposite direction. That would allow your family to escape. That was all you intended to do.

You knew there was no surviving this. And you were fine with that.

Death didn’t scare you. Not yours, anyway.

So you hunkered down, hands clutched on the shotgun as you waited for the horde to get near enough to strike.

You heard them before you saw them. The cries echoed throughout the dark night, making your heart pound faster. It became louder and louder, so loud you felt yourself start to tense, and then the first came into view.

It came to a gentle halt, almost as if it had been expecting you. But that couldn’t be. It hadn’t seen you. You were still in the clear.

Still, you watched, remembering the lessons on hunting that your father had taught you. This was how you hunted—quiet, hidden, and alert.

The creature tilted its head back, eyes closed as the moonlight cascaded across its pale face. Your brows scrunched in confusion as you watched it, tilting your head to the side. It was almost as if it were basking in the moonlight, soaking up the feeling of the satellite shining down on it. And then you realized what it was doing: sniffing you out.

Behind it, the world was bleak as the rest of those damned creatures sauntered forward. The trees seemed to sag, the grass stale, and it was quiet, so very quiet. Every step they took, decay followed.

And then they began to move . . . toward the warehouse where your family still resided.

Your jaw ticked as you raised the shotgun. Your father’s instructions rang through your ears and you lined up the barrel, aiming at one of the creature’s chests as it was perhaps the only part of it you had direct access to. You were certain the impact wouldn’t kill it, you were almost certain it wouldn’t even hurt it, but . . . it would distract it, and that was all you needed.

Last week, you killed a man. You ripped out his jugular with your teeth. You’d slaughtered him. So this, killing this entity shouldn’t have made your stomach churn, but it did.

Your world was gone. Death remained. And it was all his doing.

Still . . . still, your finger hesitated on the trigger.

You would die tonight . . . by its hand, no doubt. And perhaps that scared you. Perhaps a part of you truly didn’t want to die. But you dumbed down this hesitation to just pure fear.

Fear that those things would find your family after disposing of your body; fear they’d kill them; fear all of this would be for nothing.

You swallowed hard and adjusted your grip on the gun. You had to try. Your life for theirs. It was that or you all died tonight, and you wouldn’t have that, not after all you had done; all you had put them through.

All you had to do was pull the trigger. And yet . . . you still hesitated.

Fuck. You closed your eyes, clenching your jaw as your heart hammered in your chest. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And as your eyes remained closed, you heard their voices then.

You're not too far gone.

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

There’s something wrong with you. You frighten me.

You have to grow up. No more kid stuff.

Your breath hitched. You have to grow up. And you had. Too quickly you now realized. It was always going to end up this way.

This was the only way to save them. The only way.

Your eyes snapped open, catching sight of the creatures still sniffing the air like they could just smell your terror. You sucked in a breath, then pulled the trigger. Exhale.

The ringing in your ears was almost immediate and the explosive sound echoed throughout the silent night. You barely even noticed the shotgun’s kickback, too focused on the creatures before you, watching with wide eyes as the pellets hit one of the things, knocking it entirely to the ground.

The others cried out, their noses no longer needing to be depended on as their eyes searched for the origin of the noise. And then you caught the eye of one, and you knew it was the end.

You faltered at the sight, stumbling backward as you tripped on a root, causing your body to hit the ground. A low groan escaped you before you could stop yourself.

Fuck.

Had that been too loud?

Heart pounding in your chest, you slowly glanced up, eyes landing on the creatures. More eyes stared back at you, hungry with . . . something as a few had begun to make their way toward you.

You swallowed hard.

Death itself had seen you.

Acting fast, you hastily grabbed the shotgun. You weren’t sure how long you could keep this up, but you needed to buy your family more time. You needed to end this.

And end it you would.

You clutched the shotgun tightly in your hand and sat up, groaning slightly when you felt a sharp pain in your ankle. But still, you went on.

Remembering your father’s teachings, you knew what a machine was good for at the end of its reign: making a lot of fucking noise.

And so with a heavy heart and angry tears pricking your eyes . . . you belted out a loud yell.

There was no hiding now. They had all heard you. And that was all that mattered to them.

“Come on, you fuckers!” you took it a step further as you yelled at them, clanking the butt of your gun on a tree to make as much noise as you could. And then, when you heard their cries echo with yours; when you saw one turn to two turn to ten following you into the woods, you knew it was time.

With a fleeting look at the warehouse where your family still resided, you fought back the urge to crawl into yourself and let that anger you’d been holding inside yourself for years now finally just . . . snap. You didn’t know if you fired the shotgun at one of the creature’s heads first or ran off further into the woods, still screaming. You didn’t know the present from the past, but you did know you couldn’t look back.

And so, you let yourself be loud, screaming for yourself, for the people you’d lost, for the people you’d never see again, for your father. You yelled and yelled, racing through the woods as they all quickly followed after you, releasing cries of their own.

The world fell behind you in those moments, time moving in slow motion as you weaved through the dark woods, your feet bounding off the ground as if you were in zero gravity. Sound evaded your senses, only the muffled noises of your rapid breathing could be heard echoing in your ears.

But you just kept running, letting the world escape you. Even when you’d trip over hidden roots, your knees buckling as you fell to the ground, surely bruising and cutting up your skin, you persisted each time. Like your father’s daughter, you pulled yourself to your feet each time, sparing a glance over your shoulder only to be met with the sight of the horde getting nearer and nearer. And every time, you’d force yourself to swallow the bile crawling up your throat before you cocked your shotgun and fired into the horde, taking off screaming for them to follow after you.

This was the end, and you planned to gather as much of them away from the warehouse and closer to you. You knew it would hurt, but you didn’t care. Their teeth ripping into your flesh would never be a match for the sins you’d committed in this lifetime. That was why you met every dead that got in your path with a lethal hit from the butt of your shotgun and a silent prayer that your damned soul could be traded for the safety of your family.

You were sure you would have continued running had your foot not slammed into a divot in the ground, twisting your ankle with such force that you hit the ground instantly, crying out in pain. And this time when you tried to stand to your feet, you realized the pain was too much to stand.

It hit you then.

Beat.

This really was the end.

You couldn’t run.

Beat.

The horde was gaining on you.

This was the end.

Beat.

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

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

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

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

What was he doing?

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

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

You skipped a beat, not answering.

His eyes were on you instantly, expectantly.

But you only blinked.

You didn’t want to be saved.

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

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

“Run,” he bit out, an order.

And it all happened so fast.

You stayed put.

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

Beat.

Beat.

Be—

A loud explosion sounded in the distance, the ground shaking beneath your feet as ringing in your ears commenced. Only then did you realize your feet had been moving on their own, carrying you farther and farther away from the scene as you caught a glimpse of the horde following after the explosion. But you wouldn’t do this. You had accepted your death. You wouldn’t—

Your feet weren’t moving of your own volition. The world had fallen away from you, you realized, but as you turned your head away from the horde you realized it was the man who was dragging you away from the scene. You realized in your daze, that he must have locked his grip onto your arm and took off running, dragging you along with him despite your injured ankle and dormant mind.

And for some reason, despite the urge to fall to the ground and let yourself fade away, you allowed him to drag you further and further into the woods. You didn’t realize just how much land you had covered until the sound of the horde was so far, that he’d begun to slow down ever so slightly. You didn’t realize until the woods turned into sparse grassland, until the sight of what appeared to be a latched roof to an underground bunker of some sort. You’d heard of shelters like these, but you’d never seen one. You always just assumed the military had covered it all up, leaving people to die while they sat safely under the barren earth.

Your mind raced with a million thoughts, but you could barely see straight let alone think right as you allowed this man to drag you to the entrance. Hell, you allowed him to shove you inside, as you crawled down the ladder in the tunnel. It was a subconscious action, honest. Otherwise, you would’ve begged him to leave you outside to die. But there was no breath for begging as he followed in after you, shutting the hatch and twisting it closed to ensure it was tightly locked.

And when your feet finally met the metal flooring of the inside, you stepped back in shock.

As you had predicted, this was a government bunker. A rather large one at that. You swallowed hard. Fuck.

And when you turned around, your eyes searching the area, you were met with the scene of a group of survivors staring back at you in confusion. People. And they were alive. You hadn’t seen so many people since before Famine.

What the fuck?

But before you could react, something hard cracked over the back of your head, throbbing pain followed. The darkness seeped in instantly, your mind losing control of your body as you smacked the ground, eyes fluttering as you faded in and out of consciousness.

There it was, you realized.

Your punishment.

You were going to die.

And you couldn’t help but allow yourself one last selfish look because maybe there was still a small part of you that wanted to be alive. But that part could only live if things were normal again, if things were the way they had been before the world died. Still, that part of you took over and you watched silently, your vision fading in and out as you caught a glimpse of those dark eyes that had saved you, just moments before the world faded into darkness.

The next time your eyes fluttered open, a metal ceiling stared back at you.

There was a throbbing in your head, searing through your thoughts, and your shotgun was nowhere to be found. You released a soft groan, trying to shift in your spot, but you were met with resistance. You tugged and tugged, but your body didn’t budge.

In confusion, you glanced around, finding yourself on a medical bed, your hands tied together with rope, attaching you to the bed. This didn’t make sense. You hadn’t seen a bed in months maybe a year now. This didn’t make sense. Where were you? How did you—

And then . . . then the memories all faded in.

The warehouse. The man. The shots. The horde.

This was Death’s doing.

The town had warned you of this and you’d denied it. You still didn’t believe. You couldn’t. God was dead and the Horsemen were just a figment of fearmongering. But for a second, you wanted to believe. For that second you were strapped to that bed, you wanted to believe that this was your purgatory and Death was punishing you. That would be easier: if you believed.

Death was an entity; one you had no idea about. There was no knowing what exactly he could and couldn’t do. And this . . . being bound to a medical bed with not even a soul to be heard felt utterly ordinary if he did exist, considering what you did know about this dark being.

But . . . why were you still alive?

Slowly, you lifted your head, groaning at the pain that followed as you assessed the rest of your body. You were alive. Cuts and bruises everywhere, but you could still inhale, exhale, breathe. You could still hear the beat of your heart if you closed your eyes and focused. You were alive.

You were alive.

Your jaw twitched. “I’m alive,” you whispered to yourself, a bitter taste left on your tongue. “I”m . . . alive.”

And for a second, you truly allowed yourself to believe Death existed. You allowed yourself that he had done this to you; that the two years he’d reigned all led up to this very moment. You allowed yourself to believe that he had kept you alive because suffering was for the living.

Was this his way of being kind? Sparing you?

Swallowing hard, you glared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. If you prayed, would he give in? Would he end this suffering? Would he finally give you your punishment?

Your mind wasn’t allowed much longer to ponder as the sound of a door opening brought you out of your repenting. Wearily, you watched with stern eyes as a man stepped in, carrying a bowl in one hand and a washcloth in the other. You watched as he let himself in, still not looking up while he closed the door behind him with a heavy sigh and finally . . . glanced up, meeting your gaze.

Him.

The man.

Slowly, your face softened as confusion consumed you. Him. He had done this to you. He had been the one to lead you here. (He’d also been the one to save you . . . ) He had knocked you out cold. And now . . . now here he was.

You clenched your jaw hard.

The man just stared a minute longer at you, his gaze stern, cold, calculating. Then, he was walking toward you, resting the bowl on the bedside table beside your head before he reached forward and tapped a finger to your chin, tilting your head so he could analyze the wounds on your face.

And you let him, analyzing his actions, preparing for his next.

“You’re awake,” was all he simply said as he dropped your chin and diverted his attention to the bowl on the bedside table. “Sorry about the blow and the rope . . . it’s . . . protocol.”

But you remained silent, watching.

"Your stunt back there . . . could’ve cost us this entire place," he muttered, his voice calm and controlled but you knew he was seething inside. He remained quiet as he dipped the washcloth into the bowl of what seemed to be warm water before he turned to you once again, his eyes lethal. "Screaming only attracts more of them, don’t you know? If you wanted to die, you should’ve just stayed put.”

You swallowed thickly.

There was something terrifying about a quiet rage.

"There's always someone like you," he continued, his eyes racking up and down your body in a menacing glare before the warm touch of a washcloth to your cheek startled a quiet gasp out of your lips. "Someone who ends up surviving longer than they should have." A scoff left him. "Someone who doesn’t care who dies for them as long as they get out unscathed. Did you even think there might be other survivors around before you took off attracting all of those things? If there were children? Families? People who survive together and want to stay alive without running into someone like you?”

And you hadn’t.

You never thought yourself to be stupid or any of the sort. You hadn’t been thinking. There hadn’t been enough time. You just needed to do something so your family could make it out alive. You hadn’t thought that there could be others. You hadn’t thought that saving your family could damn another.

Had your mother been right about you?

Were you really just a stupid girl? A stupid girl playing hero?

The man pulled a chair from the corner of the room, and placed it beside your bed, sitting on it as he dragged the washcloth down your arms now. His touch was somehow gentle despite his glare. Perhaps it was because no one had touched you so gently in so long. Perhaps it was because you had given up, but you let him clean the wounds on your body as you rested your head back onto the pillow, your muscles relaxing ever-so-slightly.

"No?" he questioned, reiterating his accusation. “In my experience, people like you don’t find themselves in trouble like that unless they’re planning something.”

You remained expressionless as you watched him, taking in his words. He thought you’d lured the dead here, and for what? Looting? Or just plain insanity?

Had you really become that corrupt even a stranger could sense it on you?

Slowly, you blinked, wondering if your father had ever felt this way before his death. And as you wondered, the man beside you continued cleaning your wounds, but this time, remained silent. Maybe he realized you wouldn’t answer. Or maybe he already knew the truth about you and your damned soul.

And as the minutes of silence ticked on, you did your own inspection.

Now, under the light, the man sat beside you, his eyes fixed on meticulously cleaning each wound with care despite his lethal words. It had been so long since you’d seen another man like this; a man that had to be around your age; a man so young yet so riddled with age. His dark hair was slightly curly, more tangled and messy than anything as if he hadn’t slept in days. The dark circles under his equally dark eyes were enough to show his evident sleep deprivation. And yet, he seemed almost too alert: his full lips were hidden as his teeth worried his bottom lip while he continued to clean the blood from your skin.

(You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t beautiful; so beautiful it almost made you believe in God once more.)

And for a second, you let yourself wonder what else your mother had been right about. You let yourself believe once again. You let yourself be a girl who could finally kneel in church without bruises being left behind. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she and the town had been right; that this whole thing was God’s plan; that the Horsemen had come; that they could be saved, but you would be condemned.

Then . . . you began to wonder if you had already been. Maybe it was the blow to the head you’d taken or the fever raging through your body or maybe it was the truth, but you began to believe that perhaps this was your purgatory; perhaps you had died in that horde and you’d been sent here; perhaps the beautiful man beside you was Death himself.

Was this it then? Were you always meant to see him at the end?

Oddly enough, he reminded you of this small dog your sister had found near one of the abandoned houses your family had stayed in over the years. This was during Famine’s rule—when food became sparse, when lands became stale and yellowed; when the dead had only just begun to migrate south. This tiny dog found your younger sister then, and she’d brought it home, leaving you no choice but to care for the little thing.

Your sister had named her Berry. (A few months later you had to put her down; it was what we had to do to survive, you’d told your sister back then. You were sure it was then she first started to hate you.)

And as you stared at Death, taking note of how his eyes were a particular shade of brown, you realized they were the same shade that the silly dog had.

You tilted your head. Death somehow had eyes that were kind; eyes that were warm; eyes that reminded you of Felix. Was that how they planned to transfix you? Was Death meant to be this beautiful; this familiar so you’d go willingly? Had God forgotten you’d already condemned yourself? Had he forgotten you didn’t need to be tricked? Had he forgotten where your prayers resided?

Only a moment later, when you felt his hands running over your torso, did you snap out of your exhaust-ridden daze. You realized quickly he was cleaning the last of your wounds which resided on your ribs. And when he was done, he tossed the washcloth into the bowl without another care before he slowly leaned back, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched you with scrutinizing eyes.

Death narrowed his gaze, but it wasn’t menacing this time. Rather, he seemed almost perplexed. "Why aren’t you fighting?" he questioned. "You didn’t stop to run before. Why calm your fire now?"

Why aren’t you fighting?

The thing was: it was over. Your fight was over.

Sure, you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that Death was painfully beautiful . . . but it went beyond that.

It was surely daylight by now.

Daylight had come, hours had passed, and Death had you in his hold.

By now, Felix had probably taken your mother and sister onto the road again. They’d escaped, and they were miles and miles away from you and Death. They were safe.

So . . . where was your fight?

You didn’t have one anymore. This was the end. Death would either kill you or make you suffer again and again and again, and your family would live. You’d once told yourself that you never wanted to live in a world like this, but you’d kept yourself alive to protect your family. Only now . . . you didn’t need to fight because there wasn’t anyone left for you to protect.

Your fight was over. Maybe you could rest now. Maybe he’d let you.

Death seemed to catch onto the shift in your demeanor as he narrowed his eyes. "Do you not speak?"

For a moment, you considered not replying. Until: "There's no point," you heard yourself say, voice dry and hoarse.

The look on Death’s face was unreadable as his eyes shifted across your face, his mouth slightly parted. "You smell of death," he muttered, gaze still searching your being.

And you almost laughed.

Because this was your end, and Death himself just told you that you smelled like shit or well . . . like him, you supposed . . . apparently.

It all felt a little unreal.

Death must not have liked your silence as he shot you one last glance before he pulled away and walked toward a table on the other side of the room. As he walked, you caught sight of the blood painting his body, his skin, him.

You swallowed hard. You’d brought that horde to him. He’d fought his way out. You’d caused those wounds, and now he was more than likely going to do worse to you. He’d probably take that scythe you were told he carried and cut your head clean off.

But unlike what you thought, Death sifted through the miscellaneous items on the table before pausing and grabbing a small knife. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you watched him approach you, knife in hand.

There it was.

This was the end you were promised.

Was he going to slit your throat and leave you to bleed out? Or cut you open so you could see just how dark your heart had become? You wouldn’t put it past him. Hell, you might have even welcomed it. But as he approached you, your eyes closing in anticipation, he did not bring that knife down upon your body. No, instead, with a few quick motions and the sound of the rope being cut, you slowly opened your eyes just as your hands were released from the rope’s grip.

On instinct, you brought your hands close to your chest, rubbing your raw wrists. You couldn’t even speak, you just watched as he kept the knife in his hand but returned back to his position of leaning back against the chair with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes on you.

"You're human," you found yourself uttering as you watched him watch you.

His brows twitched in confusion. "Of course I am.”

But Death couldn’t bleed. . . . Could he?

"You bleed,” you spoke your thoughts, dumbly.

His eyes met yours, but only briefly. "Am I not meant to?" he bit out before his gaze fell back on your hand rubbing your wrist. "Even the dead bleed."

Your confusion only spiraled. This was your end; your purgatory. This was Death, was he not? Your mother had been right. She had to have been right otherwise you were still alive; otherwise, you had managed to escape death once again without so much as a punishment. That wouldn’t be fair. That wouldn’t be right. That wouldn’t be just.

This had to be Death. You had to be dead or somewhere in between. It didn’t matter, this just had to be your end.

So, why hadn’t he condemned you yet?

Why—

"Why—” Death interrupted your thoughts, once you finally dropped your hand from your wrist— “did you think I couldn’t bleed?"

You glanced his way, finding his eyes already on you.

His stare only unnerved you more.

Why couldn’t he just kill you? You deserved it.

Your brows furrowed. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to play with your food?" you found yourself spitting out, finally finding your voice despite his devasting beauty capturing your words. "I put your lives in danger. I lead them here like you said. I could be with anyone. Having me here could kill you all, so take your revenge. Kill me."

The crease between his brows deepened further. "I'm not letting you die," he simply said, his anger quiet and calm . . . still. “You put my group in harm's way. I won’t pardon you for that . . . but . . . we don’t kill the living.”

That only unnerved you further.

Was this truly Death?

Surely he had killed before.

Although . . . you supposed perhaps he’d only just ever waited. Was that his fault? Waiting for the dead to find him? Is that how he found you in those woods? Is that how he’d taken your arm and helped you crossover to the other side? But . . . if that were true . . . where was your father now? Surely, he would’ve come to see you. Surely, he would’ve been the first one knocking at your door. Surely, he’d be here.

As you briefly wet your lips, your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Where’s my dad?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

A look of deep confusion twisted onto Death’s face, and then he was leaning forward to feel your forehead with the back of his hand. “Fever,” he mumbled more to himself before he pushed himself to his feet, the chair screeching against the floor. “Get some rest. Someone will be in to bandage you up and . . . I’ll be back in a couple hours with medication.” His gaze dropped to the large gash on your arm from just a few nights ago. “When you’re healed, we’ll give you some supplies and then you’ll be on your way, understood?”

But you just stared at him, silently pleading. Pleading for what? You didn’t know. All you knew was if your father wasn’t here, you couldn’t be dead. And if you weren’t, you wanted to be. You’d be able to find him then, because although you were no longer a girl who could kneel in church, you could still feel the scabs on your knees from years ago; you could still remember what it was to believe so blindly; you could still feel that insistent desire for there to be something beyond this world . . . something after this world.

There just had to be. You had to see him again. You had to find him.

You could die now. You could find him now. You would find him.

“Great,” Death muttered under his breath, breaking you out of your own mind. And with one final glance at your exhausted body, he began to turn and head for the door.

Fear struck you then. You had to find your father. “Wait, please—” you hastily grabbed onto his arm, only being able to reach his hand enough to dig your nails into his skin to halt him— “I beg of you.”

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and cautious as if at any moment, one wrong move and he’d grant your wishes. And all you could do was hope.

“Kill me,” you weakly whispered, hopelessly searching his eyes.

His brows twitched, taken back.

“Death,” you begged in a whisper, your bottom lip trembling, “please.”

But Death only stared back at you with a perplexing look written across his face. It was as if he couldn’t believe your request. Had no one ever begged him to die?

A heavy beat of silence pounded in your ears.

Death only continued to stare, a world raging on behind his eyes as he took you in. His demeanor was still calm, still collected, but he seemed . . . perturbed by your request, by your presence, by you. And you watched as his eyes trickled across your face, searching for something until finally . . . his gaze zeroed in on your cheek, his brows furrowing.

Then . . . you felt it.

A tear had slowly begun to slip down your cheek as if your body knew it was a sin to cry. But you were . . . crying that was.

You nearly gasped.

Another tear trickled down your cheek. Guilt followed.

But just as you were about to angrily wipe it away, there was a sharp knock at the door, breaking both you and Death out of your spell. The door opened a second later, a man peaking his head in with a solemn look on his face.

The man didn’t spare you a glance, he only cleared his throat and said, “Chris?” His brows raised, a silent message passing between the two. “A minute.”

Death only nodded, and then the man was gone, the door shutting behind him. Silence followed, but Death stayed unmoving, his arm still in your tight grasp.

“You won’t run,” he slowly spoke, his words a statement, not an order, but he didn’t turn to look at you. He kept his eyes on the door. “I don’t kill the living. I won’t kill you.” He paused, audibly swallowing, and then his eyes were on you. “And I know you won’t kill us.”

And then he was gone before you could blink, quickly tearing his arm out of your grasp before he reached the door and closed it behind him. You were alone with yourself once again, your thoughts running wild as your hand remained outstretched, almost frozen in place.

I know you won’t kill us, he’d told you.

But how could you kill Death? How did he know you wouldn’t if he didn’t give you what you wanted? How could he be so sure that you weren’t a killer, when you so clearly were?

You had killed before, and if he didn’t take you to the other side, you’d surely kill again. That was who you had become. That was who you were. He should’ve known that.

And then as you slowly laid your head back onto the pillow and allowed the minutes to tick by, the throbbing in your head began to subside, and the world became a little clearer. You were no longer a girl who could kneel in church. You did not believe anymore. The world had gone to shit, and it wasn’t because of God’s plan. There were no Horsemen. Your family was gone. And that . . . that man had not been Death.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you swallowed thickly. What was happening to you?

It all hit you then.

These were a group of survivors. That man surely was their leader, and you had just led hundreds of the dead to their doorstep. They should’ve killed you for that alone. You would’ve. You wouldn’t even hesitate if this had been your family. You would’ve done everything to keep them safe, even if it meant killing others, and yet . . .

I won’t kill you.

But why? You deserved it. You could see it in his eyes that he knew.

These were good people. And you were their bad omen.

It wouldn’t be long before your presence brought misery upon them, too, just as it had to your family. And it’d be all your fault.

You’d live, only to see many die. You’d make it out unscathed just as you always had, while they’d suffer, just as he had said.

It was then you realized this was not your purgatory, it was your Hell.

taglist:

@amaranth-writing @binchanluvrr @dreamingsmile @eternalrajin

(i did post the teaser like a year ago, so if you want to be taken off, send me a lil message <3)

[zapreportsblog]

Can I request platonic Carlisle x child fem witch reader (like 14-15, she ages really slowly), Carlisle saved her from being killed during the Salem Witch Trials? He cares for her so much and since she’s the only one who sleeps in the Cullen clan, he sometimes watches her sleep as if protecting her or something. And he acts somewhat protective of her after finding out she’s Seth’s imprint?

❝the witch hybrid and her companion❞

✭ pairing : father Carlisle Cullen x reader x imprint Seth Clearwater

✭ fandom : twilight

✭ summary : (y/n) is a young witch who Carlisle had saved from the Salem witch trials, she had been been on the verge of being fully brunt to death when he had grabbed and rescued her, she was fifteen when he had turnt her thus making her the first hybrid of both witch and vampire species.

✭ authors note : this shit so long I gotta make a part 2 because I wasn’t done writing

✭ twilight masterlist

The year was 1692, and the small town of Salem was ablaze with fear and suspicion. The Salem Witch Trials had gripped the community, turning neighbor against neighbor, friend against friend. Whispers of witchcraft echoed through the narrow, winding streets like a curse.

In the midst of this hysteria, a young witch named (Y/N) found herself ensnared in the web of accusations. She was a mere fifteen years old, with (dark/light) (h/c) hair and hypnotizing (e/c) eyes that held the secrets of centuries past. Her magical abilities had manifested early, and she had done her best to hide them, but the fervor of the witch hunt had spared no one.

One fateful evening, as the moon hung low in the darkened sky, the town's fervor reached its peak. (Y/N) was dragged from her humble cottage by an angry mob, her hands bound, and the scent of burning wood filled the air. The townsfolk were determined to put an end to the supposed evil that had plagued their lives.

The makeshift gallows stood tall in the center of town, a grim reminder of the collective madness that had taken hold. A wooden stake awaited (Y/N), and the flames that danced around it cast eerie shadows on her pale, terrified face.

As the crowd jeered and cursed, the flames were lit, and the stake began to smolder. (Y/N) let out a piercing scream as the searing pain coursed through her body. She was on the brink of death, her skin blistering and her vision fading.

But then, a figure emerged from the shadows, moving with preternatural grace and speed. Carlisle Cullen, a vampire with a heart that still beat for compassion, could not bear to witness this gruesome spectacle. He had heard rumors of witches in Salem and had come to investigate, hoping to prevent further tragedy.

In an instant, Carlisle reached (Y/N)'s side. With a strength that belied his gentle appearance, he tore the wooden stake from her chest. The townsfolk gasped in shock as they beheld a young man of ethereal beauty and otherworldly strength.

Carlisle cradled the near-lifeless (Y/N) in his arms and vanished into the night, leaving behind the chaos and confusion of the mob. He knew that there was only one way to save her now—to grant her the immortality of a vampire.

As they fled into the wilderness, (Y/N) clung to consciousness, her body burned and broken. She whispered a faint thank you to the stranger who had appeared like a guardian angel in her darkest hour. Little did she know that this mysterious savior would change the course of her life forever.

In the moonlit forest, Carlisle Cullen made a solemn vow. He would teach (Y/N) to control her newfound powers, guide her through the complexities of immortal life, and protect her from the world that had once condemned her. Together, they would find redemption and forge a bond that would withstand the ages.

Carlisle had taken a great risk when he saved (Y/N) from the clutches of death during the Salem Witch Trials. He had severed ties with the Volturi long ago, seeking a life that adhered to his moral compass. His choice to create a vampire out of (Y/N), who still possessed her magical abilities, was a secret he needed to protect at all costs.

The struggles were immediate. (Y/N)'s powers, now amplified by her vampiric nature, were dangerously unpredictable. At times, her emotions would trigger bursts of magic that could send objects flying or set the forest ablaze. Keeping her abilities hidden from both the human world and the vampire authorities became an arduous task.

Carlisle spent countless nights helping (Y/N) gain control over her newfound powers. He was patient, guiding her through the nuances of her magic, teaching her to harness it without drawing attention. Together, they honed her skills in secrecy, for they knew that revealing her true nature could lead to disastrous consequences.

As the years passed, Carlisle and (Y/N) developed a bond that ran deeper than blood. They became a family of two, sharing their eternal existence and the burden of concealing her abilities. It was a lonely existence, but they clung to the hope that they could find others like them, vampires who shared their values and accepted (Y/N) despite her magical nature.

Their quest for companionship led them on a journey across the continent. They followed whispers and rumors, searching for those who might understand their unique situation. It was during this quest that they stumbled upon a coven unlike any other.

In a remote, wooded area, they encountered people on the verge of dying such as Edward, Esme, Rosalie, Jasper, Emmett, and Alice.

Together, they navigated the challenges of their unique existence, supporting each other through the trials of immortality and the constant threat of the Volturi's scrutiny. As they honed their abilities and shared their stories, they discovered the true meaning of family – a bond forged not by blood but by choice and shared values.

Their coven became a sanctuary, a place where each member could be their authentic selves without fear of judgment or persecution. And as they faced the world together, they knew that their unity was their greatest strength, a testament to the power of love, acceptance, and the enduring spirit of those who dared to defy the darkness that sought to consume them.

The year was 2005, and the town of Forks had remained a quiet, secluded haven for the Cullen family. (Y/N), now a hybrid of a witch and vampire, appeared eternally fifteen but was wise beyond her years. Her days were spent in the cozy Cullen home, where Esme provided her with a homeschooling education tailored to her unique needs.

Yet, there was a part of (Y/N) that longed for more than the confines of their home. She yearned for the normalcy of teenage life, for the bustling hallways of a high school, and for the companionship of her siblings. Carlisle remained as protective as ever, reluctant to expose her to the unpredictable world outside, but he couldn't deny her the occasional visits to Forks High School.

One crisp afternoon, (Y/N) stood by the school's parking lot, waiting for her siblings to emerge from their classes. She watched as the students filed out, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Her heart ached for the chance to experience such simple joys.

Suddenly, a tiny whirlwind of energy appeared before her, and she smiled as Alice materialized in front of her. Alice's golden eyes sparkled with excitement, and she greeted her sister with a grin.

"(Y/N), you won't believe it," Alice chirped, her voice filled with anticipation.

Arching an eyebrow, (Y/N) replied, "Believe what, Alice?"

With a playful twirl, Alice continued, "Life just got even more interesting in Forks High School."

(Y/N) couldn't help but be intrigued. "How so?"

Alice leaned in conspiratorially, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "There's a new girl at the school."

(Y/N) raised an eyebrow, intrigued by Alice's enthusiasm. "A new girl? Why is that so exciting?"

Alice's eyes widened as she explained, "Because, dear sister, this new girl is different. I've seen flashes of her future, and it's...uncertain. There's something extraordinary about her, something that might just shake up our tranquil little town."

(Y/N) considered Alice's words, her curiosity piqued. She had always trusted Alice's visions, and this revelation promised an unexpected twist in their otherwise peaceful existence.

As the rest of their siblings joined them in the parking lot, (Y/N) shared Alice's revelation. They exchanged glances filled with curiosity and anticipation. Life in Forks was about to become more intriguing, and the Cullen family was ready to face whatever challenges the new girl's arrival might bring.

The year was 2005, and the town of Forks had remained a quiet, secluded haven for the Cullen family. (Y/N), now a hybrid of a witch and vampire, appeared eternally fifteen but was wise beyond her years. Her days were spent in the cozy Cullen home, where Esme provided her with a homeschooling education tailored to her unique needs.

Yet, there was a part of (Y/N) that longed for more than the confines of their home. She yearned for the normalcy of teenage life, for the bustling hallways of a high school, and for the companionship of her siblings. Carlisle remained as protective as ever, reluctant to expose her to the unpredictable world outside, but he couldn't deny her the occasional visits to Forks High School.

One crisp afternoon, (Y/N) stood by the school's parking lot, waiting for her siblings to emerge from their classes. She watched as the students filed out, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Her heart ached for the chance to experience such simple joys.

Suddenly, a tiny whirlwind of energy appeared before her, and she smiled as Alice materialized in front of her. Alice's golden eyes sparkled with excitement, and she greeted her sister with a grin.

"(Y/N), you won't believe it," Alice chirped, her voice filled with anticipation.

Arching an eyebrow, (Y/N) replied, "Believe what, Alice?"

With a playful twirl, Alice continued, "Life just got even more interesting in Forks High School."

(Y/N) couldn't help but be intrigued. "How so?"

Alice leaned in conspiratorially, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "There's a new girl at the school."

(Y/N) raised an eyebrow, intrigued by Alice's enthusiasm. "A new girl? Why is that so exciting?"

Alice's eyes widened as she explained, "Because, dear sister, this new girl is different. I've seen flashes of her future, and it's...uncertain. There's something extraordinary about her, something that might just shake up our tranquil little town."

(Y/N) considered Alice's words, her curiosity piqued. She had always trusted Alice's visions, and this revelation promised an unexpected twist in their otherwise peaceful existence.

As the rest of their siblings joined them in the parking lot, (Y/N) shared Alice's revelation. They exchanged glances filled with curiosity and anticipation. Life in Forks was about to become more intriguing, and the Cullen family was ready to face whatever challenges the new girl's arrival might bring.

Edward had long been intrigued by Bella Swan, the human girl who had captured his heart. He knew the time had come to introduce her to his family, the Cullens. With a mixture of anticipation and apprehension, he arrived at the Cullen residence with Bella by his side.

The Cullen home exuded an air of elegance and tranquility as Edward and Bella entered. Carlisle and Esme, the matriarch and patriarch of the family, stood together, their welcoming smiles putting Bella at ease. Alice, as ever, bounced with enthusiasm, eager to greet the newcomer.

Rosalie, the beautiful but distant blonde, maintained her standoffish demeanor. Emmett, her jovial and easygoing husband, offered a warm and friendly greeting. Jasper, with his polite distance, appeared cordial yet reserved.

As Bella took in the room full of unique and ethereal beings, her nerves were palpable. Edward gently squeezed her hand, offering silent reassurance.

Edward turned to Bella, his arm draped around her, and gestured toward the youngest member of the family. "(Y/N)," he began, "I'd like you to meet Bella Swan."

(Y/N) stepped forward, her emerald eyes twinkling with curiosity and warmth. "Hello, Bella," she greeted with a genuine smile.

Bella returned the smile, though her gaze flickered with surprise as she took in (Y/N)'s youthful appearance. "Hi, (Y/N). Nice to meet you."

Edward, ever the attentive brother, chimed in, "Bella, (Y/N) is homeschooled. She's rather sensitive emotionally, and we want to ensure she's comfortable."

Bella nodded, not questioning the explanation, and (Y/N) added, "It's lovely to meet someone new. I don't often get the chance to make friends outside the family."

As the conversation flowed, Bella and (Y/N) discovered shared interests. They both had a deep love for nature and a passion for ballet. They exchanged stories about their experiences, and (Y/N) found herself drawn to Bella's genuine and kind-hearted nature.

Alice, always eager to foster connections, joined in their conversation with her trademark enthusiasm. Jasper remained observant but distant, his empathic nature making him cautious around newcomers. Rosalie, on the other hand, kept her distance but couldn't help but sneak occasional glances at Bella, her curiosity getting the better of her.

As the evening unfolded, the Cullens' initial uncertainties about Bella began to fade. It was clear that she brought a light into their home, and her connection with (Y/N) was a pleasant surprise.

Though the Cullens were a family of immortal vampires, they had managed to create a sense of belonging and unity. With Bella's arrival, the dynamics shifted once more, adding a new layer of complexity to their existence. Little did they know that this human girl would play a significant role in their future, bringing challenges and joys they could never have anticipated.

The bond between (Y/N) and Bella had grown stronger since their first meeting at the Cullen household. They shared countless hours talking about everything from books to ballet, and their friendship had become an unbreakable connection.

One sunny afternoon, Bella decided to introduce (Y/N) to a friend from her other life in Forks, someone who was quite different from the Cullen family. She took (Y/N) to the nearby La Push reservation, where she introduced her to Jacob Black.

Jacob, a tall and lanky young man with a warm smile, greeted Bella and her new friend with enthusiasm. (Y/N) was immediately struck by his friendly and down-to-earth nature. She found herself drawn to his easygoing demeanor, which contrasted with the graceful elegance of her vampire family.

As they sat in the shade of a towering tree, (Y/N) and Jacob began to chat. She learned that Jacob had a passion for fixing cars and motorcycles, an interest he'd picked up from his father. It was an unusual hobby for a young man on the brink of shifting into a werewolf, but Jacob loved the mechanical world as much as (Y/N) loved ballet and nature.

"(Y/N), you ever work on cars or bikes?" Jacob asked, his eyes lighting up with excitement.

She shook her head, intrigued by the idea. "No, I've never had the chance, but I'd love to learn."

Jacob grinned, his enthusiasm infectious. "Well, I can teach you if you're interested. We've got an old truck in the garage that's in need of some TLC."

Bella watched as her friend and her new friend connected over a shared interest. It was a heartwarming sight, seeing her worlds collide in such a positive way.

In the days that followed, (Y/N) visited La Push regularly to spend time with Jacob. She learned how to wield wrenches and navigate the inner workings of an engine. She watched with fascination as he effortlessly fixed motorcycles and patiently explained the mechanics behind each repair.

As (Y/N) delved into this new hobby, she couldn't help but notice the parallel between her time with Jacob and the moments she had observed between Rosalie and Emmett as they worked on cars together. She marveled at the beauty of human experiences and how they transcended the boundaries of her immortal life.

Her friendship with Jacob deepened, and she treasured the moments spent working on engines and sharing stories under the open sky. In those moments, (Y/N) realized that bonds could be formed beyond the supernatural world of vampires and werewolves, and that the connections she forged with humans were just as significant and meaningful.

The year had turned to 2006, and the bonds between (Y/N), Bella, and Jacob had grown stronger since (Y/N) started learning about cars and motorcycles with him. However, a shadow had fallen over their friendship.

Jacob had become distant, and Bella couldn't understand why. She was tired of being ignored, and one day, she decided to confront him with (Y/N) by her side.

They arrived at Jacob's house, and the atmosphere was tense. Bella knew something was amiss, and she was determined to get answers. As they approached the house, they heard roughhousing and laughter coming from the backyard.

Bella's frustration was evident as she muttered, "Enough is enough. I need to know what's going on."

(Y/N) nodded in agreement, her concern mirrored in her eyes. They made their way to the backyard, where they were met with an unexpected sight. Paul, Jared, and Sam, all shirtless, were playfully wrestling in the grass.

Bella's patience had run thin, and she spoke up, "Jacob, we need to talk."

The laughter ceased as the three boys turned to look at the girls. Sam, with his wisdom and responsibility as the pack's alpha, stepped forward. "What's this about, Bella?"

Jacob stood nearby, his expression guarded. Bella's frustration boiled over, and she finally confronted him, "You've been avoiding me, Jacob. I want to know why."

Jacob hesitated, his gaze shifting between Bella and his pack members. But it was Paul who decided to speak, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "Well, maybe it's because we've got more important things to do than hang out with vampires."

Bella's eyes widened in shock. She had heard the legends, but this was the first time someone from the Quileute tribe had openly referred to the Cullens as vampires.

A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by Jared's uneasy cough. Jacob's features hardened as he faced Bella, the truth finally out in the open. "Yes, Bella, we know what your family is. We know they're the cold ones."

(Y/N), who had remained quiet until now, felt the tension rise to a breaking point. Her magical abilities had always been a closely guarded secret, but she couldn't stand by as the situation escalated.

Before anyone could react, Bella, driven by anger and hurt, slapped Paul across the face. It was an instinctive reaction, but the consequences were immediate. Paul's body began to tremble, and within moments, he transformed into a massive, russet-colored wolf.

Chaos erupted as the other wolves reacted, growling and snapping at the sudden threat. Jacob, acting on instinct to protect Bella, shifted into his wolf form and leaped between Paul and the girls.

(Y/N), her magical powers flaring to life, sensed the impending danger. She stepped forward, raising her hands, and a shimmering magical shield sprang into existence, surrounding Bella and Jacob, protecting them from the agitated wolves.

The standoff continued for a tense moment until Sam, as the pack's leader, barked a command, and the wolves reluctantly backed down. (Y/N) slowly lowered the shield, and the tension in the air dissipated.

Bella and Jacob were left staring at each other, the truth now laid bare.

The tension in the forest eased as Sam, the alpha of the Quileute wolf pack, intervened and calmed the agitated wolves. He beckoned everyone to follow him back to his cabin, where they could talk more openly.

Jacob turned to Bella, his expression pained. "Bella, try not to stare at Emily too much."

(Y/N) caught Jacob's words and glanced at Bella with curiosity. She followed Jacob's gaze to a woman named Emily who was standing nearby. Bella's reaction was immediate; she was taken aback by the scars on Emily's face.

As they entered Sam's cabin, Bella couldn't help but ask, "What happened to her?"

Sam, understanding the girls' confusion, began to explain. "Emily's scars are a result of a shifter's transformation gone wrong. It's a risk we face when we shift. Sometimes, accidents happen."

(Y/N) listened intently, and as she looked at Emily, her mind flashed back to her own past. She remembered the pain of the flames, the burns on her body, and the scars she had carried before Carlisle had turned her into a vampire. It was a painful memory she rarely revisited.

Sam continued, "We're not just ordinary humans, Bella. We're shape-shifters. We transform into wolves. We've known about the cold ones, the vampires, for a long time, and there's a history of conflict between our kind."

Bella's eyes widened, realizing that the tension between Jacob's pack and her family was deeply rooted. It was a revelation that left her with more questions than answers.

Then, Sam turned to (Y/N), his gaze intense. "And what about you? You smell human, but not quite."

(Y/N) hesitated for a moment before she decided to share her truth. "I'm not just a vampire. I'm also a witch. Carlisle turned me during the Salem Witch Trials to save my life, but I retained my magic."

The room fell silent as Sam processed this revelation. The other members of the pack, including Paul, who had calmed down, overheard the conversation and entered the cabin.

Paul, still uneasy about (Y/N), voiced his concerns. "Sam, she's dangerous. A vampire-witch hybrid? Who knows what she's capable of?"

Sam raised a hand, silencing Paul. He turned back to (Y/N), his eyes steady. "Explain. How do you use your magic?"

(Y/N) took a deep breath and began to recount the story of the Salem Witch Trials, how she had been condemned, and how Carlisle had turned her to save her life. She spoke of the magic she had retained and how she had learned to harness it, to control it.

As her story unfolded, the tension in the room began to ease. Sam and the rest of the pack listened with rapt attention, realizing that (Y/N) was not a threat but someone who had suffered and survived against all odds.

As the conversation in Sam's cabin continued, the atmosphere began to relax, and the tension that had filled the room started to dissipate. The Cullen and the Quileute pack shared stories and experiences, forging a fragile understanding. However, a new presence entered the room, and the dynamics shifted once more.

The door swung open, and Seth Clearwater entered, a sheepish smile on his face. "Sorry I'm late, everyone. Got caught up in patrol duty."

He started to explain further but stopped abruptly as his eyes locked onto (Y/N)'s. Time seemed to stand still for Seth as he made eye contact with her, and a series of vivid flashes inundated his mind.

He saw himself dating (Y/N), their laughter echoing through the forest as they went on hikes, their hands intertwined. He saw tender moments of them kissing under the moonlight, their love stronger than anything he had ever imagined. He even saw himself undergoing a transformation, becoming immortal through (Y/N)'s magic, so they could live out their lives together.

The sudden influx of images left Seth bewildered, his heart racing. He stumbled over his words, his apology fading into silence. It was as if a veil had been lifted, revealing a future he had never known he wanted.

The room fell silent as everyone turned their attention to Seth. It didn't take long for Sam to realize what had occurred. He approached Seth, his expression knowing. "Seth, you've imprinted."

Seth nodded, still dazed by the overwhelming experience. He couldn't tear his gaze away from (Y/N), who had a bewildered yet sympathetic expression on her face.

Bella, having experienced imprinting with Jacob, understood the gravity of the situation. She leaned over to whisper to (Y/N), "It's a Quileute thing. He can't help it. It's like he's bound to you now."

(Y/N) nodded in understanding, feeling a mix of surprise and sympathy for Seth. She had witnessed how powerful imprinting could be and how it could affect someone's life.

Seth, still recovering from the shock, couldn't help but act like a lovesick puppy around (Y/N). He smiled at her, his gaze lingering, and his actions becoming increasingly attentive. It was clear that his world had shifted, and his focus had become solely centered on her.

The room settled back into conversation, but Seth's newfound devotion to (Y/N) remained evident. He was drawn to her like a magnet, his presence a constant reminder of the complexities of the supernatural world they inhabited.

As the evening wore on, the Cullen and the Quileute pack continued to exchange stories and experiences, but now there was an added layer of understanding and acceptance. The bonds forged between them grew stronger, and they realized that in a world filled with secrets and supernatural forces, connections could form in the most unexpected and profound ways.

Bella and (Y/N) headed back to the Cullens' house, the forest surrounding them bathed in the gentle light of the moon. Bella pulled up to the driveway, and (Y/N) stepped out of the car, her thoughts lingering on the revelations of the evening.

As she watched Bella drive off, (Y/N) couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions. She had made new friends, but she was aware of the complications that could arise from her interactions with the outside world. Her hybrid nature, a blend of vampire and witch, held secrets that she needed to protect.

Entering the Cullens' home, (Y/N) was immediately surrounded by her family. Carlisle, Esme, Alice, Edward, Rosalie, Emmett, and Jasper all gathered around her, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity.

"Where have you been, (Y/N)?" Carlisle's voice held a hint of anger, but also a deep concern. He had always been protective of her, knowing the dangers of the human world and the risks associated with her true nature being exposed.

(Y/N) took a deep breath, her gaze meeting Carlisle's. "I've been hanging out with Bella and Jacob and some new friends I made."

Carlisle's concern deepened. "New friends? (Y/N), you know the risks. Your true nature, both as a vampire and a witch, could be exposed to humans."

(Y/N) nodded, understanding his worries but also eager to share her experiences. "I know, Carlisle, but I've been careful. And I've learned a lot about the Quileute culture and the challenges they face."

Carlisle couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions. He was angry that Bella had taken (Y/N) without informing anyone, concerned about the risks, but also happy that his daughter had made friends outside their family.

However, his world was about to be shaken once more. (Y/N) noticed the change in her father's demeanor and decided it was time to reveal the most significant development of the evening.

"I have something to tell you," she began, her voice tinged with a hint of infatuation. "I've been imprinted on."

Carlisle's eyes widened in shock. "Imprinted? By whom?"

(Y/N) smiled, a lovesick expression in her eyes. "Seth Clearwater."

The room fell silent as the gravity of the situation sunk in. Carlisle realized that his younger daughter had formed a bond that was far deeper and more profound than any ordinary friendship. He knew that an imprint was a powerful connection, one that couldn't be broken.

As (Y/N) continued to share the story of her evening and the imprint, Carlisle's world came crashing down. He had always known that his family's supernatural existence came with complexities, but the idea of his daughter being infatuated with a young shifter left him with a mix of emotions—concern, worry, and a touch of sadness for the challenges that lay ahead.

The Cullens, a family bound by love and acceptance, now faced a new chapter in their extraordinary lives, one that would test their bonds and their ability to navigate the intricate web of supernatural connections.

[merwgue]

In the world of A Court of Thorns and Roses (ACOTAR) by Sarah J. Maas, we encounter the tale of Feyre Archeron—her struggles, her growth, and her eventual role in the politics and power struggles of the Night Court. But beneath the fantasy, romance, and magic, there are unsettling parallels between Feyre’s story and the themes George Orwell laid out in 1984. While Maas likely didn’t intend to mirror Orwell’s dystopian warnings, the similarities are impossible to ignore. Feyre is not just the savior of the Night Court; she is also a victim of manipulation, control, and brainwashing, much like Orwell’s protagonist Winston Smith.

Introduction: The Hidden Parallels

At first glance, ACOTAR and 1984 seem worlds apart. Orwell’s novel presents a dystopian society where the government, under Big Brother, uses fear, surveillance, and propaganda to control every aspect of life. ACOTAR, on the other hand, is a fantasy series set in a world of faeries, with romantic subplots and the high stakes of political intrigue. However, beneath the glittering surface of Maas’ fictional world lies a deeply disturbing undercurrent of control, manipulation, and forced loyalty—one that eerily mirrors the mechanics of Orwell’s totalitarian regime.

Feyre, though not living under a literal dictatorship, undergoes a process of reeducation and mental conditioning that is shockingly similar to what Orwell describes. She begins as a free-thinking individual with her own set of values and beliefs, but as the series progresses, her autonomy and agency are systematically stripped away, leaving her loyal to the Night Court and its ruling elite, much like Winston’s eventual submission to Big Brother.

The Argument: Feyre’s Journey as Brainwashing

From the beginning, Feyre is established as someone who fights for survival, her family, and her independence. In the first book, we see her resisting the magical and political forces that seek to control her, much like Winston resists the Party in 1984. However, over the course of the series, particularly after her move to the Night Court, Feyre’s resistance crumbles. She is slowly but surely brainwashed into accepting a new reality—one that benefits those in power, mainly Rhysand and his inner circle.

In 1984, Winston is tortured and reprogrammed by O’Brien, a figure who presents himself as an ally but ultimately serves the oppressive regime. Rhysand, in many ways, mirrors O’Brien’s role. He positions himself as Feyre’s savior, rescuing her from the clutches of Tamlin (who, despite his flaws, initially fought to protect Feyre in his own way). But Rhysand’s method of “saving” Feyre is not as benevolent as it seems. He isolates her from her past, her family, and her previous values. Under his influence, Feyre gradually comes to adopt his worldview, just as Winston adopts the Party’s beliefs.

In 1984, the Party controls reality by controlling thought. It rewrites history, eliminates dissent, and conditions its citizens to accept whatever truth is most convenient for maintaining power. In ACOTAR, Rhysand and the Night Court engage in similar tactics. Velaris is portrayed as a perfect utopia—an untouched, idyllic city that must be protected at all costs. Feyre is repeatedly told that Velaris is the pinnacle of what society should be, and anyone who disagrees (like those from the Hewn City or other courts) is deemed an enemy. The propaganda is subtle but insidious, convincing Feyre that the Night Court’s way of life is not only superior but the only way.

Rhysand as the Manipulative Leader

Rhysand’s control over Feyre mirrors Big Brother’s control over Winston. He plays the part of the benevolent ruler, always positioning himself as the one who “saved” Feyre, first from Under the Mountain and then from Tamlin. However, his methods of manipulation are far more sophisticated than mere physical coercion. Rhysand uses emotional manipulation, guilt, and a savior complex to entrap Feyre in his web of loyalty. He repeatedly tells her that he is giving her “freedom,” all while subtly guiding her into a role that benefits him and his court.

This is strikingly similar to how the Party in 1984 claims to protect its citizens by controlling them. The Party tells people that true freedom lies in submitting to Big Brother, that by giving up their autonomy, they are protecting themselves from harm. Similarly, Rhysand convinces Feyre that she is free when, in reality, she is being shaped into the perfect tool for his political agenda. Feyre’s transformation into High Lady of the Night Court is not an act of liberation; it’s a calculated move to ensure her absolute loyalty to Rhysand and his cause.

Rhysand rewrites Feyre’s personal history just as the Party rewrites history in 1984. He convinces her that her time with Tamlin was solely abusive and that her loyalty to him was misguided, even though Feyre had once loved and trusted Tamlin. This rewriting of her past serves to break any lingering attachment she might have had to her former life, leaving her entirely dependent on Rhysand. Much like how Winston is made to betray Julia, Feyre’s love and loyalty to Tamlin are erased, replaced with complete devotion to the Night Court.

Surveillance and Control

Another striking parallel between ACOTAR and 1984 is the theme of surveillance. In Orwell’s world, citizens are constantly watched by the Party, with no privacy or space to form independent thoughts. In ACOTAR, Rhysand similarly invades Feyre’s mind through his mental powers. He has the ability to speak to her in her thoughts, to read her emotions, and to manipulate her dreams. This constant intrusion into Feyre’s mental and emotional space mirrors the Party’s surveillance tactics in 1984. Feyre cannot truly escape Rhysand’s influence because he is always present in her mind, shaping her thoughts and guiding her actions.

This level of control is subtle but effective. Feyre begins to doubt her own thoughts and feelings, questioning whether her memories of Tamlin were ever real, whether her previous life had any meaning. Rhysand becomes her only source of truth, just as Big Brother becomes the only source of truth in 1984. The result is a Feyre who is no longer capable of independent thought, who has been so thoroughly conditioned by Rhysand’s influence that she believes his version of events without question.

The Conclusion: Feyre’s Loss of Autonomy

By the end of the series, Feyre is no longer the independent, free-thinking individual she was at the start. She has been completely absorbed into the Night Court’s ideology, just as Winston is absorbed into the Party. Her identity, once defined by her own choices and beliefs, is now entirely tied to Rhysand and his court. She has become a willing participant in the very system that controls her, much like Winston’s final submission to Big Brother.

In conclusion, the parallels between ACOTAR and 1984 are hard to ignore. Both stories feature protagonists who are gradually stripped of their autonomy, manipulated by powerful figures into accepting a new reality. While Feyre’s journey is framed as one of empowerment, it is, in many ways, a tragic tale of brainwashing and control. Much like Winston in 1984, Feyre is reeducated to serve the interests of those in power, her resistance crushed under the weight of emotional manipulation and psychological conditioning. What Maas presents as Feyre’s liberation is, in fact, her submission to a new form of control—one that is just as insidious as the Party’s dominance over Winston’s world.

ting! Thanks for reading!!

[shy-taylorsversion]

Savior Complex - Chapter 2

(Photos do not reflect the reader's appearance and are just for vibes)

Pairing(s) - Negan Smith x Reader, Daryl Dixon x Reader

Word Count -1.6k

Chapter Summary - Reader arrives at the Sanctuary but something isn't right.

Warnings - Language, injury, references to nausea and vomiting.

A/N - please lmk what you think :)

masterlist

A tap on the window woke her. Eyes peeling open to everything spinning, black spotted her vision. Sweat clung to her neck and face, the pain throbbing across her head. With unusually needed effort, she straightened then absently clutched at her stomach when the nausea found its way back.

The events of the night before hit all at once this time, no longer coming in fragments or pieces.

Glenn, Abraham, Daryl. Negan.

His name came to her then, she’d known it all along but before, she couldn’t place it.

There he was, the tip of the bat pressed against the glass. She was vaguely certain he’d referred to the bat with a name too, though she stored that away for later.

She blinked at him through the barrier. His mouth was moving like he was saying something but she couldn’t make it out.

The door clicked open, causing her leg to slip and dangle outside. The crisp spring air seeped through the vehicle and through her clothes. It shocked her system enough to give slight relief from the clouding her brain and the ache in her bones.

“Ya alright, Doll?”

The voice shook her, causing her to start before a heavy, warm hand fell on her shoulder to stop her.

Her eyes met Negan’s, concern and confusion written across his face. She tried to nod, an instinctive response to that question. Of course, she was fine, she didn’t have the luxury of not being fine.

Her body lurched as bile rose in her throat. She was falling forward, hands flying out to brace herself on the doorframe of the truck.

From the corner of her eye should could see his feet shuffling to the side as he realized what was happening, though his hand was still touching her.

She heaved onto the ground, clutching at her stomach and pinching her eyes closed as her body convulsed. Letting her body hang half out the door for a moment, head between her shoulders and gasping for breath. Pain shot through her skull and her whole body vibrated with chills.

“Fuck, ok.” Negan’s voice snapped her out of the trance and she looked up. His hand was rubbing her shoulder and she jerked away clumsily causing her to knock her arm against the door and wince. “Gonna take that as a no.”

“I’m fine.” She spat at him and wiped at her mouth, ignoring the sour taste left over and the scent of blood lingering on her hand. She moved to slide out of the vehicle She stood on unstable feet, hand still gripping the door to keep her level and ignoring the sway in her vision. She must have swayed because his hands were back on her, steadying her.

“Woah, slow down.” He said, rubbing up and down her arms. She couldn’t tell if the next wave of nausea hit because of the pain in her head or that face he was touching her. She tried ended up stumbling backward, nearly sending her to the ground. She caught the truck quick enough to save herself.

“What the fuck happened to her?” Negan yelled at someone she couldn’t see. Black spotted her vision and she cringed when his volume sent shockwaves through her skull. He seemed to notice because he took a step closer, though he never touched her again. “Shit, I’m sorry, sweetheart. We’re gettin’ you to the doctor.”

She shook her head, confused at his kindness and concern.

“I told you I’m fine.” The last word was slurred. Every ounce of strength slipped from her body, leaving her weak. Her legs buckled underneath her, hands slid down the truck with a squeak.

Arms shot out to catch herself but she was hurtling face-first towards the ground.

Negan grabbed her again, shooting down in time to stop her from hitting dirt, hands around her waist. She pushed against his chest, wanting him off of her but her movements were clumsy. She resigned herself to his hold, barely even aware of anything but the vibrations through her head.

She was heavy, almost limp. Every fraction of a movement radiated fire through her limbs and she had the sudden desire to lay down.

Negan was yelling again though she couldn’t make out what. A high-pitched ring started in her ears, her eyes clamped shut again trying to grapple for whatever remaining strength she had.

At some point, they’d started moving. A weight landed on her back and nudged her forward, she suspected it was his hand ushering her somewhere.

She had no idea where they were, how far from home she was. She was vaguely aware that she was at risk, that being this close to Negan without any grasp on the world around her wasn’t smart but she didn’t see a way out. She didn’t feel as if she was in imminent danger, he seemed to be hellbent on making sure she was alright.

The world was spinning and ringing, loud and unbearable. Something was wrong, as much as she swore she was fine.

Nothing was making sense.

The last eight hours of her life were a blur, a nightmare she had yet to wake from.

Why was he helping her? Why did he take her? Why didn’t he just kill her as soon as she’d fucked up? What was happening?

They’d stopped moving, his hand still pressed firmly against her back. He murmured for her to watch her step. The sudden burst of warm air caused her to shiver at the change. She pried open her eyes and squinted in the fluorescent light.

They were back to walking. He steered them down a hallway and then another. She needed to look around, memorize where she was and how to get out but she couldn’t even lift her head.

Maybe that’d been his plan all along, disorienting her enough so she could find a way to leave.

Someone was talking again, though it didn’t seem close enough to be Negan. She was slid onto something, hard and uncomfortable. Something like a bed. He’d said something about a doctor.

“Tell me what the fuck is wrong with her,” Negan demanded. She still couldn’t see very well but sitting helped the pressure in her head. His presence was off to her side.

Footsteps approached her. Fingers deftly moved across her head, into the sticky congealed mess stuck in her hair. She lifted her head slowly and was able to make out the rough shape of the man in front of her.

They were still talking. Typically she’d be upset, fighting for them to stop acting like she wasn't there but the words didn’t come.

She was so tired.

“Think we’re looking at a concussion, won’t know how severe though the wound is pretty bad.” The man said, no longer touching her but still surveying her face. “Might need stitches if the bleeding doesn’t stop and bandage the one on her forehead, don’t know if you want to use the resources.”

“Anything you can give her?” Negan asked, he sounded pissed.

She heard more than seen the man shake his head.

“After twenty-four hours, she can come back for some ibuprofen but until then, she needs water and rest. Someone needs to watch over her, if something changes come back.”

“Do the stitches, don’t need her bleeding out.

She thinks the doctor nodded.

— — —

She’d gotten stitches twice in her life, well three now.

The first time was when she was twelve, her parents had been surprised she’d made it that long. She’d fallen off a tree branch in her front yard and landed on one of the roots. It was laid at an odd angle, too sharp of a bend, and all but gashed her arm open on impact. The gash was small though, more of a deep nick than anything. It was three stitches, right above her elbow. Painless really, other than the itch for the next few days.

The most recent happened the week after they fled the farm. They’d been running since that night and everyone was exhausted. She’d made a mistake when climbing down a chain link fence. The trees had rustled and she turned her head too fast, catching the side of her check on a sharp piece of metal.

She tried to stop the bleeding with fabric torn from her shirt but it was persistent. She insisted she was fine but Herschel convinced Rick to let them stop at the nearest, safest house. Seven stitches from the edge of her cheekbone to right above her ear. He’d used a needle and thread from an old sewing kit. It pinched and pulled with every tug, she’d probably die of tetanus but it meant that they could keep going.

She’d been embarrassed at her fuck up, in her head about messing up their pace until Carl had said she looked like a badass. Lori had scolded him for his language but it was the first time anyone smiled in days.

She’d gotten luck a few days later when they found a pharmacy with just enough antibiotics.

This time had to be the worst. There were no grins or laughs, no parents shaking their heads, and no childhood accidents.

She didn’t even know how she ended up injured this time. She only knew it was sore. Despite his efforts to not hurt her, the stitches stung like a bitch and she couldn’t take any pain reliever.

Negan ushered her to a room and told her he’d send someone to check in soon, he had something to deal with. She didn’t care.

She’d laid face down on the bed with little ceremony, not even bothering to check the room or remove her boots and let herself drift off to memories of Carl’s smile and the sound of her family’s laughs.

[rosie-kairi]

*Walks in with a slushie* hey so after I sent that ask it made me come up with a whole idea I've come to call the Ghost AU:

Picture this, Ephemer and Brain are the only ones from the original 5 to rebuild keyblade society and live actual lives growing up getting married, becoming masters, and having kids. Yet despite that they're both weighed down by the guilt and despair believing they abandoned their friends to die when escaping the digital daybreak town.

So at the end of their lives all they want is to reunite with their lost friends. When they die Brain and Ephemer do find each other in the afterlife (or the final world) and they're so happy and they missed each other soooooo muuuuuch. Except there's one problem, they can't find the others. So they go searching the afterlife to find them.

This eventually leads them to Strelitzia who goes on to explain that actually they're all still alive. Ven, Skuld, and Lauriam ended up in roughly the same time period just spread apart from each other but worse than that they're all in a pretty bad situation. Determined to right their wrongs Eph and Brain go back to the mortal world to take care of their unfinished business. But of course, being spirits they can't directly affect or interact with anything so they can only do so much.

Ephemer goes in search of Ventus and Brain for Lauriam, and then they plan on finding Skuld together. Ephemer unfortunately finds Ven in the clutches of Xehanort and is helpless to stop the neo shadows from ganging up on him. He reads Xehanorts heart and tries to whisper in his ear this is wrong, you know this isn't right he's just a little boy please don't. Whether Eph recognizes Xehanort as his descendant or not is up to you (personally i think it should be riku but we're not talking about that) but fails to stop the split and can only watch in horror as Ven is ripped apart and left in a cationic state on the near brink of death.

Desperate to save him Ephemer searches for a light strong enough to help, and guess who he finds? On the night of Sora's birth as his heart makes its way to the destiny islands Ephemer guides him to Ven and asks for his help knowing that a pure light will give Ven time to regather his strength. You can also imagine his surprise when he sees Ven dropped off at Eraqus' residence. The only real way for Ephemer to interact with the wayfinders is to go in their dreams and ask them to look after Ven and succeed where he failed. His messages are cryptic on purpose to keep Ven's true identity safe but also forge the subliminal suggestion to keep the younger keyblade wielder safe. And then Ven decides to journey on his own and Ephemer would've had a heart attack if he wasn't already dead and tries and fails to get Ven to go back to LoD. Only to regret that when he sees Eraqus draw the keyblade he once wielded and left to Brain be turned on Ven (it's a real good thing Brain wasn't here for this because ghost or not things would've gone from bad to worse seeing his grandson pull a stunt like that).

All the subliminal messaging pays off when Terra and Aqua go all out to protect Ven but it's still not enough. Ephemer tries to stop Ven from sacrificing his heart in the meta battle pleading for him to stop but if he couldn't stop Ven at 11 he wasn't going to have much luck with him at 16. When the battle draws to a close all Ephemer can do to stop Ven from fully fading away is to once again guide him to a heart that will keep him safe. He whispers to Sora's heart take him and protect him and over the next 10 years visit his dreams encouraging Sora to be strong and save him which unintentionally feeds into his savior complex (whoops).

Meanwhile Brain successfully locates a much older Lauriam but is unable to stop him from becoming a Nobody (and as a ghost he tries to throw hands with Luxu who he clocks instantly but he's dead so all he can do is yell insults and curses). Brain can only communicate with Marluxia when he's standing in front of a mirror or a reflective surface it's the only time he's visible and can get Marluxia to hear him. He keeps trying to get him to remember who he is, a dandelion, a union leader, a keyblade wielder. He tries to apologize over and over for failing to help him when he needed it. For giving Lauriam hope of finding his sister and then not following through with his promise to help find her.

This obviously does not go well for Marluxia too ashamed to fully face what he has become and what he has done. His heart is in turmoil and anytime Strelitzia is mentioned has him storming away or breaking the surface Brain is reflected in. This all comes to a head in CO, where Brain keeps trying and failing to get Lauriam to wake up and stop his schemes, and even though Ven's heart is currently with Roxas at that time the bond is still there and it's the closest Brain has gotten to getting through to Marluxia. But all it does is bring more anger and despair so instead of waking up he buries himself deeper and succumbs to darkness fighting Sora.

Now Ephemer and Brain truly feel like they've messed up. Ven's heart is damaged and not in his body, Marluxia is gone but Lauriam didn't show up in the afterlife so they didn't get him back, and they still haven't found any sign of Skuld. Standing in the CoW even though Ven is asleep and can't hear or feel them the boys can't help but marvel at how big he is now, they smooth down his hair and readjust his jacket and cup his cheek and even though neither can actually feel anything it just feels so good to see him again. Occasionally they both enter his dreams just to check on him and make sure he's okay but they can't bring themselves to actually talk to him.

They realize Ven is likely the key to bringing their lost friends fully back so they split up once again this time Brain trails Xigbar to see what plans he has while Ephemer tracks down Ven's heart and has the talk from the previous ask with Roxas so when Sora wakes up Ven will be safe.

When Marluxia comes back and meets Sora it's much more intense. Even though Sora doesn't remember he now has Ven's heart and his presence is reaching out trying to connect with Lauriam deep inside. Ephemer is still whispering to Sora to free him, bring him back over his shoulder which just confuses Sora. And when trying to unleash the power of waking Ephemer can directly speak with Sora guiding him through the process to release Ven's healed heart. Both Ven and Eph thank Sora for keeping him safe all these years but Sora won't remember that part.

It all comes to a head in the keyblade graveyard where both Eph and Brain try to use their keyblades to divert deadly attacks just off course enough to miss giving the others but mostly Ven more openings to attack. When Marluxia is defeated for a final time he finally remembers everything and the gold bleeds to blue and he smiles and cries realizing that he didn't completely fail and sincerely thanks Sora for "protecting him" which he doesn't understand.

Then the big attack happens with all the keyblades getting launched and Ephemer appearing proper he lends his strength to Sora and again thanks him for "keeping him safe" which just confuses Sora even more (weirdo cryptic guys never explaining anything to him story of his life).

So in the end they finally managed to save Ven so one day two more to go. They now have to find Lauriam all over again because Streli confirmed he's still not dead and he finally got his heart back so he's all complete and continue their search for Skuld. Unfortunately, 5 very unwanted individuals materialize outta nowhere 4 of which should not look like no time has passed for them at all. So despite being departed souls Ephemer and Brain ready themselves to try and stop old enemies from hurting their friends, they somehow have to find a way to make more direct contact and likely jog some old painful memories.

How the rest of this plays out depends entirely on what holes Missing Link and KH IV fills going forward.

Ephemer and Brain when the Nightmare is never-ending.

FR that sounds like it would suck soooo bad for these guys. Universe just does NOT want them to win.

[six-white-venus]

if you ever see him, there is just one thing you would like to ask him:

how do i forgive?

because you've been trying, lord knows you have. it's been a year. he never loved you. it's as easy as that. why can't it be as easy as that?

you recently came across a letter you wrote him after he left, one where you're begging him to come back. you tore the paper copy into shreds a long time ago, but this one must have escaped your notice. you remember his response to the message. a thumbs-up emoji.

"whose name will i call, a thousand times over?" it said, "who will I call my love, my love, my love- exasperated, scandalised, laughing? who will I call?"

it's been a year and you know the answer to that question, more or less. no one. you will call no one. you will sit and stare at the paint peeling off your wall, that ugly, powdery blue that has started making your skin crawl. you will sit on the cold kitchen floor till your mom pulls you to your feet and brings you tea. you will call no one. you will make yourself forget.

except, it's not that easy.

he pops up in every mundane aspect of your life. the other day you found a keychain you bought him a month before his birthday, a month before he left you. you give it to someone else because why waste money? it's not like he lives in it.

(but he does, he does, he does.)

he is dating someone you used to know. you don't care. you want to throw up. you just want to ask: how do I forget?

a friend recently asked you, "do you think you had a savior complex, when it came to him?" you said you didn't, but maybe that's not the whole truth. maybe you did have some sort of twisted need to save him in every single way possible just so that he'll love you.

i would help you stitch yourself up. i swear i won't scream when you gut me like a fish. i will feed you soup and keep you warm. i won't sob when you knock my portion to the floor. you bleed. i do, too. no, you're right. i don't bleed as you do. I'll never understand. i am so sorry. i love you. do you love me?

after a week, you receive two texts:

lol kys ily <3

you are so happy you could sob.

he does none of this now, apparently. he smiles instead of smirking. he cradles things. he tends to wounds. he calls her baby. he says, "I love you so much." the whole thing, all spelled out. how crazy is that?

and you just want to ask: how do I stop caring?

he always held you between his teeth. there was nothing gentle about it. the bite marks on the back of your neck still hurt and you could swear it still bleeds. your mom says you're imagining it. you must be.

but here's the thing! you have people who hold you in their arms now. they are so gentle, so careful with you. you didn't cry, not once, under the clutch of his canines but now in their arms, all you do is cry. it's so strange. and you really are happy. it's so much better than what it used to be. you wake up and he's not the first thing you think of, not anymore. you dream that he apologises to you (you forgive him every single time). you go to therapy. you don't remember the last time you cried over him. you are loved, but not by him. you never were.

it doesn't matter, because you know what love feels like now. it is popcorn and nacho cheddar cheese seasoning and mutton curry. it tastes like tea and chips in an orange package and instant noodles you made with your best friend the day before she left for college. you know love now. you know happiness.

but in moments like these, you can't stop yourself from thinking that if you see him again, you would like to ask him one last thing:

how do you stop missing being held between one's teeth?

[owlespresso]

ashen slumber. estinien.

tags: fem!reader, poly!wolestimeric mentioned

“You need to get some rest,” Estinien says, arms crossed, hips cocked, leaned up against the doorway of Aymeric’s office. His hair cascades down his shoulders, hoarfrost white cast mellow orange by the dim lamplight.

“I don’t need any more rest.” you frown, resisting the urge to drag your hand over your face. Your dry eyes ache from hours of combing over idle paperwork. Returning to the star has seen you entrench yourself in Ishgard’s political complex, mostly for Aymeric’s sake. Splitting the paperwork between the two of you gives him more free time, something which he has been in desperate need of ever since he took place at the head of the House of Lords. The people have welcomed you with open arms, for the most part. There will always be an amount of the population which remains stuck in their old ways, determined to hold onto the grief and rage and resentment the Dragonsong War inflicted upon them, but you know you can’t please everyone. There is no world in which every soul agrees.

The highborne of the state have been more bewildered than anything. The Warrior of Light, savior of nations and states and the realm at large, dwindling herself down to a simple secretary sounds like a ridiculous idea on paper, ludicrous. Fortunately, you now have more than your fair share of experiences with paper. 

A part of you enjoys the monotony of the work, the simplicity.

“Aye.” Estinien says. He lets the side of his head thunk lightly against the wooden frame, lips pressed into a thin, flat line. He’s as close to rolling his eyes as he can get without actually doing it. He’s remarkably unconvinced.

“I’m not tired.” you insist. You’ve been to the Sea of Stars and beyond. You’ve lasted a day or two without rest before, and in much less luxurious places. In the dusty flats of Ala Mhigo, dogged by Garlean soldiers and the merciless sun. On Coerthas’s snowy ridges, buffeted by the winds and the ice. If there is an ideal place to go sleepless, Manor de Borel is as close as you can find.

“Then those bags under your eyes are just for show?” Estinien takes a step into the room. He’s shed his armor in favor of a white shirt with a low neckline and billowing sleeves. And a pair of high waisted riding trousers, ones you distinctly remember Aymeric weareing last week. You draw your gaze away from the lovely thick of his thighs with a swallow, but he’s already caught you, as evidenced by the wide smirk drawn from cheek to cheek. You open your mouth to deliver what is hopefully a stinging retort, but he beats you to it. “Don’t get clever with me—we both know you’re burning the candle at both ends. Do you plan on working until you drop?” “You can’t expect me to stand idle while you waste away at that thrice-damned desk.”

“Thrice-damned?” your lips quirk into an amused, shite-eating grin. “You hold the strangest grudges, Estinien.” 

Estinien scoffs. The steel of his boots’ heels clicks against the polished floor as he strides across the room, coming to stand at your side. He leans a hip against the desk’s edge. It’s nearly impossible to tear your gaze away from his toned thighs, lovingly squeezed by those leather pants. 

“I can hardly pull Aymeric away from it, and now it’s seized you in its clutches. I have half a mind to toss the bloody thing.” Estinien gruffs, capturing your chin between his forefinger and thumb. The pads of his fingers are calloused, roughened by years of handling a lance and handling his own survival in the realm’s untamed wilds. Slowly, contemplatively, he shifts his hold, cradling your cheek in his palm.

“I doubt Aymeric would appreciate that.” you mumble, pressing your cheek into his hand, like a cat stretching towards a spot of sun.

“Aymeric also fusses after everyone else only to not get a wink of sleep himself. Ishgard will ruin that man, I swear it.” Estinien grouses, rubbing circles into the space underneath your eye. It’s too easy to go boneless into his touch. Your shoulders slump, your entire body leaning in his direction. 

“On that, we agree.” you say, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. The taut muscle of his abdomen tenses and shudders.

“Aye. Now be a good lass and come to bed.” Estinien huffs. He reaches down, hooks his hands underneath your arms and lifts you from the chair like you’re some poorly-behaved feline. You’re so gobsmacked that it renders you completely still, frozen long enough for him to readjust his grip after he sets you back on your feet. His arms curl underneath your knees and bring them upwards. You shout, hands scrambling for his shoulders in blind panic as the ground disappears from beneath you a second time. 

“Estinien!” you squawk in a manner most undignified. “Put me down this instant!” Your fingers curl into his shoulders, squeezing the broad muscle you find there. 

“The rest of your Scions will gut me if you wasted away under my watch—and I’ve no interest in another visit from your infernal secretary.” You duck to avoid thunking your head on the top of the doorframe, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. He smells like a campfire, like levin in the air after a storm. You bump your nose into him as he shifts you in his grasp, wincing into his skin. 

“But I still have so much to do,” you protest halfheartedly. Your eyelids are already beginning to betray you. It’s harder and harder to keep open and fully awake when he’s got you pressed tight against the warmth of his body—his torso is broad and his waist so delectably thin. Caked in lean muscle, just plush enough for you to dig your fingers into his upper back. 

“Your parchment piles will still be here in the morning,” he assures you with a wry, amused huff. With you still in his arms, he twists the doorknob to the master bedroom and shoves it open with a cocked hip. You try to not think about how hot that is. Instead, you savor the wall of warmth that encompasses you as Estinien steps into the threshold. “Unless I make the wise decision to toss them into the fireplace.”

“I’m telling Aymeric if you do.” The threat is immediate, and it earns you a dry laugh. Estinien drops you onto the mattress, looks down at you with half-lidded, appraising eyes. Your robe has been rumpled by all the manhandling, collar knocked over your shoulder, exposing ilms of soft skin along your arm and bust. 

“You say that as if the lord commander won’t agree with me. You both work yourselves to the bone, but he’s more concerned for you than he ever is for himself.” he says with a sigh, flopping onto the other side of the bed. The plush mattress bounces underneath his weight, nearly knocking you off in the process. You grumble discontentedly as you right yourself, scuttling under the covers. They’re cool and buttery against your skin, a finery that only the wealthiest in the city get to enjoy. Here, in the calming dark, you could easily float off to sleep—but Estinien is still moving around. The sheets glide smoothly against your cheek as you peek out of your makeshift shelter.

His long, lean fingers clumsily bat against his chest, undoing a few of his buttons. You’ve been able to see the taunting jut of his collarbones this entire time, but every ilm of fabric lowered reveals more of his broad chest. A dusky areola peeks out from underneath the silken cloth.

“Shouldn’t you be chasing Aymeric around, instead?” 

“You would have me impose a curfew on the Lord Commander?” Estinien asks, sliding out of his shirt and kicking his boots off. They land somewhere near the door.

“But you can impose one on me?” Agitation bleeds into your voice. Your shrewd look becomes a menacing glare, space between your brows scrunched up.

“You,” Estinien reaches over, cupping your cheek in his massive palm. His fingers splay around the back of your head as he pulls you close, kisses your temple, and then your cheek. His warm breath rolls across your skin, sends a shudder down your spine as he nips the tip of your ear. “Are just small enough for me to get away with it.” Estinien says, flopping his head onto one of the pillows. Waves of white hair gleam pearlescent underneath the firelight. Amusement is worn into his statuesque features, painted across his high cheekbones and handsome nose. His eyelashes, even, hoarfrost in color, tinge pink in the hearth’s golden love. 

“Don’t look at me like that. You could have clawed yourself free if you wanted, you just like being doted on.” There’s a smugness to his words that makes your blood begin to boil, but it’s remarkably difficult to remain cross with him when he’s so shirtless and so in front of you, the long, lean stretch of his body splayed out for your viewing pleasure. The curves of his defined abdomen give way to sharp hip lines, a wisp of white hair guiding your vision lower, to the parts of him hidden by the covers.

“I’m ignoring you.” you mumble, shoving your face into the pillow. His touch roams to your back, warm hand coming to rest between your shoulder blades. When you don’t fuss, he adjusts his position, curling around you, pulling you close to his chest. 

You’re too stubborn to help, but you submit yourself to being maneuvered around. It’s nothing new. Countless nights, you’ve fallen asleep at the very edge of the bed, only to find yourself pressed between them when next you wake. Estinien has no qualms with picking carrying you to and from various rooms of the house, scooping you into his firm embrace whenever he gets the (frequent) urge to hold you. Even Aymeric grabs you and seats you on his lap whenever you wander into the office whilst he’s at work. 

Estinien presses his lips to the side of your head. A soft, rumbling sound coos from somewhere deep in his chest as he drags you upwards. Your face rests on his shoulder, half of your torso wedged between him and the blankets. A comforting, cradling embrace, saturated with the soft scent of after rain and fresh linens. The ease with which he moves you sends a shiver down your spine, a warmth building within you that you pointedly ignore.

You need rest, after all.

[mastomysowner]

The truth about Tai Lung

It’s a translation of this article. Maybe it’s a bit too harsh on Oogway and Shifu, but considering 20 years of hell they put Tai Lung through, I can’t say this harshness is unfounded.

Finally, after some time, we can conduct a thorough investigation of the events shown in the film codenamed "Kung Fu Panda", for the moment has come to expose the villains and clean the true hero’s name. It's time to take a closer look at the official version, which tells about the cheerful, careless Po, the wise and talented masters Oogway and Shifu, as well as the villain Tai Lung, who is responsible for all the bad things that happened.

So, the story begins at the moment when a small nameless fluffy snow leopard falls into the clutches of the kung fu master Shifu, who adopts him. Shifu immediately turns the child into a tool for his interests. He gives him a very meaningful name and begins to train him "until his bones cracked", aiming him for only one thing - to become the Dragon Warrior and get the scroll. Was it out of love? Perhaps. Who doesn't want his son to become the very, very best?

On the other hand, there can be another side - Tai Lung was just a tool with which the red panda expected to get to the Dragon Scroll, i.e. to do what he himself could not do. And I'm afraid that multiple facts speak in favor of the fact that this side was prevalent.

As we remember, Tai Lung, carefully following the instructions of his master (that's right, his master, not his father - remember how he addressed Shifu on the steps of the temple upon his return), almost reaches the heights of Kung Fu. But, according to Shifu and Oogway, he loses his "humanity" in the process, moreover, Shifu himself recognizes this failure. Well, he recognizes it, having lost the battle and being in a hopeless situation. That is, in a situation where a dishonorable one may deceive his more noble opponent and try to play on his feelings. But let's take the official version for the truth. Then the question arises - where did Master Oogway look that entire time? The same turtle that reached the heights of enlightenment, the heights of Kung Fu and told all sorts of wisdom to Po, instructing him on the true path. Was it by chance that he stepped back from pointing out Master Shifu's mistakes? But "there are no accidents." Maybe Master Oogway foresaw everything in the same way as he foresaw the situation with Tai Lung's escape (Oogway knew his student Shifu well, even possibly shaped his personality). He acted consciously and according to a plan, knowing that the Dragon Scroll is empty.

Let's try to guess what goals he pursued. First, he becomes the savior of the village by defeating Tai Lung with his secret technique. Second, the presence of a constant threat makes the post of Oogway important and necessary. Third, a prison fortress was built specifically for the snow leopard following an individual, rather complex (try to build something over an abyss) project: a clearly expensive activity. This, of course, means fund stealing, kickbacks, etc. Fourth, Tai Lung is guarded not just by some warriors, but by the Anvil of Heaven, a special squad of 100 elite rhinoceros warriors, whose commander is a student of Master Flying Rhino. The squad is officially known as fighters against dictatorship and injustice in the country's lands, now these warriors are  taken off duty and receive their salaries for guarding just one captive. Fifth, Master Shifu loses his face as the creator of the "monster", and even the one who lost the duel to him. He will no longer be able to threaten the power of Oogway. No wonder the ancient wisdom says, “look for those who gain“.

But back to the snow leopard who graduated, passed all the tests and almost certainly fought the villains (he could not help but want to try his kung fu art on strong, skillful opponents) in real fights. And here he is in front of Master Oogway, having come to the finish line thanks to his talent, and most importantly, hard work. A moment more and he is the Dragon Warrior. So what?

Master Oogway rejects him without a word, understanding the cost of this refusal, even while knowing that the scroll is empty and Tai Lung won't get any superpowers. Not a single word he said trying to prevent a catastrophe. He did not, for example, say "you are not ready yet, you still need to temper your spirit, as you tempered your body". Just one blow crosses out the purpose of life of a young man. What about Tai Lung's "father", Master Shifu?

He also betrays his son and disciple. No words of support or encouragement, no attempt to explain something or object to the turtle. He admits his defeat and discards the tool, which has become unnecessary. After all, his words "I was always proud of you" were just an empty phrase (we will return to this later). What do we have now?

A teenager stubbornly and hardworkingly went to the goal determined by his father and master, overcoming pain. His whole life was devoted to only one thing - to become the Dragon Warrior, obediently following the commands of his teacher. He gave everything for this and now was betrayed even by his father, discarded and devoid of any purpose. A being who realized that his whole life, in fact, was a waste of time and effort. Again, a teenager, it’s important; even an adult in such a situation is unlikely to remain cold-blooded, logical and impartial.

Who, in the heat of rage and disappointment, has not pounded a wall with fists? Who didn't sometimes get angry at parents or teachers? It’s not surprising that Tai Lung experienced a fit of anger and, most importantly, despair. And he began to destroy what came under his paws. Here we move on to the next step.

Was the crime of the snow leopard so great? Nobody talks about killed ones. Was there any point in Tai Lung killing the defenseless and innocent? Destroy everything - yes, the rest is a big question. But let's decide for a moment that there were victims. How can one call the behavior of Masters Oogway and Shifu then? The leopard holding a grudge against them harms the people whom Shifu and Oogway swore to protect, while they hole up in the Jade Temple.

Okay, Shifu believed that the Dragon Scroll was worth even such a sacrifice, but Oogway? He cold-bloodedly left the village to be massacred. He wants Tai Lung to become a villain in the eyes of the civilians.

He's just following through on his plan. Step by step.

Finally, Tai Lung, through rage or through reflection, comes to a major conclusion. If he was rejected, he must take possession of the scroll - to achieve the goal for which he was prepared, to prove that he is the best and strongest. Perhaps he even believes that Oogway simply decided to test his strength, the ability to challenge and defeat Master Shifu and Oogway himself.

And so he goes to the Jade Palace. A fleeting fight with the master and a victory in which the leopard does not seek to kill his opponent. Then the Oogway’s attack. A challenge thrown to the strongest and ... instant defeat. Oogway, who didn't lift a finger to stop the destruction of the village, easily stops Tai Lung's furious attack with a secret move. The play almost reaches its final. If Oogway did not have far-reaching plans, he would simply kill the enemy.

What's next? Prison confinement. Life imprisonment, and not in a normal prison. Imagine for a moment yourself shackled in a heavy, tight stone shell, which does not allow you to breathe and puts an exorbitant burden on your shoulders. You are on your knees, and your arms are stretched out to the sides as if on a rack, twisted by giant stones, hanging down to the bottom of a bottomless abyss. The shackles cut into your wrists until they bleed, trying to tear you in half. But that's not all. Needles driven into your acupuncture points debilitate you. Those pitiful remnants of strength that remain go to hold the shell and stones. It seems to be a nightmare come true, but that's not all.

Around you is only a small island of stone, constant darkness, cold and silence, broken only by the echo of the changing guards or the arrival of jailers. The jailers on whose good will you depend. Hunger, thirst, and even cleaning up your place of detention (you don’t have a toilet and can’t move) are all in their power. Well, we saw the attitude of the commander of the guard towards the prisoner - to step on the tail of a defenseless one and ridiculing him with what hurts the most. I wouldn’t be surprised if, out of boredom, the guards abused the prisoner, but let’s leave it as speculation.

So, is anyone ready to be in this position for at least a couple of days? I think no, but Tai Lung was doomed to live the rest of his life like that. Moreover, as we know, he lived like this for 20 years! But here, too, our hero is at his best. An ordinary creature would go crazy under such conditions, would sink lower than low, turn into an animal in the worst sense of the word, break down. But Tai Lung is not one of those. With his former diligence, despising pain, and having hardened his spirit, he confronts the surrounding nightmare.

He did not just resist. There were painful attempts at weak muscle movements so that the body would not atrophy during the long years of confinement, reproducing and mastering the technique of Oogway's "energy" strikes, a technique that the leopard has seen only once.

And a fierce desire to escape from hell, break free and prove that he is still capable of achieving his goal.

But let's leave our prisoner. Fast forward to those who threw him there. Master Shifu, father, teacher - has he ever visited his son and student? Not! Why would he need a broken tool?  The one to which he lost and which he is afraid of. And it is because of this fear that he walked gloomy. Remember how Tai Lung's father was frightened by Oogway's revelation about the escape. How he did not go there himself, but sent his henchman with an order to strengthen the guard and prevent an escape at any cost. Maybe this is what he meant when said "I've always been proud of you."

What is Shifu up to? Now he trains five tools at once. All the same methods and even more violence. He no longer allows even a grain of feelings to manifest itself. And he fails again, Oogway chooses the "true Dragon Warrior", again undoing all the Shifu’s plans with one movement of the paw and humiliating him, showing him his place. However, this time Oogway introduces a new piece into the game - Po. He gives Shifu a briefing about "there are no accidents", "you will find your peace" and all that. He also talks to Po about peaches and so on, i. e. does what he didn't do for Tai Lung.

Then the snow leopard escapes.The goose loses his feather (accidentally?) and now the monster is free. Exhausted by 20 years of imprisonment, but not broken. An elite squad of rhinos, serving - yes, there is official information about this, - under the direct command of Oogway, is trying to kill Tai Lung. But he survives. Without stopping, without trying to kill the enemy on purpose, he rushes to freedom. The captain, who was personally recommended by Master Flying Rhino, failed the mission and is disgraced, just like his teacher.

Everything is just as planned. What about Tai Lung? What did he say to the messenger he left unharmed? "The true Dragon Warrior is coming home." Home! It's unlikely that even the most inveterate villain will call home a place that he hates and is trying to destroy. No, he only hates Shifu and Oogway. And that’s still not a fact.

Another step. And so Oogway "achieves enlightenment" by avoiding Tai Lung and leaving everything to Shifu and panda Po (for whom he had already done a lot)... and to the training he encourages Master Shifu to have. Which he does, forgetting about the Furious Five, who went on a dangerous campaign - to protect their master and the village from a fictional enemy. A training where the fatty Po will suddenly show an unprecedented talent and reach the heights of Kung Fu. Meanwhile, the Furious Five face off against Tai Lung.

This battle is an interesting episode too. Shifu's disciples oppose his creation. But that creation has already managed to step further, and not without the help of the torments sustained in prison. Five attack one (isn't it a strange ratio for the "good side"?), trying to kill him. Different styles, combo attacks, chosen ambush location. All the advantages are on their side. All except skill, hardened spirit and courage. 

Tai Lung, already seemingly dead under the furious attack, returns from the foggy abyss to defeat Shifu's minions. But he does not consider them enemies and shows them compassion. All members of the Five return home alive. Immobilized so that they would not be tempted to attack the leopard again, but alive. And Shifu knows how to bring them back to normal. Shifu's pathetic bleating that they were returned alive, because Tai Lung wants to intimidate them, can be easily refuted. If the Crane brought only their heads, the fear effect would have been much greater. But our furry hero is not a killer. He just goes home.

After that, everyone knows about Shifu's discovery that the scroll is empty. About Po leaving and his father revealing a secret to him. About the proud but stupid Shifu who remained in the Jade Palace. About the exodus of the inhabitants from the city. The city that Tai Lung, contrary to the assurances of Shifu and, probably, Oogway, didn’t intend to destroy. And did not destroy, although he could. This is his home and his goal is not to bring destruction, but to find the scroll and finally finish his Path in search of the Dragon Warrior.

And now the words "I'm back, master" are heard. Deceived and betrayed by a red panda who called himself his father and teacher, thrown into hellpit, gone through all the circles of Hell, almost killed in a battle with henchmen, Tai Lung still respectfully calls Shifu his master. But for Shifu, he’s already a discarded and broken toy that has not justified expectations, one who surpassed Shifu and is more noble and courageous. It torments Shifu, who is still not devoid of a bit of feelings, and guilt. 

It torments Shifu, who is still not devoid of a bit of feelings, and guilt.Now he says "I'm not your master anymore." And so the fight begins, the fight for an empty scroll. A fight in which the student tries to prove to the master that he is worthy. A fight in which the heartless incarnation of Evil desperaty screams "Whatever I did, I did to make you proud!". And a battle in which the father and the teacher tries to destroy the one who encroached on his power.

All these "sorry and proud" are only said when Shifu is defeated. An attempt to deceive the enemy, to confuse him, to gain an advantage again. And it almost succeeds. Remember how Tai Lung hesitated. And remember how he sought not to kill Shifu, but only to get to his goal - the scroll. No wonder he doesn't finish off Shifu, but starts chasing Po. The one who took possession of everything for which Tai Lung gave whole his life.

The ensuing fight again reveals a lot. Tai Lung is strong despite spending 20 years in immobility. And again he does not kill his enemy. Scroll. That's all he needs... to understand how cruelly Oogway laughed at him. Nothing. Zero. All his suffering, all, all in vain. And a taunting panda to boot. A panda that is not affected by Oogway's technique (remember - a technique that paralyzes, not kills the enemy. Tai Lung just wanted to make Po shut up).

Thus begun the last fight of Tai Lung, who finally lost the reason to live. An empty scroll did what the prison could not do. Tai Lung was broken. And only the remnants of the spirit, attempting to regain himself and find at least some goal, give him the strength to fight. Fight a hopeless battle to the very end, once again stepping through suffering and pain, gathering the last of his strength to attack again.

Given his condition, he couldn't help but fall into the Wuxi Finger Hold, the hardest part of which is cleaning up afterwards. And what about the great and noble loafer and glutton Po? What does our merry and kind guy do? He is consciously, with a smile on his face and mocking words "Nope. I figured it out", performed the technique. Cold-bloodedly carrying out the murder of the defeated and broken enemy. "Skadoosh!" 

After that he returned as “the monster slayer”. Returned to Master Shifu, who's by no means lying near death or severely crippled after the battle with Tai Lung (were the latter’s attacks on his adoptive father so cruel?), but is chilling by the pool and not at all grieving for his dead disciple and son.

And now, dear reader, I would like you to think about the question "Who was the true hero and victim of this dramatic story, and who were the main villains." Who deserves to be respect and remembered, and who deserves contempt. And thanks to everyone who read to the end!

[clownkath]

ok so a couple of posts ive seen have got me thinking about the jesus and judas metaphors within kenstewy and so here i am, combining these two hyperfixations.

i originally reblogged a post and put some thoughts in the tags but then deleted it because ive rethought some things. because here’s the thing: kendall and stewy do not have concrete roles as judas and as jesus: the betrayer and the savior (though this interpretation can be different, i’ll elaborate on that later). they each are jesus and judas.

let’s first look at the obvious kendall is jesus metaphor. the biblical imagery is really bad, convinced that poor little meow meows might be channeling the suffering of christ in this one /j. kendall has his savior complex and his father is effectively “god” in the bluntest of terms. kendall also is logan’s judas, the rest of the family and/or waystar royco’s top (ie. gerri, frank) acting as apostles/disciples. he’s got the gethsemane moment in the third season when he “wants out.” he’s also got the water motif, and more that i can’t think about right now! jesus coded kendall roy! 

now, stewy as judas metaphor. opposite to kendall even when they are on the same side, logan’s enemy though just a small cog in the machine in the rivalry with sandy (if logan is god then sandy would be what like satan? idk). general greed stuff that the title of judas conjures up. correlation between sins and judas: indulgence, pride, gluttony- all of these things alluding to the depths of hell. also that in many interpretations, judas is the guy that nobody likes, alienated by the rest of the disciples and history itself (screaming at succession to give him more screentime!!!).

when it comes to kenstewy, this stewy = judas and kendall = jesus and logan = god thing has a couple different facets. stewy as judas initiating touch / judas kiss, kendall not being able to reciprocate it blahblah. kendall is living his self fulfilled prophecy and stewy knowingly takes part in it, though he regrets it. their betrayal is somewhat inherent to their dynamic, always edging the line between bros and killing each other. another takeaway could be the obvious logan sees stewy as a parasite and leading his son astray, therefore judas metaphor.

onto the next interpretation, kendall as judas. already he’s a judas because of the whole “i have innocent blood on my hands” and “i’ve betrayed you” things. the guilt weighs him down. in this version, logan could also be god, actively staining kendall’s hands with blood, now remembered as a killer for all of time. kendall is also,,, oblivious. specifically to his own future and to the future of others. meaning that while stewy can see kendall’s doomed cycle (as well as logan), kendall can’t. also he’s damned for all time /ref.

stewy as jesus because he’s been betrayed by kendall but also because he has at least actively tried to “save” kendall by taking him out of the clutches of his father (in this case, satan yeah sure). he’s still attempting to save the person damned by the narrative, still has some love (although it’s very hard to love kendall). also cue that one post of kenstewy with the last days of judas iscariot quotes mwah. stewy holding love and honesty and barely shrouded truth for a guy who cannot take his love because he feels like he will never deserve it. the post makes me chew a bone! it kills me! 

also some of the kenstewy dynamic reminds me of the gospels of judas, which says that jesus told judas the truth basically. it suggests that judas is presumably the only one who cares about jesus, out of the disciples (paraphrasing very heavily here). thinking that they can be vulnerable with each other though they know they are fated to cause each other’s deaths.

conclusion: they are going to kill each other and have the worst time doing it. the guilt will eat them alive.

[bigskydreaming]

Not me doing Teen Wolf meta in 2023, but there was a post on my dash about Scott having a savior complex and not respecting that Derek told Isaac, Erica and Boyd the risks of being a werewolf and they made their own choices and Scott needs to respect that and uh.

Since the whole ‘hold a teenager more accountable than the grown man w/resources and experience he can’t begin to compare to’ thing is still going strong, along with the whole ‘weaponize the desire to help people as a character flaw while self-interest is somehow superior because...Reasons’ -

Just wanna point out something I never used to see come up in ye olde discourse on this particular front:

Derek, uh....DIDN’T tell Erica, Isaac and Boyd about all the risks before turning them into werewolves.

There’s one key threat he kiiiiiiinda forgot to mention.....the Alpha Pack. Which he definitely knew about, given his reaction to them leaving their mark on their door. And which in Season 3 WAS stated to be a primary reason he wanted to build a pack in the first place....he wasn’t just worried about hunters, he was worried about a pack notorious for coming after Alphas, to recruit them or kill them.

And oh yeah, who actually killed Erica and Boyd again? Was it hunters? Or was it the Alpha Pack?

And how did Erica and Boyd end up in the Alpha Pack’s clutches in the first place? Oh that’s right, they literally ran right into their hands when running away from Derek and TOWARDS the first howls they heard that might be another Pack.....

Because when giving them his recruitment speech, Derek completely failed to mention that particular con to being a werewolf.....even though in the end, THAT was the key piece of information that could have steered them clear of the Alpha Pack and kept them alive.

Its so funny, maybe if people didn’t spend literal years looking for any way possible to spin every single thing on the show into a diatribe against its lead character, maybe more people would have bothered noticing that umm...the lead character was factually one hundred percent correct to have misgivings about how fully or not Derek had ACTUALLY prepared Isaac, Erica and Boyd about the risks of accepting his offer when he made it to them.

That was a major piece of critical intel you left out there, dude.

[tricksterfiction]

Prompt #29 Contravention

Qaro'a appears first over here! Once Bitten, Twice Shy Part 2 CW: Blood, Somewhat Graphic Descriptions. Below Read More.

Savior Complex - Phoebe Bridgers

Sen scribbled some inventory notes, dabbing an inkwell, then tracing down a ledger. Her hair tied up in a ponytail, old bluerose tucked in above her horn, and she wore a pale teal shirt with suspenders and gray skirt. The lights were turned down, Gaelicat's Rest was quiet. She was surrounded by tall stacked bookcases of reference material new and old, anything she could get her hands on. Beyond the partitions lied the beds of the ward, empty this eve. Bright white sheets tucked tightly, not yet heavily stained.

Sen had insisted the Rest was missing an important space for medical care and injury especially now that it's masters had returned and opened the doors of the spa for weekly afternoon teas and welcomed guests to relax with food and cheer on the weekends. Attracting casual patrons and adventurers alike.

She had settled into her red mage boots enough to provide appropriate care, not discounting her years and years of practical medicine on top of it. It was strange being referred to as the head medic, having taken initiative and filling an empty spot.

She thought about heading out to get another bowl of stew, when there was light taps on the door. She almost thought she hadn't heard it. She looked to the chronometer with a squint, it was past her normal bedtime but not all that late for someone to come stumbling in bleeding.

"Come in," She called, there was more tapping, fainter. She felt a chill roll down the length of her spine. She had checked the wards only a few days ago. Who could blame the raen being on edge after dealing with a necromancer for months now? She licked her lips, leaning down to grab her focus to toss it up in the air - hand wrapping around the handle of the rapier. She stood from her desk, boot heels clicking across the tile cautiously approaching the door.

Turning the knob and the door pushed open forcing her back. Her rapier clattering to the ground. Stumbling in over the threshold was Qaor'a. His silvery hair a mess, fresh blood down the side of his temple, he clutched his cane close to his body - what she assumed had kept him up long enough to make it here in the first place. Carrying deep gauges across his body, presumably the work of a beast. His head lulled pressing into the frame, he was barely conscious.

He panted a desperate whimper, "H-help."

Sen automatically caught the miqo'te, carefully scooping under his arm to guide him to a bed.

"What the fuck Qaor'a..." She muttered, gently raising his arm down by his body gingerly lifting his Hearer's uniform purple robes. In a moment she was up again, calm and cool. There would be questions once she saved his life.

Sen quickly tied a starch white apron about her waist, washed her hands, pulled on gloves. Reaching into the potion cabinet to pull out something quick to stymie the bleeding first. Her focus following behind her.

Sen uncorked the bottle, supporting his head while she tipped the contents down ensuring he swallowed before she placed his head back down. Tugging a table with sterilized tools, she snipped open his robes, what was left of them from being torn. Peeling the blood soaked threads away. His breath was ragged.

She quickly examined what she saw, the most egregious wounds were over his abdomen and chest but as she went over the length of his body she discovered his leg had been torn up as well, the artery aetherically clotted and in a delicate state ready to rip open again. Blood leaked from his temples, and blood was dripping down from his nose.

Qaro'a's silvery eyes fluttered in and out of consciousness.

She had pulled a bottle of cheap ether for herself quickly downing that. It had aromatic notes of glue.

Sen took a deep breath and began to work.

The focus glowed a bright clear red bobbing as it slowly turned in a circle, light green aether poured out of it in a misty healing hue. The air cooled gently as Sen poured over her patient. Aetherically stymied the flow of blood from every wound she found, working in tandem with the potion as it flowed it's way through his body. She lightly dulled the pain as best as she could but it would have been too great of a expenditure of energy to fully commit.

Carefully she disinfected each wound, one sopping cotton pad after the other. Slowly adding to a growing pile at the bedside steel bowl. Cleaning blood from his face, his eyes, and with it started a pile of bloody towels.

He groaned, teeth baring. Fists full of sheets, crying out in pain. A conjurer's tolerance for pain being incredibly low. Still, Sen sympathized. It wasn't their job to get hurt. The pain would keep him awake.

She measured out arm lengths of thread, correctly eye balled the amount she'd need for each section. Sen pinched delicately, effortlessly pulled thread through flesh - neatly closing each injury seamlessly.

It was at least over a bell by the time Sen pulled the hooked needle on the final stitch. Sweat beaded freely at her forehead, she was panting with exertion. She leaned back, using a towel to dab herself dry.

"E-e-xhausted al-already?" He croaked, apparently still had enough energy to sass her. He smiled weakly, "Path-pathetic."

"I beg your fucking pardon." She laughed, shaking her head. She sipped from a water skin taking a small break now that he had stopped bleeding.

She stood up from her stool, stripping the bloody gloves, pulling on new ones. Expending the last little bit of energy she had to continue to dull the pain as she worked around him to prepare for the evening to sleep. Finally softening the wounds with salve before wrapping them with bandage. Neat and tidy.

Laying his cane beside the bed, it hummed distantly in her hand - it was both familiar...and it sang a sour note. She hesitated by it, her brow furrowed with concern. Setting up an iv of fluids for the night, he'd need it after all the blood loss, aether depletion, and potentially an upset stomach by the time morning arrived.

She sighed checking the chronometer, she'd have to monitor him for the next few bells.

He slowly rolled his head to follow her as she moved, catching her thinking, "Sen."

She bent down to listen, reassuring him, "We can talk in the morning, so don't worry. You'll be safe."

"I fucked up." He strained, but his eyelids were heavy. "That's why I'm here." His lip quivered, hand reaching out. "I'm begging you, d-don't tell anyone I'm here."

She caught it, "I promise, now please rest." Leaning over to press a light kiss to his forehead, his eyes fluttered shut.

[enginefirst]

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[museincarnate]

The Saiyaness's vision, quickly, was beginning to grow hazy, as the air that scarcely remained in her lungs had escaped through desperate exhales; her throat held so tightly that the inhalation of oxygen was rendered a near-impossibility. With each passing moment, frantic, weakening clawing at Ghost's leg would come as Hakkona's last resort of defense, despite knowing the fate that likely awaited her.

Even if she couldn't quite see it so clearly, anymore, the man's sadistic grin taunted her, as he derived pleasure from his twisted ambitions and ideas. Was this... How she was going to die? The daughter of a man with strength so great, that it rivaled godhood itself, felled to a deranged, burned assailant, who cared little for anything else?

...

Reveling in his own handiwork, the Scorched Saiyan continued to ruthlessly apply pressure to both Hakkona's throat and stomach, while the world around him went quiet; his own fixation drowning out any and all other stimulation that he could receive, as his prey drew closer to taking her last breath. "I hope the rest put up more of a fight than you, otherwise this could get really bor-" Without warning, Ghost's physical numbness didn't seem to warn him about how hard he was contacted, but what his oculars saw certainly wasn't the dying, desperate Saiyaness beneath him.

The Saiyan's eyes would quickly snap towards the direction in which he was sure that he was hit from, just by how the floor beneath him shifted in direction, when he looked at it; falling upon that pesky wolf-woman that was with the Buff Gal, when he'd followed them previously. Bringing himself upright, the Scorched male would shift his gaze to the burned, marked woman still lying on the floor, and then to his hand; some of Hakkona's flesh burnt off of her throat, and somewhat charred against his own flesh, as his expression became somewhat stern once more.

All the while, the Saiyaness's sheer shock and returned ability to breathe would cause her to gasp for air, as her hands shot up to clutch at her throat; the searing, exposed pain of severe burns making the act of inhaling, itself, her own personal hell. Tears rolled from her cheeks, as she could only slightly begin making out the form of her best friend, now her savior, as her gaze then darted towards the monster that did her harm; his displeased expression only furthering her disdain for such a being.

"I was just starting to really enjoy myself, you know, and then you had to come back and kill the mood. You're not worth my time, little doggy, but I guess I can be satisfied with what I managed to do, today." Intimidation seemed to fail as a tactic against Ghost, as he began turning away from both of them; essentially conveying that he saw neither of them as a threat to him, or his cause. "I'm sure your friend won't ever forget what happened, today, so I hope for both your sakes, that I don't have to finish the job, should we cross paths again. If we do..."

With the sweep of his hand, his flames throughout the shopping complex would dispel themselves, as if answering to his beck and call, though their damage had left the mall in absolute ruin.

"I won't stop until you're both out of my way." With that, Ghost had casually made his exit, through one of the building's exit doors, and took to the skies; taking off like a bat out of hell, and leaving the two women alone, as if harming a non-Saiyan disinterested him, greatly.

Hakkona, however, had a thousand-yard stare etched into her features, as she couldn't bring herself to immediately move, let alone look towards the Luparian.

Even as Tazz had managed to control the crowd to a manageable level, it wouldn't take long before people grew impatient with how slowly the mass of bystanders seemed to vacate the premises. As heavy and compact as an entire mass of people seemed to be, however, they kept to their uniform motions, at the behest of the Luparian woman guiding them; a good half of those who were once in the shopping center, having successfully evacuated it thanks to Tazz's leadership.

A relieved, albeit panicked verbailzation of gratitude from the child's mother would precede the sight of tears streaming down her face, as the flames only seemed to grow hotter by the minute; smoke forming overhead, as if the situation at hand wasn't bad enough for all parties involved.

A wave of blue flames had suddenly been thrown towards the Saiyaness, as she spoke; nearly causing her to be rendered incapable of reacting in time. At the last moment, however, Hakkona would manage to leap above the blaze's trajectory, while the man's words were shouted with such vitriol; a stinging feeling within the Buff Gal's bosom oddly leaving her... Temporarily too stunned to speak. Having been raised by her father, and taught that peace was just, as well as ideal, the Saiyaness was taken aback by her assailant's ideology; shaking her head to dispel the distraction, before launching herself towards the Scorched Saiyan

"Who the hell are you, to decide what Saiyans should be?" A heavy, right-handed haymaker would be swung towards the burned male before her, as she tried to make sense of why things were unfolding in such a sudden fashion. Things were so peaceful, and up until this very moment, no one of substantial notoriety had threatened that peace, or anyone close to the Buff Gal.

For as fast as Hakkona seemed, her foe had no trouble in evading her incoming strike; his own agility proving to be on par, if not greater than hers, when his position shifted from in front of her, to at her side. He had an opportunity to take her off guard, even as her head turned to look upon him again, and yet... He simply glared back. "I'm the one who's going to even the score."

With how he had positioned himself, the Saiyaness would take his lack of opportunity as a chance to attack him again; this time swinging for a wide left hook, aimed directly for his cheekbone. As muscular as she was, she knew that she wasn't slow by any stretch of the imagination; chocking up his evasion as some sort of fluke, while her frustration grew. "What the hell does that even mean?!"

As soon as Hakkona tried to attack him again, however, the Saiyan was already prepared to react to her offensive measures; ducking below the incoming hook, as he lowered his posture to perform a leg sweep. With how heavily she threw her attacks, the man surmised that her balance would be off for a moment or more; leaving her open to be swept off her feet, or so he hoped. For a moment, however, he had no response.

The next thing Hakkona knew, she had found herself staring up at the mall's ceiling; a loud thud and a loss of air in her lungs allowing her to come to the conclusion that she'd been knocked onto her back. Once again, frustration swelled within the Buff Gal, as she quickly started to try to sit herself up, to confront her foe once more... Only to be met with his boot pressing into her stomach; drawing further oxygen out of her, as the force he exerted felt nauseating.

Thereafter, the Scorched Saiyan's hand came down and wrapped its digits around her throat, squeezing around it immediately, as searing heat from his palm began to burn at her flesh; blue flames just barely bursting from between their connected bodies. Above her, her assailant's expression shifted to one of sickening pleasure, as she could feel her own skin burning to an unbearable degree. She so badly wanted to scream, or even call for help, and yet... She was deprived of the oxygen to do either of those things; tears stinging her eyes, as she desperately tried to shove his foot off of her gut.

"I'm going to make sure that no Saiyan knows peace or complacency, ever again! It's just not what we are!" While his name wasn't ever spoken, Ghost reveled in his work, as the peace-loving Saiyaness beneath him was helpless to stop him from carrying out his actions, for his cause. The Scorched Saiyan would tighten the grip of his hand around her throat even more, as he even began to laugh in sheer satisfaction.

Having been separated from her best friend, Hakkona felt alone... Like she was going to die, with no miracle in sight to free her from this sudden assault. Weakly, even if the quietest little sound escaped her mouth, she would beg, plead for salvation...

"H-Help..."

Despite her strength... Despite who her father was, and how she tried to be like him... Despite how remarkable others saw her to be...

She was hopeless; beginning to resign herself to that fact, as nothing she could do was making things any better.

[sylusjinwoon]

{ 52 }

a thousand bad times.

yuta okkotsu x reader

i had a thousand bad times, so what's another time to me?

your luck truly was running out.

what are the chances that today would be the day you forgot your umbrella?

when you went out to fulfill your errands for the day, the summer heat was what got to you. the sweat was felt pooling against your skin despite your best efforts to dress lightly, in a simple tank top and shorts.

with a few bags of groceries in hand, you mistakenly thought the cloudiness of the day was to provide some much needed shade: the weather giving you a brief respite from the overbearing brightness of the sun.

and oh how wrong you were.

when those fluffy clouds slowly began to darken, turning menacing in its startling deep grey hue, you felt the fat droplets of rain come down on you almost immediately.

at first, the rain felt heavenly on your overheated skin. the sweat that had accumulated throughout your form was washed away as you stood in the midst of the needle like rain, allowing the droplets to completely drench you to your core.

it only took a few minutes for the chill to set in. no longer did the rain felt pounding against your skin feel refreshing. you were now a shivering mess, struggling to make your way back to your apartment all while your clothes clung to your form.

"wait!"

you hear a voice cry out to you, causing you to stop just as a bright blue umbrella was held over you. you were immediately covered by the rain thanks to a pale hand that held on to the umbrella.

looking to your right, you felt your lips chatter when you mutter a thank you to your savior, only to be caught off guard by his soft beauty.

he was pale, and somewhat lanky, but something about him made it difficult for you to look away from him. with jet black hair and deep blue eyes, you felt yourself becoming mesmerized by him.

"hey, i couldn't help but notice you walking alone in the rain. please, is it alright if i escorted you home?"

not even thinking twice, you nod, clutching your groceries even closer to you as you made your way back home with the stranger standing next to you.

you take note of how he holds the umbrella directly above you, not caring how wet he was getting in return. his kindness actually made your throat clench, and you found yourself sneaking glances at him on more than one occasion. you wanted to speak, to say anything to him in hopes of getting to know him better, yet sadly, no words could come forth from your lips. you end up waking in a tense silence, your mind racing with plans as you quickly approached your apartment.

when you finally reached home, you thanked him, ready to accept your fate of never seeing him again due to how anxious and shy you were, rendering you unable to make conversation with the perfect stranger. just as you were about to unlock your door, he stops you.

you were now both settled beneath the protective awning of your apartment complex when he reaches into the confines of his jacket to pull out a handkerchief. with a gentleness you hadn't felt in a long time, you watch as he wipes away the rain from your features. he takes his time, allowing the soft cloth to wipe at your brows, eyelids, and cheek. only when it met with your bottom lip did the stranger's grip seem to falter, his blue eyes burning into you with an unknown desire.

he was just so close to you, and you could see his features just as clearly as he could see yours. his true blue eyes were framed by dark lashes, and his full lips appeared so inviting to you. your gaze lands on the way his lips trembled, and- was your mind playing tricks on you, or did it seem like he was coming closer?

your sudden inhale breaks him out of his reverie, his expression now replaced with a look of embarrassment as he takes a step back away from you. a deep blush paints his pale cheeks in a fiery red hue when he places his handkerchief into your hand. "here, you can keep this to dry off your face some more. i guess i'll just uh, go back home."

his movements were stiff and awkward. you watch as the handsome stranger readies his umbrella, about to leave when you finally gathered your courage and stop him by telling him your name.

he looks back at you with wide eyes, and you kept holding the handkerchief he had given in a tight grip. "you're actually an angel, coming to my rescue like that. i would like to know your name, and perhaps see you again, if at all possible?"

he gives you a genuine smile then, telling you his name was yuta okkotsu before admitting with a stutter, "i-i w-would also love to see you again. why else did you think i gave you my h-handkerchief?"

you couldn't stop the grin from spreading across your face upon hearing his admission.

little did you know that thanks to the heavy rain and receiving your savior's handkerchief, it would lead you toward the path of becoming yuta's lover. you would share several lovely dates together, quickly becoming the light of his life when yuta would later admit how he never wanted to be apart from you.

when you look back on this dreadful day of being caught in the rain, it would soon turn into the greatest memory of your life. you've had thousands of bad times before-

but this time, those series of unfortunate events lead you to something achingly special, and there was now way you would ever take it for granted.

a.n. - yuta my love, you will always be my golden boy ♡

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

[lonely-lost-soul]

Little Hope

(Platonic SBI Famliy x child reader)

Request 6: An imagine or Drabble about sbi family x reader where the reader is the newest adoptee to the family and it turns out they sleepwalk! They do random things like moving stuff around, talking to empty air, and can sometimes end up waking up nowhere near their bed. Just harmless shenanigans that might be spooky at first but are ultimately funny and endearing in a way. 

Requested By: @0melodydrifter0​ 

When Phil brought home a little girl wrapped in a blanket Wilbur was pissed, another child his father had adopted that Phil couldn’t take care of, another child that would end up being his and Techno’s duty to raise. However, something was different in his father’s eyes as he held the young girl close to his chest, 

     “Dad?” Wilbur murmured an eyebrow raised suspiciously high on his head, “What’s that?” He watched his father wince a little cradling the toddler closer to him, 

     “Wilbur...this is (Y/n). She’s going to be your new little sister.” Wilbur grits his teeth and felt rage flood through his veins again, not at the little one, no he couldn’t blame the child for his father’s savior complex. “An old friend of mine village was raided, he asked for my help but by the time I got there everyone was dead, everyone except her.” Phil moved some stray hair out from the kid’s eyes, “I couldn’t leave her for dead Wilbur.” Wilbur’s face softened a little bit, now wasn’t the time to argue with his father, especially since he had just lost a friend. 

      “Could I...see her?” He asked hesitantly as Phil knelt down beside one of his eldest, Wilbur noted the girl had flecks of (h/c) hair on her forehead, her face was covered in soot and ash, he noted she had the brightest (e/c) eyes he’s ever seen. She was quiet, very different from Tommy already, she reached up and touched the side of Wilbur’s cheek with a pudgy hand. The boy was done for after that, vowing up and down that he’d be the best big brother in the world to her even if it killed him. 

Much better than Tommy and Techno too. 

Speaking of the first time Tommy and Techno met you it was quite the experience. Tommy basked in the fact of no longer being the youngest member of the family and Techno was quick to remind him the being the middle child was far worse. Tommy had called him a bitch and Phil told him not to curse in front of his sister which he huffed at, swearing to Phil that her first word would be fuck. 

He got hit on the back of his head for that comment. 

Technoblade was indifferent about that situation, saying orphans were cringe and that you smelled bad, Wilbur was okay with both of these outcomes. As he stated earlier he was going to be the favorite brother whether you knew it or not.

By the time you were ten years old Wilbur’s wish had come true, you stuck by his side and were a quiet staple in his life. He also spoiled you rotten, he made you songs and snuck you cookies when Phil wasn’t looking, he’d do anything to see that smile a smile on your face. However, much to his displeasure it seemed that both Technoblade and Tommy were encroaching on his little happy bubble with his sister. 

It started with Technoblade, he noticed you following him around more often than not. At first, the hybrid was annoyed, he’d lock you out of his room and force you away by threatening to cut off your fingers if you didn’t leave him alone. However, that only made you cry and it made Techno panic if Phil heard you crying he’d be a dead man, and if Wilbur heard he’d be double dead. He began to try to hush you frantically, you didn’t calm down until he stated he would hang out with you a little longer. It shut you up immediately, oh you were a sneaky little shit, he could respect that. He decided he read to you if that was alright, you nodded eagerly, and he carried you into his room. You were a kid of few words and Technoblade could respect that, he pulled out a story about some of the ancient Greek Gods and Goddesses. Figuring the Art of War was probably too much for a ten-year-old, surprisingly he enjoyed himself. You were eager to learn and enjoyed the stories way more than he thought you would, okay maybe you bonded just a little. He had taken to calling you Moirai the greek goddess of destiny, not only that but Technoblade had started bringing you gifts from his adventures, something he never did for anyone else.

Therefore Wilbur was feeling VERY threatened and Technoblade LOVED it. 

However, while the both of them were having their little pissing contest they didn’t notice their younger brother swooping in to join the fight for your attention. As the eldest were at war with themselves, Tommy had taken to sneaking you out of the house to cause trouble by his side. After all, no sister of his was going to be boring like Wilbur and Technoblade, she was going to be as awesome as he was if he had anything to say about it. So when he snuck you out one night against their wishes when they were too busy to notice he decided to take full advantage of that opportunity. He adored hearing your enthusiastic giggles as he tore through the forest with you on his shoulders. 

You were typically a very quiet child, so to hear you laugh because of him made Tommy preen with delight. Your fingers were twisted in his blonde locks as you steered him like a horse, it hurt like hell but so long as it kept you steady he really didn’t mind. 

The joy didn’t last long because Wilbur and Technoblade had found them not soon after he escaped their clutches. Techno plucked you off his shoulders and held you in his arms, you let out a little whine of disappointment and Tommy frowned,

     “Oh come on Technoblade don’t be an asshole!” 

     “Don’t curse in front of (Y/n), Tommy.” Wilbur hissed hitting him on the back of his head, “you can’t just run off with her it’s dangerous!”

     “I can protect her just fine you bitch!” 

     “Oh please, you can barely protect yourself.” Technoblade scoffed as you began to play with his pink hair, hating the tense atmosphere. Tommy snarled at his brother and moved to punch him in the chest but Techno was quick to sidestep them, “nice one genius.” 

     “FUCK OFF!”

You let out a displeased whine and covered your ears at the volume Tommy shouted, 

      “Shut up Tommy,” Wilbur hissed “You’re way too loud and you’re upsetting her.”

     “WE WERE HAVING A LOVELY TIME UNTIL YOU FUCKERS RUINED IT!” 

     “Tom-Tom please shush,” You pressed a finger to your mouth in distress, mimicking a hushing movement. His face faltered, his voice lowering in volume as he apologized softly towards you. “Thank you,” a big smile spread across your lips, and all three brothers visibly relaxed.

     “Alright little one,” Wilbur spoke tenderly running a hand through your hair his heart-melting a little as you nuzzled against it. “Let’s get you home, it’s way past your bedtime.” You groaned in distaste falling against Techno’s shoulder with a soft thud, the man chuckled softly as all three brothers walked back home. 

It was about two months after that when your happy facade came crashing down around you, it had been a particularly rough day. Everyone seemed to be busy with one thing or another and you were left to your own devices and thoughts. They all came rushing back to you, the memories of the day your village got raided and your bio parents passed away. Wilbur was the first to notice something was wrong and had asked Phil to check up on you, so when Phil finally got around to ask what was wrong you burst into tears. That’s when they discovered you apparently remembered more of the incident than you let on. It broke their hearts to see you so upset over something you had no control over, but like everyone else in their family of misfits, you blamed yourself for simply surviving the tragedy. 

They had made sure to coddle you the rest of the day, Technoblade had made sure to make you your favorite food for dinner. Phil and Wilbur tried to keep you busy with music and potion brewing and Tommy played some discs to help you fall asleep. You did so smiling and his heart soared, point to Tommy for getting you to fall asleep with a smile. 

Your found family had gathered that night to discuss what they should do with you moving forward. Phil had declared they all do their best to keep you distracted the next few days, preferably in shifts if that was needed. Wilbur offered to spend the morning with you, he wanted to visit Niki and Sally and both of them loved you if anyone would cheer you up they would. Tommy offered the afternoon and he could bring Tubbo over and you all could play soldiers, Techno said he’d handle the nights with Phil. 

Everyone settled into bed to get a much-needed rest, out of all the brothers Technoblade was the lightest sleeper. So when he woke up in a cold sweat with you standing over his bed he almost shit himself. You had a glassy look in your (e/c) eyes, 

     “(Y/n)? What are you doing? Do you know how late it is?” Technoblade scolded reaching out to grab his glasses, you didn’t respond to him which made his nose scrunch up. “Did you have a nightmare?” His voice got quieter as he reached out to cup your cheek, still no response from you. “Kid?” He sat up as you turned away from him to wander back out the door, “what just happened?” He murmured scratching under his chin, he’d have to bring this up tomorrow. 

Wilbur was concerned and immediately wanted to seek a doctor, especially because you had no remembrance of the event. Phil ran a hand through his hair in thought, “could it be sleepwalking?” 

     “(Y/n)’s too cool to sleepwalk. What the fuck do you mean?” Tommy scoffed and you frowned eyebrows furrowing together. 

     “Well it makes sense, doesn’t it? She doesn’t remember walking around but it clearly happened. Hopefully, it was only a one-off occurrence and she’ll never do it again.”

      “Is it bad if I do?” You whispered shuffling on your feet suddenly self-conscious, “Tommy doesn’t seem to think it’s good.” They all glared at the teenager who winced and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. Phil knelt down in front of you and cupped your cheeks with his hands, 

     “It’s not bad. We just have to take some extra precautions for you is all, it’s perfectly normal especially after the trauma you went through.” You bit your lip and nodded within his hands, “Tommy’s an idiot-”

      “Hey!-

      “That doesn’t make you any less of a person and it doesn’t make you any more abnormal either,” Phil assured as Techno began snickering behind him, he turned his head to shoot him a look.

     “What? It’s just funny assuring her she’s normal when no one in this house is normal.” Technoblade waved his hand, “we’re all a bunch of misfits- don’t give me that look you know it’s true. Half of us are hybrids and the other half are gremlins,” He motioned to Tommy again who made an indigent sound tired of being the butt of everyone’s teasing. “So she’s never gonna be normal, but she’s always gonna be one of us and we’ll kill anyone who even thinks about teasing her.” 

Phil smiled sheepishly sweat gathering on his brow, “Let’s not kill anyone Techno at least not now. Especially if they’re children.”

     “Now, now dad, Technoblade has a point.”

     “Wilbur.” Phil scolded as Tommy’s face lit up, 

     “Can I punch a child?” You burst into laughter at Phil’s horrified expression, 

     “No Tommy. No, you cannot!” 

     “It’s okay papa I give them explicit permission to beat anyone up who fucks with me!” You shouted and Tommy’s face once again lit up, he grabbed you out of Phil’s arms and held you close. 

     “You said Fuck! I’m so proud I’m teaching you so well!” He spun you around only causing you to laugh harder as the older members of your family glared at Tommy, “Now say it again!”

Wilbur plucked you from Tommy’s arms glaring at his brother, “No. No, she won’t say it again. That’s a bad word you can’t say it till you’re older.” A pout settled on your lips as you crossed your arms in frustration. 

     “But Tommy gets to say it all the time.” 

     “And he’s older.” Phil let out a chuckle at Wilbur's response watching you slump forward with a loud groan of absolute torment. 

You didn’t sleepwalk again until a few months later, everyone had relatively assumed it was a one-off occurrence and their watchful eye was lifted. In the meantime Tommy had started to maybe sort of sneak out; he had his bag all packed and planned to meet Tubbo in the park. They both wanted to go monster hunting on their own, it wasn’t their first rodeo but it still wasn’t something he was supposed to do without his dad's permission.

Tommy didn’t give a shit about permission though. 

Obviously. 

He grabbed his sword from its place in the living room, Tommy held it up with a wicked smile. It shone in the dim light and he could see the reflection of his face inside it, it must’ve been freshly polished. Tommy put his sword in its holster and turned around, immediately letting out a startled yelp slapping his hands over his mouth. You were standing behind him eyes glassy as you blinked blearily at him, 

     “(Y/n)?” Tommy whisper hissed glaring at you harshly, “What the fuck are you doing awake?” You didn’t respond, only walking past him reaching for a sword of your own, his eyes widened frantically and steered you away from the sharp weaponry. “Are you sleepwalking?” Tommy asked in mild concern before a smirk came across his face, “Guess I don’t have to worry about you snitching huh?” He slowly led you into Phil’s room opening the door and shoving you in before shutting the door. Tommy made quick work of grabbing everything else needed before heading out of the house to meet up with Tubbo. 

Phil woke up to you standing over him, looming, and it almost sent him into a heart attack. He knew immediately you were sleepwalking, “Oh honey...come ‘ere.” He pulled you into bed with him and watched your eyes drift close and snuggle up to him. At least you were safe with him, so long as you didn’t start unlocking doors and injuring yourself they could handle this. 

After telling the other brothers about the incident last night Wilbur was only growing more concerned about your sleep state. He offered to take you to the doctor but Phil brushed him off, saying that normally this thing sorts themself out on their own. Since he was feeling rather protective Wilbur slept in the living room the next few nights just to make sure you didn’t go wandering off. Plus, Phil seemed to not only approve of but also grateful for the idea; so long as the old man could get much-needed rest he didn’t seem to care. Another week flew by with no problems, and he decided to spend one last night in the living room just to triple-check you weren’t going to sleepwalk. 

He woke up to the sound of a hooting owl and soft banging against the wall, he tossed his hand over the back of the couch and he blinked blearily. Unlike his twin, he didn’t exactly have the razor-sharp reflexes that Technoblade was gifted with. Wilbur grabbed his glasses from the coffee table and shoved them on his face haphazardly. 

What was that noise? Did Tommy sneak out again? He turned towards the opened door and it took a few moments to process why the door was open. Wilbur scratched the top of his head in confusion before his eyes snapped open in blatant realization. He tossed the blankets off the couch and scrambled out the door. Bare footprints were made in the mud leading away from your house, tiny you sized footprints. 

Oh, he was so fucked. How long ago did you leave? Are you alright? It’s so cold and you weren’t wearing shoes.

Wilbur made sure to grab both of your jackets and shoved his feet in his boots before heading out the door. He saw his breath out in front of him and winced you must be so cold, hopefully, you weren’t dead if you were he was totally in big trouble. He followed your footprints until they stopped at the edge of the woods, he looked around frantically and anxiety prickled at his skin. If the trail went cold here there was no way he would be able to find you, what if you woke up in a completely different part of the SMP. Or worse yet what if someone kidnaps you and takes you away from them? 

He entered the woods calling out your name desperately even though you wouldn’t respond if you were still asleep. Wilbur adjusted his glasses noticing a soft trail of broken leaves, he decided it was his best bet to follow them. Eventually, he came to a bit of a clearing in the woods that led up to a large cliff, Wilbur’s heart sunk. He felt his breathing stop as he walked towards the edge of the cliff, slowly like he didn’t want to know if he thinks what happened to you, happened to you. At the very top of the cliff is when he saw it, the bracelet you always wore on your wrist it was made of gold and Technoblade had gifted it to you after an adventure he had with Phil. He pulled the jewelry close to his chest and let out a shaky breath, tears swelled in his eyes as he peeked over the edge of the cliff. The poor boy couldn’t even see the bottom, Phil would have to fly down and search it, he was going to throw up. 

     “Wilby…?” 

Oh god, he could still hear your sweet, little voice. 

     “What are you doing? Are you crying?”

Wait, that was your voice!

He whipped around to find you rubbing your tired eyes, your feet were bare and you were shivering. Wilbur tore through the bush and scooped you up in his arms, cuddling you close to him as he peppered kisses all over your face. “Ewww Wilby stop!” You said through giggles pushing his face away from your own, 

     “I’m so glad you’re alright. You were sleepwalking again, I thought…” His voice cracked a little as you tilted your head. You looked around his shoulder and eyed the cliff wearily, you nuzzled against his neck and squeezed him tightly. 

     “I’m sorry…” 

     “It’s not your fault.” He whispered against you, “let's get you home though alright? Want to have a sleepover with me?”

     “Please. I’m scared I’ll wander off if I sleep alone again.” Wilbur nodded, running his fingers through your messy hair. For a girl your age, it was important to make sure you get a good night's sleep. As he carried you back home you ended up falling back asleep in his arms, he had a lot of time to think. He couldn’t believe that a few years ago he had despised the girl in his arms, thought of you as just another stowaway Phil brought home. You had managed to melt his heart and worm your way into not just his brain but his other brother’s brains as well. You had brought so much joy and happiness into their lives. Before you entered their lives there was arguing every night. Tommy and Techno were always at each other’s throats, Wilbur wasn’t any better, to be honest, but then you were there and everything changed. They had to get along and watch their language around you, you weirdly brought them together. Made them better and he couldn’t imagine what their lives would be like without their little hope.