#the white winged angel of death tag

[pansyfilia]

once more in love with pandora rosier. she would have a dog (italian greyhound/whippet/borzoi) and it would be like absolute pure white (evan says it matches her pale skin and hair and eyes). she swims in a private pool only when it storms or rains. then theres the snowstorm lore (only the ogs know) and her adoration of fog. she tried to bite off a snake's tail once. in her room she keeps old letters slotted in her books beside her white lilies (for a girl she loved/loves) and her piles of silver jewellery. she cut all her hair off once in 5th year and it was like a messy buzz. evan cried for the first time in years and now the hair she cut off is in a little gold box under his bed. her relationship with barty is slow and halting like a baby bird in the air and it is fast and steady. she wears bloody ballet slippers and massive snowboots. she is cassandra of troy. i love her. please marry me.

[cherubfae]

𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔩𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰~! || {𝔥𝔞𝔷𝔟𝔦𝔫 𝔥𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔩}

You think you're being sooo sneaky leaving all these sweet love letters for your favorite guy. You're not. They 100% know but if they'll do anything about it is another question entirely.

tags: gn!reader! but implied male/masc reader for Angel ofc :3 mostly fluff!! mildly suggestive in Luci's & Vox's, slight angst for Angel, mention of alcohol consumption in Husk's! Alastor being his usual self lmao

Alastor

You must think you are quite the clever little thing, leaving such sweet notes around for anyone to find. Little letters you think he doesn't know come from you. His shadows haunt every crevice aware of all that goes on within the hotel's interior, and especially those that dwell within his radio tower. It is amusing watching you slither into his abode to leave yet another sweetly decorated note on his control panel while Alastor lurks within the darker corners of his tower. Scarlet eyes soaking you in like a lion hunting a gazelle.

Then, like smoke, you slip out the hatch and down the ladder towards the hotel as quickly as death. Trying to seem casual, whistling an off-key tune.

Curious, he grins. What a curious creature you are, hmm? He picks the letter up, his red claw caressing the crease of the seal. His name stares up at him, written in exquisite cursive and emboldened red ink he wished was blood.

With a single claw he slits open the top of the envelope with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel, withdrawing its contents that had piqued his interest. Immediately, his smirk widens. Positively Cheshire-like.

"My, my, darling. You are endearing, I hope you know that!" Alastor cooed with crackling static. He traced his finger along the penmanship.

He pictures you hunched over your desk fretting over such a delicate piece of stationery. Your words oozed admiration for the Radio Demon. How truly touching! The sentiment was most definitely mutual. Next time, he'll be sure to catch you in the act, little lamb.

Lucifer

The King of Hell was quick to move in upon Charlie's insistence. Eager to make up for lost time with his daughter, he takes on all sorts of tasks and attends every event she has planned. Every team-building exercise, there was Lucifer at the forefront; lest his rubber duck depression returned.

Initially, he's quite confused by the sight of a white and gold foiled envelope placed neatly on the center of his pillow when he returns to his quarters to rest. He's never seen his name written with such care. The scent of love and genuine fondness exudes from the small parcel and tempts his senses. It catches him off guard, a puff of hot air escaping his lips, blinking owlishly.

He's lightheaded as he reads the letter with one hand braced against the wall beside him. An apple-red blush coats his cheeks and creeps down his neck. The scent of you clouds his mind and corrupts his thoughts. He's starting to feel dizzy yet oh-so-happy!

You... You wrote this didn't you, sweetling? Red eyes wash over the page. He closes his eyes and presses the letter to his lips as he leans his back into the wall. It's surely from you, but why didn't you just come and talk to him instead of being all mysterious and cryptic? Has he not made his affections for you clear enough? Perhaps you were shy and felt more confident in staying anonymous.

Lucifer couldn't promise you or himself that he wouldn't go and find you immediately after he calmed down enough to be well-composed in a public space. He was practically vibrating with excitement.

Shaking out his hands and jumping in place, Lucifer straightens his tie. If all goes to plan, he'll have you snuggled in his warm embrace as he flies over Pentagram City before sundown.

Of course, he will make sure all six of his massive wings are preened and looking their best first. Hey, he is the King of Hell after all! He's gonna show off for you a little.

"Alright, darlin', I hope you're ready for a night on the town." Lucifer sucked in a sharp breath and exited his room swiftly making his way to you.

Sir Pentious

Sweet man is so flabbergasted! Surely this is a prank, yes? No? Oh my, then that must mean--! His pupils dilate and water, a big cheesy grin sneaks across his cheeks. His tail swishes behind him lightly and it's hard to fight the blush off his cheeks. It takes everything in him to collect his breath as he clutches the letter to his chest.

"What'cha got there, boss?" Points out one of his Egg Bois. Sir Pentious all but squeaks and shoves the paper unceremoniously into his breast pocket.

Pentious rasps, "No-nothing that needs to concern you!"

"Oh, okay!" Chirps his Egg Boi, waddling off.

Sir Pentious sighs, slitted eyes wander over to where you sit at the bar engaged in deep conversation with Angel and Husk. There's a weird tug in his chest he's never felt before. A longing. You catch his eye and give a gentle smile and offer him a tiny wave which he returns eagerly. He sighs dreamily, coiling in on his tails. I hope I may catch you at a more opportune time, my heart.

Angel Dust

Whenever he's had a particularly rough night at Valentino's, Angel retrieves a pastel blue shoe box from deep within his closest, almost completely filled to the brim with letters, gifts, and keepsakes you'd given him. Even the silly little half-assed doodle you made of him as a spider. He saved it all.

You're so cute, thinking that you're all anonymous when you are absolutely not, leaving him the cutest fuckin' letters that make him want to explode. It's nice. Having someone want you and not for sex. The pure heart of gold of yours was gonna be the double-death of him.

Angel hasn't quite worked up the nerve to ask you out yet. It's something he ponders every day, especially when reading your newest letter. He feels too stuck, too... Fucked up. That's not something he'd wanna put on you. You've never treated him like anything but a person. You saw the real him.

Instead, he lives for your letters. Wishing things could be different, that he could find the power to cut the contract with Valentino, and truly become yours when he's no longer that fucker's pet.

His eyes well with tears as he cradles your latest letter, praising him for how well he'd done at Charlie's little team-building experiment. He pretends it's you that he's holding. His fingers combing through your hair, smiling to himself when you lazily lean up his body to kiss him ever-so-softly. A true kiss made of real love, not lust. You snuggle into his chest fluff with your arms around his waist.

"Baby, I," with a blink, Angel is back to reality. The weight on his chest had only been a snoozing Fat Nuggets. Angel sighs, stroking his little buddy's ears. "Maybe one day, I can be strong enough for both of us, baby." He says out loud, hoping your heart will find his words.

Husk

He's quick to snatch the new letter up before anyone else sees, sending his half-drunk whiskey all across the countertop with a clang. Husk cussed under his breath, stashing your thankfully dry letter beneath the bar for safe-keeping until he could read it later.

"Why'dja gotta leave it out in the open?" Husk grumbles without malice. The playful sway of his raised feathery tail and soft hum as he wipes up his spilled drink was always a good sign of his rare, pleasant mood.

You're growing more and more bold with each letter. Leaving them places where someone other than Husk could accidentally misinterpret them: Charlie.

The last thing he needed was the well-meaning Princess of Hell to overextend herself and start playing matchmaker. Husker was doing just aces on his own. His love life was his and his alone to fuss about. He finished cleaning up the bar for the night, keeping the booze secure in its display case until the following day.

Husk peruses the letter freely in the privacy of his bedroom, one arm folded beneath his head. His golden eyes flicked from word to word. His pupils expand as he exhales an airy chuckle, lingering on the word handsome. The sound of his own trill rumbling in his throat startles him enough to drop the letter and slam his elbow into his nightstand.

Hissing, Husk pressed his palms against his shut eyelids. "Fuck, baby, ya really got this ol' cat comin' undone, huh? Sneaky little minx." He lied back down with a huff. "If only ya knew." His eyes slip shut. Tomorrow. Husk would finally approach you tomorrow.

Vox

"I see you still don't wanna text these, huh, baby?" Vox scoops up the letter taking residence on his seat, hastily clawing it open. He plops down on his chair, leaning back. "Too shy to be so vulnerable for me?" Vox's sharp-toothed grin spreads wide across his display screen, red dripping from the corner of his mouth as he hungrily drinks in your words.

"You are too fuckin' cute, aren't'cha, darlin'?" Vox chuckles, smashing his fist against his console with triumph. A bolt of electricity spirals around the system, causing him to yelp as it spans across the entire city. He created another blackout. "FUCK."

Vox is at your doorstep in a matter of minutes despite the darkness of Pentagram City. The forever-flushed red sky is light enough to find your apartment building. He's dressed in a new suit and feigned ignorance when you opened your door, holding a new letter. Surprised to see him there. Hah, caught with your hand in the fuckin' cookie jar, babe.

Allowing him into your home, Vox easily towers over you with a big grin. You looked fuckin' adorable, staring up at him so meekly.

"You didn't need to hide your feelings from me, sweetheart." He gently tilts your chin upwards. A single cyan claw grazes the line of your jaw, sliding to cup your cheek with his full palm.

"Vox, I," you stammer. Your sentence goes no further than those two small words. Vox traces your lower lip with the tip of his sharp thumb, smiling as your eyes flutter shut. He waits to see if you continue to speak and when you don't, he nods and tugs you to him by your hips. You gasp against him and he smiles, a bit softer now.

"I know, baby. I've gotcha," Vox's mouth presses tight to yours, lifting you up further into his arms for better access. Electricity soon ignites the house and city, Velvette must've gotten things running again.

|| ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏꜱᴛ, ʀᴇᴜꜱᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴇᴅɪᴛ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ɪɴ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴀʏ! ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ. ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱɪᴛᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ. ᴀʟʟ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜰᴜʟ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ © ᴄʜᴇʀᴜʙꜰᴀᴇ 2024 ||

[redvexillum]

A/N: Kit, how dare you issue a challenge? I'mma come over and cough all over.... your keyboard! That's right! Biological warfare baby! Jks. I can't get out of my bed, lol.

SUMMARY: Every year on Christmas Eve, you meet Lucifer, your mentor. He regales you with tales from down below, and despite the passing years, you realize that your love for him has never faded.

TAGS/WARNINGS:  f!reader, soft sex, p in v, angel!reader, naive!reader, virgin!reader, first time reader, touchstarved!lucifer, cunnilingus, fingering

Laughter drifted like silken ribbons through the crisp evening air, weaving its way seamlessly into the chorus of crackling firewood and the quiet hum of the night. Above, the stars gleamed with a fractured beauty, like shattered jewels scattered across the inky sky. Each flicker was a ghost of light from stars long gone, their brilliance enduring even after their death—a poignant reminder of their fragility and their fleeting splendour of existence. 

The fire before you burned steady, casting warm golden halos against the encroaching chill. The scent of smoke mingled with the earthy aroma of wood, laced faintly with a sweetness that teased the edges of memory. Enveloped in the soft cocoon of your snowy white wings, you dared a glance at the figure across from you. 

Lucifer. 

He was once your mentor, your guide into the delicate art of creation—the delicate skill of weaving light, life, and beauty into existence. Even now, after his fall, he sat there with the same ethereal glow, though tarnished in the eyes of Heaven. His rosy cheeks, flushed as though kissed by frost, and his gentle smile felt like the warmth of a distant sun. 

Yet, the whispers of his past lingered like shadows. The Seraphs spoke in riddles, never fully divulging the sin that led to his fall. He had become the emblem of rebellion, the cautionary tale told to every fledgling angel. To humanity and the choir of angels, he was the harbinger of evil and sin. 

But to you? 

He was still him. 

“Want a s’more?” His voice broke the spell of your thoughts, warm and smooth, carrying a hint of playful curiosity. He held out the human treat, the graham crackers precariously balanced between fingers that had once wielded the glory of celestial creation. 

You nodded, reaching eagerly for the offering. At the first bite, a delightful medley of flavours melted onto your tongue—the silk of chocolate, the airy sweetness of marshmallow, and the crisp crunch of graham crackers. Your eyes lit up with unabashed delight. 

“Mmm!” you hummed, your grin radiant as you turned to him. 

Lucifer chuckled, his laughter low and rich, like a song from a time you thought you’d forgotten. He leaned back, busying himself with crafting another treat, his motions unhurried and precise. Around you, colourful lights danced on strings, their cheerful glow a stark contrast to the quiet of the winter night. 

You hadn’t planned to see him again after that fateful chance encounter in the human realm. Yet here you were, meeting him each year on Christmas Eve, reliving fragments of a bond that time had refused to sever. 

Your gaze drifted to his profile, illuminated by the soft amber light. There was something mesmerizing about the way his hair caught the glow, the way his sharp features softened in the firelight. 

The chill of the night was no match for the flush warming your cheeks. You didn’t mean to feel this way, to let your thoughts spiral into forbidden territory. 

He was your mentor. 

Your guide.

Your… 

But the space between respect and yearning had blurred, year after year, as comfort gave way to an ache you couldn’t ignore. You told yourself it was admiration. 

That it had to be. 

“So,” Lucifer’s voice stirred you from your reverie, casual yet tinged with something unreadable. “How are things up there?” His words held an edge of hesitance, his unnatural crimson eyes flitting to meet yours briefly before darting away. 

Your breath caught as your gaze fell to the faint glint of a golden band on his fourth finger. A thousand questions stirred in your chest, each one more painful than the last. 

And yet, you smiled. 

You always smiled for him. 

Blinking back the twisting discomfort in your stomach, you forced a bright smile to your lips, wide enough to mask the unease threatening to spill over. “Oh, you know, same old, same old,” you sighed theatrically, shrugging your shoulders in an exaggerated gesture. “It’s been ages since anyone’s come up with anything truly inspired. No creativity, no innovation… just endless routine.” 

Your gaze flickered nervously to Lucifer, and your heart skipped a beat when you saw his face light up—golden hues flushing his cheeks, a grin spreading wide and utterly unguarded across his face. 

“Well, isn’t that just typical!” he exclaimed, effortlessly crossing his legs and setting the fourth s’more neatly on the plate beside him. His movements were so quick and precise you barely caught them. “Those old coots upstairs wouldn’t recognize genius if it smacked them right in their self-righteous halos!” 

A giggle slipped from you, muffled only slightly by the hand you pressed to your mouth. It was still enough to escape, carrying the sound of bubbling joy across the air. His audacity—speaking so brazenly about the elders of Heaven—never failed to amuse you. But wasn’t that just one of the reasons why you… why you… 

Your chest tightened, a bittersweet ache swelling inside you. You didn’t want this moment to end. You longed for the days when you could see him whenever you pleased, like you had in those ancient, untarnished eons. 

Your wings puffed up instinctively, a reflexive motion that startled Lucifer enough to make him flinch. “Oh! S-sorry!” you stammered, cringing at the sudden disruption. “I just… remembered something!” 

With a renewed determination, you reached into your pocket, your fingers brushing against smooth rubber. When you pulled it free, your smile grew brighter, almost trembling with anticipation. You held it out to him with both hands. 

Lucifer’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. He blinked once, then again, his gaze drifting from the object in your hands to your face. His lips, usually quick to curve into a grin, remained frozen in place. 

A flicker of nervousness gnawed at your resolve, but you clung to your bright expression, even as it faltered just slightly. “I-I heard that tomorrow is a day when people exchange gifts and spend time together,” you began hesitantly, heat crawling up your neck to bloom across your cheeks. “And, well… you once mentioned you liked ducks, so… I made this for you.” 

The small object in your hands was a pink rubber duck, its shimmering ruby eyes catching the firelight. Tiny white wings adorned its back, delicately crafted and fluffy to the touch. It wasn’t much, but it was something you’d poured your heart into—something that reminded you of the first time Lucifer had taught you the joy of creating. You still remembered the wooden duck he had given you all those years ago, a keepsake of simpler times. 

“If you squeeze it here,” you demonstrated, giving the duck a gentle press. The tiny beak opened, letting out a soft, endearing quack, and the little wings began to flap, the duck hovering just slightly above your palm. 

Your heart pounded as you looked up at him, hope filling your eyes. Surely, he’d see how much this meant. 

For a moment, Lucifer’s expression was unreadable, his blank stare heavy and unnerving. But then, his lips curved into a wide, mischievous grin. “Oh, wow!” he drawled, plucking the duck from your hands and turning it over to examine it closely. “You’ve really improved! Your craftsmanship is getting impressive.” 

His words washed over you, sending a pleasant warmth trickling down your spine. “Y-you think so?” you asked, your voice tinged with shy pride as you leaned in slightly, desperate to bask in the glow of his approval. 

He glanced at you then, and for a moment, his eyes softened, their sharp edges melting into something infinitely more tender. His vibrant red eyes felt foreign, a reminder of all he had become, yet there was a piece of the mentor you once knew. No matter how he had changed, Lucifer still held an unshakable place in your heart. 

And in this quiet moment, you realized… perhaps he always would. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low, threaded with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. His eyes softened, a flicker of vulnerability shimmering within their depths like the faintest ember of a long-forgotten fire. His hand hovered, trembling slightly, mere inches from your cheek, as if he yearned to touch you but couldn’t bring himself to close the distance. “You don’t have to indulge this old fool every year, you know.” 

Your head tilted slightly, confusion knitting your brows. “What do you mean?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile moment. 

Lucifer sighed deeply, the sound heavy with unspoken words. His hand dropped back into his lap, his fingers curling protectively around the small gift you had made for him. His gaze followed, falling to the duck in his hand as if it held all the answers he couldn’t find. 

“I…” He hesitated, his lips pressing together before he let out a quiet, frustrated breath. His eyes darted to the side, then back to the fire, searching for the courage to continue. “I’ve been reminiscing. About my past—about our past. And it’s been wonderful to share it with you again, but—” 

Your chest tightened painfully, the weight of his unfinished words squeezing the air from your lungs. You didn’t want to hear it. Whatever he was about to say, it would break something inside you, something you weren’t ready to lose. 

Before you could think better of it, you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. 

His shoulders jerked, startled, and his head whipped toward you, wide-eyed and unguarded. Your lips quirked into a nervous smile, and with a forced, breathless giggle, you tried to brush it off. “I took my gift from you, Lucifer!” you declared, your tone falsely cheerful. Your hands wrung together in your lap, betraying the storm of nerves churning inside you, and your heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the crackle of the fire. 

“A k-kiss,” you stammered, heat flooding your cheeks. “That’s… what I wanted.” 

It was innocent enough, wasn’t it? You had seen Seraphim offer kisses to their students in gestures of affection and encouragement. Surely, this wasn’t so different. 

Right? 

Lucifer blinked, slowly, as if processing your words. Then, a quiet “oh” escaped his lips, soft and unsure. He glanced at your face, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat that stretched into eternity. 

“I can do that,” he said at last, his voice a whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. 

He carefully placed the duck aside, tucking it safely into his pocket before leaning closer. When his lips met yours, it was gentle at first, barely a touch, but the softness of his mouth stole the air from your lungs. Your skin tingled where he brushed against you, sparking sensations that raced through your body like wildfire. 

The kiss deepened, and your hands instinctively rose, pressing against the lapels of his coat as you leaned into him. Your eyes fluttered shut, the world around you dissolving into the warmth of him, the faint scent of smoke and something earthy mingling with his own intoxicating presence. 

The quiet crackle of the fire mingled with the faint sounds of your lips meeting his. He pulled back slightly, just enough for your breaths to mingle, and his eyes caught yours. The red of his irises glowed softly, the colour unfamiliar yet achingly fitting for him. It was a shade you had never seen in Heaven, and yet it felt as though it had always belonged to him. 

“I miss these wings,” Lucifer murmured, his lips brushing against yours with every word. 

Before you could respond, his hand moved behind you, fingers grazing the base of your wings where they met your back. His touch was light, reverent, but the sensation that followed was anything but gentle. 

“Ah!” you gasped, a sharp cry escaping your lips as a surge of pleasure coursed through you, so intense it left you trembling. Your body gave out, collapsing against his chest as heat flooded your veins, setting every nerve alight. 

The sensations rippled through you in waves, overwhelming and indescribable. You buried your face against him, your breath ragged as you tried to steady yourself. It felt so good—too good, almost, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. 

“Lucifer,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but his name on your lips felt like a sinful plea.

The moment your gaze met his, Lucifer claimed your lips again, his kiss deeper, more fervent than before. His tongue brushed against your lips, coaxing them apart with a temptation as sweet as it was forbidden. Each movement of his mouth sent shivers down your spine, and the heat pooling low in your belly intensified, an ache that demanded more. His hands roamed over you, skilled and deliberate, igniting sparks that left you breathless. Shame prickled at the edge of your thoughts, but it was drowned out by the wet, warm sensation pooling between your thighs. 

Your breath came in ragged gasps, mingling with the rustle of fabric and the faint crackle of the fire. His movements were fluid yet insistent as he guided you down onto the soft blanket beneath you. Lucifer hovered above, his arms caging you in, as if shielding you from the judgmental eyes of the Heavens above. 

In the firelight, his golden hair glowed, its brilliance rivalling the stars you had spent so many nights admiring. It was brighter than the sun, and yet infinitely more inviting. 

“My sweet angel,” he murmured, his voice trembling as though the words pained him. The nickname, long forgotten in the years since his fall, struck something deep within you, a chord of bittersweet memory. “Tell me to stop,” he pleaded, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin. “We should… stop.” 

The word echoed in your mind—stop. But it felt so foreign, so wrong. You didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want to push him away, not now, not ever. His touch, his presence, the way he made you feel—it was all-consuming. You craved more. 

Your lips parted, and instead of telling him to stop, a soft plea escaped, barely audible yet filled with undeniable longing. A bashful smile curled at the corners of your lips, a silent answer to his hesitation. 

Lucifer shivered, his resolve faltering as his gaze searched yours. Then, he surrendered, dipping low to capture your lips once more. His hands moved over you, exploring with a reverence that made your heart ache. His touch ventured to places no one else had ever dared, yet there was no fear, no hesitation. With him, it felt right. 

Piece by piece, your clothes fell away, and his followed suit, each article shed like a layer of pretense until nothing remained but bare skin and shared warmth. The movements were slow, deliberate, almost ritualistic—a dance of devotion. The firelight caressed his form, and you found yourself mesmerized by the sight of him, by the way he looked at you as though you were the only thing that mattered in the universe. 

His lips trailed along your cheekbone, leaving a path of warmth in their wake, before finding the delicate curve of your neck. He pressed a kiss there, soft and lingering, and you felt him shudder, his breath trembling against your skin. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hold on you tightening, as though he feared you might vanish. 

Your chest pressed against his, your bodies aligned, and a new sensation bloomed within you—a mix of anticipation and nervous excitement. The hard length of him throbbed against your core, every twitch synchronized with the rapid beat of his heart. The tip was warm, slick with your shared desire, a physical manifestation of the connection drawing you both closer. 

Your heart raced, not with fear, but with happiness—a profound joy that your first time sharing this sacred act would be with him. This was no mere moment of passion; it was something deeper, something eternal. An act of unity, of bonding, of love. Wasn’t it? You wondered, heart fluttering, if this meant he saw you as his equal, his soulmate. 

Did he love you? 

Lucifer’s voice broke the silence, hoarse and laden with conflict. “We should stop,” he murmured, his words catching as though they pained him to say. “I’m tainted… and you’re not. We should stop.” 

Yet even as he spoke, his arms clung to you with a desperation that belied his words. He held you as though you were his salvation, the one thing anchoring him in a world of chaos. His resolve was crumbling, his need laid bare before you. 

And you… you could not let him go. 

Not now.

Not ever.

Lucifer's voice was raw, tinged with a pain that gripped your heart. Though you couldn’t fully understand the depths of his torment, the need to soothe him overwhelmed you. Your fingers trailed tenderly through his golden hair, soft and warm under your touch. His muscles, taut with tension, gradually loosened, melting as he surrendered to your embrace. A sigh escaped his lips, quiet and vulnerable, followed by a low moan as his mouth pressed delicate, lingering kisses to your neck. Each touch sent shivers coursing through your body, his lips igniting sparks wherever they met your skin. 

It hit you then—why you returned to him, year after year, unable to stay away. This feeling, which had begun as a fragile seed, had blossomed into something wild and untamable. It was no longer just admiration or fondness—it was something much deeper. 

You loved him. 

The realization unfurled within you like a sunrise, pure and all-encompassing. Love, the most beautiful and sacred of emotions, a gift from the heavens themselves. It was love that had drawn you to Lucifer, time and again. Love that refused to let you abandon him, even in his fall. He had taught you about creation, about beauty, and now, he had taught you the most profound truth of all—the overwhelming power of love. 

Emboldened by the thought, you cupped his face, tilting his head upward. Your lips found his in small, feather-light kisses, each accompanied by a soft giggle of uncontainable joy. His torment, etched so deeply into his features, began to fade, replaced by a quiet resignation. His lips curled into a gentle smile, one that reached his eyes for the first time in eons. 

Then he kissed you again, deeply, a kiss that stole the air from your lungs and set your body alight. His tongue teased the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart, and you let him in, surrendering to the heat of his passion. His moan vibrated through you, a sound so primal and raw it sent a shiver down your spine. 

His body pressed against yours, his arousal hot and throbbing against your core. The tip of him pressed gently, insistently, against your entrance, the weight of his desire palpable. You widened your thighs instinctively, your breath hitching as anticipation gripped you. 

"I'll be gentle," he whispered, his voice a low promise that resonated through every fibre of your being. 

You nodded, your trust in him absolute, your heart pounding with a mix of trepidation and excitement. Slowly, he began to press into you, the sensation foreign yet electrifying. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as he stretched you, your body adjusting to the slow, deliberate intrusion. 

“Ah,” you moaned, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as he rolled his hips, pulling back before pressing forward again. Each thrust brought him deeper, filling you inch by inch. The rhythm was deliberate, reverent, as though he sought to worship every part of you. The sounds of your bodies meeting—the wet, slick noise of his movements, the ragged breaths, the whispered gasps—filled the air, a melody of intimacy. 

"That's right," he murmured, his voice thick with praise and desire. "You're doing so well, my sweet angel." 

Lucifer groaned as he buried himself deeper, his brows knitting together in concentration. You felt the burn of his entry give way to a blossoming pleasure, waves of heat radiating from where your bodies were joined. 

“Ah, my angel,” he groaned, his voice trembling. “So tight... so perfect.” 

He thrust deeper still, his pace steady and unrelenting. The fullness was overwhelming, every nerve alight with sensation. His hand slid around your back, fingers finding the base of your wings. When he touched you there, a jolt of pleasure shot through you, your walls tightening around him involuntarily. 

The sensation built and built, pain dissolving into pure, unadulterated bliss as he moved within you. Each roll of his hips brought you closer to something transcendent, a feeling so overwhelming it consumed you completely. And at that moment, with Lucifer holding you, filling you, there was no fall, no sin—only love.

Lucifer’s moan was low and guttural as he sank fully into you, his hips pressing flush against yours. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of heat and fullness that left your body trembling as it tried to accommodate him. 

“Ah… ah… L-Luci,” you whimpered, your voice catching on every gasp as you clenched tightly around him. Your walls fluttered, struggling to adjust to his size, the stretch both foreign and intoxicating. Above you, Lucifer’s torso rose, his head tilted back as he groaned, savouring the tightness of your untouched core. 

“I’m going to move,” he murmured, his voice soft and trembling, laced with restraint. His hand cradled your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had slipped free. The tenderness in his gaze made your chest ache, grounding you amidst the swirling chaos of sensation. “Tell me if it’s too much, alright?” 

You nodded, your smile wobbly but trusting. 

Slowly, he began to withdraw, and a sharp whimper escaped your lips as the loss of him left you achingly empty. But then, he pressed forward again, filling you completely, his heat and presence igniting something raw within you. His movements were careful, deliberate, as he set a rhythm, his cock throbbing against your walls as if revelling in your embrace. 

Each glide of him inside you was smoother, more certain, and his pace gradually quickened. Your breaths intertwined, the quiet space filled with the sounds of your union—ragged gasps, soft moans, and the rhythmic sound of your bodies meeting. 

“You’re so beautiful, my sweet angel,” he whispered, his voice a reverent murmur that made your heart flutter. His hips rolled in slow, indulgent circles, eliciting a cry of pleasure as he drove deeper into you. “You feel incredible,” he sighed, his words like a balm to your overwhelmed senses. 

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a fervent kiss. His tongue explored you with unrestrained hunger, mapping every corner of your mouth and drawing out muffled moans with every stroke. His lips left trails of fire on your skin, igniting every nerve he touched. 

“I’m close,” he rasped against your lips, his thrusts becoming erratic, his control fraying as he chased his release. 

You could barely form words, your body spiralling higher with every movement. “I want you to… feel good… Luci,” you managed, your voice breaking on a high-pitched keen as the coil in your core wound tighter and tighter, ready to snap. 

Your whispered plea undid him. With a final thrust, his body tensed, and a deep groan escaped him as he spilled into you. The warmth of his release filled you, each pulse of him deep within making you shudder. He moaned softly, his hips rocking gently as he pressed as far as he could, emptying every drop into you. 

As he stilled, his breaths uneven, he opened his eyes to meet yours. Slowly, carefully, he withdrew, and a shiver ran through you as his warmth began to escape. But before you could mourn the loss, his fingers slid inside, filling you once more. 

“Ah!” you cried out, your back arching as the sudden intrusion sent a jolt of pleasure through you. His fingers curled, seeking and finding a spot deep within that made your vision blur. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably, your body surrendering completely to the unexpected waves of ecstasy crashing over you. 

“Good,” Lucifer murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction as he watched you unravel beneath him, your pleasure becoming his own reward. 

"That's right, let go, my dear," Lucifer murmured, his voice a velvet caress against your senses. The wet, lewd sounds of his fingers delving into your heat filled the space between you, the mixture of his release and your arousal slicking every motion. His fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars, and your body clenched around him, desperate for more. 

“Ah… ah, Luci!” you cried, your voice trembling with raw need as the coil in your core wound tighter, ready to snap. The tension in your body built with every stroke of his fingers, every graze of his touch, until a sudden, warm pressure pressed against your sensitive nub. The contact sent a jolt of pure, searing pleasure through you, pulling a broken cry from your lips. 

Lucifer’s lips found your clit, his tongue flicking against the swollen bundle of nerves before he drew it into his mouth, suckling gently. The sensation was electric, each stroke of his fingers inside you timed perfectly with the pull of his lips. The sound of him—wet, desperate, and unrelenting—filled your ears, and the world around you blurred into nothing but him. 

Your body arched off the blanket, a keening moan escaping you as your hips pushed forward, seeking more. You were helpless against the onslaught of sensations, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to drive you higher and higher until you shattered completely. 

White-hot pleasure surged through you, a blinding wave of ecstasy that left you breathless. Your walls clamped around his fingers, spasming with the force of your orgasm as your cries filled the air. Lucifer didn’t stop—his fingers moved slowly, deliberately, while his tongue lavished your oversensitive clit with gentle, teasing licks, drawing out every last tremor of bliss. 

When the pleasure finally ebbed, leaving you trembling and spent, you collapsed back onto the blanket, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Your cheeks flushed, your lips parted in a dazed smile as you looked down at him. 

Lucifer raised his head, his lips glistening, and a small smile graced his face. But something in his eyes gave you pause—a shadow of sadness that dulled the light you adored. His gaze lingered on you, tender yet heavy, as though he was holding back something you couldn’t see. 

You reached for him, brushing your fingers along his cheek, your smile faltering as you whispered, “Luci… what’s wrong?” 

Lucifer gathered you close, his arms wrapping around you with a tenderness that belied his strength. His fingers threaded through your hair, stroking it gently, while his lips pressed soft, reverent kisses to your temple, your forehead, the crown of your head. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, the weight of those words sinking deep into your chest. 

Your eyelids fluttered, the haze of exhaustion clouding your mind. “What for?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You nestled against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing, relishing in the warmth that seeped into your skin. 

“For not being enough,” he began, his lips brushing against your hair. “For falling,” another kiss, this time on your temple. “For leaving you,” his voice cracked, and he kissed you again, a lingering touch on your cheek. “For disappointing everyone.” His lips trembled as they grazed your forehead once more. “For…” 

The words faltered, and you tilted your head, looking up at him. The pain etched into his features pierced your heart, but you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “Did you know?” you began softly, the words coming from a place of vulnerability. “I look forward to seeing you every year. I look forward to hearing the stories about your daughter, to just… being with you.” 

To you. 

He was enough. 

Always. 

His arms tightened around you, his body trembling slightly as though your words unravelled something deep within him. You took a shaky breath, feeling the weight of what you wanted to say, the unspoken truth that had been blooming in your heart. “I… I—” 

But the words caught in your throat, your courage faltering. Did he feel the same? Angels didn’t share this kind of intimacy lightly; it was an act of deep love, wasn’t it? Surely, Lucifer felt it too. 

He leaned back slightly, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. “We should rest tonight, my sweet angel,” he said gently, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. 

You hesitated but nodded, allowing him to conjure a tent with a wave of his hand. The interior was illuminated by strings of delicate fairy lights, their warm glow casting a soft, ethereal ambience. 

“It’s like our own personal stars!” you exclaimed, the childlike wonder in your voice cutting through the heavy atmosphere. 

But Lucifer said nothing, his silence wrapping around the space between you like a fragile thread. You told yourself he was tired, that the weight of the day had worn him down. Still, a small, nagging fear nestled in your chest. 

However, later in the dead of night, you stirred faintly when you felt a hand resting lightly on your head. You kept your eyes shut, your breathing steady as you waited, your heart pounding. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice cracking as though the words themselves were too heavy to bear. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, like a prayer seeking forgiveness. “You belong in Heaven, with the stars, not entangled with a devil like me.” 

Your breath hitched, but you remained still, every fibre of your being straining to hear more. You wanted to open your eyes, to reach out and tell him he was wrong, that you didn’t care, but something held you back. Deep down, you already knew, didn’t you? 

You were the one who clung to hope, who had dared to declare love where it was forbidden. You were the one who dreamed of a union that defied the heavens and the depths. And yet, now, all you could do was lie there, caught between the truth you feared and the love you couldn’t bear to lose. 

You closed your eyes, sealing them shut like you had sealed away every truth you didn’t want to face. The truth that Lucifer had fallen, that his place was no longer beside you, and that a future together was a dream as fleeting as stardust. You closed your eyes against the inevitable, against the knowledge that this fragile connection had always been temporary. 

You closed your eyes because as an angel, hope was all you had—and even that, you realized now, had been a fool's solace. 

Tears threatened but did not fall, held at bay by sheer will as you lay there, motionless. You heard the soft rustle of the tent flaps, the faint sound of him leaving, and then the crushing silence as his presence disappeared. The space he left behind felt cavernous, the absence of his warmth like an icy void. 

You didn’t know how long you remained there, curled beneath the blanket that still faintly carried his scent. The false stars above twinkled on, uncaring, mocking. Slowly, you sat up, the first tear slipping down your cheek like a crack in the dam. Then another, and another, until the flood of grief began to escape in earnest. 

You crawled out of the tent, the night’s chill biting at your skin as you wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself. The fire outside had dimmed to embers, its light no longer warm, its joy snuffed out. On the plate lay the discarded remains of s’mores, cold and abandoned, their sweetness wasted. 

You turned your gaze to the sky, to the real stars. Another tear slipped down as you stared at their brilliance. 

You weren’t going to see Lucifer next year. 

Or the year after. 

You weren’t going to see him ever again. He wouldn’t meet you, wouldn’t look at you with that half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. The realization cuts you deep like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. 

More tears welled, spilling freely now as your throat tightened and your chest heaved. The stars blurred in your vision, but you kept looking, unable to tear your gaze away. They shone so brightly, their light a lingering echo of something long gone. A memory of existence clinging to the present, deceiving the dreamers and the hopeful into believing they were still there. 

A breath escaped you, shaky and shallow, followed by a sob that tore free like a scream trapped too long. 

Lucifer had been your mentor. He had shown you the wonder of creation, the beauty of ingenuity, the power of unrestrained possibility. 

But love? 

Perhaps he hadn’t taught you that after all. 

How could it have been love when you never truly had it to begin with? 

Your hands clutched the blanket tighter, your tears falling silently into the earth beneath you. The stars above continued their eternal dance, indifferent to your pain, as you sat there mourning the light you had lost—and the darkness it left behind. 

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In the Woods (Somewhere) - Mothman!Gojo

Ghost stories around the city whisper about a creature in the forest. They describe it as a moth like monster that only brings misfortune and death.

But what will you do as you learn these silly ghost stories are true flesh and bone… and now haunting you?

pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader

wc: 12.9k

warnings & tags: 18+ only MDNI, monster x human relationship, loose interpretation of the mothman legends and stories, death mentions, protectiveness & obsession that can be read as slight yandere like, lot of bug discussion, monster transformation with a touch of body horror, wound licking, blood & tear consumption, magical healing, car accident, allusion to f!oral receiving, kidnapping, character deaths (this ends happy I promise) feral and lovesick Gojo, if there is anything I missed please let me know!

a/n: this is my first submission to @willowser Haunted House Collab and I’m so honored to be part of this! Thank you for putting this together dear Willow! The title is from the lovely Hozier song. Also a big thanks to @skeletoncowboys for letting me scream about this monster & to @stellamancer for always being my dearest comrade in Gojo hell, enjoy and thanks for reading! Stay spooky!

Your grandfather once told you he believed butterflies were fairies and moths were angels.

It made sense to your child logic that butterflies could be fairy creatures. You even imagined fairies had butterfly wings. But, you had argued back in disgust that moths couldn’t be angels.

“Now now,” your grandpa had laughed. “Why can’t moths be angels?”

He gently explained moths were mainly seen in the evening and around light. He believed moths were the forms angels took to keep watch over everyone late in the night when no one believed they were being protected

“And,” he told you with all his sweet patience. “Something like a moth that loves the light can’t be bad.”

Scientifically you now understand moths mainly were nocturnal as a survival instinct for less predators and more opportunities for prey. Some were even active during the daytime. But your grandfather's words stay with you, etched into your heart.

He is why you are here after all.

The campus at night always holds a certain hollowness.

However, the storm that blew in yesterday continues looming with ominous clouds in the sky. It cast an early darkness against the city. The thick haze feels as if something could slink out of the shadows.

When you slip out of the research lab building there, against the light outside, one lone white moth flutters in the air.

Quickly glancing around the campus stretches out before you a vacant lot. In that moment of surveying, delicate wings rapidly flutter fast and wild against your face.

“Ack!” A surprised squawk leaves you at the moth’s sudden charge.

“I told you!” You hiss out waving the bug away. “You could’ve waited for me at home.”

The moth, outraged by your words, rushes against your face harder. Silk wings flap hard while it continues waving around your line of sight in a flurry.

“Calm down, you big baby!” You snap back annoyed and start stomping towards your car.

Now the little insect stops its fluttering attack to gently land on your face. As the bug travels across your cheek, its presence is a gentle tickling sensation. It finally stops and rests against you.

“Happy now?” You mutter low praying no one spots you with a large white moth on your face.

“I’m gonna pick up dinner. So are you getting in the car or meeting me back home?” You speak casual yet still within a low mutter.

With a delicate tickle again, the moth scurries across your cheek then across your nose making your lips twitch in a slight giggle.

Then the creature flutters away, your answer.

The pizzeria you end up at is adorably cozy. You spotted it during the drive to and from campus. Once you read the online reviews and got their blessing you decided to check it out.

Christmas lights hang from the takeout counter where you wait for your order. There’s even a quaint bar-like area. But what catches your attention is the small section of things littering the walls behind the counter.

It reminds you of a scrapbook.

Various newspaper clippings clutter one side. A few blurry photos are folded and pinned to the board. Plenty of hand drawn images scatter among the collage and they range from adorable to terrifying.

All of these things are about one single moth creature.

The board itself is even titled -

The Moth’s Nest.

Moth nests can be disastrous. They infect fast and are hard to exterminate. Plus once they create a nest, infestation is soon to follow.

“Ah, looking at our board.” A smooth voice purrs into the air and you turn towards it in slight embarrassment.

A beautiful blonde woman grins at you from behind the counter now.

“I heard the town had a moth thing but this…” from the drawings, which all included a strange humanoid like creature, this is far from the high moth population count it was known for.

The woman barks an amused laugh and it crinkles her rather lovely eyes.

“You could say that,” she grins. “You new here?”

“Sort of.” You nod. You’ve been here for almost a full semester now and you wonder if the newness will ever melt away.

“Well then, welcome to town!” The woman’s name is Yuki and for being a newcomer she pays for your pizza.

“Even though you got this for takeout, why don’t you stay? Eat here and keep me company.” She winks and you happily slide into the open seat she pulls up for you at the checkout counter.

“So what’s a lovely thing like yourself doing here?” Yuki asks smoothly and you almost choke on your first bite.

After she cackles a warm charismatic laugh, you swallow through your surprise and tell her.

“An en-tah what?” She caws confused like a bird and even her furrowed brows make you snicker.

“An entomologist,” you clarify.

In simple terms, you study bugs.

“Oh!” Yuki’s eyebrows fly fast up into her bangs as her eyes twinkle excitedly. “So you’re all about the creepy crawlers then.”

“Not all of them,” you reply back friendly.

You favored Odonatology and Lepidopterology.

The studies of dragonflies, damselflies, butterflies and in this case-

Moths.

“Well now,” Yuki grins and turns to glance at the board. “Looks like you’re in the right place to find moths.”

It was one of the reasons why you chose this program. The university boasted a plentiful and hands-on ecosystem to explore right within the town’s backyard. You just never expected an urban legend to come attached to the critter population.

Curiously you nudge your face towards the odd journalistic collection and ask about it.

Yuki’s face melts into a wistful look that casts a surprising shadow on her.

“It’s a creature that apparently lives in the woods…” she begins, low and steady.

No one knew how or when it began inhabiting the forest. Some argued it’s a simple folklore meant to scare rowdy kids from venturing into the woods.

“The stories say it’s an actual demon.” Yuki explains.

“There’s a belief that anyone who sees it either dies soon after or calamity befalls the town.”

Yuki’s words conjure up a poisonous fear. She adds how any sight of the cryptid, even in the strongest of nonbelievers, brought a sense of unease.

“But,” Yuki shrugs easily turning back to you. “Some people say that thing is a hero.”

The word hero gets tangled in your ribs

Your new friend explains there are those who have seen the beast and lived to tell a different tale.

Multiple children on different occasions have got lost in the woods. Yet, they always found their way out. Most of them claimed the moth creature helped them.

“There’s even an elderly man who went hiking and still swears up and down that thing saved him from getting attacked by a mountain lion.” Yuki comments.

“That’s a big claim.” You admire the thought of this monstrous creature possibly being a silent guardian. However, it festers something dangerous in your heart that weaves a sticky web.

The pizza on your plate grows cold. The lone drink you were nursing now is a watered down mess. You’ve lost your appetite and decide to head home.

There’s not much for your mind to process. It feels like the same sensation of walking out of a horror film and trying to understand what you saw. You try to rationalize this disorienting simply the same sensation you’d also get hearing ghost stories at sleepovers.

Yuki urges you with a warm charm that you’ll come and visit again, you promise her you will.

Walking out with leftovers in the box, the night greets you with a soupy fog. The lingering storms coat the streets in a mystic cloud.

You wonder if this clouded fog is inside your mind as well.

You’re about to take a step out into the parking lot when a horrifying animalistic shriek pierces the air.

It sounds distorted, a static shrill cry summoned from an ancient abomination.

The screech shoots straight into your bones startling you and making you jump in a pause.

In that moment a car speeding way too fast for a parking lot flies by you. It drives by with a whirling speed rattling the wind.

The noise, the shriek, stopped you from stepping out into the car’s path.

You mind buzzes, maybe too much. The gloomy air seeps into your skin and brings a heaviness over your body. You exhale shakily trying to just settle yourself as you head home.

When you return to the tiny closet of your apartment, there outside against the balcony door your white moth flutters furiously waiting for you.

Sliding the door open you’re about to greet your extra house guest until the text chime on your phone draws your attention away.

As you check your phone charging on the couch, a sudden thud lands against your apartment floors. The flapping of wings flutters into the room.

Before you can even turn around, a shadow falls over you. The presence of something large looms like a ghost, silent and steady yet radiating a chill besides you. Then a firm fuzzy face suddenly dives into the side of your neck burrowing against your skin.

“You need to be more careful.” A voice crystal and aware, yet flickering as if it speaks through the branches of the woods, clicks at you.

You think of the car that blazed by.

“It happens and I’m okay.” You reassure.

The inhuman face hiding in your neck draws back. Then a firm head soon enough gently butts against yours. The action jolts you out of your thoughts and you rapidly turn towards the heaviness leaning against you.

Crawled straight from the shadow of the woods, from the whispers of terrified stories, the creature before you still doesn’t seem real.

You think of Yuki and the moth’s nest board at the pizza shop. All the pictures depict the creature with haunting crimson eyes.

You wish you could have told Yuki the monster’s eyes aren’t red, but instead a piercing sky blue.

And instead of two eyes, the creature holds six beautiful eyes all over his face.

All six eyes of those eyes blink at you with the depth of a haunted lake shimmering within their gaze.

-.⊹˚₊⋆˙↟☾↟˙⋆₊˚⊹.-

“Why do you want to study insects?”

Discovering the cryptid could talk was honestly more surprising than discovering he was real.

Also, he had a name.

“Sa-to-ru.” He had told you, pronouncing its syllables as if your little human brain might not get it. It made you scowl. Yet the name itself sounded like something that fluttered out of the forest breeze.

Currently the moth creature, Satoru, sits happily on your apartment balcony under the dark cover of night. You have articles you need to read, lab reports to finish. But, you stay sitting on the floor beside him.

“My grandfather studied them.” You explain, giving the same answer you always do when this question is asked.

“He loved almost every type of bug there was.”

“Sounds like my type of human.” The moth amusedly chitters. “Love to meet him.”

“Honestly, he would’ve loved to meet you too.” You truthfully admit and almost grin thinking of how excited your grandpa would’ve been to see this creature.

“Unfortunately, he passed away a few years ago.” You add simply.

“Oh.” The cryptid replies quietly. “I’m sorry.”

You politely thank him.

“Is he the one besides the moth?”

You’re surprised Satoru even noticed that.

The frame sits on your eclectic shelf filled with books and trinkets. There’s two pictures in that frame. One is a photo of your grandfather during his days when he moved out here to teach at the university you currently attend. The other photo is you and him both holding up big nets when you were a little weed of a thing looking so happy besides him.

Besides those photos is his favorite sketch.

“It’s a luna moth, right?” He’s right again. Though, you’re not surprise he recognized it.

“Yup, the lunar moth was his favorite.” You fondly agree.

Actias luna.

Your grandpa used it as his example of how beautiful and lovely moths could be.

“He’s a man of good taste.” The moth compliments and for some reason it tugs at your lips. You can almost hear your grandfather's voice warmly boasting in pride.

“I wanna show you something, little human.” The moth quickly changes topic and when you turn to him, you find him grinning.

Rows of dangerous sharpened fangs flash within his mouth. They are a visible warning to not trust this creature, but you do.

“After your class this week, I’ll take you somewhere.” Satoru urges.

“Are you going to eat me?” You ask a bit stunned.

Satoru laughs, a flickering chirping noise that bounces off your apartment balcony.

“Oh little human, if I did eat humans I would’ve done that already.”

You glare at him but sighing you agree to whatever he has in store for you.

On your last class of the week, there outside against the campus street light your white moth flutters excitedly.

You think about how dangerous it is that he sticks around campus, even in this form.

With a rapid flurry he flies around your face. You can’t help but snort at the tickling sensation.

“Yeah I’m here, let’s go.” You tease.

Under the twilight hazee, you follow the moth into the woods.

The setting sun casts a shadow over the stretching forest. The trees silently watch your hesitant trek as you follow the moth further into the thickness.

Eventually you’re in the heart of it. No noise greets you, not even the rustling of birds or the fleeing of other animals. It’s as if in this depth all life had stilled. No movement or sign of life encroaches into this space. You realize this might have been the most ridiculous idea, following this cryptid myth into the unknown.

Suddenly the moth stops in front of a large solid tree.

“This is what you wanted to show me?” You’re a bit confused. The insect flutters around you in a huffy flight then goes to spin around the tree.

Satoru himself now slides out from behind the tree in his humanoid form.

“It’s not just a tree.” His six eyes narrow at you annoyed. Your eyes roll exhausted with him already.

“Do you trust me?”

The question surprises you.

Hesitantly you nod, a quiet yes. Satoru then effortlessly scoops you into his arms as if you weigh nothing.

A wild squeak escapes you. His firm arms hold you in his grasp and your mind starts scrambling being this close to him. The fur of his body tickles your arms and the solid warmth of him curls around you.

Satoru’s chittering laugh bounces among the trees.

He then takes flight.

You swallow back a petrified screech threatening to escape and simply let the wind rush around you. A solid thud comes, a landing.

“Open your eyes, little human.” Satoru whispers excited.

You hadn’t realized you had closed them.

The nest before you is a cobwebbed cocoon. You had never seen one this big. The opening of it is carved out wide, a webbed open maw with secrets trying to draw you in.

“Go in, you can see more.” His wistful voice skitters out playful, so light it could get caught in the tree branches.

He’s eager to show you this.

Hesitantly you lean into the nest just to glance inside.

It’s actually rather cozy. Webs and branches twist in a delicate pattern to create a solid enclosing. Leaves scatter the inside floor that is rather large. You can even imagine his large form curled in here cat-like as he sleeps.

“So? What do you think?” He asks with an anticipated edge blooming in his voice. He’s showing you his home.

You remember when he first showed himself to you, even gave you his name.

The logical reasoning within you thought many times about studying this cryptid. There was even a fleeting moment you considered capturing him and returning him back to the lab.

Now you are here discovering his home. You find yourself wanting to unearth as much as you can of this incredibly infuriating but wonderfully interesting creature.

“It’s nice!” You earnestly admire the space. Yet, the truth whispers a harrowing fact.

The bigger the nest, the bigger the infection and danger.

So you instead turn to glance out to the forest around. You’re so high above in the canopy of the trees. Silence seems to settle thicker here among the sky and it mingles with the evening darkness.

The forest, even as tranquil as it appears, holds a sense of loneliness you can’t fully describe.

“Have you been here at this spot for long?”

He chirps a humming yes.

“The high placement keeps me safe and away from prying eyes.” Among the trees and leaves he is simply a shadow.

“Do people try to hunt you?” That grim thought arrives.

“A few try, but no one’s even come close.” A cocky pride brims in Satoru’s tone.

You understand why people would try and search for him. But to hunt him like some prized sport? So you have to ask why.

“Besides some humans believe killing me will solve and save them from all their disasters, a select few who want me for other purposes.” Satoru muses as his antennas twitch.

“What other purposes?” You glance back at the cryptid perched on the solid large branch beside you.

In the dark, all six eyes glimmer with an animalistic reflection, a haunting gleam and reminder of the creature's true nature before you.

All those months ago, these multiple eyes stared at you from the edge of the woods by your apartment and the campus like silent terrors. Now they watch you with intent safety right by your side.

“There’s an old legend…” Satoru answers. “It says my kind could bring someone back from the dead.”

The words spark a curious flame in you.

“Wait, really? Is it true?”

The moth being simply shrugs, an action so human you almost want to laugh.

“Some believe it. That’s enough to hunt my kind.”

So many questions cluster in your mind. You wonder more about his kind, about him. Yet there is no way to scoop all those questions out.

All you can do is gaze out at the scenery before you.

The trees pierce the darkness with their own spiked tendrils. The night sky blankets above you with twinkle stars, glimmering pockets of faint light so clear.

Yet, for some reason this again feels so lonely.

Even with the stretching comforting woods, you can’t shake the sensation of solitude slipping out.

“So why do you still stick around?” You suddenly ask not even understanding why yourself.

“What? Around you or here?” He asks.

“Both.”

A chirp of a sigh comes, heavy with an ancient weary.

“I’ve thought about leaving, migrating somewhere else, somewhere safer.” His voice drops gently, a small click in the wind.

“But…” His voice trails off even more delicate.

“Something just keeps…pulling me back here. Like I’m meant to be here. That I’ve been waiting for something.” You’ve never heard him this wistful and distant.

Then his response also has you curious.

“Do you have any idea what it is?” You cautiously and gently press.

“No idea.” His answer is rapidly too casual that you snort, shaking your head.

“And why am I still hanging around you? Who knows, maybe I just like to bug you.”

The pun isn’t lost especially on you and you groan annoyed even though a smile twitches at your lips.

Among the shade of stars and shadow of the forest, you sit with a creature of the darkness.

-.⊹˚₊⋆˙↟☾↟˙⋆₊˚⊹.-

The moth had first appeared at your window balcony dancing around the light like an ethereal wisp of a spirit. It happily flew around you and even spun around your entire apartment. You eventually had to shoo it out.

For a while, it was simply you and this strangely persistent moth.

After that, six eyes began appearing at night at the edge of the woods. Strange clicks like howls erupted in the air, haunting lingering sounds that rattled you.

That same week the moth showed up to your apartment flying in a bit of distress. The wings of it flapped slower and you wondered if it was dehydrated or dying.

As you had opened the sliding door to the balcony, that’s when you first witnessed it.

Like butterflies, moths go through a similar life cycle of emerging from a pupa or chrysalis. The new adult insects must crawl out of its old cocoon. The process is the blend of life and destruction.

You discovered the same applied to moth creatures.

The wings fell first then the twisting and emergence of a body from the small frame transformed to life a fully formed creature.

That first time the moth creature metamorphosed on the balcony you screamed so loud your neighbor across the hall came worriedly to check on you.

You had hoped it was all just a bad dream…

Now when you return home early, that monster rests in your bed instead of lurking under it like all the scary stories whisper where monsters lie.

Curled within the sheets, burrowed deep and taking up the entire frame, the creature slumbers. You barely can spot Satoru underneath all the pillows. A few of your shirts peek out from the swirl of blankets and you try not to linger on that.

The messy twisted bed cocoon however does make you think of the grand nest you saw.

A faint snore grumbles out into the room. The muffled animalistic noise should frighten you. Instead it echoes a soothing rumble as you go to make dinner.

In the meditative process of cutting, claws scratching against the tile floor startles you. Your heart skips at the sudden noise and your face whips to the entryway.

In this form, the moth cryptid has to hunch from touching the ceiling.

Satoru’s imposing frame fills up the entire space even with his thick wings folded to his body. The intricate beautiful antennas on top of his head flicker curious. Among the monstrous features, human-like qualities are visible in his arms, his legs, and the core of his body. Yet even in that familiarity, he is covered in sleek fur.

The sigh of this unbelievable being in this tiny kitchen almost has you laughing. Months ago this would have made you scream in terror. Now, his existence has settled into your life a strange blooming metamorphosis.

Then all six of Satoru’s clustered eyes go wide in terror.

His talons rattle rapidly on the floor as he scurries to your side.

“Your hand.” He comments sharply.

Glancing down, blood trickles over your hand and drips softly onto the cutting board. The cut thankfully isn’t deep, simply sliced the top of your finger.

“Guess that means I’m ordering out.” You mutter.

However your new companion immediately snags your hand.

Satoru’s grasp is hard, a terrified clutch as if he’s worried the cut will worsen. Flickering your gaze to him now, all six eyes focus at your hand with a startling petrified seriousness.

“I’m fine.” You reassure. “Let me just grab a band aid.”

The creature’s firm hold is unrelenting, refusing to budge even as you tug to release your hand.

“Hey-” you’re about ready to chide him and urge him to let go-

Until the moth cryptid leans down and with a long thin tongue begins licking at your wound.

Air gets knocked out of your lungs.

You mind can’t process the sight but the wet tickle of his tongue swiping along your skin grounds you. Satoru’s tongue swipes frantically and fast, a panic.

A dangerous heat runs up your arm and claws at your chest. This shouldn’t feel this intimate. Yet, it does.

You can’t even exclaim in surprise because in the small dimly lit kitchen, the moth has you under his spell.

Instead of the panic, there’s now an eased almost lazy and leisurely lap at your skin. The way his tongue slides across you is as if he’s trying to savor you. It slithers with a reverence between your knuckles, across your fingers, and your mind slowly melts.

Then with one last slow deliberate lick, Satoru draws back.

A daze has fallen over your foggy mind filled with smoke until you blink and notice your cut is gone.

Blood faintly lingers around his mouth, coloring the white fur of his face and it should scare you. And it does but the fear comes from how gorgeous he looks, and knowing it’s your blood…

The thin tongue immediately darts out to lick at the bloody traces.

The sight teeters into an overwhelming sensation and you forcibly break your focus to glance back at your healed hand.

“You have healing powers?” You croak out trying to process the sight.

“No.” For a creature that lives in the woods, he understands sarcasm rather well.

You glare at the creature who now tilts his face away. He avoids your eyes as he fiddles with the edge of your shirt.

“Moths can't heal.” You comment.

“I’m not like a typical moth now am I, little human?”

That damn nickname.

Annoying as Satoru is, you still can’t believe the sight of your healed fingers.

“Thank you for healing me.” You mutter still not able to process but are grateful all the same.

The moth creature hums a proud amused thing you quietly ignore.

Moths didn’t have healing properties. Hawk Moths could recreate antioxidants in their body to replenish themselves. You wonder if that’s how Satoru operates with his abilities.

Another part of you, one that sounds warmly like your grandfather’s voice, whispers that the creatures of this world simply hold mysteries we may not ever know.

You suppose the cryptid refusing to leave your side is the solidified truth of that.

Suddenly Satoru’s head softly plops against the top of yours.

With soft gentle rumbles he rubs his face into your hair.

“You know,” you begin softly as your fingers itch to run up against his fur. “You don’t have to keep sticking around here.”

“Hm?” Satoru hums out a bit dreamily.

“You can go back to where you’re from. You don’t need to keep staying with me out of obligation for freeing you or feeling like… you have a debt you want to repay.” You breathe the words out firmer.

The nuzzling against your head stops.

“Oh?” Satoru begins with a curious chirp. “That’s not why I stay.”

His confident reply stills you.

“Like I said maybe I just like bugging you.” He grins coy. “And besides, I stay because eating the fabric of your clothes is pretty nice free food and I like scaring away any humans that might come by.”

“You bring me closer to buying an electric fly swatter!” You screech and swat him away.

“Aw, don’t be like that!” He whines and flutters his wings almost taken back.

You ignore him and his annoying clicks vying for your attention while you order dinner for the night.

“I forget…Humans are so easily annoyed. You most especially.” He says bristly and it’s the last straw.

Healing your arm or not, this creature manages to wiggle under your skin in a way that no one else has. You blame the damn moth for how on edge you feel. Yet the truth lies in the strange unfathomable heat still brewing under your skin.

As you leave you get food you stare at him hard. You sling the balcony door open, a silent demand he leaves. His multiple eyes, shimmering sapphires, search your face.

“I see...” His reply is a brisk breeze.

Turning your back to him, you head to grab your keys. You don’t even see him leave and instead stomp to head out.

You even fully close your bedroom window. It’s the crack of an entrance you’ve recently been leaving open that allows him to flutter in when he’s a smaller moth.

Now as leave you’re thankful for the momentary space from the infuriating infestation.

Against the early night sky the pizzeria glows an electric beacon against the darkness. Clamoring chatter and an upbeat song greet you when you step inside. You’re not surprised it’s packed on a night like this.

Yuki yells a bright excited welcome at you from across the restaurant and it warms you.

Now leaning at the bar your attention can't help but find its way to the bulletin board by the entryway. Even with the annoyance and conflicting desire, seeing the arranged clutter about the local moth creature draws out a strange sinking feeling within you.

“You interested in the bug?”

A deep rumble of a voice drips out smooth and breaks your focus immediately.

Turning to the side, you discover you’re not alone at the bar.

The man is thick, solidly built and strikingly handsome. He seems older than you, with an aged weathered dignified presence about him. With only black hair and a scar across the corner of his lip, he sits looking bored at the counter with a toothpick in his mouth.

“It’s interesting.” You admit truthfully.

“Think the bug is real?” The man questions with the faintest hint of curiosity.

You shrug again. “Anything is possible I guess.”

“Indeed it is.” Now his voice holds an interested purr that sticks to your skin in an uncomfortable way.

Your eyes flicker back to him and you find his attention however is on the board.

“Some say it’s a demon.” He suddenly adds.

“I’ve heard.” You agree calmly.

“Whatever it is…it’s bad luck.” The mystery man says briskly.

You heard that as well.

“Some say it’s not.” For some reason, a small protective spike rises in you and you even think about Yuki calling it a hero.

“Yeah well, everyone can read an omen wrong I guess.” His words cast a dangerous thickness into the air that slithers up your skin.

“Besides, there’s an old legend I heard once.” he continues.

“It says…if a moth flies into your home it means someone is going to die.”

Dread crashes into your body and consumes you quickly. You’ve never heard that saying before and it bubbles an awful bile in your stomach making you feel sick.

“That’s awful.” You can’t help but answer back sharply it even surprises you.

You think of your grandfather, his belief moths were angels, and how that guided you to where you are now.

And you can’t help but think of the moth in question.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you.” He leans back into his seat to stare at you.

No response for him seems to come to mind. If anything, a strange chill trickles down your spine as if you’re staring down a creature surveying and waiting to strike.

Yuki calls out your name and breaks your focus.

“Wish I could stay and chat but we’re a bit busy tonight!” She winks at you and now you grin, eased at her presence.

You wish her a good night and begin gathering your order to leave.

“Be careful out there.” The stranger mutters. Your eyes flicker to him. His attention is back on the slice of pizza before him.

“Don’t know what might be out there trying to fly into your house this time of night.”

His words create a sticky cobweb of emotions in you. You simply take your food and rush out.

Driving back to the apartment you glance at your hand fully healed and still lingering with the phantom sensation of the moth’s tongue licking at your skin.

You think of how effortlessly this strange creature carved a space in your life.

Now a sense of danger prickles against your skin, like the way the air tightens electric before a storm.

When you arrive home, a silent apartment greets you. The emptiness clouds your space and the walls creep in close and cold.

A piece of you expected him to return, maybe even hoped. But trying to sort through those emotions again bubbles a strange ache in your chest.

Before you go to bed you slightly open your bedroom window and settle under the covers. Closing your eyes, you accept the silence and solitude lingering in your room and heart.

Sleep trickles in faintly. You fade in and out of being awake.

Then your bed shifts.

A heaviness immediately curls against you. The softest brush of moth wings graze your arm. Soft chirps, faint and delicate, float into the room.

Satoru’s face burrows against the top of your head, a silent apology.

This is new.

He’s never done this before. He’s never slept on your bed with you. But your heart races too fast in your chest and your mind still feels so clouded from this night that you can’t even react.

Or, you don’t want to react.

This is new, yes. But a wild desperation inside of you sinks its claws into this new proximity. You simply keep your eyes closed and shift to settle deeper into the bed, deeper into his warmth.

The smell of the brisk forest, clear and earthy, lulls you to sleep.

Waking up the next morning, you’re alone.

A part of you wonders if you dreamed his return.

Yet on your nightstand rests a sweet plucked wildflower that wasn't there before. It greets you a bright good morning.

-.⊹˚₊⋆˙↟☾↟˙⋆₊˚⊹.-

Your open apartment balcony door brings in a warm evening breeze. A favorite series of yours plays on the television as you grab another mouthful of popcorn.

“Can I have some?” Satoru whimpers.

“No.” You answer through the mouth of popcorn.

“So mean! Why are you so cruel to me, little human!?” He pouts and you simply ignore him.

Even with the moth creature crouching on the floor his body still looks frightfully full and large. His fur is fluffed out more and he almost looks adorable like this simply sitting beside you.

His presence should create a distorted sense of reality. Yet no sense of panic rises within you. If anything, only more curiosity has started gnawing in you.

What kind of moth species did he originate from? Where was he even originally from? Did he have a family?

“What’s your favorite human activity to do?” It seems you were not the only one curious.

Recently Satoru has begun pestering you with a plethora of questions from what foods did you like the most to these more strange human specific ones.

“Don’t know, I have a lot.” You answer truthfully.

You rationalize all the questions you have and that he even asks are mutual inquisitive curiosity about the other’s species, a chance to learn.

Except, for you, the source of your curiosity masquerades as a yearning you don’t want to hunt out yet.

“Humans are terrified of the oddest things.”

Satoru’s comment breaks your thoughts.

You turn towards the creature who stares at the television with all six eyes.

The series you had put on had been an old favorite of yours, supernatural and fantasy based. The main heroes in this episode were being terrorized by monsters that came alive from a children’s book of old fairy tales.

“Well this series is older so the effects and monster makeup isn’t all that impressive.”

“Not that.” The moth corrects you quickly. “I mean that creature isn’t even scary.”

You want to make a comment about how of course a creature that crawled from the woods and haunts a town would not find this terrifying.

“What are you afraid of?” Again the moth humanoid questions.

You shrug. “A lot of things.”

“You don’t need to be afraid of anything.” He chirps so matter of factly it surprises you. “Especially because I’m here now.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at his cocky boast. Yet your heart flips at the protective claim.

“But…I do think humans may be the scariest creatures of all.” Satoru notes with a wistful distance in his voice.

You wonder if he’s trying to tease you or even be a bit poetically pessimistic.

“I agree.” You nod reaching for popcorn. “Humans can sometimes be scary.”

In all the beauty that comes with being human, you know there is a darkness that comes with the territory. The lovely prickle of rain starting to fall soothes you as the episode jumps to the next.

It’s one of your favorites. The main character gains a secret wish stone that transforms into her love interest because she desires and wishes for him most of all.

You rise to the kitchen to grab a drink.

“What do you wish for most, little human?”

His words stop you frozen. They come out so simple, a curious purr almost.

Your mind tries to reach towards something noble and grand like to wish for world peace or wish for climate change to end. You think of wishing for a better car, better apartment, to get rid of your money problems.

Yet it all cultivates into a simple easy response.

“Love, I guess.” It’s a simplified answer.

“That?” Even Satoru sounds dubious.

“Yeah…love. If you have love, then everything else sort of just falls into place.” With love at the cornerstone, everything can build from there.

A chittering like sigh dances into the room.

“Boring. At least say something interesting like an endless supply of sugar or something like that.”

You can’t help but snort at such a silly answer.

“Is that you’d wish for then?” You now ask the creature.

“Mhm…maybe. Or maybe something extra special your little human mind couldn’t comprehend.” Such a coy response only makes you roll your eyes.

But for some reason, that answer feels heavy like it needs to be unearthed. You don’t push the answer, or him.

As you clean up around the kitchen, you glance back to the living room. There Satoru rapidly consumes all your popcorn as fast as he can.

“You freaking pest!” You screech annoyed and he simply blinks his six blue marble eyes at you as if he did nothing wrong.

“I’m not a pest.” He replies innocently and it annoys you even more.

“You’re literally a moth! What is more pest-like than that?!”

Satoru’s monstrous face flickers. It faintly crumbles until his eyes hollow out a cold downcast.

“Right there? You just sounded just like every other human.” His words, low, raw and sharp, rip through you.

He doesn’t say it but you hear the undercurrent.

I thought you were better than that.

A festering ache swells in your chest as the weight of his words drag you under.

Quietly you start making two bowls of popcorn now. You grab the chocolate syrup. Satoru had a fierce sweet tooth. It took you by surprise when your gas station candy treat went missing and his sticky fur said enough.

So you drizzle plenty of chocolate over the salty snack then you quietly speak.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

A moment of silence fills the space.

“It’s alright little human... Sometimes I forget your little human brain makes so many mistakes like that. I can’t get too mad.” He chirps so bored.

You’re tempted now to throw away the chocolate popcorn.

Thankfully the air seems to lighten as you head back to the living room two popcorn bowls in hand.

There Satoru’s multitude of eyes are entirely glued to the television now. The familiar dialogue comes and you whip your attention to the screen as well.

The big realization between the main heroine and her love interest unfolds as he realizes what her wish manifested as.

The moment is heated, drenched in undeniable chemistry. The magnetic pull even has you entrapped. Then the love interest without hesitation pulls the heroine and kisses her with a fierce released love.

Now it feels so intimate, too raw to watch. You turn away under the guise of grabbing more popcorn.

“Is that how humans show affection?” Satoru’s voice is a curious twinkle of a chirp.

“Yup,” you weakly agree while you check your phone hoping to seem disinterested.

“Seems aggressive.” For some reason his disgusted comment makes you snort.

“Uh, it depends. Kissing is…” there’s much you can say on the manner but you simply shrug.

“It’s nice.” A simple but true answer.

“What’s it feel like?” The question drips with an inquisitive click but for some reason it slithers dangerously under your skin.

“Uh…again, it depends. There’s different types of kisses for different situations and the emotions can change with them.” You explain.

“Sounds complicated.” Satoru muses and you snicker relaxed with the episode ending.

“I thought you knew all about human interactions?” You now ask, curious yourself.

“Not in that way.” That’s fair.

“Or really…I’ve just never been interested in seeing humans interacting in that way.” He adds rather low.

“Until recently.” That addition he gives cuts across you as if it’s covered with sharp glass edges.

“Guess this series does that, even to moth creatures.” You lightly try diffusing whatever shift starts to swirl in the room and drag you into its current.

Satoru stays quiet, curled into himself and his wings. Very faintly his antennas droop, enough that you notice it.

Rain now steadily prattles on peacefully mixing with the episode playing. Yet in the silence your skin crawls with something unspoken you can’t evade.

You close your eyes hoping to avoid any more questions and pretend you’ve fallen asleep. Naturally, a nap overtakes you and you jolt awake when a text message brightly wakes you up.

“So what episode are we on?” You sleepily ask, noticing the cryptid hasn’t left. Evening would be arriving soon, the time Satoru normally slipped back into the woods.

“A weird one.” He mutters and now curiosity flickers in you over which episode it is.

Your eyes widen.

Of course it would be this one.

The heroine’s best friend falls in love with a monster living in a cave. It’s another one of your favorites. Now, the obvious reality sinks its fangs into your throat.

“This is the most ridiculous one by far.” Satoru scoffs. “No human would actually love a monster like this.”

His words deflate something in you. All the nerves and prickling emotions scatter.

“I don’t know.” You offer back lightly. “Maybe there’s something extra human to love a monster.”

All six eyes rapidly blink towards you. Their glassy yet sharp attention focuses so intently and it’s unnerving.

“You don’t mean that.” He snips and it distorts his voice more than normal.

You shrug.

“What do you mean by that?” He annoyingly asks, persistent.

What you mean is sometimes humanity can see through what society deems as monstrous and instead love the core of what a being is.

“I mean, it’s like what the episode says,” you nudge towards the television.

“If love is fanged even between humans, why can’t a monster find that same love?” You quote it vaguely but enough to capture the core.

The same goes for humans you explain.

“Cause like what we said earlier, humans are a bit scary from time to time right? A little bit monstrous ourselves?”

So why not settle with a love fanged and coated in the shadows.

The episode takes a shift when the heroine’s best friend greedily kisses the bat-like creature. An electric desire jolts across your spine as it dries your throat.

“I never knew humans could…desire something like this.” Satoru’s eyes now unabashedly stare at the television with a religious focus almost afraid to look away.

“Some do.” You try sounding casual, but your voice croaks.

A heavy fog clouds your mind. Before he can ask or comment anything else you brightly announce you’re going to take a shower. You scurry to the bathroom without even once glancing at the moth monster.

It’s a pathetic excuse but it’s early evening now. This decision isn’t entirely out of the blue. You just need to cool down and take yourself away from the moment.

However, under the weight of the water, under the heat of the steam, you try washing away the festering arousal seeping into your veins.

The episode flashes in your mind. Except this time you picture yourself in the arms of the towering moth creature.

This danger has been brewing well beneath the surface and now slips past its shackles.

It rips you open raw and wild, unrelenting in a way that a slick heat already pools between your legs. You should not, by all rational means, be attracted much less so attached to this monster. Yet, you are.

You remember how easily he swept you into his arms, how solid and built his frame is. He is stunning. You can’t even deny that.

You even think about how comforting a presence he was in your bed. Those thoughts melt and mutate dangerously.

Now, you imagine how warm and solid he would feel against you, between your legs. What he looks like drunk on pleasure-

Exhaling shakily, you turn the shower as cold as you can.

When you return to the living room after the shower, the sliding door is still wide open. Rain continues to twinkle its beautiful song into the living room, a living room now very vacant.

No moth creature is in sight and the bowl of chocolate drizzled popcorn remains untouched.

-.⊹˚₊⋆˙↟☾↟˙⋆₊˚⊹.-

In the research lab you grade quizzes from the class you work assisting with. This time during the week the lab is thankfully empty and it gives you time

to catch up on your articles and work.

A surprise knock however disrupts that peace.

Your advisor walks in with a warm grin. Besides her is the man from the bar.

A confused anxiousness seizes your heart and you try keeping your face composed.

You politely smile as your advisor calls your name.

“This is Toji Fushiguro. He’s an agent from the local conservation group trying to investigate where our dear little moth friend went.” Your advisor explains polite and casual.

Your heart sinks rapidly.

The unknown moth had been in a large observation box the first time you saw it.

It had been a new and recent find. Being a first year in the program, you simply were allowed to watch and observe the new species.

Bigger than a typical silk moth, the unidentified moth had beautiful intricate designs on its wings you’d never seen. The little creature was also incredibly feisty. On multiple occasions it flew into the side of the box as if trying to push its way out.

Now that glass enclosure sits empty.

“Do you think it would be alright if he asks you a few questions?”

You happily agree hoping that cooperating will divert any attention from yourself.

With a grin your advisor leaves the room to give you and Fushiguro space. Now alone with the man from the bar, he sleepy grins a coy amused thing.

“So, we meet again.” That deep voice sulks out with a lure that feels poisonous and sticky.

“We do.” You nod politely.

“Shouldn’t be surprised you’re a bug fan.” He scratches at his jaw and for some reason his casual attitude towards you twists your stomach.

You want to make a witty comeback but nothing comes to mind. Instead you stare down this mysterious man.

“What makes a cutie like you get into bugs huh?” He asks casually.

“My grandfather.” You answer truthful and curt.

“Hm, that’s nice.” Fushiguro nods understandingly.

His eyes begin scanning the lab with that same boredom he wore at the restaurant bar.

“So when did ya let the moth escape?” His relaxed question makes you choke.

“Excuse me?!” You snap. “I didn’t let the moth out.”

Except you had.

The first night you stayed late at the lab you accidentally forgot to close the windows.

In that mishap, the moth escaped. You were thankful another class used the lab after you and disrupted the possibility of anything being pinned to you.

The department of course was a bit disheartened. However, everyone warmly joked about half of the job of being an entomologist is chasing after things way too fast to catch.

That happened months ago.

“I’m going to be honest with you.” Toji Fushiguro leans against the table with a brazen ease. “I’m here looking for that thing cause it’s dangerous.”

For some reason, you don’t fully believe him.

“Remember what I told you about moths? They’re bad luck.” His stare is unwavering and cold.

“That’s arguable.” You surprisingly fire back.

Toji Fushiguro shrugs. He slides his hands into his jogger pant’s pockets.

“If that’s all you wanted to discuss, then I need to ask you to please leave. I have work to do.” You answer sharp and composed.

He simply shrugs again and pushes himself off the table he leans against.

Without another word Toji Fushiguro simply heads to the door. Before he leaves the man stops.

“That bad luck I told you about? S’gonna catch up to you soon, pretty. Just want to give you a warning.”

It sounds like a threat instead of a warning.

At his words a venomous bile pools in your mouth and you almost want to snarl at this man. He leaves with just a casual wave of his hand and not another word.

The rest of the time in the lab you can’t focus on anything. You simply float in this strange inertia.

When you leave, no moth flutters outside to greet you.

A new wave of terror wiggles through your stomach.

Your apartment is also deadly silent. Worry prickles all over your body as you slide open the balcony door. You even peer out into the woods hoping to find six gleaming eyes staring out.

Yet only the darkness, eternal and empty, stares back an ancient unforgiving warning.

So try pushing aside this rattling worried energy. You try to make dinner, even put on a favorite movie for background noise.

Your mind however can’t leave the thought of Toji Fushiguro. Mainly, you worry about the absence of your moth. Fear eats away at you as if an actual creature has crawled inside.

And maybe he has.

You miss him. You miss Satoru. You’re worried about him.

He’s become a staple in your life, a strange fixture pestering you. You can’t imagine a day without his presence now.

Then a realization trickles in a slow and sticky truth.

He is a creature of the woods, a myth of the darkness. Maybe he never meant to be yours.

Now here you are. A selfish human simply trying to keep him all to yourself.

A sudden clash of something solid rams into the balcony rail. You can’t help but shriek.

Thee moth creature rapidly shoves his way into your living room. He crawls inside feral like something out of a horror movie.

“Satoru!” You cry out his name and rush towards him.

Satoru’s piercing sky eyes, all six of them, are wide and frantic. His gaze darts around the room. Then he begins sniffing around the space.

“Someone’s been in here.” Satoru’s voice drops, a waterlogged frantic gurgle.

“Wait what?” You ask terrified. “How do you know?

You start glancing around the room now and follow Satoru as he continues rapidly smelling the space. There are no signs of someone breaking in and entering. Nothing even seems out of place or stolen.

“I smell something new. It’s not either one of our scents.” Satoru’s voice drips with a sharp dread and it chokes you.

“What does that mean?” You croak trying not to get caught up in the terror and panic, but their current is so strong.

Suddenly Satoru whips around.

There in the hallway of your apartment he completely consumes the entire space with his imposing frame. The darkness of the hallway and dim lighting casts a grim shadow over him. His wide frantic eyes are animalistic, more than you’ve ever seen.

His shoulders heave with rapid breaths. In a blink Satoru suddenly crams his body against yours.

This giant of a monster curls down to crouch into you. His face begins rubbing against yours. Soft growl like purring rumbles into the air.

You can’t help but whimper his name as fear has you in its maw.

What’s going to happen? What could you do?

You try to voice these questions, these worries, but the words get tangled in your throat.

“Nothing will harm you.” Satoru snaps deadly as the edge of his tone wavers into a frayed growl.

Those strange humming clips and chirps he makes float into the air while he continues comforting you.

Clawed hands curl into your back with a noticeable pressure. There’s a hint of danger in his tight grasp. But then you realize you’re also clutching onto him with an iron hold.

Frustratedly you try blinking away tears managing to stubbornly spill down your cheeks.

Satoru, who still rubs his monstrous face against yours, immediately notices your tears.

A distressing chattering noise comes and you’re readying to reassure him you’re fine.

His tongue instead moves to lick at your tears.

The action stills you immediately. The slick appendage rapidly slithers across your face trying to quickly wipe away your tears.

You think about when he healed your hand, when his tongue wiggled across your skin to lap at your blood. Now here he is again, consuming you, trying to heal and comfort you.

His tongue however slides down across your cheeks tasting the salt of your skin. It immediately sparks to life an intoxicating heat that drowns out the panic.

A part of you wonders about the danger swirling around him and how there might be a possibility that doom is seeping into you.

This might be your doom, to adore a creature composed of myth and nightmare.

You blink and a few lingering tears rapidly run down your cheek straight to the corner of your lip.

Satoru, fast as ever, moves to lick them up. In the process his tongue slithers close to your lips, running across the edge of them.

You inhale sharply and your eyes can’t help but snap open wide. You’re breathing heavily. The way Satoru’s large shoulders begin heaving, so is he.

Suddenly he breathes out your name and it gets tangled in your heart.

“Mine.” Then his voice, animalistic and monstrous, cracks the air with a low possessive growl.

His tongue begins running across your lips without hesitation. The wet wiggling intense sensation has your eyes closing in absolute bliss. You sigh and want to open your mouth to let his tongue slip inside.

“You’re mine.” He snarls out feral and wild. Those strange clicks of his come faster and soon enough his claws draw you closer.

Suddenly Satoru inhales deeply against your skin.

Then he groans a terrible wonderful noise that makes your knees buckle.

“Oh you smell so good.” He slurs. He continues to smell every inch of your skin, trying to map and memorize your scent.

A whimper escapes you and Satoru rumbles out a comforting click.

He begins dragging his down your body with a focused intent.

“Stronger, it’s getting stronger.” He mutters against your clothes.

“Satoru-” you say his name a bit worried.

The moth creature shoves his face unabashedly against your clothed sex. He groans loud, almost debauched and all thoughts float out of you. His antennas rapidly twitch.

“Oh it’s here.” Satoru mumbles in awe, possessed, as if he’s found a deity. “You smell so good here.”

He growls frustrated as he tries burrowing his face closer and closer to your dripping arousal.

You croak out his name waterlogged.

Satoru snaps to look up at you from his knees. All six eyes are glossy and frantic.

“Please? Please, my little human, can I have more?” He begs.

That’s when you notice his mouth is wet drenched with saliva. He’s drooling at just the thought of you, drunk on your smell.

All you can do is nod, caught in the same intoxication desire.

Effortlessly he claws apart your pants at the seam and dives in. You can’t even chide him for that.

Your mind goes blank, consumed by pleasure and lost in its woods. As you cry out while his thin tongue runs up and down every inch of you, you realize Satoru is right.

You are his. And maybe he is yours.

Satoru arrived in your life and never left. He instead stayed in the safety of your light with you under the cover of his wings.

-.⊹˚₊⋆˙↟☾↟˙⋆₊˚⊹.-

“Don’t go to class today.” The moth mumbles.

Satoru has been glued to your side since the discovery of your intruder last week. He barely leaves the apartment and when he does it’s only because you need to leave. Currently he sits on the bedroom floor with wide sleep deprived eyes.

The antennas on top of his head flicker quickly. He’s tried been pushing himself to stand guard even during the day.

“I’ll be fine, it’s just a lecture.” You reassure him.

“Besides, you should take this time to sleep. You need to rest.”

“I’ll be fine.” He mirrors your words back to you.

Your monster’s six eyes hold a daze focused like he’s trying to be aware of everything all at once. Slowly and delicately you let your hand run against his soft face.

The delicate fur, now a tangible dream under your fingertips, is so sulky. The touch jolts the creature into awareness.

Satoru’s eyes all flutter you and instantly his face melts against your hand.

“Don’t go.” He whispers a static like mumble.

“I’ll be okay.” You even lean down to kiss the side of his face.

“Fine, then I’m going.” He snaps a firm unwavering decision and you can’t argue with him.

As you walk to the lecture hall building he flutters so swiftly and dizzying in his normal moth form. He even flies all around your face, another angry urging for you to not go.

You gently hold out your hand. Slowly the moth flutters to land on top of your hand.

He is gorgeous in every form including this one. Shimmering wide eyes, large intricate wings, all composed in this sweet creature furiously crawling over your hand.

“I know you’re still upset, but I’ll be fine.” You softly reassure him for the hundreth time.

He stops and stares at you. Gently you run a finger across his fuzzy little head careful to not touch his antennas.

He flies from your hand and lands immediately on the corner of your lips.

A goodbye kiss.

Your lips twitch amused and deeply fond.

“I’ll see you when class is over.” With that you head to class.

Walking into the classroom, one of your peers excitedly speaks to everyone present in the room.

“Did you guys hear?! Someone just saw the mothman thing on campus a few minutes ago?!”

Terror unfolds in you and your heart collapses among its cage. He must have transformed in the woods, or in flight.

“Really? Are you sure?” A skeptic quickly emerges and you cling to their words.

“No I swear! Everyone’s been talking about it online! So many people saw it fly into the trees by the woods!”

You haven’t been this terrified since the contained moth was missing or since you first saw six reflective eyes staring at you from the dark.

Chatter breaks out immediately with so many discussions. Some of your classmates show their disbelief while others eagerly ask for more information.

You try to keep your composure as you slide into your seat.

“Hey,” someone says your name. Your friend that sits next to you stares at you with a scrunched up face of concern.

“You okay? You look kinda sick.” She frowns.

You wearily smile and use the excuse that you have been under the weather. A cold chill even runs up your spine.

“Then head back home,” she comforts you with understanding eyes. “I’ll send you the notes from today and let you know if you miss anything.”

Grateful you wearily thank her and she nods warm, reassuring, wishing you rest. As you turn to head out you catch the last bit of conversation bubbling along with your classmates.

“Well…if someone saw the moth thing, doesn’t that mean something bad is gonna happen soon?”

“Yeah that’s what the legend says.” Someone grimly agrees.

Scrambling, you shove yourself out of the classroom before you hear anything else.

Now out of the room you shakily exhale trying to calm yourself down.

At this time in the evening the hallways are deathly silent, harrowingly so. Unlike the lab building, so open and light with its many windows and expanded hallways, the lecture hall building’s tight corridors create a haunting clustered stillness.

That stillness seems to be creeping in more and more.

As you walk towards the elevator, sudden footsteps begin stomping behind you.

They are solid and firm, staying a decent pace away from you. The anxiousness from these past few days create an unbearable itch that crawls over your skin.

So you turn around.

And the hallway is dead empty.

No one walks behind you.

Fear tastes icy and rotten as it infects your body. Instantly you whip around to rush to the elevator.

You clash straight into someone.

The collision knocks you out of your thoughts and you quickly blink into focus.

A rush of apologizes stammer out of you.

“Hey, it’s okay.” The man you ran into warmly reassures you.

You finally get a good look at him. He’s handsome with a strong jaw and a faint mustache. He looks official in his suit. The smell of cigarettes surround you.

“Actually, I was wondering if you could help point me in the direction of the main office.” The man smiles warmly.

This had to be the source of the footsteps you heard. The dread you have slowly simmers at the sight of him.

“Oh course.” You grin weakly at the man, thankful your fear is calming down. “You have to go down to the other end of this hallway-”

A sudden hand comes up from behind you.

It slaps over your mouth with a painful grip. Then something sharp pierces your neck.

The scream from your throat fades along with your focus.

The last thought flashing through your mind before you fade into darkness is that Satoru was right.

You shouldn’t have gone to class.

-.⊹˚₊⋆˙↟☾↟˙⋆₊˚⊹.-

The jostling of your body wakes you up.

Groggily you blink into focus. You first notice it’s late at night. Next, you’re laid across the back seat of a car and your hands are tied.

In the front seats sit the man you ran into at the school and Toji Fushiguro. You go to scream but a tightly wrapped cloth blocks your mouth.

“You’re awake.” Toji drawls out slowly and surprised.

You screech at him through the material.

“Yeah, I knew you were with the moth this entire time.” He grins at you through the rear window.

You continue to scream as best as you can, sounding feral and panicked as tears fill your eyes.

“Guess living with a monster makes you sound this wild.” Toji Fushiguro’s accomplice mutters without even glancing once at you.

He begins typing away on his phone.

“We got more buyers willing to pay if we bring the moth in alive.” The man comments.

Everything clicks.

They were after Satoru. And you’re the bait.

Maybe Fushiguro’s accomplice is right. Maybe living with a monster has leaked into you because the noise you make doesn’t sound human.

Your scream, still stifled, carries so many emotions. Your pain, terror, anger and frustration, all of it courses through your veins and rips out in waves.

“Hey.” Toji Fushiguro glances back at you from the rear mirror. “Keep it down. I don’t wanna get too aggressive, but I will.”

He casually pulls out a gun and waves it around.

The horrifying casual threat causes your eyes to go wide and now all the fight you had trickles out.

“Watch it!” Suddenly the man in the driver's seat screams out.

Your eyes flicker forward.

Against the darkness, illuminated by the car’s headlights, a looking figure stands in the middle of the road.

Six eyes stare out from the darkness a brilliant terrifying electric blue. Delicate wide moth wings flare out and break against the night.

Through the fabric you scream out his name, except it gets drowned out by the revving of the engine.

Toji speeds up with full intent to hit the creature.

“What are you doing?!” The other man cries out.

You even scream in panic. Your moth however flies up, missing the impact.

He’s gone from sight.

A solid clang lands on the roof.

A sharp stab pierces the top of the car with a snap. The screeching of metal being ripped away follows fast. The eyes of the monster stare into the car with a disastrous terror.

Satoru smiles wild and gleeful at the men, a predator that's captured its prey.

Then…Everything happens in a blink.

The car swerves. The speed makes you feel as if you are flying. The colliding noise of scraping metal and then a solid impact. Everything becomes distorted as if you are in a snow globe spinning and trying to focus on a dizzying fuzzy world.

An unholy monstrous scream rips into the air. It’s all you hear as you fade in and out of consciousness.

You blink and suddenly twigs from the forest floor press against your body. A sharp object pierces your side. Every inch of you screams in pain while also a numbing sensation starts creeping in.

An inhuman roar screeches out and your eyes snap open.

Off to the side along the trees you see the faint edge of Satoru within the darkness. Faintly you hear a wet ripping sound. It’s visceral, like a vulture digging into a macabre carnage.

You watch his clawed hands viscously dig into whatever he stands over. You try gathering your voice trying to say something, anything.

Then six electric eyes snap up to you from the dark forest. He is the terror of the woods, a feral monster interrupted from its hunt.

Your vision however goes blurry and it gets harder staying awake.

A wreck howl of your name breaks into the air.

Tender clawed hands scoop up from the ground. You’re cradled against him gently and tight. The fabric in your mouth gets ripped away and now the metallic taste of blood fills your mouth fast.

You wheeze out Satoru’s name. There’s so much you want to say. But you’re getting so tired.

“Stay awake!” He snarls desperately sensing your exhaustion.

Nothing feels real. Even staring up at your creature, his six eyes seem to become twelve, like clusters of galaxies carved out in the night sky.

But you’re fading. You know and he knows it.

Breathing hurts and now a cool chill runs across your body from the inside.

Your grandfather's words about moths being angels float into your mind.

You recall how terrifying angels are sometimes described. Some of them are composed of wheels of fire, with many wings.

Yours has many eyes.

You’re grateful Satoru is here with you at the end. You’re grateful this angel found you.

Water droplets plop onto your face and you wonder if it’s raining.

Satoru screams your name with absolute anguish. A darkness crawls over your eyes. Soft and peacefully, you fall into its waiting arms.

-.⊹˚₊⋆˙↟☾↟˙⋆₊˚⊹.-

A soft steady beeping pulls you out from the darkness.

Wearily you open your eyes. But the bright light of wherever you are immediately has you shutting your eyes tight.

A cold hand touches your arm.

The touch jolts you awake. In a panic your eyes immediately snap open and your body shoots up only to find yourself tangled.

Tubes run from out of your arms. One tube even rests under your nose. The beeping noise you faintly recognize is a heart monitor and realization hits that you’re in a hospital.

Then when you turn to the side, a man you don’t know sits beside you.

You have never seen a man as gorgeous as him. Striking cloud white hair, a chiseled jawline, broad shoulders and then…

The brightest blue eyes, clear as a summer sky, stare at you so frantic and hesitant.

The man says your name, his tone faintly pleading.

For some reason his voice sounds vaguely familiar. But that thought is put on hold when the door to your room opens and a nurse walks in.

“Oh thank goodness you’re awake!” She sighs genuinely warm to see you and even seems a bit surprised.

What happened? You were dying. You were sure of it.

“Do you remember anything that happened?” The nurse asks gently as she checks your vitals.

“I…” your voice wavers as the memory clips at you, terrifying and heartbreaking.

“It’s okay if you don’t.” The nurse says comfortingly. “It’s common for accident victims to have a foggy memory. Plus after the one you were in it’s understandable.”

Weakly you question about what happened, how you got here.

With soft eyes the nurse explains it all.

You were the only survivor of the car crash. A part of you vividly remembers Toji Fushiguro and the man with him. A part of you dark and hollow gleams grateful they are no longer here.

You however didn’t walk away unscathed. You have a few broken ribs, a very bad concussion and light internal bleeding being monitored.

“We even found damage near your heart that could’ve been deadly-”

Yet, you were alive.

“And….” The nurse’s eyes twinkle warm and adoring as they flicker to the man behind you.

“This man found you and brought you in. Came into the hospital with you in his arms like some kind of bloody guardian angel.”

You whip your attention back to him as well. The man’s blue eyes stay so intently focused on you.

They remind you so much of the pairs of six eyes that watched you with the same unwavering gaze.

Then the nurse’s words click.

An angel.

No. This couldn’t be…

The idea so wild and unbelievable barrels into you fast. It knocks you breathless that you can’t help but cough out.

Everyone instantly scrambles to grab you something to drink. It’s your mystery man who hands you a cold water first and you guzzle it down with a frantic speed.

“I’ll let you get some rest. Please hit the call button if you need anything.” The nurse squeezes your shoulder and you thank her with a weak cough.

Now in the quiet safety of the hospital room, your attention snaps to the man still intently staring at you with glossy blue lake eyes.

You take the jump. It might be the most far stretched idea and you can blame the concussion but -

You whisper out Satoru’s name.

The white haired man nods fast and a sob escapes you.

It’s him.

Through tear soaked questions you ask him how.

“Remember that legend I once told you? About us being able to bring someone back from the dead?”

His voice is now clear, so distinctly him even in this form you can’t miss it now.

His words are a chilling breeze.

“I died.” You whisper the cold realization.

And he brought you back.

“But you…what happened?” Your eyes so clouded with tears scan his very beautiful and human face.

The Satoru before you is so familiar yet so different. The deep inhale he gives moves his shoulders. You’ve seen it before when his wings moved with the same exhausted exhale. Instead now a weary weight, a very human one, colors his stunning features.

But a sudden eased smile tugs at his lips and the sight is stunning.

“We’re allowed to bring someone back…it’s just at a little cost.” His voice flutters out light and his words get trapped in your throat.

You can’t fight the tears. They come in waves and your shoulders shake as you cry.

“Wait,” Satoru rapidly panics as he slides closer to you. “What’s wrong?!”

He gave up everything. His form, his livelihood, his essence as a creature of the myth, he gave it all for you.

That solid truth rips so much sadness and guilt through you all you can do is angrily cry, frustrated.

“Why are you crying?” He asks concerned and a bit confused.

“Because,” you hiccup. “Because I did this to you.”

You would carry this guilt for the rest of your life.

“What? Don’t like the way I look? I thought I was pretty handsome in this form, yeah?” He lightly teases to perk you up.

You give him a look of disbelief wondering if you should call the nurse to escort this headache away from you.

“Okay okay,” he says, thankfully understanding your heartache.

Gently Satoru’s hand moves to rest against you on top of the itchy hospital blanket. Fondly he runs his hand over your leg. You watch as his eyes follow the path of his hand like he’s trying to solidify your presence beside him. A sadness shimmers within his blue pools.

“If anyone’s to blame…it’s me. I did this to you.”

Quickly, through a teary blubbering mess you reassure Satoru he did nothing wrong. His hand softly squeezes your knee.

“Do you remember when we were watching that weird show and you asked me what I’d wish for? What I wanted more than anything?”

Suddenly Satoru speaks firmer, eyes still not facing you.

“I wished I could be with you. I wanted to live a full life by your side.” His answer is low, but so beautifully clear it’s like dawn breaking over the forest.

Those endless blue eyes turn to you.

Gingerly Satoru raises his hand. He runs his fingers against your face with a tender touch, a delicate brush like that of a moth’s wing.

“Never feel guilty about what happened. I would make this decision over and over again. I don’t regret it and never will.” He says firm, absolute and devoted.

Tears return again but this time for another reason, one so beautifully overwhelming it consumes you.

Satoru gently draws you into his arms to hold you steady against his sturdy chest.

“Can't get rid of me now, little human.” He teases but the faintest edge of emotion cracks his voice.

A laugh escapes you among the tears.

“You’re a little human now too, bug boy.” You joke as the new nickname comes so easily to you.

“There’s nothing little about me, especially in this form.” He deeply purrs.

You’re about to snap at him for being crude until he shrieks.

“And bug boy?! You never even called me that before! If anyone is the bug freak it’s you!”

You laugh, truly laugh, and a warm buoyancy floats within your entire body. He joins in alongside you. His laugh is such a wild and free noise you want to keep it forever.

“This being a human thing,” he suddenly mutters against the top of your head. “Might take me a little while to get used to it.”

“It’s okay,” you whisper back, fully resting against him. “We’re all still trying to figure it out too.”

Satoru’s hand begins rubbing against your back effortlessly, so human and natural.

“You already seem to be doing a good job.” You mumble feeling sleepy again.

He hums amused. “I know. I’m just that good.”

You want to make a snide remark but then Satoru kisses the top of your head. Your heart jumps at feeling his lips.

“I get to do this all the time now.” He whispers slightly in awe, like he spoke a hidden thought out loud.

You can’t help but grin giddy.

Before, you had begun experimenting very enthusiastically about getting to learn how to kiss him in his old form. But you understand.

This felt right. It always did, even when you never wanted to admit it before.

“No more mothman.” Satoru mutters a quiet realization and you clutch his shirt.

“You’ll always be my pest.” You reassure him.

“Hey.” You can hear the mock frown in his voice and you snicker.

You think about Satoru as your cryptid emerging straight from legends.

If he was seen as a harbinger and warning of danger, it strangely has you thinking about love.

For what is love if not a warning? A ‘be careful, don’t run too fast, please be safe, please let me protect you’ warning morphed into a wish and want to keep someone safe. Horror and love sometimes walk hand in hand together after all.

In the arms of your harbinger, you wearily start falling asleep. Satoru senses it too and places another kiss on your head.

When he gently moves to rest you back on the bed your eyes glance to the window. The dark evening night stretches out deep and wide

Against the glass, you notice a fluttering movement.

Soft green delicate long wings catch the light from the hospital room.

Actias luna.

More tears brim in your eyes.

The beautiful lunar moth dances against the window, against the darkness, as if to greet you a warm hello and wish you well.

[the-kr8tor]

In Deep Water

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 8.7k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW vomit mention, CW Inaccurate medical procedures, CW injury, TW blood, CW violence, TW death, CW guns.

Between the Devil and the Sea Masterlist

Navigation

CHAPTER 7 >>> CHAPTER 8

The laughter gets louder as the source of it shows itself aboard the black hellion, the fog makes way like a curtain opening to start a performance.

Hobie's grip is tight, fingers weaved around your arm, bruisingly strong. Your nails dig into his flesh as the uniformed man tilts his head to look at you, his toothy yellowing grin thrown in your direction. His powdered white wig flutters in the breeze, medals glinting off the single lamp on the bow, hands resting on the pommel of his pristine sword. The angelic figure head is a stark contrast to the devil sneering down.

The blackened wood of his ship groans as it continues to break a part of the revenge. The sails unfurled behind him, blue wings fluttering in the wind.

The angel of death has come.

“Look at what we have here.” He clicks his tongue, eyes boring a hole through your skulls, he narrows them into slits, and like a snake, he slithers as close as he can, tethering close to the edge. There's a flash of emotion in his eyes, snarling, the navy man chuckles, the mere sound makes you want to cower. “Hello little birdy, now how far did you fly to get where you are now?”

Hobie clenches his jaw, stepping over to hide you from his view. His hand never leaves yours, the dull ache from his hold says that this isn't just a nightmare.

You want to wake up even if it means losing his hold on you.

“Oh where are my manners? Mummy would whip me if she ever knew I didn't introduce myself to a lady.”

Hobie shifts his weight, ready to pounce if need be. You grab his shirt, making sure he doesn't do anything drastic. Subtly flicking your eyes to the side, you see the crew do the same. They look at you with fear in their eyes, the hunter’s gazes illuminating their contorted faces.

You can't help but let out a shuddering breath, the sound echoing around the open waters, hoping to get your cry for help to somebody who can do something, anything to get you and everyone out to safety.

“My name's Captain Mathias Bradshaw.” He drawls, thin lips curling into a smirk. “This here is my little merry band of sailors who has a bone to pick with—” pointing at Hobie with his thick finger, white cosmetic smeared on his palms. “Him. The red hydra. I forgot to greet you yet, long time no see you rapscallion.”

You hear Hobie's shallow breathing. Grey eyes thundering, a storm brewing, lightning flowing through his veins. The only reason why he doesn't let himself loose on Mathias is your touch.

“You see here, sweetheart,” The man addresses you and you only. “For the past three years your so-called captain and I have had a bit of a tiff.” He chuckles coldly. “A rivalry of sorts.” He pauses, looking over his shoulder. “Is it still a rivalry if you're leagues above your rival?”

“No, sir.” A gruff voice says, hidden behind the mist.

Mathias turns back around. “Well, we got our answer then.”

Hobie sneakily murmurs to you. “Hide—”

“I'm not done talking!” The sudden outburst makes you jump in your skin.

“You should've been done with your senseless dialogue a long time ago.” Hobie straightens his posture, head held high, a picture of a pirate captain. “Come down here and fight like a fuckin' man, show me your flames and I'll show mine.”

The man scoffs, amusement in his green eyes. “Flames? Yours is barely a spark.”

Hobie scoffs. “Let's be done with it then. Get the closure we both want, fight me in single combat.” Mathias knits his brows, Hobie smirks. “No? Thought you were a gentleman, where's your fuckin' honour?”

A booming laugh replaces Mathias’ scowl. “I guess it died with your little red hair—”

Hobie lets go of you, drawing his gun, pointing it directly at the monster's head. The crew takes this as their cue, doing the same, pointing their weapons towards the men surrounding them.

There's hunger in his eyes, beneath the swirling grey there's a hunger waiting to be fed.

The enemy ships don't even aim their cannons at the revenge, instead they float still in the water, unmoving, the men aboard their ships smirk in your direction like you're being served to them on a silver platter. It's then you notice the sons of the sea’s ship is no more. They took the brunt of the hellion’s collision.

No longer their sails fly, their crow's nest and pieces of wood lay floating in dark waters.

Left behind, slowly drowning in the depths.

You feel droplets sliding on your cheeks, for a second you thought it's your tears. And then more and more of it comes pouring down, splashing on the wooden floorboards.

Thunder booms from a distance, lightning flashes in the sky, lighting everyone's scornful faces.

A few of Karl's men stand with Hobie, clutching their injuries. You don't see Robbie, his lack of presence makes you glare at the sneering men.

“Say her fuckin’ name.” Hobie says through gritted teeth. “After what you did— Say her name.”

“Eh.” Mathias shrugs, “I forgot.” the laughter of his men echoes in the mist.

“You fucker—!” Hobie's hand shakes despite this, he draws the golden gun, aiming it at the navy man whose smirk gets wider.

“I recognize that little blunderbuss.” He chuckles, wiggling his pointing finger, “She pointed that at my head too, you'll be unsuccessful just like she was.”

It takes every fiber inside Hobie to not just shoot and face the consequences later. But he's surrounded, his crew is surrounded, they have no chance of escaping death if he shoots. The only option he has is through single combat and to appeal to the man's ego. He's hoping the idea works.

One look over his shoulder, one glance at your trembling face and he's back to that day, the day MJ was lost. He prays that this day doesn't end the same way three years ago.

“Little dove,” Mathias’ devilish eyes roam over your trembling body. “Look at you,” he chuckles lowly, “I'd say dear ol' Hobie here got an upgrade just because this one's got her head still glued on her neck!”

Hobie almost shoots him until someone from his crew screams, their voice full of malice, venom dripping with every utterance.

“Fuck you!” Gwen exclaims, “Don't you have any honour? She's dead and you're still spitting on her watery grave! After everything you've put her through!”

“Ah! Gwen Stacy, the ballerina turned pirate. How you doin', miss Stacy? I heard your father's still down in the stables, trying to repay his debt to the crown.” he rags her on, scoffing.

“You're still defending her? She's a traitor, a navy spy. The greatest one we've ever had in fact. Her only downfall is loving a bunch of…” he sucks in his teeth, trying to find the word. “Thieves like you. Love got her head cut off and love will be your ruin too.” Flicking his eyes to you, he observes everyone's faces after his tirade.

Hobie steps between Gwen and Mathias, his guns still raised, eyes brimming with the anger of a forsaken God. Yet he remains calm, clearing his throat, standing tall.

“Mathias Bradshaw, I challenge you to single combat, a duel. I win, you let us go. You win and you get to take us all back to the capital.” Hobie's voice booms louder than the thunder above. Lightning strikes near, the water sizzles at the contact. “I know a man of your stature can't say no.”

The man in the uniform guffaws loudly, broad shoulders shaking. “Oh that's hilarious, you think you'd win against me, little pirate? Hmm?”

“Yes.” Hobie doesn't miss a beat.

Mathias smiles, “I guess this one's less messy than what I was planning. Name your terms.”

“Guns only, five bullets. You get shot three times you lose.”

“I'll add a tiny thing to your wager.” The navy man looks over to your direction, pointing his crooked finger at you. “Same terms but I get to keep your little bird.”

Hobie turns to you, wide eyes staring back at you. “No—” He's already shaking his head before you speak up.

“Deal!” You roar above the thunder storm, deciding your own fate. The rain is getting heavier, drenching your terrified self. “The captain will take your terms as long as you honour it.” Nodding to Hobie, he holsters his weapon away from you.

Mathias cackles in the background.

Gently holding on to your arm, you already know what he'll say.

“Don't. Do you know what you just agreed to?”

“I do,” you stare at his raging eyes but they're tender when he looks at you. “I know you can take him, I trust you.” Taking his hand away from your arm, you squeeze him once before pulling him towards you. “Don't play fair, because he won't.” you whisper. “Fucking obliterate him, for MJ.”

Hobie takes you in like it's the last thing he'll ever do. He imprints your touch in his mind, wanting to remember the softness of it when the bullets get too much for him to bear.

He nods slowly, still unsure of your decision. If you trust him enough to sell your soul then he'll fight to the death so you don't have to.

With one last look at you, he turns around, facing up to the man he loathes the most, wanting to just strangle him with his bare hands. Maybe he'll do just that.

For the crew.

Mathias takes his blue coat off, grinning the entire time.

For MJ.

He grabs on to a rope, rappelling off the black hellion, landing in a thunderous impact on the deck.

For you.

Now that he's leveled with your gaze, he's a lot smaller down on the deck, stout with a round belly, face painted with white lead that's currently melting in the downpour. Hobie's taller and slimmer but he makes up for it in his agility and speed. You've seen him fight but Mathias' form could be compared to Finn's build, all muscle and strength hidden behind his uniform.

You're glad this was a duel of pistols if it was any other fight Hobie could be in trouble.

A few of his men do the same, jumping off the hellion while the ones on the smaller ships stay on board but keeping their eyes peeled.

Surrounding the bloodsail pirates, the hands of Mathias' men never leave the pommels of their rapiers. Hobie clenches his jaw, now standing before the king's flame, he can't help but gaze behind the man, back to you and his crew.

Gwen goes to your side, lacing her trembling fingers through yours, Pav sidles behind you, clutching the back of your vest. Miles stands next to Gwen, holding her other hand. You see them look at eachother with a knowing glance and glimmering eyes.

Your eyes meet Hobie's, you give him a nod, eyes full of fury, and trembling lips. You mouth a ‘Bleed him dry’.

The simple act of Hobie smiling at you, makes you tear up. It's the same one he gives you after you patch him up, it's the same one when he handed you the hot chocolate. It's the same smile that makes your heart flutter in your chest.

You're afraid as you part with the crowd to the side of the duelists, lest you get caught in the crossfire. As the one in front, you get a good look at the enemy on the other side, all lined up perfectly like the obedient soldier men that they are. You roam your eyes to their faces, wondering how they could obey a man like Mathias.

You assume the uniformed man walking towards the duelists is Mathias' right hand man. Left eye covered in an eye patch, his hazel eyes observe you. He's carrying a large wooden box, pristine and smooth at the edges with golden locks and embellishments. He opens it with a creak, rain water landing on the wood and soaking the velvet inside.

“You're the challenger, you get the first pick.” Mathias gestures towards Hobie, all smiles like he's not about to meet the end of a bullet.

You stand on your tippy toes to take a peek inside. There are two dueling pistols, flintlocks. One white as fresh snow, one is black like the hellion.

Hobie takes his pick, pocketing what you assume is the five bullets. The black gun in his hand shines when a lightning strikes the mast of the hellion. You hear splintering wood in the distance.

He steps back in place, measuring the metal’s weight in his hand.

“Good choice.” Mathias eyes down the gun. “Death has touched that one.”

Hobie glares, baring his teeth. If only that was enough to kill the man before him.

Mathias takes the remaining gun, wiggling it in his hand. “You ready, little pirate?”

Hobie doesn't show an ounce of fear. “You're going to die today.”

“How confident, confidence alone won't help you aim straight.”

Your entire body shakes whilst they stand back to back, guns raised on their sides. They walk slowly, counting their steps.

The pouring rain doesn't help, raindrops obscuring your vision, the cold mixing in with the ice in your veins.

With every step Hobie takes,

Five

with every hit of his boots on the floorboards,

Four

your heart tries to escape,

Three

pulse hammering,

Two

threatening to give out. Afraid of what's to come. No one else dares to make a sound.

One

Standing end to end on the dock, they turn around swiftly.

After a beat, the man with the box yells. “Fire!”

Bang!

The sound echoes out in the dark, above all the rain and thunder.

Hobie hits his mark, Mathias groans, clutching his dominant shoulder. Smoke bellows out of their guns, dissolving into the rain.

Your words are repeating in Hobie's head ‘Don't play fair’ you say, then he won't play fair.

He notices his bleeding arm, looking down he sees the bullet nicked his skin, leaving an angry gash in its wake. The wood behind him gets the brunt of the bullet, the metal embedding inside, splintering a gaping hole.

You jump when Mathias laughs along the thunder. More and more lightning pierces the sky. You can taste iron in your mouth, not realizing the pain from biting the inside of your cheeks.

They reload, Mathias’ man observing with his watchful eye, making sure they both adhere to the rules; but you highly doubt he's doing it for fairness sake.

Metallic clanking, gunpowder clinking against steel, Mathias' voice enters the fray to your dismay.

“You know, you were too easy to fool.” He starts, finishing up his reload. “You never asked why I left my lieutenant in your hands and why was it so damn easy for you to get my travel documents.” Smiling, the lead on his face melts further, dripping on the floorboards, the white paint mixing in with his blood. “Just like I said, love will be your downfall.”

Hobie doesn't have enough time to squabble, instead he would let his aim talk for him.

“Twenty paces!” The eye patch man yells again.

Hobie and Mathias move forwards, getting closer and closer to each other. You want to put a stop to the duel, but you have to trust Hobie that he'll make it, that he'll win. He has to.

You dare not blink.

“Fire!”

Bang!

Hobie almost keels over, his shoulder heavily bleeds, trembling hand holding his flesh together. You see him smile underneath the pain, following his gaze, Mathias clutches his shooting hand, groaning and hissing. It looks like Hobie shot a hole right in the man's hand. The white gun lays on the bloodied floor, discarded.

Gwen's hold on you tightens, you can hear Pavitr sob quietly.

You catch Hobie's eyes. There's hope in the swirling grey, nodding, you encourage him, mouthing an ‘end it’. He seems to understand, straightening his stance, he reloads the gun as best as he can with an injured shoulder.

Mathias wheezes out a strained laugh. “I gotta hand it to you, your aim is pretty good.” He stands, grabbing his gun on the way up with his uninjured hand. “No matter how amazing your aim is, you're still bloody blind!” He screams, spit flying out of his mouth.

“My two bullets that's in you say otherwise.” Hobie tilts his head mockingly.

“No, no, no.” Mathias clicks his tongue, waving the gun wildly. “You still don't get it do you? You're not asking questions, letting everything fall into your lap, thinking God's on your side on your little revenge quest. But he's not,” he chuckles. “Sacrificing my lieutenant was the best decision I've ever made, especially knowing the fucker can absolutely sing. Loose lips sink ships, little pirate. Do remember that. Especially since you didn't seem to learn from it last time.”

Hobie's face falls, dread filling his chest.

“Bribing the governor to plant my travel documents and telling him to go unwind in a brothel for a couple of days was well worth my coin.” Mathias stretches his shoulder, reloading his pistol with bloodied hands.

He continues. “The two idiots at the gates were…well idiots, I barely had to do anything to them. The lock was a false security to make you sweat a little bit.” The king's flame proves himself. “You're blind. You've focused so much on taking me down that you didn't notice the little details. It's either that or you're also deaf, preferring not to hear your crew's concerns.”

“Not a very good attribute for a supposed captain.” he shrugs, he says his words mockingly.

“Fuck you!” Hobie aims directly at his rival's head.

It's all his fault, everything that led up to this point is his fault.

The gun trembles in his hold. Mathias looks pleased, smiling at Hobie.

“You know the rules.” Mathias sucks in his teeth. “Don't fire until lieutenant Dubois says so or I win and I get your little bird.” he looks over at you. “Oh we're gonna have so much fun together, every night, every day.” His laughter makes you want to grab the nearest knife and shove it down his throat.

You don't back down from his disgusting gaze. “If he doesn't kill you, I will.” Pavitr tries to hold you back. “And it won't be quick.” your voice shakes from sheer anger.

“I look forward to it, duchess.” Mathias spares you one last glance.

You don't notice how Hobie looks angrier than he did, he's clearly holding back. His glare alone could burn a hole through Mathias' skull. Yet he stands tall, getting a second wind; he's gonna shoot a hole in his skull instead.

His head goes a hundred knots per hour, thinking of all the what ifs. What if he just listened, what if he didn't let her stay, what if, what if, what if, the words are tattooed in his mind, clawing and biting at his psyche.

“Ten paces!”

They walk in sync, closer to each other more than ever. Pausing in place, they stare each other down, Mathias' smile never leaving his lips. Hobie's scowl gets deeper with every second that passes.

“Fire—!”

“Fuck this.” Mathias lunges in surprise, grappling Hobie.

Hobie doesn't get a chance to dodge, his gun clattering on the floor as the heavier man tackles him to the ground. The wet floors make it hard for Hobie to find leverage against Mathias who's currently choking him with his large arm.

Chaos ensues, everyone breaks the line, unsheathing their weapons, fighting, steel and skin clashing. Pistols going off left and right, but your main focus is on the two men writhing on the floor.

You hear Hobie choke so you run faster, taking a fallen dagger from a corpse, you quickly dodge people, determined to save Hobie.

“This is what happens when you let your feelings decide for you!” Mathias yells above the mayhem.

Finally making it close to them, in one swift movement, you stab Mathias on his back, crimson ebbs on his white shirt like spiderwebs. He screams, letting go of Hobie.

You don't spare him a glance as you take Hobie by his arm, dragging him below deck. Shutting the doors closed, Mathias bids you farewell with one last cackling.

Guiding him through the corridors, you hope the winding hallways help make it harder for the enemies to find you.

“Y/N.” He wheezes out.

“Don't fucking talk.” Your feet brings you to the galley. Sitting him down, he plops like a fish on the chair, head lolling to the side.

Slapping his cheek, he wakes back up with a groan. “Actually, keep talking. Stay awake, please.”

Hobie nods, “I need to go back up, I can't leave them there.” He tries to stand but your hands stop him, making him sit back down.

“You can't help in this state. Let me treat you then you can go and help.” You look in his pained eyes. “Please, at least let me help with your shoulder.” your other hand fumbles to his back, searching for an exit wound. You already know the answer when you feel the hot crimson weeping out from the puncture left behind.

You plead with your eyes.

“Alright, do what you have to do. Make it quick.” he nods, you leave his side to light a fire in the hearth, laying a metal poker on top of the hot coals. “Can I tell you a story?”

“Whatever keeps you awake.” Taking out the first aid kit from your bag, you notice your hands tremble. They never shake when you're treating someone, with your back turned away from him, you swallow down a sob.

“There was this girl, she had red hair like one of those…” he sighs, injuries aching, throat throbbing. “Apples.”

You reach his side once again, trembling fingers dipping into the wound ointment. “You have a way with words.”

He grabs your shaking hands in his, “Are you alright?”

You pause in your frantic movements, blinking rapidly. “Y-you’re the one who's bleeding right now.”

“You're shaking.”

You twist your wrists away from his touch. “I'm alright, worry about yourself and your crew.”

“You're a part of my crew”

“Shut– just…” you exhale. “Continue your story.”

Hobie nods, eyes drooping. “She just one day showed up on the docks, asking for a place.” He inhales sharply. “I needed to fill the second ship so I agreed, I let her in. I shouldn't have done it.” His eyes well up but no tears fall. “I should've turned her away but she was determined, she had the skills to stay— can you give me somethin’ for the pain? A fuckin' rum or wine, anythin’”

“No alcohol, if you want to bleed out be my guest.” You hold a cloth above his wound, pressing down to stop the bleeding as much as you can.

“Fucker!” He stomps his foot, “you can be such a little shit sometimes you know?”

You can hear the struggle upstairs. Weirdly enough, there's no sound of cannons firing.

“I know—” the ship tilts suddenly, flinging you and Hobie brutally to the side. You do your best to shield his injured self, taking the brunt of the impact, back stinging from the wall.

He lands on top of you, arms on your side, face hidden on the crook of your neck. You can feel his staggered breathing on your skin.

Bottles and pans fly towards you two. Pushing him away, you guide each other to the corner of the room, huddled together, protected by the hearth.

“Shit!” Hobie protects your head with his hand when a pot flies towards you. The ship keeps turning and tossing the both of you until it finally straightens out, you can feel how fast its going by how wild the utensils are swinging.

“Someone got hold of the helm.” He whispers, his cool hand on your tender shoulder. “We're running.” Hobie doesn't say it with pride or dejection, he utters it with embarrassment.

“That's good,” you stand up, giving him a helping hand. “We can get out—”

The unmistakable sound of a cannonball whizzes past and the ship lunges harshly on the side again. You can hear frantic yells from above.

Hobie takes your hand, “I need to get up there.”

Helping him up, you nod. “And you will, let me close that wound off and give you something for the pain and we'll go back up there.”

“Y/N, you can't—”

“We will go up there.” the fire in your eyes makes him obey. “Sit down, I'll make this quick but not painless.”

He flops down, masking the pain with a grimace. Inhaling, he continues. “I let MJ in.”

You pause for a second before taking the metal poker. “Even after seeing all the bloody signs.” He sighs. “Maybe I am blind.”

You hold his face tenderly. “You were, but you still have a chance to change that. You can still help your crew. Make it right for their sake.”

He holds the back of your neck, kneading the skin with his bloodied fingers. “I don't regret letting you stay.”

You look at him apologetically. “You will after this.” Shoving the leather pot holder in his mouth, moving aside his clothes. “Inhale” you place the hot poker directly on his bullet wound, cauterizing the gaping hole.

It sizzles, Hobie holds on to your sides tightly, bunching up the fabric in his hands. Muffled screams eaten up by the leather in his mouth.

You move the rod away once it's done. Hobie's eyes roll in the back of his head. Slapping him lightly, he wakes back up.

“Stay awake, hey. Look at me.” He stares at you through half-lidded eyes. “There you are, captain.” You smile to reassure him. He gives you a tired nod. “Now for the exit wound.”

Hobie inhales, more than ready this time around. His skin is clammy, eyes red from the brimming tears. He clenches his entire body, determined to get it over with. Twisting around in his seat, he hopes the ship doesn't rock as you push the searing metal poker on the back of his shoulder.

With a muffled yell from him, you take the tool away, letting it cool down. Moving his head with your hand, you look at him apologetically.

“I'm sorry, if I warned you first you would've flinched.”

Hobie spits the leather out of his mouth, patting your cheek with his sweaty hand, he leaves it there, stroking your skin.

“I wouldn't have flinched.” He chuckles through the searing pain.

“Of course you wouldn't.” You hold his hand that's on top of your cheek. “You did good.”

He laughs, hand leaving your skin to hold your hand instead. “Not the first time I've felt fire.”

You smile, without thinking, you lay your forehead on his as more cannonballs fly around the revenge.

“You did good too.” He whispers. Eyes closed, he leans away. “Now get me something for the pain and let's get the bastard.”

You smile, nodding to him. Taking a bottle from your bag, you rub mint oil on his upper lip, igniting his nerves, keeping him awake.

“That's the only thing I have that could help. I can't give you alcohol.”

Hobie tentatively stands up, “Maybe after this then.” He groans, slightly limping. “‘m gonna need an entire crate of ‘em.” he thinks adrenaline is enough to keep him on his feet.

He faces you, a ghost of a smile on his pained face. Hobie bends at the waist, you scramble to help him but he refuses with his hand raising to stop you. Taking something from inside his boot, he grabs a shiny and slender thing.

“Here.” Hobie hands a silver dagger to you, intricate carvings of a turtle and a sea snake looping around the glimmering handle. “Somethin’ to defend yourself.”

“Are you sure? It looks—”

“I don't mind givin’ it to you.” He closes your hand around the hilt. “Make sure this one hits his neck this time.”

“I will.” Your eyes fill with determination, adrenaline still coursing through you.

He wobbles towards the door, sparing you a smile on the way.

“Hobie,” you call after him. “Continue your story after this?”

“Only if you tell me yours.” He looks over his shoulder, giving you the same smile he always has.

You scoff with a small smile, “Maybe I will.”

“Let's fuckin’ go and be pirates then.”

—

Getting up the deck was tedious work with all the rocking and shifting from the ship and the wild waves, add that with all the cannon balls whizzing past, it was like riding an angry bull. Meeting halfway with Karl on the way there made it easier, filling your chest with hope.

“Where's Robbie?!” He frantically yells, forehead bleeding, hands gripping Hobie's vest.

“I-I don't know.” Karl's face falls. “But we'll find him, I know he got out.”

“Got out from what?” His voice trembles, “what happened, Hobie?”

Hobie holds his friend’s wrist, “I'm sorry.” Karl weeps. “Go find Robbie and your crew.” He shakes his head. “And get the hell out of here, he's after me not you.”

Karl's eyes fill with tears, flicking towards you who look on with sad eyes. “What about you and the others?”

“We'll find a way out. We always do, remember?” Hobie reassures him with a smile. “Take one of my dinghies, and row the hell out of here.” he takes Karl's hands away from his vest. “We'll see you back at the old place, yeah?”

“You fucking better, Hobart or I'll drown you myself.” Karl takes your hand briefly, nodding. “I hope I see you again, doc.”

“Me too, captain. Find Robbie.”

You part ways with Karl, praying that he finds Robbie and what remains of his men.

“Ready, trouble?” Hobie gets your attention by brushing his pinky against the back of your hand.

“I'm right behind you.”

—

It's war.

The moment Hobie opened the door to the deck you smell petrichor and blood in the air.

You get a glimpse of the battle before he could shut the doors. Bodies, both pirates and navy alike lay motionless on the floor. The sound of thunder mixes in with the pained yells, flashes of lightning illuminates the night sky and you see the faces of the dead clearly.

Two-fingers lay face first on the deck, arms bent at an angle, blood pooling from his head. Through the smoke and splintered wood, Foul screams when a sword plunges through his heart, silencing him immediately. Danny takes a bullet for Finn who promptly avenges him with his cutlass, swiftly separating the man's head from his body.

One face you were hoping was among the dead was missing. Mathias isn't on board.

Something flashes in his eyes when he looks at you. Grabbing your arm, he leans in, your heart stops.

Hobie moves past your head to press his forehead on your shoulder. Bathing in your presence, hand squeezing your skin

“Hobie?”

He smiles, moving his hand up to cup your jaw. Chuckling, he cleans his dried blood off your cheek with his thumb. “Do me a favour, Scuttlebutt?”

“What is it? We need to get up there!”

Hobie ignores you, leaning away. “Survive for me would you? Live, find your family. Promise me.” He sniffs, eyes glinting.

“What?”

“Just promise me, trouble.” He shakes you.

“Alright I promise. Can we—”

“I'm sorry.”

“What—?” Hobie pushes you hard, you fall off the steps, landing on your behind, he exits without looking back, shutting the doors closed. “What the fuck?!”

You rattle the doorknob but it's no use, he locked it on the outside. Frustrated, you try to kick in the door, hurting yourself from the hard wood.

“Fuck! Hobie!” You bang the door, peeking through the keyhole you see carnage as Hobie makes quick work of the remaining men. “Let me help!”

The sound of cannon balls going off almost deafens your eardrums. If only you had your lockpick you could open it.

Your lockpick.

It's a stretch but you still run towards your cabin, feet thudding loudly, echoing around the hallways that you've memorized.

You feel relieved after seeing your door. Shouldering it open, you frantically search for the metal on the shelves. The tip of it scratches your hand but you don't care, already bolting off towards the exit. Running off with your bag tied around you, hoping the medical kit inside is enough to treat the wounded, you hold the lockpick in your hand while you run.

Your hope dwindles with every cannon hitting the ship.

Doors whizz past, ankle stinging, the sounds of screams and gunfire makes you sprint faster.

You don't notice the blood soaked hulking man leaving Hobie's cabin.

Running into him, you stagger, tumbling down, heart falling into your stomach as he looks down at you through his nose.

“Hello there.”

Scrambling to get to your feet, you slide under his legs, stabbing his achilles heel with your lockpick. The man screams in agony, you take the opportunity to sprint like you've never ran before. You'd take running away from O’hara any day.

Your lungs scream for you to stop, but you go on as you hear thundering stomping behind you.

There's no exit and you can't run forever.

The metallic click rings behind you, rounding the corner, you barely dodge the bullet aimed at you, nicking your hip.

“Shit!” You almost fall yet you continue on, entering the library, you shut the doors behind you, locking it swiftly.

Lifting your hand away, the sight of your own blood turns your fear into fury. With your trembling hands, you unsheathe the dagger from your belt.

You have a promise to keep, and you never break a promise.

Hiding behind the armchair you always sat on, you crouch down, gripping the dagger, ready to strike like a viper in the sand.

You look back on what she taught you, “Strike fast and hit hard. Don't give them a chance to get back up.” her voice whispers it to you and you intend to follow it.

The door bursts open, splintering the wood to a thousand pieces.

“The captain wants you alive, little birdy. This doesn't have to hurt if you just come with me, eh?” You hear him chuckle lowly, blatantly lying to you.

His heavy footsteps thud closer.

You use the shadows as your guide, the oil lamp left open on the corner table does the work. For once you thank Gwen for forgetting to close the light.

“I can help with your wound. Glue your wings back together again” he whistles. “The red hydra can't help you with that but I can. I'm a surgeon you see.” Getting closer and closer, you time your strike right.

You come out of your hiding place with a battle cry. Still crouches down, “I highly doubt that!” Slicing his tendons in one quick movement. The second he falls to his knees, you stab him in the neck.

Stepping back, he chokes in his own blood. With wide eyes you flinch when he stands, seemingly unaffected but his shaking pupils say otherwise. With a garbled noise from your assailant, he reaches for you.

“What the fuck?!”

With a split second decision, you dodge his hands, moving backwards, throwing books from the shelves which bounce almost harmlessly on his head and body.

There's a loud thrumming sound outside, its warbling is almost mechanical but definitely something an animal could've made.

He heard it too, pausing in his movement for a second before he lunged towards you. With a scream, your back against the corner, he jumps you.

Your head hits the wall in an ugly crunch, seeing stars, sliding down the wall, landing on the floor, he chokes you with his bare hands. Indistinct noises escape from his mouth, your dagger nowhere to be found in his throat. His entire body hides anything in front of you, drowning your vision, filling it with your murderer. His blood drips down on your face, almost drowning you in it.

You know he's running on fumes but based on your vision fading, lungs gasping for air, you think you'd go out first before him.

Hands grazing something metallic on the floor next to you, you inch your fingers towards it. Finally finding your grip, you smack it on his head.

You've got a promise to keep after all.

He yells, the oil from the lamp spreading on his skin and clothes, engulfing him in flames.

You frantically roll away, killing the fire clinging to your clothes until there's nothing left but burned cloth.

The flames light up the entire room in orange and reds, the paper around him helps feed the fire as he tries to desperately put it out.

There's that thrumming again.

You watch on, holding your tender neck. Your face is flat, eyes reflecting the fire that's quickly eating at the man. Fabric burns on his flesh, flesh turns into charred muscle, the fire eats at that too until he falls, silence hanging in the room except for the fire cackling, ashes and flames surrounding his corpse.

You stand up, ratty shoes stepping over fire to grab the fallen dagger with a thick cloth from your bag.

For a second you stand amidst the fire.

The thrumming outside and the warmth wakes you up, flames licking at your clothes, it's heat scorching your skin, nose filling with smoke. Even with all the pain you still escape with your life, determined to keep your promise.

Running outside the former library, the cracking of splintering wood fills your ears, you instinctively dodge, backing away before the mast of the revenge falls on your head.

Shielding your face, you cower. The mast stills, sharp wood lay next to your feet. Tentatively opening your eyes, the sounds from above are clearer in your ears, all the screams and guns going off, you hear it loud and clear that you can decipher whose screams belong to whom.

The fog enters below deck through the gaping hole left by the broken mast. All the while, the smoke from the library rises up, replacing the mist.

Your exit.

You don't hesitate to climb up. Jagged edges of sharp wood rip amd snag your clothes, stabbing your skin. Finding leverage, you manage to prop yourself up on the deck, meeting face to face with a lifeless Ned.

The light in his eyes is gone, unsung music escaping from his open lips. Skin dirtied by flowing ichor.

You don't hear anything else other than skin meeting skin in a brutal dance.

“No.” You quickly jump up, leaving the fire behind you to consume, to devour what's left of the revenge. “Ned?”

Desperately feeling for a pulse, your heart wretches in your throat, saliva filling your mouth, bile rising up from your gut.

There's no pulse.

With a choked sob, you close his eyes for him. The sound of wet punching makes you turn to your side. Hobie's eyes are wild, vicious and desperate, bloodied knuckles pummeling the man under him. Skin broken, nose cracked, skull open for the world to see. Yet, Hobie doesn't stop even with the obvious signs of death. Fueled by rage, he paints the wooden floorboards with the man's brain.

It all feels sickenly real, your heart is still beating in sync with his punches but there's so much death around you that you feel like you're a part of the dead. Blood and smoke filling your senses, adrenaline slowly washed away like the tides.

You're sitting in a graveyard and nobody else has noticed.

“Hobie.”

His fists pound harshly through the man's head, splintered wood now embedded in his skin.

You apprehensively crawl towards him, your various injuries aching, blood seeping out from your hip. The chaos around you still continues on while he still doesn't stop.

“Hobie—” your fingers brush his arm, he flinches back, fist raised to knock you out. But he halts, knuckles kissing the tip of your nose, painting it with crimson.

With wide eyes, he heaves, muscles tensed, grief all over his expression. You shove your fear down, holding his raised knuckles, moving it away gently. You hold his face in your other hand, smearing the fresh ichor on his cheeks, staining your own skin.

“It's done, he's dead.” You nod, caressing his face, turning it away from the carnage below him. “Hobie,” you unclench his fist carefully, shattered bone and hair sticking to him. With a shallow breath, you let the tears flow on your cheeks. “He's dead.”

His face flashes with fury only to be triumphed over by misery. With a heavy heart, he nods.

Behind Hobie, a uniformed man raises his pistol, without a second thought, you take the golden blunderbuss from his waist, hastily aiming it directly at the man's head.

Your ears ring, the smoke from the gun blinds you for a second before you see your target fall dead with a bullet right between his eyes, blood splattering like fireworks from his head.

Hobie looks at you in surprise, taking his gun away from you carefully. Hands soft on your raised skin. He pats your cheek and you could only shake your head.

“We need to—” the ship collides with something, Hobie holds you close, covering you away from debris. With his embrace, he protects you. Scarred hand on the back of your head, face hiding in the crook of your neck. Leather, sea salt and blood invades your senses.

The hellion is once again looming over the revenge, its golden façade cracking under the damage made by Hobie's ship.

Mathias shows himself, looking worse for wear, he wobbles on two feet, clutching his injuries.

You hear footsteps around you, raising your head, eyes widening at what's left of the crew, they stand behind you and Hobie. Wiping blood off their faces, reloading their guns, sharpening their swords. The red sails of the people's revenge still fly above, more than ready to take what they're owed, no matter what it takes.

Gwen's blond hair is dipped in ruby red, hands tight around her blunderbuss. Miles wipes his face clean, stepping next to Gwen with clenched jaw. Pavitr stands directly behind you, face covered in what you hoped to be someone else's blood. He nods, reassuring you.

Yuri and James take one look at Ned, their expression alone could make you weep again. Finn, crouches down next to you, nodding wordlessly, blue eyes glossy.

Hobie exhales, with shaky legs he stands up, helping you back to your feet. Gripping your knife, you scowl at the man above.

“How cute. The power of friendship isn't enough to save you.” Mathias says through gritted teeth.

The rest of his crew arrives, there's less ships than before, proving how the bloodsail pirates is a force to be reckoned with. They have what Mathias doesn't have, giving them something worth fighting for.

Mathias nods, signaling his ship to turn their cannons towards you and your family.

You step in front of Hobie. “I have a proposition!” Yelling above the rain and metallic clanking, you push away Hobie's hand from your shoulder.

“What is it?” The man rolls his eyes, looking incredibly bored. “We can't be here all night.”

“Me,” the crew voices their concerns, Hobie takes your hand, face terrified.

You smile, “it's alright.” Whispering to him and the crew only. With tearful eyes, you turn back to the devil above. “You seem like you really want me, so fucking take me instead. Let them go.”

You feel the heat beneath your feet. The fire devours everything just a few feet below you.

They all yell your name behind you. Protests fill your ears but you choose to ignore them. You feel his calloused fingers squeeze your hand.

The man guffaws, “Holy shit! You like them that much?” He observes Hobie's contorted face.

“You like her that much?” He chuckles. “You know what? I don't even want you that much, sure, get on up here, birdy!”

There's that thrumming and warbling again. It's much clearer now that you're above, it seems like it's coming from beneath the ship.

“Come here and take me then!” The rain mixes in with your salty tears. Raising your arms, shoving everyone away, you taunt him. “But let them go or I'll plunge this dagger through your eye!”

“Christ, you're as insane as him. Perfect for eachother eh?” he sighs, gesturing for his cannons to cease. “I'm already satisfied even though a few of your men escaped from a dinghy but eh, I'm sure I'll get them soon enough. Just like how I'll get you one day, little pirate. I'm a very patient man, I'll wait three more years if I have to.”

Hobie's face is full of anguish when he swivels you around to look at him. “Don't fuckin' do this. He won't keep his word,” he flicks his eyes to Mathias, then back to you, grey eyes darker than before. “the moment you step foot on that ship he'll kill you.” his mind comes back to that fateful day.

He can't let that happen again, not to you.

You look at him softly. “I know, but I'll make it hard for him, that'll give you enough time to escape. Hobie, I have nothing else, just this.” swallowing the lump in your throat, there's heat under your eyes. Taking his hand, you squeeze it once. “Let me do this, for you and for them. You still have to get your revenge so let me do this. Don't let him win.”

“You promised.” His voice cracks.

“I don't think I can keep it now.” You flick your eyes behind him, the crew looks on with grief marring their eyes. “They're too young for this, Gwen, Pav and Miles, they deserve to live too.”

You hear the rope fall from the hellion's deck. “I'm glad I got stuck in that net even though you made me walk the plank.” chuckling through the tears, you give them your best smile to remember you by.

“Don't leave.” he pleads.

Sliding your hand away, you take one last look at them, making a sketch of their faces in your mind to remember when the inevitable happens.

“I have to go now or this won't work.”

The captain has no plan on how to fix it, how to fix everything, and he beats himself bloody for it.

Turning around, with every step you take feels heavier than the last. You make amends to her in your mind, praying that it reaches back home. You also thank her, but you don't regret running away that day.

You'll never know what lies for you up north or if there's someone there waiting for you. If there is someone, you apologize to them too.

You leave traces of yourself to the people behind you with the hope you live on through those pieces. That at least they won't forget your name.

The howling wind and rain whips at your drenched form, committing the feel of it to memory.

Grabbing the rope, you fight the urge to look behind.

“Hurry up, birdy!” Mathias cackles. “Come on then—!”

The thrumming is deafening, everything seems to freeze mid motion.

Giant mounds of flesh rise up from the water. Snake-like features curl above, rising to the heavens, cutting through the grey clouds.

You can't help but be mesmerized by the beauty of it. Iridescent scales glimmer against the lightning, cracked scales teeming in gold. the lightning bolts ricochet off their scaly skin, unharmed.

More serpents appear from the depths, towers of scaled flesh. They rain sea water from above, dripping from their massive bodies.

One curls just above the hellion, opening its eyes, revealing an entire ocean in its orbs.

You can't stop looking at it, petrified.

“Dragons.” You say in awe.

“Y/N!” Hobie races towards you. His hand brushes against your shirt, so close yet so far.

You get yanked up with the hellion, grip still frozen on the ropes. Holding on for life, the beast has curled around the ship, in your peripheral you see men jumping off, splashing down into the depths, taking their chances in the cold.

Facing the creature, they trill and thrum, crushing the hellion and the navy ships in their massive jaws and swirling flesh.

You wake up from the trance they had you in, almost losing your grip off the rope.

“No!” You screech, saving yourself, arm socket straining against your weight. Twirling the rope around your hand, you tie it just like how they taught you.

Palms burning on the hemp, looking down, you're hanging high above the revenge. You watch as the crew frantically unties a dinghy while Hobie and Finn stay behind, they're too far for you to make out what they're doing.

Your only chance is to jump in the water but you know that'll be the end of you.

Water parts for something swimming fast under the water, it moves towards the Revenge. You scream their names in an attempt to warn them.

“Gwen!” Your throat struggles from the screaming. “Brace yourselves!”

The serpent crashes on the starboard side, away from where the small boat hangs. Hobie clings to the remaining mast, knife in his hand. Heart pounding, you watch as Gwen runs towards Hobie, he yells, she shakes her head but in the end she bolts for the dinghy. You nod, hoping she saw that you forgave her.

The beast constricts around the helion, crashing the oak and its gilded carvings in its wrapped body.

You sway in the wind with the serpent’s movements, praying that the rope hangs on to the figure head. The figure head of an angel looks down at you, lifeless eyes observing your slow demise.

This is the end for you, you've never thought you'd be killed by a mythical being turned into reality but here you are, hanging on by a thread, waiting for death to come.

With one last glimpse at the revenge, you see the fire finally reaching above deck. Gwen and the others lower down on the dinghy while Hobie grabs onto a rope, cutting the knot off the steel rings, remembering James' teachings, if he keeps doing that he’ll get yanked up, and with the wild wind, it will surely be a disaster.

You yell his name in a futile attempt to stop his effort at saving you.

Finn raises something in his hands, heaving it over his shoulder.

You sharply turn your head when a snapping sound fills your ears. The hemp untangles, with the rope breaking in the middle, you close your eyes.

The sea serpent lets out a guttural scream, the sound alone sends shivers down your spine. It uncurls around the hellion and you get a glimpse of a sharp harpoon sticking out from its eye.

Falling with the hellion, the serpent's eyes turn from blue to a bloody red, bathing everything in its gaze in crimson. it's the last thing you see before you shut your eyes.

You feel a familiar arm around your middle, looking over your shoulder, you think you've already died.

“I've got you!” Hobie yells, with him carrying you and his hand grasping on the rising rope, he struggles to hold on.

So you help him, wrapping your arm behind him, you hold the rope in the other, face close to his as you two fly above the revenge, swinging and whipping uncontrollably in the storm.

The beast trills, jaw unhinging, its rows of shark like teeth in full display.

“Shit!” Hobie manipulates the rope to swing you two away from its sharp teeth.

It fails to catch you, instead it turns its attention to Finn on the deck.

“Finn! Run!” Your blood curdling scream gets his attention, yet he pays no heed.

But everyone already knows it's too late, with one last fight in him, he raises his harpoon, yelling, meeting the serpent's opened mouth halfway.

It swallows him whole.

You just stare at where Finn once stood, he leaves patches of his ichor on the floor.

The revenge sinks, fire and water engulfing Hobie's home, your home.

“Love!” The name rots in his mouth, it gets you out of your frozen state. “I—”

The last standing mast cracks and breaks apart. You lose your grip on Hobie.

And you fall once again. For a second you fly, eyes peering towards the clearing sky, with white clouds in your vision, you brace for impact.

��MJ!”

That's the last thing you hear as you fall in the depths in a harsh splash.

A/N: so sorry for the late update!! Hope you like it 🫶 (if i forgot to put any warnings on the tags please tell me)

[simmireen]

Black and white, life and death, angels and demons? What you like.

'black and white'

8 couple poses for sims with wings ♥

DOWNLOAD (MODco)

I used these spreaded wings with the poses, but others will probably work too.

♥~♥

Clipping sadly is inevitable due to sim bodies/faces being different, or the clothing they wear, but I try my best to fit most of them.

Be free to tag me at tumblr, insta or X if you use my poses (@simmireen)

You can find an overview of all my posepacks at Pinterest Want to commission me? > Ko-Fi page

Terms of use Don’t claim as yours or put behind a paywall Don’t re-edit (adjusting hands is always allowed, just don’t change up my pose) Don’t reupload anywhere Please let me know if something doesn’t work!

@ts4-poses @sssvitlanz

[miranyx1337]

Alastor x reader

FEATHER chapter III

Tags: fluff (for now ) enemies to lovers, kissing, being protective, cuddles, sleeping problems, flirting, possesive reader is an angel, fem reader

He needed a new plan, something that would change her mind about him. He had always been able to enchant women, making them fall for him completely. Maybe that's what he needed now; since the fear of Adam wasn't enough, he needed something deeper – love. It was a strange word for him, when he tried to imagine it, all that came to his mind was a deep desire and craving.

Y/N was definitely one of the things he desired most throughout his afterlife, a gateway to freedom. Escape from the curse he brought upon himself.

The memory of her momentary outburst of anger made him blush, and his hand instinctively went to the ear she had touched.

He was not angry, her touch and closeness weakened his contract, unlocking dormant potential. It made him feel like he had a radio playing in his chest.

This cute angel had to desire his presence enough to bind her soul to him for eternity.

"Vaggie, my dear, how do you feel?" a cheerful radio voice filled the room. The fallen angel quickly scanned the room, looking for his spear.

"Calm down, sweetheart. I just need some information from you," he said, sitting on the other side of the bed, twirling a cane in his hands.

"What do you need, freak? And what are you doing in my and Charlie's bedroom?" she questioned.

"As I said, it's a matter of great importance, and I need information.

Speak before I wake up enough to kick you out."

"What does Y/N like? Generally, what do angels like, what do you find appealing in others? Why did you fall in love with Charlie?"

Vaggie needed to rub her eyes and analyze what the uninvited guest had just said. Why this sudden interest in Y/N? What did he want from her? She was an angel too, there must be something only Y/N could do.

"Listen, I don't know what you're plotting with that devilish smile, but nothing will come of it. She's an ANGEL, and a higher-ranking one at that. Why would she stoop to your level?"

"Let's say that majestic little angel charmed me from the first glance. So, what made you fall in love with Charlie?"

Vaggie couldn't comprehend this sudden alastor interest in love.

"I don't know if you'd understand even if I told you."

"So let me try," his tone sharpened with growing impatience.

I fell in love with Charlie because she was full of love."

This answer didn't help him at all, it even confused him more. Someone being full of love was the complete opposite of him, and yet, many had fallen for him before.

"I told you, you won't understand. She is an angel, she loves goodness, harmony, people ready to help and love."

So, he needed to become a lovely person. Nothing he couldn't do.

She sat behind the bar, helping Husk, occasionally lifting Niffty to dust the shelves, and with one wing, she created a breeze to dry freshly painted Angel nails. She was definitely full of love. Her long white hair tangled in the midst of these various activities.

Ugh he was doing it again, observing her from the shadows when it was time to act. He teleported in front of the counter.

Hello, everyone. What's with all the commotion?"

Charlie said she had a new plan to defeat the attack, so they were preparing for her speech - Niffty explained.

Alastor knew exactly which plan they were talking about, specifically his cannibalistic plan, slowly being put into action. Maybe if he suggested to the little angel that he killed Adam deliberately for her, she would fall at his feet?

Well, she would quickly flew back to the heavens. The death of Adam was no longer an option. A sudden, indescribable fear and shiver ran through his body at the thought. What if she truly left, and he never saw her again?

"Alastor." Snapped out of this sudden panic, he looked directly into bright blue eyes.

,,Alastor, you've turned pale. Is everything okay?" Her hand on his forearm made him feel better.

"Yes, don't worry, sweetheart. It's just a momentary weakness. You, on the other hand, need a little help."

She looked at him disoriented.

Remembering his last thoughtless move, he decided it was better to ask.

,‚Can I?" - pointing to her twisted hair.

Embarrassed by this fact, she turned around, trying to locate the tangle. Indeed, she should tie them up for cleaning. Long fingers in black gloves conjured a thin, decorated comb. Alastor began to slowly and gently untangle her hair, humming an unfamiliar jazz tune under his breath.

The atmosphere became quite specific and romantic, which Angel dust quickly noticed. Quietly, he grabbed Niffty's arm and signaled Husk to go with him to the exit. Some time ago, he noticed that Alastor behaved strangely in the company of his new friend. Especialy when he returned from work and caught him holding one of her lost feathers to his lips. Of course, he pretended to be too high to notice.

Alastor and Y/N didn't even notice that they were left alone, lost in their own thoughts. Y/N couldn't remember the last time someone had combed her hair, let alone so gently. Her attention was drawn to the sudden silence when the demon finished humming behind her. She began to feel awkward, trying to find some point of contact.

"I put a gift from you in the room," - she mumbled.

Alastor looked at her as if awakened from a dream - "Oh, that's great. You like it?"

"I like your touch too; it always makes me feel calmer."

"I'm glad to hear that."

Wait, what did she say? His touch always made her feel calmer. The only time Alastor could remember touching Y/N before was in the hallway when she was furious with him. The only direct touch he remembered.

Alastor swallowed.- "What do you mean, always?"

"Oh, you know, your little games with my feather. You know when you're sleeping with it, I also feel company in my bed ?

He didn't know what to say. She could feel that, every single time he kissed, touched, or bit that little thing, she could feel it.

"Y-you knew? Why didn't you just take it back?"

"Maybe I didn't want to take it back and stop you?"

For the next hundred years, Alastor wouldn't feel as embarrassed as he did at that moment.

Y/N looked at him with those pure eyes, clearly flirting with him. Was that enough? Showing some heart and affection to make an angel fall for you?

She leaned closer to him, their breaths almost touching, and he tightly gripped the edge separating them.

What could he do? No sensible answer appeared in his mind, and he couldn't just turn away or escape. So, he did something he always saw in those cheesy romantic comedies his mother used to watch.

Not knowing exactly what he was doing, he gently and quickly kissed her. It was like the first innocent peck in kindergarten, even though it was his first.

[hippiegoth97]

Hangman's Joke: An Eddie Munson x Reader Halloween Special (The Crow AU) Part Two

Collage by me :)

Special Thanks to @keikoraven for beta reading for me <3

Masterlist

Part One

Tag List: @ar-jupiter @alcielo1438 @cairro-xx @stolen-in-moonlight

@micheledawn1975 @janiejenn @rafeyscurtainbangs @melodymunson @spacedoutdaydreamer

@veemoon @sariahs-stuff @feral-pumpkin-energy @comeonatmebruh @munsoneightysixx

@morgthemagpie @josephquinnsfreckles @jenniquinn @userchai @cometzombie

@spookybabey @daggerdaggerkitten @nina6708 @sanctumdemunson @yourdailymemedelivery

@person-005 @slowandsteddie @gri959 @elegantkoalapaper @letitgoandletlive

@loserboysandlithium @costellation-hunter @leelei1980 @h-ness1944 @pretendthisnameisclever

@ohmeg @stalactitekilla @hellfirenacht @birdysaturne @oneforthemunny

@prettyboyeddiemunson @eddievanmunson @msgexymunson @rattkween86 @violetpixiedust

@bimbobaggins69 @angel-munson @eldermayfield @munsonsbtch @bimbogorewhore

@mediocredreams @xxbimbobunnyxx @taintedcigs @ali-r3n @emxxblog

@cxrrodedcoffin @queenimmadolla @kellsck @keeksandgigz @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes

If anyone wants added/removed from tags please let me know <3

Content Warning 18+ Only, Minors DNI: swearing, fem!reader, mentions of abuse/child abuse, flashbacks, blood, violence, murder, death, blood licking(?), smoking, crying, mentions of sexual assault, torture, sex, genitals, weapons, homophobic language

Word Count: 8k

divider by @strangergraphics

Part Two

October 30th, 1992

Your body feels like a sack of bricks as you struggle to climb out of the deep hole, flashes of bright white shocking your vision between swaths of damp dark. Your hands slip for the third time, hopelessly dragging through rapidly dissolving mud as the rain pours down on you in a merciless torrent. You groan as you manage to pull yourself up on the fourth try, the sound growing louder and more dire from your lungs at the strain. It’s nearly a scream as your upper half finally lands on the soaked grass. Panting breaths leave your lips with reckless abandon, giving yourself a break from climbing out of your own grave. 

Once you regain some semblance of strength, you crawl away from the gaping pit to bring your legs to the surface. Another pained cry leaves you, every flex of muscle and bend of joints feels like you’re being torn apart. Free from the hole at last, you roll over onto your back for another small rest. In your blurred vision, you can make out a small dark animal perched on what must be your headstone, though you can’t exactly read it in this state. You discern, however, that the creature is a crow, hearing its caw through the haze. It oddly sounds like a command for you to get on your feet, like there’s something you must do.

You aren’t exactly sure what’s going on here. One second, you were dead, and now…you’re not. And this black bird is somehow here to guide you towards whatever your undead purpose is. What it is, you can’t quite place. You can’t even remember how you got here to begin with. “Eddie.” You murmur to yourself. He must know what’s going on. If you just go back to your apartment, everything will make sense. Seeing him again will fill in all the blanks. You roll over once again, wincing as you do. You get up on your knees, disregarding the cold of the rain chilling your bones. Must get home, gotta get home. The simple message repeats incessantly in your head, urging you to move. You take a lurching step forward, the other foot dragging slightly behind. It appears your body will have to get used to being active again. 

Ignoring the intense agony you feel in every inch of yourself, you keep limping your way out of the cemetery. The crow follows, landing on a nearby tree a few feet ahead to assist you in staying on course. You track its path, reaching the end of the graveyard and finding sparse street lights lining the quiet road. The only sounds are the flapping of the crow’s wings, and the rush of the rain. The cold doesn’t bother you anymore, the sensation rather refreshing instead as it washes away the dirt and stench of death from your skin. Your steps even out as you continue on, crossing the street and meeting the first long stretch of sidewalk that leads back to your home. Each movement still wounds you greatly, but your newfound resolve with the help of your feathered friend keeps you going regardless. 

The crow flies from place to place, luring you further and further with every landing it makes on a tree or mailbox. You follow its encouraging caws, motivated by the steady flaps of its wings. You’ve heard of crows being helpful to humans, remembering them if said human does something kind for them. But this is surely no ordinary bird. It appears to know far more than you do, about why you’re back here, what’s to be done. The glimpses you catch of its voidlike eyes seem to tell you ‘all will be revealed, dear friend, if you just follow me’. Hard to argue with that, when you can barely string a coherent thought together on your own. 

The crow guides you through side streets and alleyways, avoiding what little traffic passes through the main roads in the middle of the night. The journey seems to take hours, but you eventually end up right outside your apartment building. It looks much different now, deserted and unpopulated. There’s no cars parked in the lot, and a few of the windows have been smashed, without a single light to be found inside the units. Unbeknownst to you, the other residents slowly moved out after your murder. They made claims of hearing strange noises, chanting voices, even seeing apparitions of you or Eddie. All of which were surely bullshit, but it didn’t change the fact that even in death, you were accused of terrorizing this so-called sleepy town. High school kids break in from time to time, some to pay respects, others to party or vandalize your home, and a scant few with a morbid curiosity who attempt to communicate with the ‘Maniac Munsons’ using a Ouija board. 

None of these facts are of any consequence to you, as you haven’t been alive to experience them yourself. The corvid spares you of the knowledge, what it has to remind you of once you’re inside is more than enough. It flies a short trip from a dead potted plant onto your shoulder, urging you inside with a gentle nudge of its beak. You travel up the steps, your bare feet crunching on broken glass. “Shit.” You hiss as tiny shards embed themselves in your skin. You press on, opening the front door that’s long since lost its panes to rowdily swung baseball bats. It’s much warmer inside, despite the power having been shut off months ago. You traipse down the hallway to your right, finding the one place where you felt safe in this town. The lock on the door has been broken off, shredded police tape still clinging to one side of the frame. The door is slightly ajar, so you push it open to have a look inside. You take a step past the threshold, and it all comes rushing back. All the fear, and the joy, and the agony, and the love, rolling over you in a monstrous tidal wave. You scream in pain as memories flood you from the inside out, reliving every last terrible, wonderful second of it in flashes that stab relentlessly at your brain. 

“What do ya think, baby?” Eddie asks, his strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind as you look over your newly-leased apartment. It’s nothing special, with its dingy lighting, worn carpet and yellowing walls. But it’s yours, a home you get to build together. 

“I love it, Eds.” You giggle happily in his arms, leaning further into him as his cologne swirls in your nose. “It’s perfect.”

He chuckles lowly against your ear, laying a warm kiss on your neck. “I think so, too, sweetheart. Now all we gotta do is move in.” 

Eddie’s words reverberate in your mind, whispers of them brushing coldly against your skin. The image of his arms holding you tight as you look down dissolves, quickly replaced with something far less pleasant.

There’s a sudden banging on the door, an angry fist weakening the well-worn wood. “Open up, you freaks!” A voice shouts from the hall, slightly muffled. You and Eddie turn to each other on the sofa, exchanging a worried look as your almost-anniversary dinner has been interrupted. Before you can even ask who’s there, or get up to answer it, the door comes crashing open with force. A spray of splinters flies to the floor, and you both stand up to find four familiar faces coming into the apartment. 

“What the fuck?” You murmur as Tommy Hagan, Steve Harrington, Jason Carver, and Billy Hargrove stand before you. They stare you down, brandishing knives, a baseball bat befitted with nails, rope, and duct tape. 

“It’s time for you to pay for what you’ve done.” Billy says angrily. Without hesitation, you jump over the couch and try to get past them to the phone in the kitchen. But it’s no use, Steve captures you in his arms, squeezing you far too tight. 

“Nice try, bitch. You’re not goin’ anywhere.” Harrington says coldly in you ear, barely audible over your heart pounding in your chest.

“Let her go!” Eddie yells, making an attempt to get closer. But Jason and Tommy step in his way.

“Not a chance, freak.” Jason snarls, giving Eddie a firm punch to the jaw. Eddie falls to his knees with a cry, gripping his face.

“Get some chairs and tie them up. Think we oughtta give them a taste of their own medicine.” Billy orders, flashing you both a sickening grin. 

“No!” You wail, tears rolling down your cheeks as you remember the primal fear you felt that night, the night you died. The night Eddie was taken from you. You don’t wish to see any more, but your new friend regrettably still has many sights to show you. The crow bows its head from the tattered remains of your sofa, and shows you another.

“Sweetheart, I’ve got a surprise for you.” Eddie coos as he gently shakes you awake from your slumber, brushing a stray hair from your face. You open your eyes to find him sitting at your bedside, a tray piled with breakfast in hand. 

“You always give me breakfast in bed on Saturdays, love.” You tease, smiling ear to ear. 

“Yes, but this one is extra special. Have a look.” He chuckles, setting the tray on your lap once you sit up. You gaze over the usual spread, bacon, eggs, french toast, orange juice. Until your vision catches on a dark sparkle beside your plate. Your eyes dash back for it, finding a ring box, sitting open with a gorgeous black opal ring inside. Your favorite stone, set in an ornate silver band. It’s absolutely beautiful, taking you by surprise. 

Your eyes widen once you realize what this is. An engagement ring. “Eddie, is this…?” You trail off, picking up the box to hold it in your hand. You look up at him, hoping for an answer.

He smiles warmly at you, tears welling in his eyes. “Yes, my dark angel. It’s exactly what you think it is.” He says sweetly, though his breath shakes a little with nerves. “Will you marry me, Y/N, and make me the happiest man in the world?” He asks, a tear rolling down his cheek as he says the words you’ve longed to hear. 

“Yes! Of course I will, Eddie!” You reply excitedly, your own emotions getting the best of you. He leans in to give you a tender kiss after you slide the ring on your finger, leaving breakfast to be neglected in favor of some celebration.

“No! No, Eddie, please!” You sob aloud as the memory fades away, taking the warm, loving body of your husband with it. You wish so much to touch him, feel him, hold him again, it hurts. You fall to your knees on the floor, doubling over as the worst has only just begun. 

“Let’s take a look at what we got here. Hopper must have missed something.” Billy announces to the others as he carelessly knocks over statues of goddesses and pulls books from your shelves. He opens one in particular about worshiping oneself and one’s partner, emotionally, mentally, and physically. He laughs at the nude artwork inside, eyes skimming over ‘intimacy rituals’ and ‘bonds of trust’. “Would you guys get a load of this?” He beckons the others over to share a jeering hardy-har at your expense. It makes your blood boil to see them mock the very things you’ve built your relationship upon. But all you can do is watch helplessly, tied to your kitchen chairs side by side. Once the boys get their fill, Billy comes over and shoves the book in your face, open to an illustration of a man and woman entangled in one another. Your favorite page. “This the kind of shit you were showing those kids? Huh? This pornography?!” Billy yells, his spit hitting your cheek. You flinch, turning your head to look away. “Sick fucks.” He mutters, turning away and tossing the book to the floor.

The young men spend a good while tearing your home apart, in search of non-existent evidence that would label you and Eddie as the devil worshippers everyone thinks you are. When they can find none, they only seem to get more enraged. “Where is it? Huh?” Tommy shouts when he comes back from trashing your bedroom, brandishing his knife at you.

“Where’s what?” Eddie bites, ignoring your pleading eyes that beg him not to goad these maniacs. 

“You know ‘what’! Where’s the shit you fuckers use for your sacrifices, hm? Where’s the photos you took of Pete and the others?” Tommy jabs the knife toward Eddie’s throat, threatening to slice it open.

“You won’t find anything like that here. We didn’t do anything. We wouldn’t ever hurt those kids. Please, just leave us alone.” You answer through your tears, helplessly straining against the ropes tied around your torso and ankles. 

“Bullshit!” Billy bellows, shoving the contents of your coffee table to the ground. Ceramic trinkets smash to bits on the carpet, and pages of books flutter open on the journey down. He gets in your face again. “Everyone in town knows you did it! Now, tell us where it is, or the faggot gets it!” He yells even louder, the beer on his breath making your stomach turn. You shake your head, unable to get out any more words through your sobs. “Cut him.” Billy orders, and Tommy doesn’t hesitate. He slashes quickly across Eddie’s cheek, a trail of deep crimson flowing down his face. Eddie winces, but tries to deny them the satisfaction of hearing his screams. His wound stings at the exposure to the air, his eyes growing glassy. “Again.” Billy says, watching your chin wobble as they hurt Eddie. Another slash, this time on his chest. A hole forms in his shirt, more ruby red seeping through. The cuts aren’t very deep, but they hurt like hell nonetheless. “Still not gonna tell us?” Billy gives you one last chance to fess up. You look at Eddie, who shakes his head at you. You don’t respond fast enough, so Billy turns away from you. “Kill him.” He orders with a shrug, and you watch as Tommy is just about to bring the blade to Eddie’s throat.

“No! Wait!” You shriek, halting Tommy’s hand. “I’ll show you, okay? I-I’ll show you. Just untie me, and I’ll show you!” You plead with them, hoping you can figure out some way to get to the phone, or out a window to run for help. Anything to make this stop.

“Fine.” Billy sighs, gesturing for Steve and Jason to untie you. “But if you try anything, we’re gonna kill you both. Got it?” He warns, threateningly running his thumb along the edge of his switchblade.

“Okay. I promise. I promise.” You nod your head frantically, nearly gasping for air as the adrenaline builds to an all-time high as you prepare yourself. You get one chance to try and escape, you cannot blow it. Otherwise, you both die. You give Eddie as reassuring a look as you can, and his eyes widen slightly once he realizes what you’re going to do. He wishes he could talk you out of it, to tell you how reckless it is, how he doesn’t want you to get hurt. But it’s too late now.

“Get up. Show us where it is.” Steve, tips your chair over to get you on your feet, shoving you forward. 

“It’s in here.” You lead Steve to the bathroom, where there’s a window just big enough for you to fit through and run away. Hopefully. Your heart races, blood pumping in your ears so damn loud it’s like a drumline in your brain. You stop just inside the doorway of the bathroom, and suddenly turn and kick Steve in the crotch to distract him.

“Fuck!” Steve yelps, falling to the floor, dropping his bat. You take your chance, slamming the door shut and turning the lock. 

“Run, Y/N! Run!” You hear Eddie shout from the other side, causing more tears to pour down your cheeks. You go for the window, struggling with sweating hands to disengage the lock. It’s old, and painted over, but you know you’ve managed to get it open before.

“You fucking bitch! Get out here, or we kill him! You fucking whore! We’re gonna fucking kill you!” The young men yell from just outside, a symphony of insults and threats. You manage to push the lock through the slot, just as you hear a thick craaack from behind you. You turn and scream when you find the nails from the bat sticking through the bathroom door. You try to shove the pane of the window outwards, but it’s jammed. You keep pushing and pushing, running out of breath as the boys slowly tear down the thin barrier between you. Just as the window finally swings open, you feel two large hands pull you by the waist.

“No! No! Let me go! Please, let me go! Stop!” You scream, kicking and flailing with all your might. But it’s no use, the men are stronger than you. Your eyes snap to Eddie, who’s tugging as hard as he can against his restraints, to no avail. “I’m sorry, baby. I tried, I tried. I'm sorry.” You weep pitifully, your heart aching as you can guess what comes next.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I promise, it’s okay.” Eddie tries his best to comfort you, his voice broken with his own sobs. 

“Nice try, you little bitch.” Billy growls as you’re shoved back down in your chair. He slaps you hard across the face, his thick palm sending searing pain through your cheek.

“Don’t fucking touch her! You piece of shit! Fuck you!” Eddie screams.

“I’ll do whatever the hell I feel like, Munson. In fact, I don’t know if you knew this, but I’ve always had kind of a thing for your girl here.” Billy sneers, grabbing hold of your chin. “She’s pretty cute, for a satanic slut, anyway.” He chuckles, patting the side of your face he hit not moments ago. You groan quietly at the insult to injury. “Aw, what’s the matter? Thought a girl like you would like it rough.” He mocks, forcing you to look in his eyes. You find a sick lust in his pupils, which makes your stomach drop.

“I do. But not with you. Not in a million years.” You reply bitterly, spitting in his face. You may not make it out of this alive, but you sure as shit aren’t going down without a fight.

“Well, that’s not really up to you, now, is it? I think you’re a bit outmanned here.” Billy chuckles as he wipes his face, earning equally evil laughs from his band of hyenas. “Who knows? Maybe if this pussy is good enough, we might let you go.” He says lowly. His words make you feel sick, like you’d rather die right now. He yanks you out of your chair and to the floor where he forces you onto your back. “Don’t worry, we’ll let Eddie watch. Maybe it’ll teach him a thing or two, hm?” He looks at Eddie with this, grinning impossibly wide at the furious expression on your husband’s face. The others assist Billy in ripping at your clothes, and pulling down your pants.

Discordant screams of protest from you and Eddie clash inside your skull, even more memories flooding through the cracks. “No, please! No more!” You beg the crow, who just looks down upon you in sorrow. 

A spinning carousel of images flies across your vision. Billy and the others taking turns having their way with you as you scream in horror. Shelving books at the library as kids cheerfully ask you where to find their latest pick. Stabs of blades and swings of Steve’s bat ripping your flesh open while you and Eddie lie helpless on the floor. Searing kisses Eddie gave you in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. Pools of blood spilling everywhere as the young men continue to torture you both, warm and staining everything in sight. You and Eddie dancing around the apartment with Max, singing along to Judas Priest while playing the air guitar, spinning the girl around in playful circles and laughing until your faces turned red. Billy and his thugs standing over you once they’re sure you’ll be dead before the cops show up, giving you one last kick to the ribs for good measure. Eddie’s hand reaching for yours, right before the light fades from your eyes and your last breath escapes you. Every last second twists the anger and heartache inside you further and further, like a vengeful blade taking its pound of flesh. 

“Fuck!” You let out a primal yell, clawing at your dress, ripping the leather clean down the middle as the agony reaches its peak. The straps sag on your shoulders, the pain mercifully coming to an end. You flop over onto your back, the remnants of your clothes falling open. But you don’t care much, there’s no one here to see you, or to hurt you again. No, now it’s your turn to dole out some goddamn pain and suffering. 

You rise to your feet, discarding the tattered dress, and the underwear the mortician dressed you in. You walk down the short hallway to your old bedroom with purpose, ignoring the burned down candles and crudely drawn pentagrams that litter the floor. You find your closet sitting open, though your old clothes are still inside. Well, most of them. Some have been stolen, others eaten away at by moths, probably a few burned in a pile somewhere as a way to ‘cleanse’ the town of your supposed evil. But what remains is exactly what you need. Your favorite pair of leather pants, a tattered long-sleeve shirt you made yourself, and the ankle-length black leather trench coat Eddie gave you as a birthday gift. You finish it off with a pair of boots still stashed away in the back of the closet, untouched by insects or thieves. 

The clothes warm you as you pull them on, though they don’t smell like home anymore. The scent of incense and perfume that used to permeate every inch of fabric is long gone, replaced with the stench of dampness and stale beer. It makes your heart ache just that little bit more, but there’s not much time to spare on the thought. Much more pressing matters like retribution and revenge take far more precedence. You give yourself a weary once-over in your vanity, the mirror now smashed with hundreds of weblike cracks in the glass. The makeup that had been painted dutifully on your corpse has run, streaks of black maligning the foundation that was used. You reach for the nearest piece of cloth to wipe it away, deciding a refresh is in order, if you’re to look your best when exacting your recompense. You find your old shade in the mess, resorting to applying it with your fingers. A little blush there, some dark circles around your eyes, and a deep blood red lipstick to pull it all together. You pout your lips, slipping the stick into your coat pocket. You have a feeling there’ll be a need for it later on.

Satisfied enough with your look, it’s time to get your motorcycle back. The crow has been kind enough to show you where it is, the Hawkins Police impound. You imagine Hopper kept it safe there, to prevent it from being stolen. He has always been so kind to you over the years, in death ought to be no different. Far more confident on your own two feet, and your mind set clear with a solid mission in mind, you walk the few blocks to the station with the corvid on your shoulder. No one’s really around to take much notice of you, save for a couple cops on patrol and a nurse having her smoke break outside the hospital. You bypass their eyes, as if cloaked in the dark of night despite the street lamps overhead. You slip around the back of the police building, kicking open the door with a newfound strength once the coast is clear. The crow flies ahead of you, settling on a shelf with the logged weaponry. It caws at you, pointing its head downwards to the matching knives at its feet. They bear long, thick blades that shine in the fluorescent lights, and ornate handles detailed with mirrored images of rattlesnakes.

“Ooh, very nice.” You pick up the knives, weighty yet familiar as they rest in your hands. “Yeah, these’ll do just fine.” You chuckle softly to yourself, pocketing the blades in their respective sheaths before setting off to find your ride. Your hand absentmindedly picks up a tagged switchblade from another shelf as you walk towards the area storing the heavier items, one that just so happens to have belonged to Billy Hargrove. It joins the twin knives in your pocket, sure to be returned to its rightful owner when the time is right. You turn the corner, and finally lay eyes on her. Your sweetheart, your gorgeous black and silver beast that sings a beautiful, rumbling song beneath your thighs when you ride her. Karma, which is a rather fitting name for her now. “There’s my old girl. I’ve missed you.” You say sweetly to the bike, circling around her before swinging a leg over to feel the leather seat that has molded to the shape of you and Eddie. Your hands run along the handlebars lovingly, the cool metal greeting your fingertips. “Let’s see if you still run, baby.” You say to her, finding the keys sitting in the ignition. Fate certainly appears to be on your side tonight. You make sure she’s in neutral, move all the right levers to get her ready, and turn the key. All that’s left is the fun part. You nudge the kickstart lever out with your foot, lifting yourself up slightly to give it a swift push downwards. Karma’s engine roars to life, purring with familiarity between your legs. “Fuck yeah.” You laugh, slapping the handlebars with pride.

Just as you’re about to literally motor out of here, an officer comes into the room with some bagged evidence to log. “Hey! What the fuck are you doing in here?” He shouts, tossing the bag aside in favor of stalking over to you.

“Sorry, officer. Gotta go!” You yell over the sound of the engine, giving him a salute and pressing on the gas.

“Get back here!” The cop calls after you as you peel around the corner towards the open door you’d broken in through. You zoom past more shelves of old evidence, and the crow flies to land on your shoulder as you pass by. The bike just barely squeaks through the doorway, wind whipping in your hair and adrenaline coursing through your veins as you make your escape. The tires land on solid road, leading you to your next destination.

“Whoo!” You squeal in delight, throwing a middle finger the officer’s way as you steal a glance back at him. Hopper’s sure to be pissed once he finds out someone broke into the station, but you’ll deal with the consequences of that later. Right now, it’s time to pay Tommy Hagan a visit.

“Yes! Yes! Oh, Tommy, don’t stop! Yes! Yes! YES!” Carol moans as Tommy gives his usual lackluster performance in bed. She fakes her orgasm for what must be the thousandth time in their relationship, playing it up by making her legs shake a little and rolling her eyes into the back of her head as her mouth falls open to let out one final cry of his name.

“That’s it, baby. Take it, take it for daddy.” Tommy grunts, pistoning his hips until his load inevitably spills deep inside Carol’s cunt. A satisfied grin spreads across his lips as he pulls out, collapsing onto his back beside his less-than-satisfied girlfriend. “Fuck, that was great, baby.” He sighs, wiping sweat from his brow. 

“Sure was.” Carol rolls her eyes, reaching for her smokes. She wonders just how many more times she’ll be able to put up with miserable fucking that leads to nowhere. Nearly a decade now they’ve been together, and he hasn’t even bothered to commit. Or learn where her goddamn erogenous zones are. She lights up, hoping to gain some form of gratification from the nicotine. There is a little, but not near enough to soothe the ache between her legs that’s yet to be truly sated. Oh well, no relationship is perfect. That’s what she tells herself, anyway. 

“Gonna take a piss.” Tommy says, sitting up in bed. “Don’t go anywhere.” He says lowly in Carol’s ear. 

“Oh, I won’t.” She giggles awkwardly in response, and he leaves her side. He goes into the bathroom, shutting the door. A quiet trickle can be heard from the other side, the sound of which makes Carol crinkle her nose.

“Shit, I’ve had lousy lays in my day. But, man, that was painful to watch, honey.” You laugh from your spot, leaning back against the sill of the open window beside Tommy’s bed. You’d only caught the end of the show, but Carol’s fake moans gave you enough cover to wait patiently right under their noses.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Carol yelps, covering herself with the sheets. Her eyes are blown wide as she stares at you, an intruder. 

“Well, if you must know, your little casanova and I have some…unfinished business.” You say with a grin, slipping inside into the dim light of the room. 

“Look, I don’t know who you are, but you need to leave! Tommy!” Carol’s voice trembles, calling for her boyfriend.

“Carol, sweetie, I’m afraid I can’t do that.” You tut, stepping closer to her. You reach a hand forward to stroke her cheek, grabbing hold of her chin. “Listen to me carefully.” Her supple skin trembles under your cold touch, and you lean down close to make sure she gets the message. “I’ve got a bit of revenge that needs exacting. Now, I suggest that unless you wanna see the mess I’m about to make, that you get your shit and get the hell out of here. You understand me?” You say, your words coming out husky and low, nearly seductive if they weren’t so threatening. 

“Y-Yeah.” Carol nods frantically, and you let her free from your grasp. 

You watch wordlessly as she gathers her clothes, struggling to put them on to make her escape. You’re surprised she doesn’t recognize you, especially after all those years in school she personally saw to making your life miserable. No matter, your grudge isn’t exactly with her this evening. No, no. It’s for the lousy asshole who apparently takes ten minutes to piss. When she’s finally dressed, Carol scurries to the door to Tommy’s apartment, coat and bag in hand, quickly making her way out. Once she’s gone, you figure the fun can finally begin. A sickening grin crawls across your mouth, and you sit on the edge of the bed, leaning back on your hands.

“Oh, Tommy, please hurry! I’m just dying to have you rock my world again!” You put on your best impression of Carol, coming off surprisingly accurate. A feeling of glee grows within you, anticipating Tommy leaving the bathroom to find his honey has long gone, and he’s stuck in here with you. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. You steal a quick glance at the crow, who is perched on the window as you were previously. Rain pours outside once again after the short respite on the ride over here, bright lightning flashing through the sky. The bird gives you an approving caw, redirecting your attention to the bathroom door as it opens.

“Comin’ right up, baby!” Tommy laughs, stepping out from the bathroom completely nude, a dribble of urine still leaking from the tip of his humble manhood. He nearly shrieks when he finds you on his bed instead of Carol, covering his crotch with his hands. “What the fuck!?” He shouts, brows furrowing and eyes widening in terror as he realizes who you are. “No way! It can’t be! W-We一”

“You what? Killed me? Raped me? Yeah, I remember that, too.” You casually cut him off, standing up. 

“But how? Why?” Tommy asks in absolute horror, looking around in search of his girlfriend. “What did you do with Carol?” He asks fearfully.

“Oh, nothing. It’s not her I’m here for.” You say with a shrug, reaching inside your coat. You pull out the switchblade, flicking it open. “You, on the other hand? Well…” You chuckle, stepping closer to him. “I think you owe me about a pound of flesh!” You say with a laugh, before slashing Tommy across his bare chest. 

“Fuck!” He screams at the pain, blood rapidly pooling and running from the wound. It drips down his stomach and over his hands that still cover his wimpy cock.

“What’s the matter, Hagan? Can’t take a little cut? You sure were happy to give me and Eddie more than enough of them!” You yell, swinging the knife to cut across his cheek now. More of that deadly crimson pours out across his pale flesh, like thick syrup. You quickly grab the uninjured side of his face to pull him closer, following the perverse impulse to lick the gash and have a taste. Tangy copper coats your tongue, sending a dark thrill through you. Your cold breath rushes against his cheek as you let out a low sigh, further stinging his wound.

“What the hell? Get the fuck off me!” Tommy screams, pushing you away.

“Aw, poor baby.” You pout sarcastically. “I’m just gettin’ started.” You laugh, carefully wiping your lip with your finger, sucking it clean. Tommy tries to make a dash for the door, but you stand in his way, blocking his every move. “Sorry, Tommy. You’re not getting away alive. Not after what you’ve done!” You tackle him to the floor, a loud grunt escaping him as he hits the ground. His hands try to grab your wrists and hold them back, but it’s quite a struggle. You press down, gaining way as you grip the knife with both hands, pointing it at his chest. “You aren’t even gonna apologize for what you did to me? For what you did to him? Huh?” You ask, demanding answers.

“Why would I? You deserve what you got! The fact that you’re even here right now proves we were right! You fucking whore of Satan!” Tommy retorts, trying to shove you off of him. But it’s no use. Your newfound strength lets you overpower him with ease.

“I wish it was that simple, Tommy. But the devil’s got nothin’ to do with it. He never did.” You reply, the words ringing true in the man’s ears as you straddle his naked, bleeding body. Realization washes over his face, as if the things you know have somehow been beamed into his mind to provide clarity.

“Oh, god.” He gasps, kicking his legs and flailing his arms helplessly. “Please, I’m sorry! Please don’t do this! I’m sorry!” He starts to weep, tears of fear, not remorse. He continues to snivel and beg for his life, but no true apology leaves his lips. Not that it would make any difference.

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t nearly make up for what you’ve done.” You say coldly, raising your hands above your head, clutching the knife firmly as you prepare your aim. 

“No! No! Please! No!” Tommy cries, your weight staying steady on him despite his desperate squirming. Tears stream down his cheeks, a sight you never thought would make you so unbelievably happy.

The knife comes down as you let out a scream that’s been deeply rooted inside you since you resurfaced. One of release, and closure. The blade plunges deep into Tommy’s chest, blood splattering from the violent hole you’ve made. Tommy wails in pain, though it’s short lived as the fluid begins to fill his lungs and make him choke. That deep red bubbles just past his teeth, staining the inside of his mouth as he gurgles. You pant heavily as you pull the knife out, bringing it back down again. The wet and metallic sounds of knife meeting flesh fill the air, over and over as you stab Tommy repeatedly. Splashes of blood land warmly on your skin and clothes, painting you the most lovely shade of crimson. You revel in the carnage, getting the payback you very much deserve, that Eddie deserves. Grunts and stunted screams leave you while you continue to stab the pale flesh beneath you. Tommy has stopped squirming, but you find it hard to stop yourself as you raise the blade and sink it back in again. It feels so good, letting it all out. It’s enough to become an addiction in no time at all. 

The crow eventually snaps you out of it with another cry from its beak. Your eyes fall to Tommy beneath you, finally soaking in the image of the mess you've made. His mouth sits open, eyes staring past you with not an ounce of life left in them. Droplets of blood litter his skin, a visceral interpretation of Jackson Pollock on your part. He’s gone, having paid the price of taking your life, and the love of your life. You lean down, pressing a kiss to his cold cheek. A perfect imprint of your lipstick is left behind, a calling card. You may as well sign off on what you’ve done here, since no one can possibly lock up a woman who’s already dead. You climb off of Tommy’s body, wiping your knife and putting it back inside your coat. 

You snatch up the discarded pack of cigs Carol left on the nightstand, lighting one up as you climb back out the window. The crow hops onto your shoulder, and you take a moment to enjoy the first drag of your smoke before venturing back down the fire escape. Surely one of Tommy’s neighbors will have heard all the screaming and called the cops. You wonder if Hop will respond to the call, and see what you’ve done. If it weren’t your sole purpose for returning from the grave, you might feel a little bad about it. But there’s no time for regret or remorse. None was given to you, or to Eddie. Not in all the years of torment, or the hours of hell you went through before death mercifully brought an end to it all. Certainly not afterwards. You flick your half-smoked cig away, deciding not to dwell on these thoughts anymore. Too much to do, and not much time to get it done, you remind yourself.

“How’s the burger, kid?” Hopper asks, taking a large bite of his own sandwich, washing it down with a sip of his soda.

“Delicious as always, Hop.” Max replies cheerfully, picking up a few french fries and dipping them in some ketchup. Usually they opt for the drive-thru, but tonight seems to call for dining inside. It’s been quite a year for both of them, one that simultaneously went by at a snail’s pace, and whipped through three hundred and sixty-five days like it was nothing. Both Max and Hopper have done their best to cope with the loss of the Munsons, nurturing the bond between themselves in the process. These late night meals together make all the difference, when they’re both very alone in this world otherwise. Jim, buried in his work and surrounded by apathetic officers. And Max, tormented by the man who led the charge to kill her friends every single day, with her parents being very little help. ‘Typical sibling rivalry’, as Mr. and Mrs. Hargrove call it. 

“Hey, Chief. We’ve got a call.” Powell’s voice crackles from the radio sitting on the plastic table. A mechanical chirp follows the man’s broadcasted words. 

Jim picks the walkie up, pressing the button on the side to speak into it. “The night before Halloween? I’m sure you guys can handle it.” He answers, setting the radio down once again. 

“You sure you don’t have to take that?” Max asks, a worrisome feeling stealing away her appetite.

“I’m sure it’s fine.” Hopper waves her off. “Loch Nora probably just got egged, same way it does every year.” He adds with a chuckle. Those rich assholes never seem to learn this one simple rule: you don’t cheap out on Halloween candy. The kids in this town are ruthless when it comes to sugar, and they will strike back, swiftly and without mercy if you don’t pay their due of sweets. 

“You’re gonna wanna get down here, Chief. It’s…the Hagan boy. He’s dead. And there’s something I think you need to see.” Powell calls again, his voice sounding far more grave than it has in a while. 

“Shit.” Hopper murmurs, picking the damned radio up again. “I’ll be right there.” He says firmly into the receiver, holding back his sigh. “Sorry, kid. Duty calls.” He gives Max an apologetic look as he gathers up the burger wrappers and half-drunk sodas. 

“Looks like the rain’s stopped for a bit. I can skate home if you’re in a hurry.” Max suggests abruptly, an idea hatching in her mind at the news that just came through the walkie. She finds it no coincidence that Tommy Hagan, of all people, is dead exactly one year after the Munsons were murdered. That sinking feeling she had before is now one of childlike belief, even excitement. She only hopes that her hunch is correct. That somehow, some way, either Eddie or Y/N have come back. Max doesn’t dare clue Hopper into this idea, he’ll surely shoot down the offer to ‘skate home’ if she does.

“You sure? It could start up again, and the roads are still pretty slick.” Jim asks, raising a suspicious eyebrow. But given the circumstances, he doesn’t really have the time to dissect Max’s sudden interest to make the way home by herself.

“I’ll be fine, Hop. Really, the wet roads will get me home faster.” She insists, politely of course so as not to set off any alarms.

“Alright.” Hopper sighs, nodding his head as he puts his hat back on. “But you go straight home. No detours, you hear me?” He points a stern finger in her direction.

“Yes sir!” She stomps and salutes him playfully, making them both laugh.

“Good. I gotta go. Just be careful, and look both ways, alright?” He issues one last kernel of fatherly advice, giving the girl a quick hug before parting ways. He heads for the door, wasting no time in climbing into his vehicle and speeding off to the scene.

“I always do.” Max says to herself once he’s gone, dumping the tray of garbage before leaving the restaurant. She lowers her board down onto the asphalt that gleams in the dim street lights, and heads off in the opposite direction of her house. She has a much more interesting destination in mind, one that will either confirm her suspicions, or leave her childish dreams utterly dashed.

“Alright, what do we have here?” Hopper asks as he steps into Tommy Hagan’s apartment. He sees the blood on the wall just outside the bathroom, and the body draped over with a sheet that’s quickly getting stained red.

“It’s not pretty.” Powell replies, leading Jim over to the corpse. He crouches down and lifts up the sheet, exposing Tommy’s fear-struck face. Hopper can see the stab wounds that litter his chest, and the fact that he’s completely nude. “What do you think we have here? Crime of passion?” Powell asks, looking up at his boss while still holding the thin slip of fabric. 

“Maybe.” Hopper replies. He thinks on it for a moment, getting down on Powell’s level to get a closer look. He notices a slash on Tommy’s left cheek, while the other bears a dark print of lipstick, in a shade he could place anywhere. No. He lets out a small gasp, already scolding his own mind for the thought that has just crossed it. 

“Noticed that too, huh?” Powell chuckles dryly, letting the sheet fall back over Tommy’s face. The two men stand, exchanging a skeptical look. “You know, it could be a coincidence. Someone else in this town probably wears that shade, or bought it for a costume.” Powell attempts to explain it away, to drive as far from the nonsensical idea as is humanly possible. 

“Or an act of revenge from someone else.” Hopper adds to the list of totally logical explanations. “It could be Carol. A crime of passion, like you said.” He continues, nodding his head as a means to convince himself. It can’t be her. It just…can’t. There’s no way! Jim struggles to pound some reason into his head, to clear out the silly ghost stories. It’s the night before Halloween for Christ sakes, and the anniversary of the Munson murders. And it’s getting to him. That’s all. “Let’s wrap this up, and get the body to the morgue. I’m going home for the night.” Hopper says finally, leaving his men to finish the job. He can’t keep his mind straight in all this, and he needs a goddamn drink.

Max kicks up her board as she reaches the outside of the condemned Crystal Ridge complex. She’s been around here a few times, when she’s desperate for some semblance of what remains of the Munsons. She’ll sit on the couch that now oozes stuffing, and talk to them about her day. When there aren’t other kids drinking, screwing, or performing seances in there, that is. She heads inside, happy to escape the rain that caught her halfway through the trip. Max steps into the apartment, finding it just as trashed as it always is. Crude graffiti on the walls, broken bottles all over the floor, a used condom here or there. She used to tidy up the place as best she could, at first. But the rowdy teens of this town have proven too messy for her to keep up with after a while. 

“Y/N?” Max says softly, afraid to disturb the deathly quiet inside the apartment. She goes down the hall to the bedroom, hoping not to catch a randy couple between the dusty sheets. The room is thankfully empty, but she notices some torn clothes on the floor. She picks up the tattered garment, instantly recognizing it. Y/N’s funeral dress, the one Max herself picked out. Ripped straight down the middle and discarded in a damp, mud-crusted heap. She goes digging for more evidence to support her insane theory that Y/N is, in fact, back from the dead. Max looks in the closet, finding items Y/N loved the most to be missing, including the boots she hid way in the back from potential looters. Some of Y/N’s makeup has been recently used, as well, her signature dark red lip no longer amongst its spookily-shaded siblings. “She must have been here.” Max observes aloud. “I knew it!” She says cheerily to no one. But, if Y/N made the trip over here for a post-resurrection change of clothes, she might just come back. And Max plans to wait and see, all night if she has to. She sits down on the bed, the springs creaking under her weight. 

Max peers out the boarded window from her spot, hoping to see a bright white headlight, or hear the roar of a motorcycle engine any minute now. Her eyelids droop, as she hasn’t slept very well since the Munsons were murdered. Nightmares plague her resting hours, leaving her screaming and crying until her mom comes in to wake her. Safe to say it’s yet another thing in a long list that Billy torments her with. Not that it isn’t terrifying enough living under the same roof as a murderer, let alone one that got away with it. 

To Be Continued…

[97keanu]

Premise: Vampire!John Wick has caught your scent, and now there's nothing that will stop him from obtaining what he craves. You on the other hand, are enjoying a night on the town dressed as an angel for Halloween. You don't realize what a mistake you've made walking into a real vampire's path.

Tags/CW: DARK FIC, Vampire!JW, Being hunted, pred/prey, innocent!reader, angel coded!reader, bimbo!reader, dumb!reader, blood drinking, regular alcohol drinking, john is an evil vampire, dub-con, dead dove don't eat, hypnotism/hypnotized!reader, reader has a secret kidnapping!kink, reader has secret dark desires, knife kink in the form of claws, biting, teasing teasing teasing !!!, mind reading, reader who is a secret slut, reader who wants to be sacrificed, major character death mentions/teased, blood doll!reader, readers fate undetermined.

A/N: I've always had a thing for vampires. In this fic, I explore some of my favorite naughty kinks, and give you an extremely long and kinky sex scene between John and reader. Hope y'all like it, be sure to heed the content warnings ʚ♥︎ɞ

He has hunted your scent for miles. That sweet, delicious blood of yours calling to him in even the faintest amount. You poor, pretty little thing, that doesn't even know she's being hunted. You laugh with friends after dark, walking in groups for safety as you enjoy the Halloween festivities. You have no idea that it doesn't matter where you go tonight. That John has already decided your blood will be his, and so it shall be. You look so dolled up too, in your tiny miniskirt and frilly, barely-there white top. On your back, two perfect, tiny fake angel wings float along your figure, a costume halo atop your head. You look pristine, and John can only imagine what all that white will look like when he's done with you. It's as if you decided to serve yourself up on a silver platter for him, unknowingly.

As you walk about the city in wobbly, chunky platforms, you giggle into the night air with friends, the mist of your breath pooling in the sky above you. You don't notice in the sea of people that is New York, that you're being stalked. You don't see the man, moving silently from building to dark alleyway, inhaling your scent as deep as he can. You don't see the fangs, that glint under street lamps as he passes. They've grown so long from desire he can hardly keep them hidden behind his lips. Luckily for John, costumed Halloween goers flood the streets. A perfect time for a creature of the night like him to be so bold in public. Tonight, he will go unnoticed.

You however go into the next club on your bar hopping adventure without a care in the world. You don't see the dark figure slipping in behind you at a speed you can't even comprehend. You walk with an air of innocence and wide-eyed wonder. You gawk at spooky displays and laugh at slasher costumes as you walk by. You know that underneath that scary mask is just some greasy twenty-something who would love to get you in bed. As if.

The lights and music blare, and you are pulled by your friends to the dance floor. You're already feeling the heat of the cocktails you've had tonight in your body, and when you move to the rhythmic music, you feel your legs wobble along lazily. Your friends pass you another drink, you don't know from where, and you consume it happily. It's sweet, bitter aftertaste goes down easily, and you enjoy your night of being young and free.

A few men try to dance with you, but when you size them up, they're so not your type. They're just too young for you, even if they are likely the same age as you. You've always loved a more mature man, someone bigger and wiser than you who can really put you in your place. Half of you fantasizes about a man like that taking you from this hedonist pit of a club, pulling you into his car and driving away. You imagine he would take you back to his house just to tie you up and keep you kidnapped there against your will. The idea has always turned you on, but none of the men in this club tonight could ever give you something like that. You continue to dance with your friends, ignoring any drunkards who try to make a pass at you with an up turned nose.

The night continues on, and more drinks find their way into your hands. You happily take them, not caring how beyond drunk you are. As you're dancing, you slowly realize how seperated you are from your friends. You glance around, looking for them in the crowd, but see no one. Instead you feel the hair on the back of your neck raise. You feel as if you're the one being watched.

When you finally find the pair of eyes on you, you see the face of a handsome, older man in the crowd. You're surprised to see a man like him in a crowd like this. He seems so suave, so opulent, and through your drunken eyes, he also seems expensive, if not rich. You saunter over, slowly dancing through the crowd, until you're close enough to the staring stranger to see how intense his eyes really are. For a moment, fear washes over you, but you shake your head, deciding yourself silly for being afraid.

John can hardly hide his delight that he has caught you, his pretty little prey angel. He hears your thoughts about a man like him taking you away, tying you up, and using you like the hole you are. John has to laugh under his breath. You could never guess how true that sentiment really is. John can imagine doing more than just tying you up, though.

He watches as you walk right over to him, he can sense the fear rising up in you. You have every right to be afraid, but you still come, like the fly to the spider. You know it, in your heart, that John is a predator. Your own senses tell you, but like the silly human you are, you ignore them. Human's have lost all superstitions for creatures like John, it almost makes it too easy to trick you into letting him in.

John pulls you in when you get close enough, he has to hide how sharp his nails are, be gentle with your fragile body, but he still senses how rough he's pulled you in. In your drunkeness, you assume you've just tripped into him.

John feels your warm, tiny body against his, and you move like a siren, obviously not as angelic as you seem. Your body ungulates on his, rubbing your backside straight into John's cock. To your surprise, he's already hard, and you blush thinking it was so easy to do such a thing to him. You don't know that it's not just your body that's turning him on. No, it's what he's imagining doing to you after he's had his fun toying with you like this. It's that sweet blood that pumps in your veins so temptingly.

He let's his hands move up your body, caressing every curve, feeling your hips and gripping them into himself, imagining how he would take you later on. His hands continue up, pressing and playing with your breasts, and for a moment, you reach up for his hands, startled by how forward this strange man is being in public. He relents, his hands moving up to caress that pretty neck of yours. In your intoxicated state, you continue to allow him to play with you.

What you don't notice is John has slowly pulled you from the crowd, isolating you from the rest of the humans having a fun Halloween weekend. You don't even realize it until John is starting to move you through a back door of the club, the night air suddenly chilling you and ruffling the feathers of your wings. You turn to face him, and he smiles so sweetly. As he smiles you notice the sharpness of his teeth, and your mind tries to explain it away as a costume, but they look so real, and so sharp. Your instincts once again tell you to run, but with the way he's looking at you, you feel a pull to him you can't explain.

It's as if everything in your brain is telling you how dangerous this man is, but your body can't get enough of him. Even being so close now, his husky, earthy scent, similar to pine trees and steel, draws you in. You feel your body tingling where he touches you on your waist and back, his finger tips freezing. He reminds you of winter itself, cold and unmoving. But you are moving aren't you? When you notice your surroundings outside his intense, dark eyes, you see you've been drawn to a dark corner of the alleyway.

You look about and notice how quiet it is, how it's as if everyone else has been banished from the area, not even the rustle of wind is making a sound. No, the only sound right now you hear is of your increasingly alarmed breath. You look back to the strange man to see he has bent you backwards, your wings now barely brushing the dirty alley, your hair swept from your neck.

Suddenly, in the moonlight, those glinting fangs don't seem so fake. In fact, they seem so real you're shaking from it. Your rabbit heart thumps relentlessly, and suddenly adrenaline floods your body. You move to run, to jump out of his grip like a frightened doe, but his hands hold you like steel.

"Who--?" You begin to say, trying to muster a scream for help that doesn't come.

"My sweet angel," John speaks for the first time to you tonight, and your entire body goes cold. "You will be so delicious..."

John doesn't care to hide it anymore, the fear has overcome all else inside you, and you know that he is dangerous.

John takes his hands to your throat, turning your head so that he may look into your eyes. You look into them, those two dark orbs, and you feel that fear wash over you again as you realize how red they are getting. You must be imagining things, it must be the lack of light, but no, you're sure of it. This mans eyes are truly, deeply, darkly red. And just when you had mustered enough sense to want to run away, he's hypnotized you. His vampiric powers of manipulation wash over your mind, over your body. You feel a false sense of calm, and your mind tries to scream for your body to run, but you can't. You're stuck there, transfixed and mouth agape, your body wanting John more than anything.

Now that he has you in such a vulnerable state, he simply picks you up, carrying you bridal style to a spot he's already picked out. He takes you to a nearby apartment, abandoned and high up enough no one will hear you scream. He has outfitted the bedroom here as the perfect vampire nest. The windows are boarded from all light, the room is adorned with candles, and he's even brought in some tools to use on you. He will take his time with you, that much was certain. You want to struggle as he sets you down on the bed, but your body doesn't move. You look up at him like a lamb to the slaughter, waiting for him to break your pretty little neck.

"Hands." He says roughly, and before you can think to deny him, you're lifting your hands I front of you, doe eyes looking at him so pitifully full of tears that won't fall.

He ties your hands skillfully together, tight and inescapable. Then he ties your hands to the bedframe above you, and you look up from there, asking for some miracle to save you.

"There will be no miracles tonight. Not for you, angel." You glance at him, wondering how he read your mind. He laughs when he sees the confusion in your eyes, his fangs yellowed by the candle light.

"Don't worry, my sweet. Being able to experience all that you have in that pretty head of yours is just half the fun..." John pets your hair before he begins to undress you.

When it's time to focus on your clothes, he has an easy answer for that. He runs his claw along your body, so sharp that even the slightest bit of pressure would surely slit your delicate skin. You can feel the hypnotism waning, but suspect that he has done this on purpose.

"Yes... I have." John answers your thought. "Now, let's hear those lovely moans of yours."

You try to scream, and it comes out as a soft murmur, something akin to being strangled. You feel tears fall down your cheeks, and gasp as you feel John apply just enough pressure to slice through your mini skirt. He plucks it off of you the way one might pluck a petal from a flower. You watch as he tosses it away, feeling the cold air on your almost nude bottom half.

He works his way back up your body, still allowing his claws to glide against your baby soft skin. He reaches your top, and snaps the straps easily, pulling the top off to reveal your breasts to him. Despite everything, you can't help how easily wet your cunt is getting.

"You may try to deny me," John says, again pulling your feelings straight from your head. "But I know you've always wanted this. That's what drew me to your blood. You have the blood of someone who knows they're prey."

"N-no..." You attempt to say, but the words barely find their way out.

"Don't lie, I can see those dark thoughts at the back of your head. How you used to touch yourself to the thought of being kidnapped. How you wished someone would tie you up, just like this. Even just tonight, you thought of this. Don't start being a brat for me now, angel. Show me how badly you've wanted this." The last sentence is a command you must follow, and when John's hands have reached up to your glossy mouth, you have no choice but to open.

You feel him place two fingers so deeply inside your mouth, your pussy trembles at the thought that he might cut you there. It's as if he's placed a knife in your mouth, so gentle, but so deadly. You close your warm mouth around his cool fingers, sucking lightly. The thoughts you've had about scenarios like this before flash in your mind, no doubt John's influence.

While he keeps you pacified, he runs his free hand down your exposed body, taking care to hold your breast, feeling your beating heart behind it. The smell of your fear and pleasure mixing in your blood has John beyond hard, he doesn't know how much longer he can contain himself before biting or fucking you. He holds back his throbbing fangs, for now.

You watch helplessly as he pulls his fingers from your mouth, moving his body down yours, until his head is lined up with your soaking cunt.

"I can smell how badly you've wanted this from here..." John teases, and you bite your lip, embarrassed of how your body betrays you.

John plays with your white, lacy panties, pulling them so taut that your pussy lips get caught around them. You moan despite yourself as John plays with your panties just so, your engorged clit getting some wanted attention.

"You're so human...denying yourself the ultimate pleasure you've been seeking, I would never dream of such a thing." John muses as you writhe against your restraints, even this slightest touch driving you mad. You think of kicking John away, but your legs just won't work for you. He has you perfectly spread for him, tied up like a present, and unable to resist.

"I'm sure all your fantasies consist of killing young, helpless women. I'm not sure that counts." Your voice whispers in a chiding tone, and by the look of John's dark eyes on you, you wish you'd held your tongue.

John pulls your panties so hard against your tender clit you let out a small scream. He moves his face to meet yours, speaking directly to you as you lay there fearful, mouth open to silent screams.

"Yes, angel. I do kill young, helpless girls. Let's see if you can be a good girl tonight and change my mind." He watches the fear pool in your eyes, breathing in the scent of it with a smirk.

You try to hold his eye contact, try to be the brave girl who fights her attacker. But that's just not you. That's never been you. You've always been soft, easily guided this way or that. You've never been particularly smart, or witty. You've gotten by on your beauty alone for so long, that you made yourself think you were more powerful than you were. Really, you're just a lost little lamb, looking to be herded, but finding the wolf instead.

John can see that, hear that in your thoughts, and he reaches up, cups your face in his hand, and pulls your eyes back to his.

"I think if you expand your mind a bit, little lamb, you may even really enjoy being drained to death..." The way his cold eyes fill with excitement at this statement makes your stomach flop. It takes everything in you to pull your chin away from his hand.

He let's you, pulling back down to your glistening cunt. John pulls your panties up and places a sharp claw under it, the soft side of his claw brushing against your clit. In one fell swoop, he cuts away your panties.

You squirm and try to make your legs close, your whining coming out between sharp breaths as you try to fight this power over you. He slowly brings his face to your quivering cunt, looking up at you with those dangerous onyx eyes.

"The sooner you realize you've always been meant to be someone's plaything, the sooner you'll find yourself loving this..." He whispers, prodding more of those sick fantasies to flash in your head.

John let's his fangs flash in the light before letting his tongue taste you. His tongue is surprisingly cool, making you recoil, but with more movement, you hate that your hips try to buck into his mouth. He's teasing your clit every so carefully, moving perfectly to keep you on edge. Your entire body floods with pleasure that you try to keep at bay.

"You know you want more...ask me..." His voice breathes against your pussy, leaving chills to run up your spin.

You hate how right he is. You want this, you want this man, no, this monster to fuck you senseless. You can't believe how sensitive you're getting even at the idea that he kills you, that you become nothing but a meal for such a powerful creature. Your blood pumps loudly in your ears as you try to ignore him down there, try to will your body not to be so sensitive to his touch, to his tongue lapping at your cunt ever so gently. You should be fighting him, screaming for your life, scheming at least for how to get yourself out of this, how to save your own life.

But when you look into his dark eyes, you know it's no use. Any plan you could come up with, he would hear. Any escape, if you somehow got out of your restraints, was futile. He was stronger, faster than you in every respect. All you could do was lay here, shuddering against the monster that's tempting you to let them make you cum. What were you supposed to do? What would the smart, cunning, witty girl do?

"P-please..." Your voice summons, and John's ears perk up at the sound.

"Please what? What changed your mind?" He looks at you curiously.

"Please...make me cum. I've..." You take a deep breath and hold it as John gives a longer lick. "I've never been the smart one, or the one who was going anywhere big in life. I'm only useful as a hole to fuck. Please fuck me and make my pitiful existence mean something."

"And if I kill you?" John teases your pussy by lightly gliding his claws across it, the feeling similar to that of a cool blade being used.

"Then I would be happy to be of use to you..." You can't believe you've said this, but you can feel John pulling the words from you with his eyes.

You close your eyes after the last word, unable to look into John's eyes any longer. After a moment, when you hear nothing, you peek at him. He looks at you like a cat presented with a shiny new toy. His interest in you is piqued more than even before.

"Maybe you will be more than a temporary plaything..." John raised his eyebrows with a hint of laughter, the sentiment didn't help much to relieve you of your fear.

Seeing you so willing to admit how much a girl like you was meant to be nothing more than fuck meat and a meal made John's cock struggle against his pants. He has grown tired of smart girls who try to escape, it always ended the same anyways. Now you, you who can admit that they are prey, that was much more interesting. The way you sacrifice yourself to him made John feel like a king, no, a God.

He could feel himself throbbing with want, wanting to take you here and now, but he was a man of his word. He would make you cum first.

He returns to your cunt, served up for him perfectly, and begins to devour you much more than before. He licks with purpose, using his tongue to give you so much attention your eyes almost roll back from the intensity. What surprises you more, leaves you gasping is when he sucks your clit into his mouth, his teeth ever so gently applying pressure and new sensitivity. You quiver and your legs seem to not be your own, muscles tensing and squirming under John's touch. You feel John's hand hold your thigh down in place, his claws knicking your skin just slightly. The pain mixed with the pleasure John gives begins to send you over the edge. When you see the small droplets of blood begin to leak from your thigh, you cum for him, moaning into the night air.

As you settle down, your heart rapidly getting away from you, your eyes lazily open and watching John, you see him move his mouth to your thigh, lapping up the blood that's been spilt there.

John licks the wounds, and the close up, but tasting your delicious blood has him unable to hold back anymore. He needs more of it. Now.

John sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh, his fangs almost melting into your dainty skin. You cry out, and John bites deeper, his cock leaking from the sound of your despair, his mind reeling from how good you taste. Soon, he pulls his teeth back, sucking deeply of the blood that gushes into his mouth. As he begins to drink from you, an unimaginable wave of pleasure crashes over you.

You can barely contain yourself, your voice not your own, your moans of anguish and want, heedy and full of need. You've never felt such pleasure, not even from how well John made you cum moments before. You greedily relish in it as John drinks deeper, a free hand lifting to pet your sweet cunt, driving you mad with sensation. You feel yourself begin to cum again. Then again. And again as John continues to consume your precious blood.

John can feel your heart slowing, can sense your life force leaving you as he consumes your warmth. He has to force himself to stop, his muscles tightening and attempting to keep his jaw locked on your thigh. You're so high on pleasure you hardly notice how close to dying you really are right now. You feel yourself slipping away, as if falling into darkness and greeting it happily. Maybe he was right, maybe dying this way wasn't so bad...

John pulls his fangs from your thigh with great strength. He laps carefully at the two pinprick wounds, and watches as they slowly close, as if nothing at all had happened. You can barely hold your head up, your breath slow. You lay languidly, lolling about when John moves to get near your face.

He softly pets the side of your face and your eyes flutter open, looking up into his eyes the way Ophelia may have looked at the sky before succumbing to death. You watch, unable to process what's happening, as John slits open his own wrist, letting the blood there drop into your open mouth. The taste is sweet, bitter, and smoky, just like him. You swallow with great effort and John watches as your paleness slowly starts to perk up.

"You're going to be an interesting blood doll indeed..." He whispers as he pets your hair gently. "Now rest..." He commands and your world goes dark.

Taglist: @sunnythebunny7 @smutmaniac @worldsgreatestsinner

[aziraphales-library]

Any pregnancy AU recommandations ? Fluffy soft preferably (not necessarily big details) but give everything anyway

Thaaaanks

We have a bunch on our #pregnancy tag, so check that out. Here are more to add...

Expectant by luciferfemme (E)

Something is very wrong, Aziraphale can feel it. He wakes up nauseous, and that shouldn't be possible. What's more the plants are acting strange, the Bentley refuses to drive faster than the speed limit and Aziraphale is pretty sure he might be pregnant. It shouldn't be possible but here they are. About to become parents.

Sunday Surprise by Vavoom_Thyself (E)

Grumbling, Crowley decided to finish preparing the pot as quick as he could before heading back inside. It seemed he got a few minutes worth of respite in between the pains, so hopefully he could make it back to the cottage before the next one. Hell, he'd have to explain it to Aziraphale, though. The angel was sure to notice if he kept stiffening up with each wave of discomfort, especially if it kept getting worse. And he'd fret even more when it turned out he couldn't explain what was happening to his body. Crowley sighed, finished filling the pot, and cleared his stuff away. He gave the plants one last warning that: “Nobody bloody dies over a bit of heat, you hear me?” Then made his way back to the cottage, thinking that if it wasn't such a bloody hot day, he'd have drawn himself a bath to try and relax his muscles a bit. He was fairly sure that was it. Just overdone it a bit with dragging heavy pots around. Sore, crampy muscles were a logical follow-up from that. - Or: despite his previous sidegigs as a midwife, Crowley is surprisingly clueless when it comes to adding up his own body's quirks. Until he and Aziraphale have to face facts.

Ineffable Promise by KaytheJay (T)

For the first few months of their marriage, they remained at their respective homes, though they stayed the night at each other’s place just about every night. Aziraphale insisted that their house search needed to be completed the human way. He wanted the house to be absolutely perfect for them before they even thought about an offer. It ended up taking a year and a half for them to find the perfect home. It had a large back garden where Crowley could plant every plant under the sun if he wanted to. The home had several bedrooms, one that would quickly be turned into a library. Unbeknownst to Crowley, another one of the rooms would be turned into a nursery.

blood, white marble, and starlight by blackeyedblonde (E)

Crowley feels an incredulous laugh wing up out of her like a startled bird. “What’s ailing me this time?” she asks, reaching up to claw at her sodden veil hanging limply against her front. “There’s nothing left for you to fucking heal.” Aziraphale leans in closer, his face held only the careful breadth of two hands from her own, and merely presses through the strands of hair and strips of cloth still plastered to Crowley’s throat and chest like scarlet seaweed. His index finger lightly touches the discernible shape of her breastbone, and she simply sits there and lets him with her heart dashing itself to death underneath. “But there is,” he says softly before pulling his hand away again. “Just here.” Crowley tries to snarl but makes a withered sort of sound in the back of her throat instead. “You idiot,” she whispers, shaking all over now with cold and wrath and the blinded oblivion of her own despair. “You doddering old fool of an angel. How the hell do you think you’re going to heal that?” “By holding you,” Aziraphale says, terribly simply. “If you’d let me.”

Some Unholy Hoax by ArgylePirateWD (E)

In a desperate attempt to delay the Second Coming, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale makes a proposal: Jesus should be completely reborn—gestated for nine months in the human way, then raised to adulthood on Earth. When he volunteers to carry the child himself, he doesn't think anyone will agree. Somebody, however, does. What will his unexpected condition do to his strained relationship with Crowley? And what will happen once it becomes apparent that something is very much amiss in this whole "Second Coming" business?

Good Expectations by tweedfeather (E)

After the Nope-ocalypse, Aziraphale and Crowley move slowly — up until the night they move too fast. The consequences will send them reeling. As they figure out what they mean to each other, they must contend with both the expected and unexpected.

- Mod D

[noxxytocin]

This or That? 🫴

Highlight your choice in your signature color. You cannot choose more than one option. Think hard and choose wisely.

Thank you kindly for the tag, @the-letterbox-archives. 🫰✨ This looks fun!

Tall or Short // Spicy or Sweet // Cute or Cool // City or Country // Mountains or Ocean // Forest or Desert // Witch or Knight // Vampire or Werewolf // Cats or Dogs // Outdoors or Indoors // Speed or Strength // Brains or Brawn // Fangs or Claws // Wings or Tail // Chaos or Order // Hot or Cold // Together or Alone // Books or Television // Close Combat or Faraway Sniping // Electricity or Ice // You or Me // Fluffy or Smooth // Firm or Soft // Black or White // Day or Night // Spring or Fall // Summer or Winter // Men or Women (Or the secret third option: Neither) // Rice or Bread // Meat or Vegetables // Short Sleeves or Long Sleeves // Sweaters or Jackets // Pastel or Neon // Friends or Family // Purse or Backpack // Competitive or Casual // Silk or Faux Fur // Sporty or Prep // Money or Love // Life or Death // Sky or Earth // Think or Leap

Tagging: @luminousecho @the-golden-comet @shyinsunlight @esolean @uniyppy @the-invisibility-bloke @eleniaelres @steve-black-hl @atrophic-dystopia @eternalremorse @gaunts-angel @jamiemoonymarks @moltenwrites @oerflink @silasbug @crime-in-progress

[pansyfilia]

this is the evan and dora timeline for @katakosmos (wip. will update later.)

1960- born to dark wizards Adrienne Rosier and Orpheus Pagonis (french/greek/arabic origins)

1960-1965- live in remote french mountain villages amongst snow and sheep for four years until moving to an apartment in central paris at 5 years old

1966- got in a car accident and broke evan's leg and ripped off his left ring finger; it broke pandora's collarbone and numbed her hearing in her right ear

1967- parents separate at seven years old, their father drinks himself to death and their mother remarries three times by the time evan dies

1971- instead of beauxbatons' regular acceptance letter discover they are accepted to hogwarts (insert worldbuilding about non-english hogwarts students acceptance that im too lazy to write)

1972- went to hogwarts with heavy french accents and made friends with barty regulus and dorcas on the train- became proficient in potions and charms respectively, still focusing on the dark arts in the meantime

1975- evan starts dating barty at 15

1976- pandora starts dating xenophilius at 16

1977- evan joins DE at 17 with barty and regulus

1977- pandora flees to france with xenophilius

1979- pandora and xenophilius are married in france

1980- evan dies when he is 20 years old, pandora is devastated and never fully recovers

he is buried in an unmarked grave by the order

1981- pandora and xeno move back to england

1982- luna born when pandora is 22

1989- pandora dies in her accident when luna is 7 years old, at the age of 29

she is buried in the rosier family cemetery, in the rosier estate

also apparently luna had twin sons???? called lorcan and lysander so i guess now they act exactly like evan and pandora and it devastates NOBODY because EVERYONE who KNEW ev and dora are DEAD.

[ignalina-c0re]

Last line/WIP Wednesday on Thursday tag

tagged by @polifandom :3 <3

I bring thee a bit of Graveyard Spiral (Losing Altitude), the middle bit of Stall Recovery Procedures, written purely because I like torturing poor Buck <3

"Gale Cleven is dead," he repeats, voice thick, "he went down in Germany two years ago." Fly like an angel, don't die like one. Did Gale die like an angel? His wings a tattered white nylon, never opening; his halo a crown of thorns that tore his cheek as he fell into the cold embrace of the ground, still looking into the turbulent sky for an absent god. Or did he die like a man? Screaming for help that would never come as the fort buckled and tore around him like a mortal wound, its wings twin blazes of orange-white, leading edges like lace and engines sputtering and sobbing, its halo a million shards of glass and flak that tore his cheek as he fell in the hellish embrace of thirty tons of molten metal and burning oxygen, still looking into the the vacant remaining eye of Lt. David Friedkin; the radio warbling quietly to itself in a hissing static-language about death.

The radio on the windowsill of Bucky's living room is warbling quietly to itself about heartbreak, a million miles from Gale Cleven's grave. Buck takes a long drag of his cigarette, and does not look at the hurt in Bucky's eyes. This you will be the one worth knowing. Gale doesn't lie, but Gale is lying dead in a field in Germany where he belongs. Buck lies, to himself, to John. Buck is less. Nothing worth knowing.

I HAVE NO IDEA WHO TO TAG because everybody's been tagged five hundred times already, so take this as a free tag if you wanna share :3

[skyeslittlecorner]

Omg now i wanna see your work about lucifer x michael lmaoo😩🤌🏻

AHEM, so. I try to complete the requests one by one, but since I don't have to write this one, I just have to reach into my little secret stash…

I admit that I never planned to publish it, it's just a crazy headcannon that I wrote with a friend. Luci is into tears, Michael is constantly crying, you know. It has potential.

I'm a little nervous and a little excited lmao don't be too harsh, I wrote it with my heart, not my skills. I only regret that I have to translate it into English because I like the original much better. Also! Important thing - it is written way before Luci is even released

I repeat for those who do not want to see my character x character works - I use the #whb!cxc tag for them, feel free to block it

Words: ~800

Everything was okay | Lucifer x Michael

Standing above the slaughter, beautiful in heavenly glory. The blood soaked into the white sleeves, dripping down the slim wrists, staining the veins. Nails cut short, delicate fingertips. The hands that carried out the slaughter were as beautiful and as soft in Lucifer's eyes as they had been when they stroked his cheeks hundreds of years ago.

The hospital stood right next to the battlefield. Doctors mingled with the wounded, and even fought side by side with them. Luci rarely agreed to join them; he made an exception when he heard from Satan that this time it was a special situation. He couldn't say no, and now he regretted it. This "special situation" fought side by side with the angelic soldiers, lazily levitating above the battlefield. Three pairs of wings made the seraph's silhouette seem tiny, and the rays that shone through the feathers burned as strongly as the lasers from his eyes. Just the sight of flying seraphin made Luci's back hurt. But what hurt more was his heart.

“Take care of the wounded here.” He ordered Marbas, who was healing the devil with no leg on his right. “I'll take care of the burns.”

"I don't think you should…"

Before Marbas had finished, Luci had disappeared among the fighting. Somewhere a leg fell off, feathers and horns cut out. In the background he saw Morax standing over the dying man and Gamigin pulling him away as the bandages became suspiciously wet. Luci felt his gut twist. He shouldn't have put himself in Michael's hands. If Gamigin saw this, he would rip his head off. Absolutely right. He felt like wringing his own head, although maybe, if he was lucky, Michael would do it for him.

This was a bad idea, he knew it. On the way, he caught devils burned by lasers, healing them one by one. Blackened patches of burnt skin, blisters filled with plasma, vast stains of flesh, everything seemed to travel back in time at Lucifer's touch. Screams of pain and thanks mixed into one, because there was only one thought in his head. A desire to look into those beautiful eyes again.

Suicide? Maybe. Not the first and not the last he committed.

He was leaning over the devil with a burnt belly. There was no way for saving him, so Luci at least tried to ease his death, when a shadow appeared over his head. Wings. He recognized the sound of feathers and the movement of air. The whistle of the spear. The point... the point bounced off his shoulder as the spear fell limply to the floor, followed by a body crashing down. 

Luci turned to thank the devil who had helped, only to see the angel's face. A hole the size of a fist right in the middle. Black on the edges. Burnt out. He looked up just in time to meet teary, mismatched eyes.

A burcher among murderers. 

A reason Luci’s heart was beating faster. 

A second or even fractions of it, it didn't take more than that. It was enough. As if in a dull mirror tainted by emptiness and pain, he saw memories from the white palace. Heaven. Shared moments. Fingers intertwined. His blond, long hair tangled with Michael's black locks. Quick breathing in the dark and uncertainty where their curiosity would lead. The pain of wings being torn off. The slash of a scythe piercing his chest. The crush of hitting the ground... The Hell.

He felt like a traitor, not for the first or last time. The hope that Hell would be his home was as illusory as a dream. He missed someone who was the biggest nightmare here. He wanted to see, to smile, to touch him again. Give them both back the innocence, win the life together that they lost. But now… he could only look at him. That one look in his eyes was enough to turn his world upside down.

Michael remembered him too.

Luci felt like the biggest traitor, even if others tried to protect him, and he tried to protect himself from these feelings too. Deep down, he knew he would eventually break. The warmth spread across his chest, remorse driving him crazy. 

Michael was a killer. Innocent devils were losing their lives. But every time Luci looked up, warm feelings filled him inside. A lot has changed, but only around. His feelings remained the same. And as long as it meant he could at least look at Michael... everything was okay.

[pastelpressmachine]

Black Mirror’s Demon 79 and the Justification of Brown Feminine Rage (warning: spoilers)

What if intrusive thoughts can be valid, and it is okay, maybe even necessary to act on them sometimes? If violence isn’t the answer, why must it so often be the question? 

Set in Northern England, 1979,  “Demon 79″ is the final episode of Black Mirror’s sixth season. It follows Nida, a meek sales assistant with a mousy appearance, who is tasked with the most complicated and important mission: to save the world by taking the lives of three human sacrifices in the days leading up to May Day.

Champions of the extended metaphor, Black Mirror employ the talents of Anjana Vasan (an Indian-born, Singaporean-raised, and U.K.-based actress) who plays Nida Huq and Paapa Essiedu (an English actor of Ghanaian descent) who plays Gaap*, the demon Nida accidentally invokes upon finding a talisman that begins this stressful mission of her. Gaap, devilishly handsome and charming, trying to earn his “wings” and be initiated into demonhood reassures the panicking Nida that she is not going mad, she is not a bad person, and the people she is encouraged to kill are vetted through his soul-reading as deserving of death.

*Gaap is considered through stories of demonology and texts related to the Testament of Solomon to be the Prince of Hell, with angels as siblings and a penchant for manipulating women and rendering them infertile. 

Gaap adjusts his form to something more comfortable for Nida by changing into a look-a-like of Bobby Farrell from the famous disco-funk German-Caribbean vocal group known as Boney M. Having the representation of a demonic entity be a Black man while allowing him to manifest into a symbol of appeal for Nida turns the inherent vilification of Black men on its head without contributing to the hypersexualization of Black bodies. Gaap is never presented as a love interest for her, but viewers do get to see them develop a snarky back-and-forth. I almost never see Black and brown leads banter like this. 

Another reason I’m glad Gaap was not portrayed as a sinful symbol of sexual desire is because Indian women already have to navigate a shame-fueled purity culture, and I wouldn’t want to see her grapple with her feelings for someone who is not only outside of her race and religion, but isn’t human. Writers avoided the idea that to love Gaap was to love something forbidden in all possible ways. And we don’t need to see Black folks depicted as not-human. The history of both American cinema and politics has acted on that dangerous perception already. 

When I saw the opening scene of Nida with her wide eyes waking up to get ready for work, I recognized the doe-like innocence in her face as the one I have been raised to emulate. She looks so much like my mother 30 years ago. Minimal makeup, modest clothes, hair neat and tied back.

Moments of Nida’s inner demons being unleashed start off as fantasies she has. She is quietly scurrying through her life as an oppressed minority in 1970′s England, where xenophobia and racism showed up everywhere, from the actions of the British Nationalists to the microaggressions Nida faces at work for simply bringing her potent biryanis to the stock room and “stinking up the place”.

Indian women are some of the least visible in politics historically and presently because we are raised to not make a fuss of things, to be quiet and reserved and let white people act how they want towards us because we are guests in their countries, even when they’ve colonized and pillaged our own. I feel Nida’s pain as she thanks the white people around her for the bare minimum (allowing her an alternative place to eat, such as the basement - where she finds the talisman that changes her life) and avoids the confrontation and rage within her, even sighing in defeat at the NF* tag that has been spray-painted on her front door. 

*NF stands for the National Front, a far-right, fascist political party in the United Kingdom, founded in 1967. 

I crave catharsis for Nida. And for her late mother, whom she has a photo of in her apartment. She explains after the first sacrifice that her mother was perceived as crazy, and now Nida is afraid that people will think the same of her, and this time, because of what she’s done, it will be true. I wondered if Nida’s mom was called crazy because she had stood up for herself, reported abuse or harassment that was occurring within the Indian community itself or in her own home, or tried to leave Nida’s father. None of these scenarios would make the show seem like fiction at all, at least not for many of the South Asian women trapped by the chains of patriarchal ideals. 

There are moments where I am concerned Nida is enamored by Michael Smart, a white politician giving a campaign speech outside the store she works at, as if his mere acknowledgment of her existence without visible disgust is enough to make her heart flutter. Again, I enjoy seeing a Black and brown lead in this episode, and knowing that other viewers are getting to see the many instances of white culture that exposes the racist ignorance and unfair power structures that exist in western society, workplaces, and even the homes of white folks themselves. (I was so happy for little Laura to hear of what was done to her assailant).

When it comes to stopping the world from absolute destruction in a nuclear holocaust, the heroes have never really been people who look like Nida. (It is worth noting that the head writer for this episode was Bisha K. Ali, who also is the executive writer for Disney+’s Ms. Marvel and has tackled many of the same representation issues in her work). People like her don’t have the permission to be loud, angry, or violent without consequences, no matter how justified. Meanwhile, with unchecked authority, bombs go off and innocent people die and children cower in their beds and white men get to act on their worst traits and impulses, however sinful, with little to no accountability.

Even when Nida is being violent, it is for the greater good. Because it has to be. Even female rage has to serve a purpose for others. It cannot just be hers. If she’s going to be angry, she better be trying to solve crime or save the world. 

And through this most guttural and sometimes poisonous part of being a human, Gaap sees her. Maybe it’s because he has transformed in the image of Nida’s celebrity crush or maybe it’s truly the way in which he interacts with her, Gaap sees Nida. He recognizes the type of violence she would and would not indulge in. He tells her she should feel more at ease after killing the first sacrifice, a pedophile she clobbers with a brick before he falls into a river. He continuously recognizes her hesitation, and suggests “Dutch courage”, or booze before following through with the second kill. It is inappropriate in Indian culture for women to drink, which Nida notes when she tells Gaap she doesn’t. Then he asks her if she wants to, something, from the expression on Nida’s face, it doesn’t seem like she has ever been asked. 

Upon entering a pub full of (yes, all white) men, Nida is dismissed by the (also white) female bartender who looks just as irritated by her existence as her coworker Vicky, who had reported how unfair it was that she had to smell Nida’s lunches and endure the lingering scent at work. An older (also white) bartender (who might be the owner) takes her order with the same polite and quiet discomfort of her boss, who had presented her with the basement lunch “solution” to appease Vicky. It’s subtle but the approaches in which different age groups and genders of white English folk take with engaging with Nida demonstrate the variety of ways in which people of colour experience discrimination. At its worst, it is violent hate crimes and unjust legislation that mutates into full blown genocide. At its mildest, it’s passive aggression and strained tolerance. 

It’s more apparent with the second killing (of a man named Keith who killed his wife) that Nida does have the option to be as righteous as she wants to be, which is something I really appreciated about her character. Even if she was killing to prevent the literal apocalypse, and the clock was 6 minutes from midnight -- she must follow the cadence of at least one kill a day -- the moment she has to hear Keith’s justification for what he did and his attempt at absolving himself with the statement “I’m not a bad husband, but --” she swings a hammer at his head to shut him up. She then bashes his head in repeatedly, even to the point where Gaap is wincing at the sight. If this was just about killing people to stop a bigger disaster and loss of life, she wouldn’t be losing herself in the act like she did. 

The third and final kill occurred in the next few minutes, as Keith’s roommate, witnesses her trying to exit, which presents itself as problem in allowing her to continue with the mission if she’s arrested. It’s messy because it was fast, the least premeditated, and she doesn’t know who the man is or if he’d done anything as bad as the previous two skills. Because of this, she’s much more apologetic as the man dies, later finding out from Gaap he was Keith’s brother, Chris, an “ordinary” person who would not have been one of Nida’s choices. 

But as Gaap says, “What’s done is done”. And the three lines on the talisman should have disappeared indicating that Nida has fulfilled her duty. But it still has a line remaining, so a confused Gaap dials 666 (of course) on Nida’s rotary phone to explain the issue to his superiors. He tells Nida that Keith apparently didn’t count because he’s a murderer and anyone who’s been directly responsible for the death of another human being (not counting future deaths they might be responsible for) is off limits. Chris counted because his death still occurred just before midnight. 

Nida doesn’t snap psychologically and decide she enjoys this and is going to become a serial killer, which is a direction I find common in other Black Mirror episodes, where the white and/or male character loses it and/or goes on a killing spree. She grapples once more with her initial unwillingness to participate in this because even when given the go-ahead and to have the most reason to, she enters a mental boxing ring with her instinct v. culture v. morals. From my own experience and what I have seen in my own community, outward expression of rage is never the first emotion a woman reaches for...because she can’t always afford to in the way others can. 

“My whole life, I never wished harm on anyone.” 

Gaap tells her what’s at risk for him, and he describes a fate of punishment that she says sounds like her life now. She stands, empathizing with an actual demon, and deciding to continue with the mission. Gaap also reminds her this isn’t solely for him; she possessed a darkness within her that drew her to the talisman. So, he asks her, who pissed her off?

To Possette’s Shoes they go. 

Vicky, a prime choice for the grand finale, delegates the task of attending to the young girl Laura (from earlier) and her mother to Nida. Because the little girl creeps Vicky out. Gaap informs Nida that because she killed Laura’s dad, Laura doesn’t kill herself at 28 and instead goes to therapy, becomes a mother at 29, and a grandmother at 57. It’s a comforting thought amidst the mayhem of it all. 

Michael Smart makes an appearance once more, as his father and the boss’s father, are old college friends, and Nida’s boss had promised him a suit and shoes on the house. The boss unsurprisingly selects Vicky as the sales attendant, with Gaap grumbling to himself as Nida’s eyes go from ‘excited crush’ to just crushed. Her boss then chooses to notice the boxes on the floor from when Vicky could’ve been cleaning up and hisses at Nida, “Could you pick up the bloody mess?” This prompts Gaap to suggest the boss be the next to go. 

Nida moves on to cleaning up the boxes, eavesdropping on the conversation between Michael and Vicky. When Michael says he hopes he has her vote, she says she is siding with the National Front who she believes will help rid the town of all the pesky foreigners. And then Michael Smart reveals himself to be what a lot of politicians are: covert bigots. He explains to Vicky that an explicitly xenophobic campaign would be too polarizing, so you have to elect a moderate who can win over the masses and put the evil plans in motion. (Sound familiar?) 

There is a subliminal language spoken among white supremacists, even if they smile politely at people who look like me and Nida. And this revelation that she witnesses presents an even more justifiable option for Nida’s third kill. 

She asks Gaap to give her information about Michael’s future, which he hesitantly reveals to her. Michael Smart wins the election, eventually becomes prime minister, and leads a new world order built on white supremacy. Nida decides he is the final target, but Gaap tells her he wouldn’t be the right choice because the Satanic world he comes from is a fan of his work and everyone there would want Michael to be able to facilitate the upcoming deaths that occur as a result of him first winning the election to become a member of Parliament. 

But Nida is set on him, or no one, giving Gaap the ultimatum to get on board or risk his own banishment after failing his initiation. 

Meanwhile, a police investigation occurs which leads to the bar staff identifying Nida as a “muttering Indian woman” who was at the bar the night Keith died. Len Fisher of Tipley Police arrives at Nida’s apartment, as part of routine questioning, and she invites him in, with Gaap’s suggestion to kill him. 

Fisher is the first white person to speak to her as person, too, even though he’s there on the premise of Nida being a potential suspect. Maybe this is more covert trust-building behaviour, maybe as a cop, maybe as someone generally suspicious of people of colour. He is the most mild-mannered, middle-man in the whole story. 

Fisher follows Nida who follows Smart after his speech at town hall. This is where I’m a little surprised but not displeased. The other episodes end with something sad, violent, and/or redemptive. Nida gets a bit of everything, but as with all things Black Mirror, not in the way you’d expect. In society, Nida may be reduced to a mad woman telling an insensible story, enduring the same perception people had of her mother. But society doesn’t last long, and she walks off into a kind of nuclear, fiery sunset with a new friend. 

The deadline for the sacrifices had been May Day, also known as Workers’ Day or International Workers’ Day to commemorate the struggles and gains made by workers and the labour movement. Nida, representing intersectional identities of the working class (immigrants, women, people of colour), was not listened to or believed, and the world ended because of it. Her weapon of choice had been a hammer, a tool meant for building that was used for destructive but necessary purposes. This could be a reference to the Communist party’s symbol of a hammer and sickle, which represents proletarian solidarity. The meaning of the episode, particularly its ending, captures the significance of the working class and how our world relies on them to function and last. When their efforts are stunted, their sacrifices are in vain, or they are not heard, the world ends. 

[tiny-minecraft-rabbit]

a new kind of warmth

Grian lept off of Monopoly Mountain, unsure what or where his next life would be, but knowing he couldn't stay here any longer. Not when the sand was red with blood. He ended up somewhere in the artic.

Part of the @extremetimedchallengeexchange which I had so much fun with!

Words: 1703

AO3 here

Grian is cold.

He hasn’t been cold in weeks. He’s used to the heat of the sun, the burn of the sand, the sweat dripping from his brows and the constant red tint to his skin. 

Now he’s cold. Now there’s a bone deep chill. Now he’s freezing and his muscles are stiff and sore from it. There’s wind ruffling his feathers and the sharp pain of ice against his cheek. He flexes his hand and grimaces as his fingers dig into snow, the burn familiar and yet so very different from sand. 

He lifts his head, attempting to open his eyes and meeting only the blinding reflection of snow for miles. He shut them again as he forced himself to his knees, shaking the frost from his wings. 

This must be death then. Some purgatory– or Hell. He’d think Hell would be the fire and brimstone, but that would have been too familiar. A wasteland of snow and ice and constant wind felt like Hell enough, would be a fitting punishment for the life he had lived. 

When he finally opened his eyes again, blinked away the brightness and let himself focus, he became a little less sure it was Hell. Not definite, but the landscape was less barren than at first glance. Most of it was ice– but behind him, when he finally stood to properly look around, was a spruce forest. Through the trees, if he squinted, he could see the warm light of torches and lamps. 

He started walking. 

Soon a cabin appeared in his view, with a large fenced yard that had wolves galloping about, foxes nicking the wolves’ toys out from under them, horses watching it all from a small stable, a big slumbering polar bear sitting at the steps of the door, and over a dozen crows sitting on the roof of the cabin. It was surrounded by a mountain range and he could just barely spot another home a couple meters away built into the stone. 

If this was life after death (and what else could be when his very last action was falling from the top of Monopoly Mountain, too grief stricken to open his wings with the blood staining his hands), then perhaps this was the home of Death itself– or an angel or a demon or someone that could explain to him what afterlife he had wound up in. At the very least it would be warmer than out here (if this afterlife was even a little kind and had insulated walls).

He stumbled past into the yard, closing the gate behind him. He flinched when the first wolf came galloping up, but it merely licked at his frozen fingers. A few of the wolves barked and howled and then several crows joined in with squawks and calls of their own, probably alerting whatever being inside the home that he was out here. The polar bear poked his head up, blinking sleepily at him. He had a golden name tag hanging from his neck and he didn’t move from his nap spot as Grian approached. 

There was movement in the window and then the door swung open– “What the fuck has gotten you so riled, chat?” The man standing at the door looked… surprisingly normal. For just a moment Grian thought he was a human, his blonde hair was pulled back by his hat and he was wearing dark green and black robes. The wings, he didn't see until they shifted and spread slightly behind him, big black things that stole all the light and almost looked like voids in space. He didn't have any other feathers on his face, or clawed hands, or taloned feet– Not like Grian. 

He was an Angel then, like Skizz was, or something like it. Skizz's wings were white; the inky black of this stranger was much more intimidating. Was this like– his Guardian Angel? He didn't think his Guardian Angel would have a potty mouth. Also he was a terrible guardian given the whole– everything he just went through. 

“Oh, hello there!” He called from the steps, waving at Grian, “Wasn’t expecting visitors. Would have cleaned up for you.” 

Grian numbly waved back, stopping in the middle of the yard as he watched the Angel come down the steps, easily sidestepping the polar bear and effortlessly ignoring the dogs that followed in his heels. A few crows swooped on him and he laughed and shouted at them. 

“Hiya, mate. You doing alright there?” He asked, stopping just sort of grabbing Grian's arm. His hand was outstretched as he looked Grian up and down, “I don't think we’ve met before. I haven't seen you around the server pretty sure. I’m Philza.” 

“Grian,” he replied, staring at Philza’s wings– one of them was messed up, the skin and tissue had so much scarring that feathers, his flight feathers, no longer grew. It was something a respawn or a few potions should have fixed, not something you let heal on its own. “Are you, like, my Guardian Angel?”

Philza laughed, “The fuck? No, mate, I’m not anyone's Guardian Angel. Especially not yours. I’ve never seen you in my life.”

“That's good, cause my Guardian Angel must suck at their job,” Grian grumbled. 

“I feel that, bud,” Philza agreed readily, stepping to the side, “Want to come inside, where it’s warm?” 

“Yes, please,” he whined, taking the biggest steps he could manage with his numb legs towards the house. 

Philza was quick to show him around. The place was small and quaint, even smaller than their sandcastle. It was crowded with sentimental items and cozy furniture. Grian was quick to sink into a plush chair and bundle his wings around himself. Philza bustled about, making tea and talking about his housemate, Techno, who was out at the moment, and his neighbor, Ranboo, who was also gone. It was just the two of them, and that was fine with Grian for now. He still wasn't sure what type of afterlife he’d wound up in and having more people in his afterlife sounded like too much right now. 

A hot mug was placed in his hand. He glared at it for a moment, the steam and heat not quite welcome despite him still warming up from the cold outside. It almost made him want to drop the mug as his fingers started to burn. 

He watched as Philza sat down across from him, a few birds perching on the back of the chair. They squawked a few times, Philza’s nose wrinkling in disgust.

“So, I don’t suppose you’re used to the cold yet, huh?” Philza remarked, lightly batting away a bird that nudged his cheek.

Grian hesitated at that, especially when the birds stopped moving to stare at him. It was unnerving with how they all looked at him, watching with an unblinking stare. “I– no not really. I’m used to warmer climates.”

“Oh, warmer climates… like deserts?”

Grian tensed at that, his wings folding up closer to his body. He glanced up at the birds, who’d started to disperse, moving to perch on other objects in the room, observing him from all angles. “I-yeah, like deserts I guess. How did you–”

“The sand,” Philza gestured to the grains that were slightly dusting the ground now, “It’s all in your wings mate. That can’t be comfortable.” 

“I’m used to it,” He replied slowly, ducking his head.

“I fucking bet,” Philza rolled his eyes. He slipped out of the chair and onto the carpet, patting the space in front of him, “Come on, up! Let’s get those fixed.” 

Grian blinked down at him, “What?” 

“You’re getting sand in my chair, mate. It’s a bitch to clean up when it gets into furniture. So, come sit, I can clean them for you.”

He stared at Philza for a long moment, not sure he was actually hearing him right. It had to be a misunderstanding on his part. Preening was intimate. At least, it was supposed to be. Sure he’s had a few hermits he was less than close to brush a feather back into place or pull a pinhead, but Mumbo was the only person he’d let sit down and run his fingers through them in ages. Him and, of course, Scar these last few weeks. The only other person he evenly remotely trusted in the games once the blood started spilling (and spilling and spilling until all that was left was Scar’s blood to spill). 

“It’s just getting the sand out, come on,” Phil waved him over again.

Slowly– ever so slowly– Grian slipped onto the floor with Philza. He had to set his mug down a second to stop it from spilling on the carpet as he turned his back to the other.

A part of him expected to feel the punch of a sword between his shoulder blades. He was tense as a bowstring, waiting for the impact. 

When the fingers slipped between primaries he flinched. 

Immediately the hands were gone. Neither of them said a thing for a second, then Philza went back to it. Grian was still tense, but he tried to stay still, hoping to make the process a bit quicker. 

Philza worked deftly and diligently. “My son was an avian too,” he muttered softly after a moment, “He had his mother’s eyes.” 

Grian hummed in response, not sure how to answer that and not sure if he was supposed to. Instead the quiet lingered, but the tension was loosening. He ruffled a few feathers, shaking out a bit of sand himself. Philza chuckled behind him before grabbing the crest of a wing to still it and returning to his work. 

After that, Philza would make idle chatter, commenting on his adventures and his sons. Grian slowly relaxed under it all. The hands in his wings, the comforting warmth of the cabin and the hot tea in a pretty red terracotta mug. 

It would be morning by the time Grian woke up again, a red wool blanket thrown over him. He’d have a million things to figure out and people to find, but until then he would fall asleep to the gentle help of a new friend.