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saddleups · 8 months ago

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𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐒. ↳ 𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈 ( womanly charm )

★ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 . . . 3.8k

★ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 . . . ongoing , part two. ARTHUR MORGAN X F!READER !! 18+ SMUT MDNI !!

★ 𝐂𝐖 . . . wet dream sequence . dirty talk . flirtatious y/n and a very jealous arthur morgan.

★ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 . . . dutch informs arthur and y/n of an upcoming mission , prompting a trip to the tailor where arthur struggles with his growing attraction to y/n. later arthur confesses what he'd witnessed the night prior.

★ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 . . . gwarsh darn didn't expect my first fic to get that much attention in such a short time !! thank you everyone who liked/reblogged , i hope you enjoy this part as well ... promise arthur and reader will eventually have their fun but we're still building up to it !!!

Beads of sweat roll down entwined bodies, fighting for dominance over each other. Arthur's grip on your wrist is like iron, pinning you to the mattress with a primal strength that leaves you breathless. With a subtle shift, you spread your legs without even realizing it, offering yourself up to him completely. A chuckle rumbles from his lips, "Atta girl" he growls, "you want it this bad?"

Your half-closed eyes lock onto his intense gaze as you nod, barely able to form words. "Yes, Mister Morgan," you whisper, feeling his power and control wash over you.

"Tell me what you want, exactly," he demands, freeing his hands to roam over every curve and dip of your body. His thick fingers glide over your aching core, teasing and taunting your desire.

"I want your hard cock inside me," you whimper, your cheeks burning with arousal. "I want it deep inside my wet pussy." Without hesitation, he enters you, filling you completely with each thrust. The intense pleasure washes over you like a tidal wave, consuming every inch of your being until…

Arthur jolts awake, the dream still vivid in his mind and his body tense with arousal. The night prior had been a blur of desire and frustration. Now in the morning air, it manifested in his dreams. Haunted by your illuminated silhouette, the scene replayed in his mind over and over. Pushing himself off the bed with a groan, the fantasy lingering in his body as he stood. Defeated, Arthur seeks something to jolt him back to reality.

He exists his tent with a stretch of his limbs. Heading towards the nearest barrel of clean water. The camp was just beginning to come back to life. The early morning sun casting long shadows across Clemens Point. Arthur dips his hand into the cold water, splashing his face in an attempt to clear his thoughts. He lingered there for a moment allowing the cool water to wake him fully.

Meanwhile, you'd already been awake for some time, standing by the extinguished campfire as you spoke with Hosea. The old man's calm demeanor had drawn you into a casual conversation, a welcome reprieve from the intensity of the previous night. But your relaxed mood quick shifted when Hosea casually asked, "Has Arthur returned your journal yet?"

Your eyes widen in size, heart nearly skips a beat. "Journal?" you repeated with alarm.

Hosea nodded. "You left it last night. The boy said he'd give it back to ya."

Like a punch to the gut, the realization dawned on you—Arthur had your journal. All the personal thoughts, the details you kept about your travels, about the people you encountered—he had it in his possession. The thought of him reading through it made your stomach twist with embarrassment. Without another word, your eyes scanned the camp until you spotted him, standing by the water barrel.

With a quick motion, you find yourself marching across the camp. Footsteps are quick and purposeful. Arthur looked up just as you approached, a lazy grin spreading across his face as pulled the journal from his coat pocket. He held it up in the air, just out of your reach.

“Lookin�� for this?” Arthur drawled, clearly enjoying the power shift. He swung the journal in the air, smirking. “If 'yer such a good thief, shouldn’t be too hard to steal it back.”

You scowled, the mortification and frustration flaring up inside you. “Give it to me,” you snapped, your tone sharp.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Come and get it, then,” he teased, holding the journal higher. “Or maybe you ain’t as quick as they say?”

Your teeth clenched, your mind racing as you weighed your options. You could feel eyes on the two of you from across the camp, watching this unexpected exchange. Arthur’s teasing was infuriating, but you weren’t about to let him win this little game he was playing.

“Well?” Arthur taunted, still holding the journal out of reach. “What’s it gonna be, princess?”

The journal dangled just out of reach. A mix of humiliation bubbled up inside you. With clenched fists, ready to make a move by force or some clever distraction, in order to get back what belonged to you. Just as your about to act, a sudden hand swiped the journal out of Arthur's grasp.

"Enough," Dutch's voice cut through the tension like a knife. He stood between you and Arthur, holding the journal with a stern expression. His usual charm muted by a fatherly disapointment. "Arthur, we're better than this, aren't we?"

Arthur's smirk faded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Was just havin' a bit of fun."

“Fun’s fine,” Dutch said, his tone lighter but still firm. “But let’s not push our new friend too far on her first day, huh?”

Dutch turned to you, offering the journal with a warm smile. “Here you go,” he said, his voice softer now. “I believe this belongs to you.”

You took the journal, your heart still racing, and quickly stashed it in your satchel, your eyes narrowing at Arthur who only shrugged in response. Relief mixed with the lingering embarrassment, but you didn’t dwell on it too long.

With the journal now returned, Dutch’s mood shifted. His usual air of confidence returned as he addressed both of you. “Now that we’ve had our fun, I’ve got something a little more important on our plate. Saint Denis. We’ve got a job, and I need both of you for it.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed, intrigued but cautious. “What kind of job?”

Dutch folded his arms, a glint of excitement in his eyes. “There’s someone in Saint Denis who’s been making moves. Politician by the name of Alistair Dupont. Heard of him?”

You hadn’t, but Arthur grunted in vague recognition.

“Dupont’s been hosting some fancy gatherings, throwing money around like it’s nothing, buying influence left and right. He’s got half the city’s upper class under his thumb, or so they say. But here’s the thing,” Dutch leaned in slightly, his voice lowering as if revealing a secret. “We don’t know who he’s really working for. Could be a front for Cornwall, the Pinkertons, or worse—someone even bigger.”

You crossed your arms, already sensing where this was heading. “You want us to figure out who’s pulling his strings.”

Dutch nodded, a grin spreading across his face. “Exactly. We need to vet him, see if he’s trouble, and more importantly, if we can get something out of him.”

Arthur sighed, leaning against the barrel. “And how do you suppose we do that? Can’t just waltz into his house and ask for tea.”

Dutch chuckled. “No, Arthur. We’re going to a party. A fancy one. Dupont’s hosting a ball in a few days, and I’ve got a way to get you both in.”

You raised an eyebrow. A ball? This was not what you were expecting. “And we’re supposed to what, make small talk and dig up dirt?”

“Precisely,” Dutch said, nodding with enthusiasm. “It’s not just about what he says—people like Dupont have enemies. Rivals. Allies who can turn into enemies. I want you two to get a feel for the man, see what you can find out about his connections. If we play our cards right, we might be able to leverage his position to our advantage. And if not…” Dutch trailed off, his meaning clear.

Arthur grunted again, though his tone had softened. “And I suppose you think she’ll fit right in with all them fancy folks?”

Dutch’s smile widened, and he turned to you. “She’s quick on her feet. I’ve no doubt she’ll manage. Besides, who better to send to a place full of secrets than someone who knows how to keep ‘em?”

Dutch shifted his weight onto his other foot, "and if that don't work she can just use her… womanly charm."

Both you and Arthur bolt upright without comment. The silence is interrupted with Dutch's laughter, "go to Saint Denis. Get somethin' that'll make you fit in with the fancy folk. The ball is in three days."

You glanced at Arthur, then back at Dutch. The job sounded risky, and you weren’t exactly one for mingling with high society, but this was the West—everything was a gamble. And the promise of a payday, not to mention the opportunity to prove your worth, made you nod in agreement.

“All right,” you said. Arthur shot you a look, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t protest. You could tell he wasn’t thrilled about partnering with you again so soon, especially after the morning’s exchange, but he trusted Dutch’s judgment. And despite his teasing, you could sense that he’d have your back when it mattered.

With the job set and the plan in motion, Dutch left you both standing by the water barrel. You watched him walk off, already mentally preparing for the role you’d need to play. Arthur, meanwhile, shifted his weight and gave you a sideways glance, his teasing from earlier now replaced by something more thoughtful.

“Well,” Arthur said, crossing his arms, “I hope you clean up well. We’re gonna be rubbin’ elbows with a whole different kind of scum.”

You shot him a look, half annoyed, half amused. “I’ll manage. You just try not to get us kicked out before we even get through the door.”

Turning on your heel you make a path toward the exit of the camp,

"Got a horse?" Arthur asks trailing behind you.

"No shit, I have a horse."

"Jus' makin' sure."

The journey to Saint Denis arrived sooner than you expected. As you dismounted your horse, the bustling energy of the city washed over you. You wiped your palms on your trousers, your nerves subtly betraying the calm exterior you tried to maintain. The streets were alive with activity, vendors shouting, carriages rattling by, and people moving in every direction. You kept your face hidden beneath the low brim of your hat, eyes scanning the crowd. A part of you couldn't shake the lingering feeling that today might be the day when the law finally catches up with you. Unlike Arthur who greeted the town with such fearlessness, ready to tackle whatever dared crossed his path.

The two of you made your way through the busy streets toward the tailor shop, weaving through the chaos of the city. When you finally reached the store, it was a stark contrast to the wildness of the world outside. The place was tidy and refined, with elegant fabrics hanging from the walls and mannequins dressed in the latest fashions.

Arthur hung back as the tailor approached you, guiding you to stand on a small platform surrounded by mirrors. You were used to practical clothing, the kind that could withstand the wear and tear of the work you did. Standing still while the tailor fussed over you felt unnatural. He began taking measurements, expertly wrapping the tape around your waist, shoulders, and hips. You stood rigid, feeling out of place, but the tailor moved quickly, pinning fabric here and there, adjusting the fit to highlight your figure.

As the tailor wrapped his measuring tape around your waist, his fingers brushing the fabric as he cinched it tight, he paused, stepping back to get a better look at you. “Ah, yes,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “You’ve got quite the… gifts, miss. This dress will truly highlight them—should be no trouble turning heads at the ball.”

Arthur, who had been leaning casually against the wall, suddenly stiffened. He cleared his throat loudly, a bit too loudly, causing the tailor to glance over with a raised eyebrow. Arthur quickly masked his discomfort, looking away and scratching the back of his neck.

"Ain't no need to get all poetic about it," he muttered under his breath.

Catching a sight of you underneath the rim of his hat, Arthur earned a fleeting glance of your clevage, the lace of your chemise peaking through the low collar of your blouse. His eyes tracked the movement of the tailor’s hands, pulling and adjusting the material until it hugged your curves in ways that your usual rough-and-ready attire never did. For a moment, his mind drifted back to the night before—when he'd caught that glimpse of you through the tent—and now, seeing you like this, the memory flickered in his thoughts, unbidden. He quickly glanced away, focusing instead on the fine stitching of his own jacket as if to shake off the wandering thoughts.

You shot a quick glance at Arthur, catching the way his gaze darted to the floor, a faint blush creeping up his neck. The tailor, seemingly oblivious, continued adjusting the fabric, tucking and pinning around your hips. “Indeed, you’ll be quite the vision,” he said with pride. "The fit is perfect for someone with your… figure. Whoever has you my dear, must be a very lucky man."

Arthur let out another awkward cough, turning slightly so his back was more to the room. “Yeah, well, let’s just get on with it, huh?” he grumbled, still pointedly avoiding looking directly at you.

You stifled a laugh, amused by Arthur's uncharacteristic bashfulness. When you stepped down from the platform, you gave the fabric one last tug, still adjusting to the new feeling of it clinging to your form. Arthur glanced at you, his usual snark nowhere to be found, replaced by an almost sheepish silence.

"Thank you kindly for your time sir" you smiled curtly at the tailor. In response the tailor nods, informing you that the dress should be ready tomorrow afternoon.

Returning to your usual attire, you reunited with Arthur outside the dress shop. The sun was setting, casting a golden hue over the cobblestone streets. The air was crisp, and you could hear the distant murmur of townsfolk going about their evening routines. Arthur shoved his hands into his pockets, kicking a stray pebble along the street.

"We should head back," you suggested.

"Nah, I need a drink first," Arthur replied, his tone more decisive than before.

You sighed, though the thought of a drink at the nearby tavern did sound tempting. The warmth of alcohol might help ease the unease that had settled in your chest, and perhaps it would give you a chance to tease Arthur about his earlier awkwardness.

"Alright," you relented, falling into step beside him as you made your way towards the tavern.

The interior of the tavern was warm and dimly lit, the flickering light of oil lamps casting shadows on the walls. The smell of ale and roasted meat filled the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation. Arthur led you to a quiet corner, where you both settled into worn, wooden chairs. The bartender, a burly man with a thick beard, approached with a knowing grin.

"What can I get ya?" he asked, wiping a glass with a rag.

"Two ales," Arthur replied, leaning back in his chair.

As you waited for your drinks, you couldn't help but notice how Arthur seemed to relax once inside the tavern. The tension that had lingered since the dress shop began to dissipate, replaced by his usual easygoing demeanor. You decided to seize the opportunity to tease him.

"So," you began, leaning forward slightly, "having trouble keeping your eyes off me today?"

Arthur's brows furrowed, and he shot you a look that was half-offended, half-amused. "I ain't got no trouble keepin' my eyes off ya," he retorted, though his cheeks turned a faint shade of pink.

You chuckled, taking a sip of your ale when it arrived. "Sure you don't," you teased, nudging him playfully with your elbow. "But maybe next time, you could try not being so obvious about it."

"Eh, don't flatter yourself." He mutters into his drink.

A scoff escapes from you, dripping with disdain. While Arthur drowns his sorrows on your right, another man takes refuge on the wooden chair to your left. You turn slightly to examine him, assessing every detail of his appearance. He fits the mold of your typical prey - a wealthy older man seeking attention from pretty women.

Unbuttoning the first few buttons of your blouse, you purposefully catch Arthur's attention. "What the hell are you doing, girl?" he snaps, his drunken haze interrupted by your subtle seduction.

"Showing you what I'm good at, Mr. Morgan," you purr, using his last name as both a taunt and a reminder of your position in this dangerous game.

The honorific sends a jolt through him, bringing back memories of his dream from earlier this morning. His cheeks flush with embarrassment and anger, but he can't tear his eyes away. Is this what Dutch meant by "womanly charm"?

Turning your back on Arthur with deliberate intention, you surrender all of your attention to the rich gentleman beside you. "My my, if it isn't the most handsome man in the entire west," you flirt effortlessly, earning the man's full attention without any effort at all. He leans closer to you, drawn in by your seductive aura. And all Arthur can do is watch in disgust as a hint of jealousy begins to stir in the pit of his stomach.

The man introduces himself as Alistair Dupont, and to Dutch's luck, he is completely enthralled by you. The drinks continue to flow and you use every weapon in your arsenal to keep Alistair's attention solely on you. Picking up your ale and purposely allowing a small stream to trail down your lips and chin before finally disappearing between your cleavage with a suggestive moan. Both men salivate at the sight, but Alistar has no idea of the intimate knowledge Arthur possesses. He doesn't know about the finger that traced up your pronounced cleavage, or the one that explored the wetness between your legs the night before. The same fingers that Arthur fantasized about gripping his hard cock. Arthur squeezes his thigh with such force, it's a miracle he didn't tear through the fabric. He nearly lunges forward, ready to grab your wrist and tear you away from your seat.

"Excuse us now," he growls.

"Hey!" you protest, but Arthur's grip on your wrist is like a vice, making it difficult to break free. Before he can drag you away from the bar, Alistair grabs onto your other wrist in a desperate attempt to keep your attention. In one swift motion, he slips a folded paper into your palm before releasing his grip. "I said come on, woman," Arthur grunts, tugging you forcefully off the stool while you give Alistair a coy goodbye wave.

You walk alongside Arthur, your heart still pounding from the reckless game you’d just played, you unfold the crumpled piece of paper in your hand. Inside, you find an invitation to the ball and… a hotel key. Before you can react, Arthur snatches the key from your grasp.

His sudden, erratic behavior gives you whiplash. You're not sure if he's drunk or just being difficult, but either way, it's hard to tell if arguing with him is worth the trouble.

“I ain’t playin’ games with you, boy,” you say, your voice low and steady, masking your frustration. “Give it back. Now.”

Arthur's eyes glint with something—defiance, maybe even jealousy. “Or what?” he says, his tone laced with challenge.

It sounds like a dare.

You stare up at him, your patience fraying. “Or… nothing, Arthur,” you finally sigh, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over you. “Dupont is our target. He’s the person I need to get close to if we’re going to make Dutch happy and get what we need.”

Arthur's expression darkens, and he takes a swig from the bottle of liquor in his other hand. “So, what’s the plan, huh? You wooin’ him? Flirtin’ your way to answers?” His voice is sharper now, his words dripping with a bitterness you hadn’t expected. “Dutch didn’t say this was your job alone.”

You bristle at his accusation, realizing where this is coming from. “It’s not my job alone,” you snap back, crossing your arms defensively. “But you know how people like Dupont work. He’ll talk more freely to someone he thinks he can charm. I’m just using what I’ve got to get him to open up. It’s a part of the job.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks like he might argue more, but instead, he grunts and stumbles forward, the hotel key still in his grip. “Yeah, well, I ain’t just sittin’ around while you play nice with some rich bastard,” he mutters, starting to walk off, his steps uneven.

Before Arthur can stumble too far, he pauses, his back still half-turned to you. He seems to hesitate for a moment, as if wrestling with something in his mind. Then, with a grunt, he spins back toward you, his expression hard but his eyes revealing something else—something deeper.

“There’s somethin’ else,” he says, voice low and rough. His gaze flicks to the ground, then back up to you. “Last night… I saw somethin’ I wasn’t supposed to.”

You frown, your stomach twisting as a knot of confusion and dread forms in your chest. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, Arthur?”

He exhales heavily, the weight of the words he's about to say clearly gnawing at him. “When I went to return your journal. I saw you… in your tent. You weren’t exactly… dressed.” He shifts uncomfortably, and despite his rough demeanor, there's a vulnerability in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. “You were… you know… busy. And I—hell, I didn’t mean to—"

The realization hits you like a punch to the gut, leaving you speechless, your mouth slightly open but no words coming out. Heat floods your face, and for a split second, you wish you could vanish into thin air. Arthur’s gaze holds steady on you, almost daring you to respond, but all you can feel is the sudden rush of mortification and shock.

“I wasn’t spying, I swear it,” he adds quickly, his voice gruff but tinged with something almost like guilt. “I turned away. But I ain’t been able to stop thinkin’ about it.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The confession hangs heavy between you, the weight of it suffocating the air.

“Arthur…” you manage to say, but the words falter, your voice barely a whisper. You're at a complete loss for how to respond, a thousand emotions swirling through you—embarrassment, anger, confusion, and something else you’re not ready to name.

But before you can say anything more, Arthur lets out a harsh breath, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the moment. “Forget I said anything,” he mutters, turning abruptly on his heel, the hotel key still in his hand.

“Where are you goin’?” you call after him, your voice rising in irritation.

Arthur stumbles over his feet, but manages to catch himself, waving the key in the air. “Gonna go piss in that rich man’s hotel,” he slurs, his words barely coherent.

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#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #rdr2 x reader #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x y/n #filed: honor among thieves.#saddleups

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sunfish5149 · 11 months ago

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After rewatching round 6 for the nth time I just realized Till Win is reflected in Ivan's blood and OH. MY BMFUCCKIGBGOOOODDDD I HATE THEM I HATE THEM O HATE TJEM they could never make me hate you ivan.

Till standing next to Ivan while his body is still cooling feels awfully a lot like how a person would mourn at their loved one's grave, but I think that there's a lot more going on inside Till's head, and this just saddens me. I would crumble personally if I was him, because to me, Ivan's death also feels like a slap to the face I guess? Because until now his crush on Mizi allowed him to be selfish, to believe that once she was gone, he would be left all alone. He gave up his will to live, accepted defeat without further struggle, because he idolized and idealized Mizi to a point where his whole life depended on her existence. Perhaps he does have a crush on Mizi, but I fully believe that it partly stems from the love and adoration he saw Mizi offer to Sua, almost like "what if I could have that too?". He could not bear to part with the love and salvation he saw within Mizi, to the point where he gave away his freedom just to be near her, just for the chance that maybe he'd finally know what it feels like to be wanted, to be loved. He selfishly cut away at all the bad parts in this picture that he did not want to see, the worthless parts, the painful ones, the suffering he has endured at the hands of his captors, and ended up cutting away at the people that might've cared for him, that still do, until nothing but Mizi remained, who he foolishly believed to be able to offer him what he so desperately wanted. He made himself believe that he was alone, up until he truly, truly was. Until when can a man doggedly chase after one person until the death of what I dare call " the closest thing to family he has ever had" drop like flies around him? Round 6 offers us an answer.

I believe that part of the reason why he stood there as Ivan bled out is him processing that someone actually cared about him, loved the parts of Till that he saw to be loveless. It also feels like a wake-up call, the cut up picture that he has constructed his life around has finally been proven as the lie it is. He can no longer be selfish enough to close his eyes on reality, on his obsessive idealization for someone who will never, who cannot save him, on the fact that Mizi already loves somebody else so dearly, because the love he was searching for in someone, to be returned, was right next to him all along.

Too bad he only noticed Ivan when he was bleeding out at his feet. This is the closest thing to salvation Till will ever get from someone, to love so dearly one would give away their life without hesitation, to throw away their freedom, to not cut away at the corners of this picture, but to see it and love it and do everything to preserve it. Should Till look at such a picture, he would find the pieces of paper he has cut of himself which he believed to be loveless, reflected back at him in that puddle of blood. (I wrote this part fully relying on the muscle memory of my keyboard because my tears were deeply obstructing my vision)

This sacrifice will either ruin Till or give him motivation to live and the tenacity to fight back and free himself from the prison he has willingly walked in, and to finally accept that Mizi is a lesbiab and a ferocious grieving woman kisser. oh my god.

Edit: I JUST REALIZED MIZI ALSO IDOLIZES SUA THE SAME WAY TILL DOES WITH MIZI I HATE THEM I HATE TJEM J HATWHENM

Edit 2: this rant is lowkey outdated because first of all, I feel like I insulted Till's love for Mizi. Just as Ivan loved Till for his tenacity and fighting spirit, and whatever else he saw in that wet cat of a man, so did Till love Mizi, for her innocent happiness and love that poured out of her. She was the only one out of them who was blissfully unaware to the pain and suffering of the humans, and the shit the aliens put the rest through, the fact that Till was attracted to her partly because of that makes me feel miserable. I do wonder what he will think, should he survive and see just how much Mizi has changed, how she has grown to fight for what she wants to protect.

I also feel that I have underestimated Till's relation to Ivan, he truly did care for him, Ivan was just too cryptic to express himself

#alien stage #alnst ivan #alnst till #ivantill #alnst mizi #alnst round 6 #alnst round 7 #this was a wholeass #character study #im gonna go sob hysterically #ALNST #alnst

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kyoshithewriter · 1 month ago

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The Missing Piece. (Part Eight)

Wc: 3.8k

Warnings: mature themes (18+)

A/n: Just a little chapter that I tried to do from Virgil’s pov because I realize I don’t usually do that? lol anyway, I have two chapters of this left tops(knowing me I’ll probably just wrap it all up in one long chapter). Hope you enjoy 🫶🏾

Virgil stares out the window above the stove looking at nothing in particular. If his neighbour should coincidentally do the same, they’d probably think he’s staring right at their house. But he’s just zoned out; not in the way he’s become used to doing these past couple months. Not with bitter, melancholy thoughts feeling like they were physically eating at his brain and consuming his very being. But in a way that’s… peaceful. For the first time in a long time, he’s able to just exist without darkness clouding his mind. There’s an uncharacteristic lightness to his shoulders; his inhales actually feel like they fill his lungs instead of being obstructed by the heaviness in his chest. His muscles and limbs feel lax— like they actually belong on his body and aren’t just there to burden him down. Is this what a little serotonin and prolactin does to a man? But he knows it’s not just the act of sex that has him feeling this good. It’s the who— Niamh. It’s Niamh and how she still found attraction in him at his lowest. It’s Niamh and her pretty little eyes and soft demeanor but fiery spirit when it’s necessary. The very first night he saw her in this very kitchen— even in that oversized, unflattering shirt and her hair tied up, he knew from the way his heart leaped just at her soft, nervous gaze that it would be a long fucking day for him. He had assumed she was a lot younger, and ran out the room because he didn’t know what to even say to her. Once upstairs, he actually took the time to comb through all the information Ivy had texted him about the new hire. 25. He had assumed 21, but she’s still a lot younger than what felt right. He thought it best to avoid her, like he does all his problems. But he found himself looking at the cameras more often, just to get a glimpse of her walking through the hallways. She was so gentle with his children like they were her very own and it made him restless because it heightened the attraction he was so desperately trying to ignore. He felt like such a creep. He almost fired her but decided against it. He’ll admit he had fallen out of love with his wife long before they got divorced. The constant fights, the way they never saw eye to eye, the way she didn’t show any appreciation for anything he did; they didn’t share a bed for almost a year before the divorce. It was loveless for a long time; but it provided a kind of stability that he and the kids craved. Losing her didn’t send him spiraling because he was still deeply in love, it sent him spiraling because he knew it would change everything drastically. Seeing Niamh create a perfect routine for them to fall into, the way they clearly adored her— he didn’t want to rip that away because he was a grown fucking man with a crush. So he let her stay. Even after she almost beat his door off its hinges to yell in his face. Virgil can’t help the way he smiles at the memory. Soft foot falls reach his ears before her hands loop around his waist. She rests her head in the middle of his back and he almost sighs out loud. Content.

“You left me in the guest bedroom.”

He can’t see her face but he knows she’s pouting her cute mouth like she does so often with him. Warmth spreads throughout his entire body.

“You could barely stay awake while we showered, so I carried you to bed. You were out as soon as your head hit the pillow.” He says with a chuckle.

“But I wanted to stay in your room. With you.” She gives a little yawn after the words leave her mouth.

He feels like he could actually fucking melt in a puddle of goo. Does she have any idea what she does to him?

“You’ve made a mess of my bed, baby. I slept with you in the room for a while. I only woke up a few minutes ago.” He responds truthfully. He turns his body just in time to catch her hiding her face bashfully. Niamh buries her face in his chest instead as he chuckles.

“‘M sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I loved every single second and I’d do it all again.”

He can’t resist the urge to grab her plump behind in his hands to give a gentle squeeze while pulling her closer to his body. He groans a little at how soft she feels in his hands. How did he become so lucky? Not only with her literally stumbling into his life like this, but being the man she trusts enough to share her body with.

“You did?”

He can hear the little sliver of insecurity in her voice. He knows it has something to do with her inexperience.

“Even more than you did, and you loved it a lot.” He says without a shadow of doubt.

“It was okay…” she ducks her head too late so he catches the teasing smile on her face.

“Okay? I’m sure everyone in the community knows my name now. Virgillll..” he tries and fails to imitate her whiny, breathless voice.

“Stop!” Niamh slaps his chest and burrows into his chest like she wants to actually crawl into his skin.

“It’s true though.”

“Yeah? Well you try taking a dick that big and see how you’ll sound.”

A sharp laugh is pulled abruptly from his chest.

“And you didn’t even take all of it, hm? Imagine how you’re gonna sound when I fit every single inch-”

“Shut up!”

Niamh slaps her dainty hands over his mouth. Amusement twinkle in his eyes as he looks down on her and flicks his tongue against her palm.

She pulls her hand away, eyeing him in faux disgust. Virgil stares down at her and he’s sure his gaze is tender; he doesn’t care. She eyes him with a contemplative look on her face.

“Your smile is beautiful. I hope I get to see more of it.” She mutters shyly.

He tips her chin up to kiss her softly in lieu of responding. With a little sigh, she melts into him completely. He pulls away to rub at her chin with his thumb.

“It’s almost 1:30. We need to leave soon. Do you need me to pick you up on my way back?”

“Um I have some shopping to do and I’m not sure when I’ll be done with that so it’s okay. I’ll call a taxi or something.” She smiles softly at him, dropping her chin against his chest. He wonders if she can feel the fast pace of his heartbeat.

“Do you have your license?”

She shakes her head with an embarrassed expression on her face.

“No need to be embarrassed, baby. I understand your circumstances. I would’ve allowed you to take one of the cars but…” He pulls his phone out of his pocket to hand it to her. “Put your number in, just get ready at your place. I’ll get the kids ready and pick you up on our way to dinner.”

Niamh saves her number and hands him back the phone.

“Okay. I made a reservation for 7.”

“Okay. Could you um… could I borrow a pair of boxers?”

His dick twitches in his sweats at the thought of her being completely naked under his shirt again.

“Of course.”

Niamh steps out of his embrace and he follows her out the kitchen. He tries not to chuckle at her gait but fails terribly. It’s a little slower with her legs a bit further apart.

“I swear on everything, Virgil, if you're laughing at me after you did this…”

“I’m sorry, baby. I’ll kiss it better later.”

He smirks at the sound of her breath hitching. Suddenly, he can’t wait to have her all to himself again.

*************

When Virgil planned this family outing, he forgot what going outside actually meant. Being isolated so long made him forget that he’s an actual celebrity. He sits tensely, trying not to snap at paparazzi sitting outside the restaurant trying to be subtle as they take flick after flick. Thankfully, the children don’t seem to notice and it’s all thanks to Niamh as she engages them in conversation about any and everything. Beautiful Niamh in her long sleeved, black dress that shows off the black tights underneath. He has never seen her in heels before but he hopes this isn’t the last time. The shoes accentuate her long legs so well. And she looks so beautiful with her hair styled in an up-do that shows off her cheekbones with a few curls falling into her face. She’s so beautiful and that’s another reason he’s a little annoyed. The waiter has obviously been trying to flirt. The young man had been excited to see him and asked for a picture, which he politely declined, not wanting everyone’s attention on them. He then subtly inquired about Niamh’s position in his life.

“So… who’s the lady who finally managed to get Virgil van Dijk out the house after his injury?”

Virgil had hurried to let him know Niamh was the kids’ nanny, not wanting her face and name all over blogs. He’s realizing now that the cheeky bastard asked to know if he had the okay to flirt with the woman.

“Um, here’s the molten chocolate lava cake I suggested.” The boy is tall in a way that makes his limbs look awkward and his cheeks are blotchy from Niamh’s attention.

“Oh, but I didn’t order-”

“It’s um… it’s on the house.”

Virgil wants to gnash his teeth at the pretty smile she beams up at the man.

“We’ll take the bill now.” Virgil didn’t intend to make his voice so rough but his patience is wearing thin.

“Oh! Of course.”

The waiter, who introduced himself as Brandon, looks at Niamh one more time before shuffling away.

Virgil watches, fascinated, as Niamh manages to make five pieces out of cake no bigger than Aurora’s fist. She spoons a piece in each of the kids’ mouths and he almost protests since they just had gelato for dessert. But before he can, she scoops a piece of cake on the spoon again and shyly stretches it in his direction. He tenses. If he leans forward to eat directly off the spoon while she holds it, it will look intimate enough to create a headline out of.

“I shouldn’t. I need to stay in shape even through injury.”

He hopes the excuse is believable but his heart sinks at the little pout on her face.

“I’ll have daddy’s piece!” Aurora and Shelly yell in unison.

Niamh offers them a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes and gives both girls the remaining pieces of cake. So unselfish; he feels like shit. Virgil hurries to pay the bill and still leaves the waiter a generous tip even though he’s annoyed at him.

“Thanks for taking us to dinner, dad.”

Shelly, always thoughtful, always appreciative, whispers as she hugs at his waist as soon as they enter the house.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Virgil stands in the living room watching as Niamh ushers them all upstairs to get them ready for bed. It’s a little past 9:15 and they have school tomorrow. By the time he’s done brushing his teeth and changing into something more comfortable, he hears the guest bedroom door open and slam shut.

“For fuck’s sake.” He scrubs a hand down his face and eyes his bed that’s stripped bare. It might as well have an “out of commission” sign hung above it. He exits his room and almost shuffles his feet down the hallway to the door of her room. He actually feels nervous and he wants to laugh at himself for it. He gives two firm knocks on the door before swinging it open. Virgil eyes Niamh standing by the vanity with her phone in hand while it’s plugged into the wall. She’s still fully dressed and definitely ignoring him. Sighing, he reaches behind to close and lock the door.

“Thank you for coming to dinner.” He starts cautiously, just to gauge her reaction.

“Okay.”

“Niamh…” he trails off with a tired groan.

“I just think it’s funny how you weren’t concerned with keeping your body in shape when you were chugging whiskey like water but a dime sized piece of cake is where you draw the line.”

He chuckles bitterly. “Wow, that’s low, Niamh.”

She chews on her lower lip and he can already tell she feels regret. It shows in the hunch of her shoulders and the way she can’t look at him.

“I just… I saw your body language all throughout dinner, Virgil and the way you hurried to let the server know I’m ‘just the nanny’ and… if you’re embarrassed to be seen outside with me then why invite me in the first place?” She questions with a sad frown on her mouth.

Virgil can only stare in stunned disbelief for a few seconds— then he starts chuckling. He makes his way over and drags her by the waist to stand between his legs as he sits on the bed.

“You think I’m embarrassed to be seen with you? Niamh, there were people taking pictures. I just thought accepting that cake would look intimate enough for some headlines. I know how cruel the public can be and I was trying to protect you, baby.”

“Oh.” She looks down at him bashfully. She rests her palms on his shoulders.

“And I was tense because that scrawny fucking waiter kept trying to flirt with you.”

“No he wasn’t. He was just being nice.” Her breath stutters when he playfully bites at her lower belly through her clothes.

“Yes he was.”

Her body calls to him in the gentle way she quivers and the subtle way her breathing picks up. He doesn’t dare resist. He grips at the hem of her dress and slowly pushes it up her legs. Shamelessly, he buries his face in the apex of her thighs— taking a deep inhale. He groans long and low in his throat at the heat of it- at the light musk. Her fingers grip at his hair, fingers scratching lightly at his scalp. Virgil grips at the material of her black tights, it gives easily under his strength and rips right down the middle. She gasps above him.

“Still sore?” He bumps his nose against her black, cotton panties.

“Uh huh.”

“I made you a promise, didn’t I?”

Her soft thighs quiver in his hold.

“Yes you did.” She pouts.

“Mhmm. Take your clothes off, baby.”

*******

Niamh’s feeble attempt to flee his hot, relenting mouth is futile. The iron grip he has on her waist makes her immobile. The woman blinks down at him, eyes wide and teary- pleading. She still wears an expression of disbelief— like she’s still unable to wrap her head around the fact that he has her in this position. Even though he has already pulled one orgasm from her. He’s lying on the floor with Niamh’s legs spread on either side of his head. He learned his lesson earlier on just how wet she’s able to get and he couldn’t afford her ruining these sheets too; so he decided the floor was the better option. He’s glad he listened because she is currently making a mess of him; the entire lower half of his face is dripping— even the collar of his plain white tee is a sopping mess. Virgil wants to curse himself for choosing tonight of all nights to actually wear a shirt.

“Virgil- hah. Too much.”

He’s not sure if Niamh is just extra sensitive to every sensation or it’s because her body isn’t used to this kind of pleasure yet; whichever one it is, it makes her so easy to rile up. By the time Virgil kissed his way down her body and heaved her onto his face, he only had to flick at her clit with his tongue a few times before she was shaking through an orgasm. He was surprised but decided he wasn’t going to stop. Not until he’s had his fill; not until she’s begging for him to stop. He slithers his tongue through her warm, wet folds and teases at her entrance with it. She keens long and low in her throat — her body jerks causing his nose to bump into her clit. She tries to ease off his face, he allows her a few centimeters while he glares at her.

“You try to move off my face again, Niamh…” his voice is gruff with the warning.

“B-but it’s… I- I already came. It feels… it’s too much.” Her voice trembles with the effort. Gosh seeing her like this is enough to drive him wild. He never knew how much he craved a little submission. The way she eyes like she can’t believe he’s even capable of making her feel this good. Something nasty burns in the back of his mind that spreads shameful warmth through his entire body. ‘I’m her first.’ He’s the first man to have ever had her like this. The first to ever be inside her. The only man that knows what she looks like when she feels good. The only man that knows what she sounds like. ‘It should fucking stay that way.’

“Mhmm I know, baby. But you want to be good for me, don’t you?”

She looks down at him with those innocent eyes and nods.

“Good girl. Give me one more.” He pulls her back down on his mouth and his eyes nearly roll to the back of his head. Warm. Wet. Niamh. He grips her ass in both hands and drags her back and forth on his tongue. She glides along so easily, only little resistance from the texture of her swollen clit each time. He can’t help himself; her taste is so heady— pontent. Her little cries make him shiver to his bones. He’s so hard it hurts. He reaches one hand to push his shorts and underwear down before quickly fisting his dick. He groans at finally getting some stimulation and the vibration sets off a little sob from the woman above him.

One more orgasm turns to three. On the second one, she throbs wildly against his tongue and he moans from the pit of his stomach as he comes. Ropes of it spilling over his hand and on his lower belly as he fucks wildly into his tight fist. He keeps going even after he’s spent. On the third one Niamh actually starts begging for mercy through her tears as she wets his face and shakes through it.

“Virg, please. No more. Please! Hah! Can’t. ‘M sorry.”

He eases her off his mouth and carefully slides her down his body.

“It’s okay, you did so well. So good for me, princess.” He coos as he hugs her into his chest. Niamh trembles like a leaf, teeth clenched tightly as if the orgasm is still buzzing unrelentlessly through her body.

It takes a few minutes for Niamh to gather her bearings enough for him to take her to the bathroom. She’s pliant and clings to him as they stand under the warm stream of the shower. Virgil gently sits her down on the counter as he swishes mouthwash around in his mouth. Niamh stares at him through hooded eyes with something akin to reverence dancing in her pretty, brown orbs.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He asks as soon as he spits the contents in his mouth into the sink.

“How do you do it? How do you know how to make me feel that good?”

He smiles at the flustered expression on her face.

“Years of practice and experience. Observing how you react to certain touches.” He moves to stand between her legs.

“How… How did your wife go months without…? Like I’ve only gotten a small taste and I know it’s all I’m going to ever think about. I have exams soon too” She whines as if it’s genuinely distressing.

Virgil chokes on his laughter feeling the way his chest warms. How the fuck can one person be this cute?

“You better focus on your exams, baby.” He says a bit sternly, rubbing small circles into her thighs.

“How can I even think of studying in my free time when I know what your mouth feels like on my…” she trails off shyly.

“Maybe I’ll reward you? Hm? After every study session, if you’re able to answer all the questions I ask I make you feel good.” He murmurs suggestively before capturing her lips in a kiss.

“Deal.” She tries to chase his lips again but a tiny knock on the door makes them both stiffen.

“Niamh? I had a nightmare, can I sleep with you?” Aurora’s tiny voice both kicks them into gear.

“Coming, sweetheart!”

Niamh hurries to slide the oversized shirt overhead and slips her panties and sleep shorts up her legs. Virgil almost falls in his haste to get his boxers and shorts on. She’d laugh if she wasn’t so flustered. He throws his shirt in the hamper and they both power walk into the room. Once they reach the door, they both pause- eyeing each other. The question is clear without either of them having to ask. ‘How the fuck are they going to explain this?’ Niamh sucks in a deep breath and swings the door open.

“Hey pumpkin. Come in.”

Aurora rubs her little fist against her eye that’s heavy with sleep. The second she realizes her father is in the room, her face lights up.

“Daddy? You had a bad dream too?”

“Uh… yes?”

Niamh eyes the man above Aurora’s head, trying to keep her laughter at bay. Virgil bites at his lower lip hard enough to bleed.

“Don’t worry, Niamh gives the best cuddles. She’ll make the bad dreams go away.”

The little girl reaches for both their hands and leads them to the bed. Aurora slides in the middle; Virgil and Niamh flank on either side of her. The little girl tugs them closer so they both hug her little form between their bodies.

“Night, Niamh. Night, daddy.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

They both whisper the words simultaneously. Niamh eyes him with a look so tender it makes him melt against the bed. Reaching an arm above Aurora’s head, he rubs at the apple of her cheeks softly.

“Goodnight, Virgil.”

“Sweet dreams, Niamh.”

#black woman #football #football fanfic #virgil van dijk x black oc #virgil van dijk x black reader #virgil van dijk x reader #virgil van dijk fiction #virgil van dijk #lfc

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ani-iu · 4 months ago

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[𝟏/𝟐] 𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐃 | angel 𝐀𝐝𝐚𝐦 × female sinner 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 × 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐨

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You are a sinner in Hell, and you want to die—permanently. You own nothing, not even your soul, and struggle every day just to exist. That is why you view the annual exterminations as your only hope and the last pardon from God to sinners.

When the day comes and you lie down with an exorcist angel hovering above you, you accept your fate with a serene smile on your face. Finally, you will be free.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

But your executioner just had to be the first man himself.

Killing sinners when they want it is not as fun, which is why Adam presents you with a deal—your kind likes those, right? He will kill you, but only if you are willing to listen to him spill everything that is weighing on his soul. Dead tell no tales, and Adam really needs someone to talk to.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: angst; bittersweet ending; implied/referenced suicide; suicidal thoughts; implied/referenced rape/non-con; rape/non-con elements; drug use and addiction; self-image issues; canon-typical violence; explicit sexual content; dubious consent; unhealthy power dynamic expressed through cannibalism; religious imagery & symbolism; religious guilt; Adam being Adam; blood and gore; dead dove: do not eat. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7,6k.

// wrath of god

𝐘ou were falling for a while—as if everything slowed down the moment you jumped.

At first, you had your eyes opened. The crisp late November air was cold but not unpleasant against your sweaty skin—invigorating even—and when you opened your mouth, it tasted of a faint hint of ice and stifling city pollution. You never felt so at peace as you did at that moment, so you allowed your tense body to surrender itself to gravity rather quickly and without much fight.

It was only once you got closer to splattering against the pavement that you finally closed your eyes and, with a palpitating heart, braced yourself for the impact. But it never came.

You just kept falling.

And falling.

Delayed confrontation with your painful death not only confused you but also twisted your stomach in a suffocating swirl of anxiety-inducing inevitability and sick giddiness. Was this the moment I would see my life flash in front of me?

You wished—no—you needed to catch a vivid glimpse of your sun-drenched childhood days, unclouded by the passing of time. It wouldn’t have changed a thing. You already made your irreversible decision. However, it felt strange not to cry in this circumstance, and perhaps childhood nostalgia would have been able to squeeze a few drops out of you.

To be honest, you didn’t know who you were trying to please with the waterworks, but after spending your entire life seeking approval from others, you wanted to end it the same way by showing off to the first responders your glossy, tear-stained cheeks while they scrape off your mangled body from the asphalt.

Yet, all you could think of was the ten-minute countdown toward the end, which played inside your mind on a taunting loop—ending the moment you hopped over the railing to your death and starting again the moment the door of the balcony clicked shut behind you.

Click.

Back pressed against the glass, you stand frozen in place for a moment, simply listening to the clamour of the city below. Icy snowflakes fall over your shoulders, creating a comforting blanket of pure white, but your body quickly melts it all away as if something as tainted as you didn’t deserve its biting solace.

You clutch your phone close to your chest like it is the only thing keeping you grounded at the moment.

Carefully and without loosening your deadly grip, you peel the device away until the screen senses your face and unlocks itself, presenting you with a lengthy list of contacts.

Thumb gliding over the wet screen as you scroll through hundreds of numbers brings you back to reality alongside a heavy feeling in your gut. You are reminded of just how useless the device is to you.

But your desperation has grown since the last time you contemplated reaching out for help. To the point you even consider setting aside any animosity you hold toward your mother. You could reach out to her, but, childishly, you have her contact listed under her name, and, well, her name turns out to be common enough to have three namesakes saved in your contacts, making it impossible to decide which one to call.

Yet, you don’t even try to call at least one of them. Your pride is stuck inside your throat—impossible to swallow. So you lock your phone and drop it into your coat pocket, substituting the device for a pack of cigarettes.

The filter sticks to your dry lips while you intensely watch the flame repeatedly lose the fight against the wind. Yet, with furrowed eyebrows, you refuse to let the fire die—rolling your thumb against the steel wheel of the lighter to spark it up again.

And again.

The moment smoke hits the back of your throat, you release a sigh of contentment before taking a shaky lungful. All the tension leaves your body as you lean against the safety railing and shake the ash into the darkness below, watching it dance together with the falling snowflakes in one harmonious rhythm.

"Tempting, isn't it?"

So much for peace and quiet.

You push away from the edge and twist your body toward the devil himself.

You just had to get in his way, had to catch his predatory gaze from across the room after one of the fashion shows you were modelling at. As if any of this was even my choice. Nothing was. I didn't choose him, but he chose me—to drug, defile, and pass around his pretentious, disgusting buddies.

Said man is leaning against the doorway, his dark hair blending in with the night. He turns his head toward the railing you are leaning against and follows his suggestion with a mocking laugh. "It’s not like you would be missed. After all, you are still here."

He leaves you after that, not bothering to close the door behind him. He knows you will come back. You always do.

Flicking the butt of the cigarette, you watch it free fall and just disappear into the pitch-black abyss below—used and discarded. You still remember how light the filter felt in between your fingers. I bet its fall is light too—

You take a step back as if the wet phone in your pocket has finally short-circuited and electrocuted you.

I am loved, you tell yourself as you push your freezing hand into your pocket until your bony fingers curl around the cell phone.

You haven’t entertained the thought of jumping until now. That should show that this isn’t your doing; these aren’t your thoughts. He is the parasite that infected yet another aspect of your life.

Pulling out the device with shaking hands, you stare at an empty lock screen.

He is lying, trying to get a rise out of you, your racing mind supplies as your grip tightens.

The screen turns dark, and the phone stays silent. You hold it for a while longer—your phone as well as your breath.

The air you exhale comes out as a puffy cloud. You look up at the sky and the falling snowflakes. They cover your face in small blotches, their coldness lasting a moment like a small, calming kiss against your burning skin. Then they melt and roll down your face and down your neck into the inside of your shirt.

Daring a glance over the railing, you slowly become mesmerised by the serenity and tranquillity that darkness provides.

And you can’t help but believe him.

No one would notice if I just disappeared.

With that last thought, you finally hit the ground with a jarring slam. The impact knocked the remaining air out of your lungs, paralysing your body with the most overwhelming pain and making any kind of movement impossible for a short moment. A bloodcurdling scream pierced right through the ringing in your ears, and only when you felt your throat burn did you realise that the screaming belonged to you—not some kind of wounded animal.

Pain was the clearest indication that you were still alive, and fearing that you had somehow managed to survive your attempt, you opened your eyes only to be confronted with a reality that was even worse than that.

The air around you was heavy like lead, crushing your whole being to the ground and filling your lungs with sour and bitter fumes. Everything around you was drenched in red. It was as if you fell through the earth's crust all the way to its magmatic middle. The seemingly impossible scenario would have provided an explanation for the long fall and seemed much more plausible to you than what the pentagram above would imply.

However, before you could comprehend your current predicament to the full extent, the dainty silver cross that you always wore around your neck began to burn you through your clothing, causing you to grip it without a second thought and frantically tug on the chain to take it off. It scorched your palm, filling the air with the nauseatingly sweet smell of burnt flesh.

If asked, you wouldn’t have been able to say for certain how long it took for it to finally break—you still don’t know—you just remember the short-lived relief, which quickly got overshadowed by the heavy implication of the aftermath.

There was an ugly taste in the back of your throat as you watched in horror how the precious metal melted in front of your eyes, becoming so hot that the silver puddle turned red and blended in with the ground beneath your feet. You wanted to scream in horror, but all that left your throat was a pathetic whimper.

Not only were you in Hell, but this gesture felt like the God you prayed to your whole life just slammed the door of His home right in front of your face.

At some point, you had managed to drag yourself into a nearby alley to get your bearings. But the moment your heavy head hit the wall, one of the back doors opened, and you saw a demon being tossed out, their bones cracking as they rolled down the steep flight of stairs, landing right by your feet.

That's how you met Isaac—a sinner whom you genuinely considered a friend, even though you sometimes wondered if he was real or merely a figment of your imagination, given how he made your afterlife a tiny bit more bearable. His optimism was infectious, yet you couldn't miss the way his smile always hinted at the regret he never fully expressed to you. But it wasn't like you divulged much about yourself either, as fear always held you back despite your longing for connection.

That’s who you were—a coward. And you stayed true to that title, remaining hidden in the shadows even while Isaac was being butchered by an angel from Heaven.

You physically couldn’t move. Instead, you attempted to justify your cowardice by reminding yourself how agonisingly painful regeneration is for sinners. If you also got hurt, no one else would take care of your friend, so you stayed in your hideout until the early hours of the morning when the flock of angels finally retreated back into the sky.

Once you approached the scene, all you saw were the fleshy pieces scattered on the brimstone. If you hadn’t witnessed the slaughter for yourself, there would be no way for you to put a name to the innards that were left behind.

You sat there, cradling the wet chunks of meat in your frail hold, until night fell. It wasn't until the end of the next day that it finally dawned on you that Isaac was not coming back.

And for the first time since your arrival in Hell, you smiled.

In your despair, you had forgotten that when God closes the door, He opens a window. And as you hugged the rotting meat closer to yourself until the mince spilt out of your embrace, you thanked God—in the form of a little prayer murmured under your nose—for showing you that window of hope.

Since then, the only thing on your mind has been next year's extermination.

» » »

It was definitely suicide that earned you a one-way ticket to Hell, yet sometimes you can't help but wonder if it's modelling.

It's a stupid thought, and it’s not like it matters that much now anyway, but being stuck in Hell—a place where sinners endure repetitive and eternal punishment tailored to their sins—and doing the same thing you did in life... damn it, you just can’t help but wonder if that’s what got you here in the first place.

After all, it seems that everything went downhill in your life and afterlife once you signed your modelling contract—both times signing away your soul.

Even so, you wouldn’t have it any other way. Your eyes never squint when the stage lights cut you out from the surrounding darkness. And the rush you get—it’s almost worth everything unpleasant that comes with it. It’s your Achilles heel and the only thing you can still enjoy down here.

You also used to love the mirror and how it reflected your carefully crafted image, but now it mocks you. Your reflection is mostly blurry, and your features look so warped that it’s as if your mind can’t fully comprehend your new appearance. Guilt. Maybe this is your true punishment—not the eternal flames of Hell, but the torment of your own gaze.

So you meticulously navigate the house of mirrors that is Velvette’s studio, your head downturned in sorrow and shame like a wannabe penitent Mary Magdalene.

You conceal this weakness in character under the guise of being for others' eyes and not your own—a product of the Vees for the masses to consume. The self-effacing slogan is intriguing and seems to work for Velvette. You are a mannequin for her pretty clothes, and that’s it. She cares very little about your inner demons.

But nothing matters anymore, as you make your way down the hall for one last stop before you go to find yourself an empty spot somewhere in the streets. You doubt it will be difficult to do that. It shouldn't be crowded. Not tonight, at least.

For a year you suffered through Velevette’s verbal and physical abuse, avoided Vox’s reflective screen, and tried to stay away from Valentino. He was the most difficult of the Vees to avoid. And that is saying much, as even now—as you make your way down the hall—you keep pulling onto the silk lapels of your robe in a desperate attempt to hide your exposed skin from the blinking cameras seemingly at every corner.

You wanted to escape Valentino. You really did. But you were dependent on the overlord.

The pain from your fall never left you. It weighs on you like a heavy burden of sin. It’s Hell—you are supposed to suffer—yet coming to terms with it doesn’t make it better.

The drugs do. They placate the pain for a short while, but it all comes back sooner or later. Bit by bit, it returns slowly, like some sick joke. But it’s bearable at first, and it tricks you into thinking that you can manage it on your own. You don’t need the drugs. You don’t need him. However, then it comes back just as unbearable as it was before, and your resolve gets crushed, allowing Valentino to play a saviour again.

Your footsteps are quiet. The magenta carpeting below muffles the clicking sound your high heels make, and the further you venture away from Velvette’s side of the building, the sparser all the mirrors become and the higher your chin raises.

Finally, you come to a stop in front of the double door.

With your arms at your sides, you try to remind yourself of the shame you feel every time you leave his penthouse, that it’s not worth it. Valentino’s smoke made you retch, and his touch made you sick, but it all also reminded you of the time when you were alive. The most horrible parts of it, but for you—someone who is desperately clinging to the last remnants of their humanity—it was a comforting reminder.

You open the door to what can only be described as a sanctum of vanity. You step into Valentino’s carefully crafted reality, an empire built on charm and exploitation, bleeding hedonism from its every crevice. The air is clouded in a thick mist of smoke, hiding the true danger within. Yet even if you can’t see him, you can sense his presence and feel his invisible gaze undressing you from afar.

And suddenly your surroundings become insignificant.

"Ah, I was wondering if you would show your beautiful face tonight. Are you done playing hard to get?" A voice emerges somewhere from the thick, pink cloud of smoke. Valentino shifts from lying back on one of the opulent loveseats into a sitting position, legs spread apart, inviting. Coincidentally, he has also exchanged his usual attire for an old Hollywood-style robe, befitting his role as a film director, you suppose. It has flowing sleeves adorned with fluffy trim around the edges that Velvette would most likely describe as tacky and cheap-looking. "Come on, don’t keep me waiting, muñeca."

You don’t say anything as you step further into the room, the door closing shut behind you. Valentino already has you in his trap, ever since you took your first breath in this room. Your eyelids feel heavy until they drop to cover half of your irises, mirroring your body as you subserviently lower yourself onto your knees before the tall, hulking moth overlord and crawl closer to him.

You hear Valentino chuckle as he exhales another puff of smoke that caresses your skin with a featherlike softness and wraps around your ankles like chains, slowing down your movements by weighing down your limbs. The bliss you feel—as you inhale more of the vinaceous and just as intoxicating smoke—is overwhelming.

Your robe creeps up with every move, exposing your bare calves. Another move and it’s your thighs on display.

Valentino extends his hand to you like salvation—like a lifeline to which you can’t help but cling every single time, even if you say to yourself it’s the last time. Even if right now you feel utterly humiliated and disappointed with yourself.

Once he wraps his fingers around your wrist, he drags you like a ragdoll until you are kneeling between his spread-out knees. With your arm still in his bruising grasp, you support your weight on your free one, pressing your palm into a velveteen cushion beside his leg. Now that both of your hands are occupied, you lower your face towards his crotch, gazing up at him as you do.

As you are about to reach and lift the thin layer of his robe with your teeth, Valentino tugs your pliant body on top of his until you find your place in his lap instead. A startled gasp followed up by a little whine leaves your mouth—he caught you off guard, and the way he forcefully pulls you up hurts, but the little sound might as well be interpreted by the man as disappointment towards him taking away a sweet treat from you.

"Eager little thing you are." His tone is teasing and overlaid with his smooth, saccharine-sweet accent. But that is only the surface level. You can’t help but pick up a tinge of surprise in Valentino’s voice, like he is surprised by your audacity to try and avoid him and then attempt to suck his dick, the action that he regards as a prize rather than a torment to your jaw.

A shiver runs down your spine, and your empty stomach swirls with unease as all you can do is go along with whatever he has in store for you, even if it feels like being accompanied on a walk and seeing a guillotine at the end of the trail.

His lower set of arms brushes up and down along your thighs, eyes never leaving your body while you take that time to work on tugging and tearing at the silky fabric to expose more of your skin for his enjoyment, bearing it all to his hungry gaze. He hums in approval, moving his hands upwards from your thighs until his palms rest on your ass and hips, nudging you to get closer to him.

Your knees tremble from the force and from having to support the weight of your body, so you sit down, feeling him already hard underneath the thin layer of his robe. You sigh, unable to suppress the involuntary throb between your legs which spurs you into grinding against Valentino just to feel some kind of relief for the itch you can’t seem to scratch on your own.

"I knew you would be back. There’s no way a little dependent slut like you could get away." His hands, still resting on your backside, take a firmer grip on the plump flesh, helping you move faster, harder. The friction sends pleasant tingles across your whole body, and you close your eyes, greedily enjoying the pleasure while it lasts, which you know won’t be long. You are so lost in it that you don’t even notice when one of Valentino’s hands from his upper set of arms roughly grabs you by your jaw, bringing your face in line with his. "Even if you try."

Valentino’s palm unassumingly rests on the column of your neck for a bit, until his grip tightens and he forcefully hoists you up till you are back on your knees. You roughly swallow down your answer and simply nod. If you weren’t Velvette’s prized model, Valentino would have snatched you for the studio a long time ago.

His lips stretch into a satisfied smirk, but it doesn’t bring you much comfort.

For a second your gaze flutters downwards, where you notice that his other hand has moved to grab his cock that already has beads of precum spilling to the surface of the tip. He smears it with his thumb and gives his whole length a few languid strokes with little amusement.

Finally, he lets go of your face and this time brings his bruising touch up to your waist while he aligns his tip with your dripping folds.

Valentino is not gentle, and he doesn’t waste time on anything apart from his own pleasure—pushing his cock inside you with no care for your comfort. The stretch, as your bruised inner walls try to accommodate him on such short notice and with no preparation, is excruciating.

You grab his shoulders and try to slow down the painful descent while taking deep breaths in order to relax your muscles before Valentino loses his patience.

Speaking of the man—he leans back to watch over the stiff, trembling mess that is you with a bored yet contemplative expression. One of his upper set of hands rests comfortably over the backrest of the loveseat, his fingers drumming against the velvet upholstery. The other brings the cigarette holder closer to his lips.

"I—ngh!" can’t is what you want to say but are unable to through gritted teeth. It was a mistake to come here, your inner voice screams at you, and you scream back, I know that!

Your cunt clenches around him as your body naturally tries to push him out of you, but then he blows another plume of the headily noxious smoke into your face and smirks as he watches how your pupils instantaneously dilate.

What you inhale knocks down your defences and allows Valentino to forcefully thrust the rest of himself into you. All you can do is dig your nails into his shoulder blades and throw your head back in relief that the worst is over.

The force is a silent threat that you understand clearly, so before he gets angry, you pick yourself up on shaky legs and lower yourself down on his throbbing cock, adopting a pace you know he enjoys while bouncing through the pain.

Desperately searching for a way to take your mind off the situation, you peek over his shoulder at the window walls that provide you with the sprawling skyline of Pentagram City. But not for long.

As the sky behind the glass slowly turns into a slightly deeper and darker shade of vermilion, the outside vanishes, leaving you to stare at the reflection of the room, which makes Valentino’s penthouse look isolated and endless.

You can see the outline of your figure reflected in the glass like your body is still there; you can feel it mounted on Valentino’s cock, but your consciousness is back there by the window, akin to a frigidly indifferent onlooker watching from a distance, judging.

The ache from the overlord’s bruising touch is gone, as is the excruciating pain lingering from your fall to damnation. You just feel numb.

The face of your reflection is a swirl of colour—a mix of your skin tone, the tint of your lips, and the hue of your irises—as if the image is so unrecognisable to your brain that it cannot even generate the most basic human features. You hardly remember what you look like as is; it would not matter if the reflection is accurate either way.

Valentino grabs you by the hair and brings your attention back to the present moment by aligning your face with his own. You could see yourself reflected in his glasses if not for the tears glossing over your vision.

Both of your lips are parted and inches away—his hot breath mixes with your own to the point you can taste the sickly sweet remnants of smoke on your tongue.

With half-lidded eyes, you pant out breathless little ah ah ah’s every time his hips meet with your own, and a little shudder accompanying his every exhale is the only indicator that he somewhat enjoys this and isn’t just doing it as a humiliating punishment.

Valentino is close. His thrusts have become more erratic, chasing after his own need for release.

You whimper when he lowers his head and, with hot lips, grazes the dewy skin pulled taut over your collarbone—not yet kissing it but close. Oh, so close.

A girl can dream about a tender little kiss, and in a momentary lapse in judgement, you allow that possibility to hang heavy in the air like the cloying smell of sex as you tilt your head slightly sideways and lift your chin, leaving your neck vulnerable to him to do as he pleases.

But Valentino doesn’t do sweet little kisses, and if that well-known character quirk of his did not clue you in, then a gust of breath over your pulse point should have been a warning.

"Ah!"

Valentino sinks his teeth into the juncture where your neck and shoulder connect. The pleasant pressure in your lower stomach gets replaced with a sinking feeling as the sharp pain locks your whole body with excruciating pain.

He spills himself into your trembling body while you weakly push against him in an attempt to get away, but all it does is help him tear the chunk of meat and tendons out of your body.

Valentino growls into your open wound, and you stop resisting. His hot cum flowing down your legs is as uncomfortably hot as the bile rising up your throat.

You hear him loudly gulp down the bloody chunk and chuckle, "It doesn’t matter that I don’t own your soul on paper. You will always be mine. Even when this heals up," he licks a long stripe against the pulsing wound, making you gasp and squirm. The deceptively charming tone of his voice is gone just like that, replaced by one with a warning undertone exhaled right into the bloody injury. "There will always be a piece of you missing. Don’t make me wait for you next time."

Like a child hiding a broken vase before your parents even notice the glass shards, you smile at him, knowing that after tonight you will have nothing to worry about. You could make any promise; it won’t matter.

You exhale contentedly, "I won’t, Valentino. Never."

Valentino hums, stroking your upper arm with soft, sensual caresses, none the wiser to your plans. The unusual gentleness, alongside lightheadedness from blood loss and rhythmic throbbing in your neck, begins to slowly lull you to sleep. Your eyelids grow heavier with every touch that Valentino spares you, and unconsciously you begin to negotiate with yourself, only for a little bit… I will close my eyes for a moment… Hell knows I deserve it—

Doubtful that sinners have guardian angels, but unable to explain the sudden need to meet Valentino’s palpably piercing gaze in any other way, you cannot do anything but thank God that you do before you succumb to the temptation of sleep.

The terror in that moment is greater than exhaustion. You quickly scramble to your feet, swaying to the sides like a sapling trying its best to hold up against the wind.

Your arms are shaking and going numb; you can’t even feel the piece of clothing in your hands. A thin layer of fresh skin has already stretched over the wound at the base of your neck, but as you tug your robe back onto your shoulders, the thin layer rips, blinding you with pain until the black spots in your vision grow bigger.

Gentle, the man is not, and still knowing this, you almost fell for the trap. All this time, he has seen through you and almost ensnared you. Shame on you for thinking yourself to be wiser.

Valentino hasn’t made a move to drag you back. He… just smiles, while one of his many arms is twirling the cigarette holder between long, dexterous fingers. The fresh smoke hits your nose, and you feel your mouth start watering.

You don’t play with untamed fire for any longer than you already have, quickly making your way on wobbly legs towards the door. It slams shut with a resounding thud, but not before Valentino’s mocking purr slips through the crack and hits you on the way out.

"Better hurry, muñeca."

Hyperventilating, you stumble into a wall. The stale smell of smoke permeates the air even outside Valentino’s room in the hallway. There’s a taste of bile in the back of your throat as you feel it coming up, but all you can do is lean your forehead against the wall, close your eyes, and ride it out without, hopefully, regurgitating the stomach acids on the carpet.

With an exhale, you will yourself to open your eyes, afraid of falling asleep. Not here, not now.

Your wounded arm hangs limp beside you as the drops of viscous blood drip from the tips of your fingers onto the carpeting below.

Finally, you push yourself to stand straight, and with an ungainly walk, you exit the tower.

You look back only once.

Lost in a trance-like daze, you don't know how long you wandered the streets or when you managed to doze off in the spot you ultimately decided to pick as your final resting place. When you jump awake, all you know is that you eventually did.

The first of seven loud, steely bell rings echoes through the air, symbolising the start of the extermination. It is soon followed by the second and the third one.

In the rubble and decay left over from the last extermination, desperate sinners get ready for a new one—scrambling to hide against the inevitable.

Feeling indifferent towards their plight, you hug your knees closer to your chest, take out your last cigarette, and press the tip against the ground to light it. You take the first puff and close your eyes, exhaling the acrid smoke through your nose with a shaky breath as another loud chime rings through the air and sends a shiver down your spine.

You are ready to die, your inner voice tries to placate you as you subconsciously dig your heels into the ground with an overwhelming want to flee. You never wanted to die—not in life, nor the after. All you wish is for the pain to finally stop. And if this is what it’s going to take…

Another inhale.

You flick the ash, some of it falling on the tip of your stiletto. You don’t bother brushing it away. Instead, you raise your gaze to take in your surroundings and can't help but feel something swirling inside your stomach. Is that... longing?

Not for Hell, that’s for sure, but rather resurfacing memories that this part of the Pride Ring brings to the forefront of your mind. You are in the industrial area of Pentagram City, nestled somewhere behind the Carmine factories. Maybe it’s weird to find nostalgia in concrete, but as you remember yourself, you were always the sentimental type, especially before dying. And looking at the sculptural, dilapidated buildings—that are only good at serving a functional purpose—reminds you of your home before you got swept up in the fake glamour of the fashion world.

Concrete’s grey colour gives off a cold feeling to many, but you harbour a different kind of sentiment towards monochrome structures. You rarely visited your childhood home after your career as a model kicked off, so the memories you have of it are saturated with the dreamlike wonder of a curious child whose mind worked tirelessly to supply colour to even the most drab parts of suburbia.

And in her youthful eyes, the concrete was never cold—not in colour, and most definitely not in feeling.

Be it the sunset, painting the walls of a concrete-panelled five-storey apartment building in the warmest of colours, or your little self trying to climb on top of the concrete tunnels at the playground that had been exposed to the sun all day—your palms firmly pressed against the warm, rough surface as you pushed yourself upward, straining to lift your body on top, and painfully scraping your bare knees until they were stained with warm blood and throbbed with hot pain. To you, the concrete was warm and felt like home.

Until it didn’t.

You grew, and the oversaturated lens through which you used to gaze at life began fading out into an all-consuming fog of depressing grey. You wanted more from the miserable existence, chased unreachable dreams and that childhood high, substituting the lack of colour in your life with artificial big city lights.

Simultaneously, your ambitions got bigger, but no accomplishment could replicate the youthful optimism you once had, and no drug could synthesise it.

You pursued the unattainable until you burnt out.

Casting your gaze at the filter between your fingers, you are taken out of your contemplative haze by another ring of the bell. You have gotten so lost in your own thoughts that you are unsure if it’s the fifth or the seventh ring.

Cries of murder have become white noise after two years of living in literal Hell, but these screams now are different. Sinners yell for others of their kind to hide, and at first, only the distant echoes of their desperation reach you. That is until the nearest sinner to you blocks your line of vision and screams into your face.

"Don’t just sit there! Hide—"

Just like that, an angelic steel-edged axe, bearing a close resemblance to a musical instrument, cuts the sinner obliquely through. His mouth doesn’t have time to even have time to close properly as the top half of his body is already sliding off to the ground before he can finish the sentence. His lower half follows soon after and crumbles down in the same spot he once stood.

Slimy, black intestines, like live eels, slither near your feet, angrily hissing at you as the hot ground underneath sizzles them. You attempt to dodge them with your feet, letting out a petrified squeal as one of them bursts open and the fountain of blood sprays along your skin and the silk fabric of your robe.

That last ring of the bell you heard a second ago was indeed the last one.

The sinner is no longer blocking your view, but before you can take a good look at who dealt them their final blow, you are being kicked in your chest, causing you to tumble backwards and your head to hit the ground with a sickening crack. Your eyes snap shut from the force and pain. And you keep them that way.

Your ears prickle at the sound of sandy gravel crunching underneath his steps until you feel the heavy-duty combat boot press into your chest cavity with a weight and hardness akin to that of metal.

Exorcist angels, like true bringers of death, pierce the congealed blood skies with their scythe-like wings in unparalleled grace and speed. Monochrome in their colour scheme reminds you of a more hellish version of a common swift. They are small yet lethal, but the angel on you, digging his boot into your barely covered skin, is bigger and heavier and, most importantly—set on making the punishing pain last.

Just your luck.

You try to breathe, but the pressure on your ribcage constricts your chest. The feeling is soon followed up by a sickening crack. And you couldn’t be happier. You have never felt as close to salvation as you did in this moment. The pain is almost euphoric.

Then, you feel the cold lick of the angel's blade against your neck, merely ghosting your skin. You arch your back in an absolutely sinful manner so the sharp silver edge of his weapon would glide against your skin, inviting him to slice it through.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

You open your eyes to look at the demonic face of an angel, hm… ironic.

He doesn’t suit his surroundings. Be it the incandescence of a halo above his head, casting a saintly shine over him, or the soft pastel colour palette of his robes sticking out amidst the eternally burning inferno, like the whiteness of Heaven in the bloody sky.

Even the red blood of the sinner, running down his weapon and dripping near the angel’s feet, doesn’t seem to ruin his sanctimonious image. Filthy—yes, as it stains the pristine visage of something sacred, but spilt righteously.

The angel’s pitiless eyes glint like his unfurled, golden wings.

"Are you deaf?"

His voice is spiced with mockery, like an action of spitting on someone but expressed with words.

"No, I heard you. I’m just wondering why you haven’t killed me yet."

He looks at you and blinks twice, assessing the situation.

Then he gets up from you.

You hungrily inhale lungfuls of sulphuric air once the pressure lifts from your chest. Gasping, you scramble to reach out for him, cutting the pads of your fingers against the sharp blade of his axe. No— NO!

Without mercy, he swats your hand away with so much force that it numbly dangles beside you, but that’s when you try again with your other one. This one he grabs in his firm hold, applying pressure until your bones scream for you to surrender. As if you care about anything that happens to your ugly sinner body. You welcome pain.

He keeps you at arm's length like a flea-infested mongrel, but his words are as clear as if he had somehow gotten inside your head and screamed them into your mind.

"Bitch, you just had to ruin it for me! It’s no fun if you want it!"

You don't manage to say anything. You just open your mouth, gathering words. Not the first time I’ve heard those words from a man. There’s a pang in your chest. You have managed to ruin this not only for yourself but for others.

You are so insignificant, even killing you is not worth it.

"Sorry."

"Huh?"

"Please… I just want peace." Eternal peace.

The holographic mouth curls into an ugly snarl as he growls a wordless, ‘How dare you want something, and how dare you expect me to oblige?'

That was not the right thing to say.

The angel tugs you closer till you lose your balance and fall face-first into him, but before you can collide with his stomach, he manhandles you, grabbing you by the jaw. Your head is firmly tilted, forcing your gaze to meet his. His hand feels huge; long fingers envelop the entirety of the right side of your face while his thumb is jabbed into your cheek on the left, pushing the tender flesh inwards until it painfully smushes against the sharp edges of your molars and draws blood. His palm covers your mouth and nose, not allowing you to breathe. One squeeze of his hand and he could crush your head like a rotten fruit that has gone soft.

Instinctively, your body’s natural reaction is to grab your executioner by the wrist to stop him from causing you more harm. However, before your fingers can make contact with his inky skin, you quickly withdraw and forcefully drop your hand beside you, digging your nails into your fleshy thigh and tensing the muscles in your jaw. You will endure this—anything—if only it means that you will be free.

But that does not mean that this is not excruciating. It takes a lot for you to cry, yet the searing pain from his rough touch is enough to wet your eyelashes. You feel the stinging in your eyes, and as much as you don’t want to break down, you can’t keep the tears at bay.

So you cry.

Embarrassment ignites your cheeks as you feel the droplets wet your cheeks. The tears pool in the arch where his index finger and thumb connect, but it doesn’t repulse him away from you. Instead, it seems to pique his interest as he loosens his grip, allowing the salty droplets to roll down your skin.

Then he smears the liquid across your skin.

Time stands still in that moment. The screaming around you fades into nothing, replaced by the pounding of your heart inside your ears.

Adam was very much looking forward to this year’s extermination.

His self-pity and feelings of loneliness have flared up these days, and not even a quick fuck with a beautiful winner did it for him anymore. So what better way to rid himself of misery than by glutting his soul with merciless slaughter?

Adam was a hunter all his life. At a time when the earth was bare and there was little to entertain himself with other than the pleasures of the flesh, chasing wildlife was as much a means to get food as it was a source of entertainment.

And habits are difficult to quit.

Zoomorphic amalgamations replaced wild animals in the afterlife—both more or less the same, but admittedly, humans warped by sin were much more fun to hunt and butcher because of their human-like cognition. They were the ultimate prey.

As soon as Adam descended from Heaven, he swung his axe, slicing through the first deformed sinner with little thought or care put towards the action. He needed to get it out of his system, and fast.

Then why wasn’t he feeling better?

Deep down he knew that he really needed to talk to someone. His reflection in the mirror wasn’t cutting it anymore after millennia. But he could not trust anyone enough to open up. Who could fault him for that? Every time he dared to open his heart, he got played.

He would never repeat the same mistake.

But then the sinner crumbled to the ground, revealing you.

Adam was taken aback at first. You didn’t look the part.

And that made him livid. Was his mind messing with him?

He felt the anger boiling in his veins as he kicked you to the ground. Feeling the impact against his foot when it collided with your body, hearing your bones crack, and smelling your blood only reiterated that he was not hallucinating. You were real.

And on top of everything—you wished for death.

Who, or more precisely, what, were you?

He watched you struggle in his grasp like a fish that he plucked out of water with his bare hands.

When he saw those tears rolling down your cheeks, he couldn’t help but feel that surge of authority flow through him. That’s how you were supposed to look from the very first second of you two crossing paths—trembling, crying, and pleading to spare your life. Now you weren’t so brave, shaking like the last yellow leaf, barely holding up against the autumn wind. Pathetic.

But as the first teardrop finally travelled the short distance from your eyes towards the sharp edge of your jaw and unceremoniously fell between you two, the damned ground let out a hiss as if sprayed with holy water, leaving Adam to stand there wide-eyed. No, it couldn’t be—

His wet thumb glided across your cheek with precision as, with each stroke, he hoped to remove more and more makeup, but all he did was knead the dewy skin.

The angel’s face glitches, and that’s when he suddenly lets go of you, allowing you to free fall back to the ground.

"Okay, listen, here’s the deal. I hate giving sinners what they want, and death, well, it’s usually not their kink. But! I’m feeling generous and seeing how embarrassingly desperate you are—I have one condition." His voice takes a different tone, leaving you noticeably confused at the suddenness. "Listen to me vent, and I will slit your throat at the end."

On the ground, you prop yourself up on your elbows and look at him with your jaw slack. Splayed out with your legs bent at the knees, you stare at Adam unblinking.

After a moment of silence, you hide your face in your palm and mumble to yourself. "I really hit my head hard..."

"Whore," he warns, and your head snaps in his direction. You tug on the lapels of your robe, which, after everything that happened, barely covered your breasts, defiantly crossing your legs with furrowed eyebrows. "I will put a mark on you so no exorcist’s blade would ever touch your suicidal ass, and then you will spend the rest of your miserable existence—"

You contort your face into a forced smile.

"I will do it."

#hazbin hotel #adam x reader #adam hazbin hotel #adam x you #hazbin adam x reader #hazbin hotel adam x reader #valentino hazbin hotel #valentino x reader

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imagionationstation · 5 months ago

Note

Whats your opinion of the Rise community’s impression of 2012 splinter? For me I think he’s a very nice guy just unprepared like bro just got shoved four children

Uh this was random

I just want to make a note of something:

I’ve spent so long trying to come up with a response to this because I can think of some people who are pretty deep in the RISE fandom who are like “2012Splints ain’t that bad tho”. So addressing the entire fandom is actually more difficult than it sounds concerning Splinter.

So instead of addressing the entire community, which would put many people in boxes that they don’t fit in, I’m going to use this Ask to make a statement about the whole Rise VS 2012 debate.

So my firm opinion that I will give is this:

You cannot forgive Rise Splinter without forgiving 2012 Splinter.

And for the 2012 Fandom:

You cannot understand 2012 Splinter without understanding Rise.

You cannot say that you honestly grasp the extent of one trauma/depression without acknowledging the existence of the other. Both Splinters have similar building blocks of trauma (forcefully separated from someone who they love dearly, forced to fight for their lives for who knows how many weeks/months, forced to live/adapt to a body that’s not their own, and forced care for helpless mutant children on top of it all) but their ways of dealing with it are different ONLY because of their different upbringings.

Their traumas are the same but their history is different. (No, you can’t use the ‘well one is a struggling immigrant and the other isn’t’, because Yoshi literally grew up in Japan. He only moved to New York because that’s what Shen wanted. So he has more connection to his origins than Lou has. But that really is beside the point.)

Anyone can have the argument that they feel that one Splinter is the ‘lesser evil’ in this scenario. There are some pretty good debates for both sides, but you cannot claim to have any sort of proof that one Splinter loves his sons more than the other.

You can’t. It’s ignorant and untrue. And I stand by that.

After all, they both kept and raised four mutant children.

And I know that’s a pretty obvious piece of lore, but I don’t think most people truly realize just how monumental that is.

It’s hard enough to raise one child, and harder still two, but four mutant infants? All on your own while trying to manage a new body with no outside help of any kind- and dealing with the fact that their entire infant hood would be a guessing game of do I have any idea if this would hurt/kill the turtle side of them? Not to mention the patience it would take raising children with super strength and amazing abilities that most parents don’t have to deal with?

Four children- all with different mental capacities, all with the different dreams and desires, all the different wants and hates, all the different fears and struggles and tantrums, and you have to learn how to understand and raise all of those personalities (because toddlers absolutely have MASSIVE personalities) all at once.

All of the variables that came into raising them, all those reasons that would make life beyond difficult, all the temptation not to, and these men pilled with trauma and grief still looked at the tiny freaks of nature and went: Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be their dad.

Just like there are many different love languages, there are also many different ways of showing your love. RISE Splinter did it in the big ways while often neglecting the small, and 2012 Splinter did it in the small ways well often neglecting the big.

One man does not have worse trauma than the other.

One man does not have more love for his children.

You will never be able to convince me that you truly understand what 2012 has gone through but still hate him, if you cannot acknowledge that there might be a reason for you to hate Rise too.

If you cannot comprehend understanding/forgiving 2012 then I really don’t think you truly understand/forgive Rise either.

So, yeah. That’s my hot take, ig.

#was kinda random but a good thought experiment #Thanks for the Ask!#IS Asks #Not entirely certain this makes sense but #here’s to hoping the words and wording?#teenage mutant ninja turtles 2012 #tmnt fandom #teenage mutant ninja turtles #2012 tmnt #splinter 2012 #tmnt 2012 splinter #2012 splinter #lou jitsu #rottmnt lou jitsu #splinter tmnt #tmnt splinter #tmnt 2012 #tmnt 2k12

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whereserpentswalk · 2 months ago

Text

Forest of the Damned

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They know?”

“What do you mean?”

“They know what seasons are?”

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

“I always assumed the undead were mindless.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just humans, no undead?”

“No undead detected.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eric replied simply with, “sounds good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The scavengers with scars on his face asked them harshly, “And, what do you have for people like us.”

Ava replied, “We have resources to help you. And if you wish you could travel with us, even return to our territory. We need as much of a population as possible. We can give you warm clothing, or better weapons and armor. As part of our mission we are invested in the survival of any human against the dead…” they spoke as if their faction was the entire city, ignoring on purpose that most other factions had far different views of scavengers, “…We can give you food.” They reached in their coat for rations specially set up for such situations such as this, “Here, take some. Salt water taffy, and sweet bubble tea, and salmon’s meat.” They made their voice enthusiastic, perhaps to calm the scavengers, perhaps because they were excited to make first contact.

The scavengers, all of them, looked at the rations. Alien things to them. None of them had seen such food before it seemed, living off mostly what they could hunt it seemed. Only of them, the women with a long spear picked up the can of bubble tea, and began inspecting it before drinking it. It must have been like one of the greatest things in the world to her, she looked as if just nourishment alone was a gift to her, and this was meant to go far beyond mere nourishment. The bearded man ate some of the taffy, likely never having had true candy before in his life, and gave a look of concerned ecstasy as he ate.

One of the scavengers, the bearded man, told them, “I think it’s best if we are allowed to discuss this among ourselves now.”

Ava nodded and walked back. The rest of the group gave them their space. Walking into a different section of the broken down stores, between different shelves but still close enough to hear, as the scavengers discussed what to do with their new information.

Gen asked, “What are they going to do.”

Ava tiredly replied, “Their best.”

From the other side of the shelves they could hear the scavengers arguing among each other. The voice of the scar faced man cried out, “How can you trust them? They’re strangers, wearing strange clothing, with strange masks on their faces and metal on their chests, they have no reason to care for us? I know you’ve wanted this kind of rescue before Ron, but there guys are probably going to kill us.”

The voice of the bearded man replied, “And how is this better? We’ve lost so many already to the ghouls, we’re going to lose more. Maybe if we go with them we can at least have a chance of survival. Even if there was as much a chance that they kill us as that they don’t, it would be a better chance then we have out here. Even if they were cannibals it would be a less humiliating death then to be turned into a member of the dead’s army.”

The other voice replied, “We’ve survived out here for generations and you’d give it all up for this! What would your parents, your grandparents, who carved out life and tradition in the ruins think? Don’t think they’re going to be like us just because they’re human. Don’t think they have honor!”

A woman’s voice added, “It was God that sent the dead, don’t think those who avoided them through trickery are beyond His judgment!

The scar faced man added, “And that man… or perhaps that woman who handed us food, his hair, his tattoos, his makeup, would you let a degenerate like that hold your life in his hands. If one of us looked anything like that we wouldn’t let him walk with us, much less put our lives in his hands. These are degenerates, sodomites who bare the sins of the old world…”

Ava seemed to cringe to hear such words. But their reaction didn’t last long, as the technology they held began flashing red, as an alarm began to play.

The noise sounded throughout the massive room. “Undead in area. Undead in area. Undead in area. Undead in area. Undead in area.” Ava clicked it off before the sound got louder but the message was quite well received.

Gail stood up and broke down shelves to speak to the scavengers, “The undead are here, either fight with us or help us protect you.”

The bearded man looked at Eric’s group, and asked, “We don’t have an alliance with you yet?”

Eric replied, “In the face of the undead there is an alliance between all humans. The factions of the city fight each other, yet when those creatures appear there is a truce between even the most antagonistic of factions.”

The scavenger replied, it seemed his people had a similar understanding among each other, or at least they understood well enough what would be a good idea to do in the moment.

Like any confrontation with the undead, preparation was the most important factor in determining the ability for humanity to succeed. Gail stood in front, alongside the scar faced man and the long speared woman. Meanwhile the group built up a makeshift fortress out of the shelves that laid around them. Gen, Ava, and the bearded man camped behind the barricade of shelves with ranged weapons, ready to use them to defend the main group of fighters. Meanwhile in the back, Eric stood guard of three younger scavengers who would be the easiest targets for any undead breaking through.

Ava spoke to the group before the undead had a chance to show themselves, “Stay in positions, don’t be afraid to go into melee if the undead get too close, protect those around you. Remember, every undead is a threat, but their largest threat to humanity is their numbers. If their force is too strong don’t be afraid to fall back.”

The scar faced man added to their comments, “And remember, aim for the head and limbs. You’re more likely to kill these fuckers with a blade then with a gun, but anything to slow them down. Don’t die. Don’t let your friends die. And being alive makes you a friend at the moment.”

There was a long moment of tension between when they stopped talking and when the dead arrived. Nobody could know when their fate was to come walking in. And it felt like perhaps it wouldn’t. But if they moved at all they could doom themselves. And soon every shadow passing by them felt like a ghoul.

But then they saw them, slowly walking in, stalking the grounds like hunting animals. The first of the dead to come were human like, and numerous, heralding them the eternal buzzing of flies, they looked like humans at first glance yet there was something deeply wrong with their bodies, stiff and plasticky, and dead eyed. The wore the clothing of past memories, of those who died in the fall, and others of those who died hunting the dead, from lost peoples of the world after the fall, and lost generations of those peoples who still existed. Some of them still held weapons, crude yet effective things like batts and pipes that they could have picked up discarded from the grounds of the places that they wandered through. It took coordination to not attack the first group, but it couldn’t be done, there was too much about the attack they didn’t know yet.

The next group of undead to walk in, following the first group, were far more monstrous. Their heads were twisted and disfigured like a body killed in a terrible accident, their heads forever open and bloodied, with wounds that no human would survive, looking almost like raw meat in some parts. What eyes they did have were shining and silver. They were tall and large, naturally proportioned in some way, as if they had been changed by the curse of the living dead to make them better at committing acts of violence. Their clothing was eternally covered with blood, and pieces of metal were bolted onto them, over even their clothing, as permanent armor, and in their hands were weapons taken from the rangers of the city, halberds and swords well made to kill. There were only three of them it seemed, unlike their weaker more humanoid comrades, but they were more aware, not stumbling or bumping into anything, and moving with exact militant purpose, even herding the weaker undead at times. Everywhere they walked they seemed to leave stains of blood.

The final one to walk in was somewhat humanoid, pale, with her only largely inhuman feature being her arms which were far too long for her body, with even longer clawed fingers. Her skin was inhumanly white and plasticky, but held no visible wounds or rot. Her eyes, shining red as they were show intelligence, as did her movements. She had weapons on her, high quality, either forged by the undead or taken from newly killed warriors of the city. Her clothing was all black, and looked at if she acquired it after joining the undead swarm, and alongside it were human teeth and fingers that she wore and jewelry. She stayed back behind the others, commanding them perhaps, or at least waiting to see what happened.

The time for waiting was over and the bearded man and Gen took initiative, shooting one of the massive blood-soaked creatures. The bullets didn’t significantly slow the creature down, more wounds being added to it’s twisted body was of little concern for it, but it did cause it some sort of primal anger, turning it’s mutilated face to look at the makeshift fortress, and running with its polearm in hand. The lesser undead that it commanded following behind it.

The lesser undead were able to be mostly held off by Gen, Ava and the beard man’s bullets. Few of such creatures would die in one shot, but it made them have difficulties walk forward, a few even being wounded enough that they had to retreat. Though for the stronger one, running with blood sloshing off its back, bullets may have weakened it, but it had no intentions of turning back.

Gail and the blood creature clashed as they stood together at the front of the fortress, the long speared woman and scar faced made peppering it with lighter attacks, as Gail and the creature’s polearms locked. Gail was relatively more agile, able to dodge and parry attacks, meanwhile the undead he fought could take nearly any hit, even on the parts of it’s body that didn’t have armor bolted to them.

While they clashed the undead spoke to Gail, in a voice that sounded like it was choaking on it’s own fluids, “You fight only for your only doom little man… we have achieved eternal life.. All you fight now is progress, join us and you will never feel sorrow or pain…”

Gail gave no reply as he sliced off the creature’s head. Finally bringing it to it’s doom.

However, as the larger creature died, countless of the smaller less sentient ones began pouring in, destroying the fortress with teeth and clubs and hands. Ava gave the signal, “Overwhelming force, abandon the fortress now! We’ll see if we can fight them in one of the small stores.” It was a good plan, if Eric had the chance he would have given the order himself, the undead tended to hold a larger advantage on an open field where their numbers could mean as much as they could. As soon as they could everyone ran, as the dead became so numerous even the stores seemed to fade behind them into the eternal swarm.

While the group fled Gen took charge to try to take out one of the larger undead perusing them. Having the least experience with the dead out of all of them, he didn’t seem to realize just how little his bullets would do against a creature that tough. Thinking he was brave he shot the creature again and again. But it didn’t make him a hero, it slowed the blood soaked beast, and almost certainly gave it quite a bit of anger, but he did nothing to protect a single soul.

Eric tried to call out for Gen, screaming his name into the winter’s halls, and waving for him to go forward. But the soul didn’t hear, he must have thought he could fought the creature and then come back, must have thought himself a type of hero that exists only in song.

Gen tried to step back but he didn’t know the creature’s reach, as one of the bloodstained monster’s swords cut into the poor soul. Gen saw himself fall to the ground before he was struck by the blade again, taking his head. Eric wished he could cry, wished he could take the body and mourn, wished it would do anything other than stay there forever and rot. He wished he could have reminded Gen not to be a fool before. He wished they were safe in the city, somewhere warm where none would live in such fear. But there was only the winter, and there was only blood.

They fled through the dark hallways, the cold eating at them as the place seemed to swarm with more and more undead. Soon they could see nothing behind them, and there was only what was ahead of them. Eric soon realized that he was the slowest to move, and the one likely in the back of the group. He kept thinking Gen was in the hall behind him, but of course…

As he failed to catch up to the rest of the group, slowed by grief, Eric felt a long cold hand on his shoulder, and as he looked behind himself he saw her, the pale skinned woman who seemed to be commanding the rest of the group. Before he could think to draw a weapon he was frozen in place. She told him, “You will not regret this.”

Her head dove near him, bit into his face, he could feel his doom as the fangs stuck into his head. Then she skittered off into the darkness, too fast for him to reach.

The world went black around him, he didn’t know what he was looking at. He didn’t know weather he was falling asleep, or feeling something else. It was almost like being high, but not quite. Sick perhaps. He felt the need to lie down but he realized his legs were still walking. He felt cold. He felt cold.

Eric woke up out in the snow. Inspecting his surroundings. Anyone who he was with before was gone. For a moment he thought he had seen Gen but… he didn’t. There was blood on the snow around him but he wasn’t actively bleeding. That could mean a lot of things. He looked further towards the landscape around him, and realized how far he must have gotten. He was deep in the forest, with black trees sticking up from the earth at every side, and snow below him. Meanwhile he could see no sign of the mall of the lot that it was in the middle of. He had gone a very long way without remembering it, or someone or something had moved him, neither of them being a good sign.

Eric felt as if something was very, very wrong, but had no way of telling exactly what it was.

He stood up. He expected it to be hard but it was disturbingly easy. He felt no resistance from his body at all, not even the type that one would expect from getting up from a well-rested sleep. He could just so easy stand as if he had been lying down completely conscious for the entire time.

Of course, there was a distinct and horrifying possibility.

Eric tried to think back. He could remember going to the mall, fighting alongside the scavengers, what happened to Gen… and then nothing. It was like there was something missing. There was an undead with her hands on him but he couldn’t remember what she was doing to him or how he had fended her off. He couldn’t tell what was happening, it was like his brain couldn’t accept it.

Eric started walking forward which felt so unquestionably right. It was as if there was a little voice in the back of his head that was telling him to keep moving. But he couldn’t hear the words at all. It was as if there was a god who would not allow itself to be prayed to. He kept moving. He kept moving.

While walking at first there was shaking, not the type of weakness he ever had when he was tired, it felt as if sometimes he would just randomly shake or shiver. But that was it, outside of that single defect he felt the perfect image of health, with no sense of tiredness or even really pain or reaction to the cold. He found himself uncomfortably fast. The woods around him felt strangely normal, the feeling of loneliness didn’t even have a chance of catching him in any meaningful way. It wasn’t as scary as the danger that he knew to be there, it just was, he felt excited.

He walked and walked, realizing just how far he was from any familiar land. He had been to the continent many times but he had never seen that specific part of it before. And for all the talks of ruined structures, and undead, and rival factions, and scavengers, walking through the forests of the mainland could give an idea of just how much of it was unclaimed wilds.

He must have been walking for hours, no days, time felt strange. The sun was his only ally, it would have been about a day from walking from that. Twenty four hours. Time felt strange. Days didn’t exist when there were no other people around. He hadn’t eaten in the entire time but felt no hunger, it didn’t bother him in the slightest.

He saw undead, he passed them, but they were disturbingly passive, none of them did anything to attack him. They just looked at him, twisted and mutilated, marking the snow with the colors of gore, but they didn’t seem to see him as a threat… they didn’t seem to see him as a human at all…

No… it couldn’t be possible.

He eventually saw in the night a house with the light on, the snow whipped off of a path in front of it. Something inhabited by humans. He walked towards, it, it was as if some primal instinct was giving him instructions, giving him orders, true orders like the ones people were given before the fall to go there, to go to humanity, to seek humanity out.

Looking closer at the house it was a pre fall home, though it looked as if it had been reclaimed. It was blue, well built, could have been hundreds of years old, with twisted brown vines on it that he knew would have been a lovely green in the warmer months. And though not large for the ruins, it would have been massive if it were in the city. He could see the shoreline behind it, the grey green of the Atlantic marking the map’s edge, the sun was rising, it would have been beautiful if that clouds had allowed it to be. It made the world feel small enough for him to be in.

At the house’s steps he knocked on the door. It felt weird to knock, as if his hands weren’t made for it. As if something within him was yelling to break the door down.

When someone answered they answered with a shotgun. A human in scrappy power armor that looked like it had been repaired out in the ruins, and a shotgun in their hands. Far from the city as they were they held symbols of Mechanacous faction on their person, a proud red and gold emblem of a hammer and gear. The machinery and rivets of the armor clicked into place as the human stared him down. At least it was a human.

Eric raised his hands to the person and told them, “I am no threat to you, I too am of the city, I seek only refuge from the cold and darkness.”

The person in power armor replied, “You’re human?”

Eirc frantically replied, “Yes, yes, I’m very human. I was attacked…” he wouldn’t say he was attacked by an undead, just attacked, make it sound like it was nothing, “…and separated from my group. I am a ranger of Terminous faction, a loyal soldier to humanity.”

The person was confused by him for a few moments, looking him over perhaps, but eventually said “I’ve seen faces wounded similarly by human weapons. It’s possible. Come in and I’ll patch you up as best I can. It’s been awhile since I’ve had a chance to talk to another human, there aren’t many in this area of the mainland, and most of the local scavengers wound just try to raid this base.”

When Eric walked inside he was surrounded by half forgotten wood and hoarded memories. The person in power armor had only somewhat changed it from its original function, filling it with anti-undead and scientific equipment, but keeping elements of the original decor and furniture. Light and electricity was functioning, probably from a generator somewhere outside, meaning the base was at least somewhat permanent. It all seemed so strangely comfortable.

Eric asked, “How long have you been here.”

The person replied, “Longer then most. It’s been about three years since I’ve seen the city.”

“Long term expeditions like that are rare.”

“I know. Mechanacous was experimenting with them a few years ago. But they never work. Better to stay near the city and only leave for a few months, or else you lose too many to the dead in the end.”

“And you stayed out here.”

“Yes. The others died or left. But I decided that my place was here, alone, with my computers and my tools. I never did people well.” Eric looked at the person, was it possible that they were undead. One could distort it’s voice and hide in power armor, some might be shambling and mindless but it’s been well proven that not all of them are. This would be the perfect trap for it, the perfect way to get travelers from the city.

He asked, trying to figure out what they wanted with him, “Would you like to know anything about me?”

“Might as well.”

He wouldn’t give anything to make himself an easy target, maybe even puff himself up a little, “I was born and raised in the East Village. I’ve been a member of Terminous faction basically all my life. I’m quite dedicated to the destruction of the undead, having been on five missions outside the city, not including the one I’m on now.” He wanted it to sound personal, tough maybe, something that showed them who he was, but it felt oddly mechanical as he listed his aspects off. When he thought about his past, when he talked about himself, it was like he was looking at another person’s life. Still worried the person inside the armor was somehow undead, he asked them, “Would you take off your helmet, it would make me feel more secure to see your face.”

The person in the armor agreed, pressing a button to cause their helmet to lift up. He saw their face, female, somewhere between age thirty and fifty, light skin, curly hair, some major scaring on her forehead and cheeks likely from power armor malfunctions, a few monochrome black tattoos on her neck. Certainly not undead. He noticed how mechanical his perception of the person’s features were, like analyzing a battlefield. After an odd moment of silence the person in armor told Eric, “Hanna, she/her.” Eric didn’t fully get what she meant by that, what those words meant, but felt like he should have, felt like he would have a few days ago. Eventually the person in armor asked him, “Do you have a name?”

“Eric… he/him… sorry I’m still a bit messed up from the attack.”

“Looks like it. Let me run some medical tests, could you just sit here a moment.” She pointed to the couch, it felt like a fine enough place to be.

While she was out of the room for a moment he looked at a painting she had hung on the wall of the city. What looked like a specific street though he couldn’t tell which one. Massive art deco architecture shining with polished brilliance, contrasted by plants growing alongside it, red with the autumn glow. He didn’t understand why it felt so distant, as if before he would have had such an affinity for the image, the nostalgic glow had worn off, and he had a harder time connecting with it then he should have been. It was as if part of him knew, as if there was some sort of sinking yet sure feeling, that he’d never be there again in his life.

When Hanna came back to him she asked, “Can I have your arm” in a detached way. She wasn’t wearing her normal armor, she had changed into a work uniform of some sort, grey, as an engineer would use, stains from some sort of red liquid on it. She put some sort of medical device on his wrist and took some tests. He told him, “You’re very cold, I need to make sure you’re as healthy as you look before I try to clean up your wounds.”

Eric tried to joke but it seemed to hard, as if there was a weird sort of tension in the air, “You know, the last time I had a piece of metal strapped to my arm it was under less friendly circumstances.” He wondered what he was even implying those circumstances were, armor, something involving a kink, maybe handcuffs but there wasn’t any practical use for them outside of a kink in his lifetime.

Suddenly Hanna said in a foreboding voice: “Oh god.” She wasn’t reacting to what she was saying she was reacting to what she was seeing on screen. Within the culture of rangers ‘oh god’ was a specifically bad warning, variations of ‘oh fuck’ or ‘oh shit’ were mundane, for harmless mistakes or bad news. ‘Oh no’ was slightly worse. But ‘oh god’, that was serious and dire.

He asked her, trying to sound frantic feeling strangely unable to switch his voice’s tone away from humor, “What happened to me?”

She asked him, “Would you consider yourself a man of honor?”

He thought about the question for far longer then he should have. “Yes.” It felt weird to say yes to.

With a dark nervousness in her voice, she spoke to him, “You’re undead. Obviously not fully undead but you’re in the early stages. Usually people turn more quickly but you’re… determined. There’s no way you can resist the infection for much longer, and no way you’d ever be let in the city. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know I just met you but it sucks to have to say this to someone who seems, so very human. Your life will be over soon, but if you want to make sure there isn’t one more undead in the area…” She handed him a small pistol. He understood exactly what it meant. It would be the honorable thing to do, to take his life, and take down one last undead. He wanted to. He held the dagger and knew that it was the right thing to do. If he didn’t feel so… strange he would have done it without another thought.

He felt a voice in the back of his head, in the back of his neck, telling him that if he did survive, did become undead, he would live forever. There was some part of him that desperately wanted to live, a primal survival instinct that believed in death before dishonor. He raised his knife and looked and Hanna standing before him, unarmored. And there was a voice in the back of his head telling him survive, survive, survive, survive. There was a feeling within Eric that he had to survive, that he had no other choice, that he would live weather he wanted to or not.

Survive…

He could barely recall what had happened to him. Not if he recounted it action by action, moment to moment, like comic panels marching on.

He looked down. The house in the night. The blackness of the windows outside. Blood. Blood everywhere. Hanna’s corpse below him. It looked beautiful. It looked so sad. He was so sorry. It looked tasty. He wasn’t supposed to think of human bodies as tasty. Not yet at least. He didn’t want this to be who he was that night. Though he knew he had no other choice, he didn’t want to have died there, didn’t want to die at all…

He looked at his hands. They weren’t fully dead but his skin was greyer, and red veins showed underneath, his fingertips slowly turning black. He couldn’t even feel pain in the wounds on his face anymore.

His eyes shouldn’t have been able to see the beach, it should have been too dark. But they could. They could. The sky was black yet he could see the water flowing in and other, the sands below his feet, the ruined and overgrown boardwalk rotting below a dark and dim moon. The seagulls flew away when he got close to them, seeing that he had become something unholy. He walked the sands, thinking of what would happen to him. For a moment he thought he had stopped feeling cold, but he did, the cold flowed through him, and nothing inside him was warm at all, and for that he felt as if there was no more cold, as now there was no more contrast. There was only the night and there was only inhumanity.

He saw another figure in the distance, a woman, with long arms and pale skin, he realized it was her. It was her. The undead who had bitten him. She didn’t feel undead when he looked at her, she just looked like herself, like someone she knew. All the unnaturalness, and all the disgust was gone. The idea that she had taken the lives of human, the idea that she took his life, that she took Gen’s life, it didn’t mean so much anymore. She seemed almost beautiful. Not in a lustful way but like a beacon. Like if even he had neither freedom nor honor he may at least have duty, have purpose, have a place in the world and a power within him.

He walked up to her, almost expecting to attack her, but his body did not. He spoke, he had a choice to speak, but it felt as if he was reading off words that were already in front of him. “Sire. Creator. What words may you have for me dear friend?” Why did he say those words.

She replied, “Near friend, dear friend, you are but so young in your creation.” Her dead eyes shown like the most radiant of all stars.

He then felt as if he could speak for himself once more. “Who are you? What do you want? What are you doing with me? What have you done to my soul?”

“You know what has happened to you, but you do not want to say the words. In her doom she told you. And you knew before that? How could you not know?”

“I don’t want to be this.”

“That is not yours to decide. Progress is nobody’s personal choice to resist or to not. It will become you. There is only the choice of acceptance, the choice of power. Or the choice of failure and desolation.”

“It doesn’t seem as if there’s a choice at all. No choice but two deaths.”

“Oh. They didn’t tell you? Did your scholars never find out?”

“Find out what?”

The undead laughed, her fangs shining in the subtle light of the night. “When we embrace humans into our kind, there’s a reason why some of us keep our minds, our ability to think, to reason, while others are mindless and shambling.”

“What is it‽ What do you mean‽”

“Those who submit willingly, who let the infection do what it does, when they become the swarm’s loyal servant, are allowed to keep everything that they had as a human. But when someone resists, the infection has to remove parts of the person’s mind until they’re able to submit. It’s a brutal process. But everyone is satisfied eventually, everyone happy within the swarm, even if they need the tragedy of being forced.”

“I didn’t expect this cruelty even from your horrid kind.”

“From our horrid kind. And it’s not cruelty, it’s mercy. It would be wrong to force someone to be something they didn’t want to be. So we turn them into things that will accept being undead. Even if it takes some modification.”

“I don’t want to be lobotomized‽”

“Well there’s a pretty simple solution to that isn’t there.” She reached out to him and held his face, tenderly, like a lover, a mother, a goddess? But there was cruelty, as she had not life to give such tenderness with. Her hands were so cold, they were like weapons, in a way they were weapons, but they wouldn’t want to hurt him, not anymore. “Join us. Don’t resist. Few of us have kept as much of their minds as I have, but it’s quite possible. Be someone the swarm doesn’t need to take anything from to become part of it. We could live forever. Humanity will die out, it’s inevitable. And then we’ll have a perfect future, nobody will die, nobody will be born, we will be an unchanging race for thousands of years. Nothing will matter and there will be no more progress to be made, and no way the light of progress can be reversed. It will happen. Choose where you will sit within that future.”

Suddenly the beach was full, and countless undead were around him, but they did not attack. He had only before seen the undead as twisted parodies of soldiers, yet these were twisted parodies of worshippers, creatures that rejected spirit in favor of flesh worshipping their rejection. If not killed they’d live forever, and rejected all comforts death could bring, cast out of Christ’s heaven, and Buddha’s endless cycle, of the kingdoms of Hel and Hades, of even the sinners hellfire and the rationalist’s oblivion. They had rejected all of humanity’s feasts of death for something darker, something eternal. They marched onto the beach, dressed as they did in life. Though some seemed like they could have been the city’s scouts or scavengers, the vast majority of undead were turned at the moment of the fall; businessmen in ragged suits, highschoolers forever in their uniforms, policemen and soldiers with their ancient kevlar vests still hanging off their bodies, service workers whose tattered uniforms were still marked with long dead corporations’ symbols. Some who were once tourists still carried merchandise for the sate of New Jersey, and others still carried political symbols, advocating for forgotten candidates in an election that would never happen. Their bodies were inhuman in different ways from each other, some were wounded, deformed but not in a way a human ever could be, they bore wounds that would never heal, but would never kill them either, eternally in a state of gore. Others had become monstrous, and looked as animal as human, with sharp teeth or claws, long tongues and red eyes, like living weapons ready to kill. And others yet were truly dead looking, corpses either fresh or desiccated still standing, refusing to go into that great beyond. Yet the majority of them weren’t that way, at least half of them had their distortion be more subtle then that, they looked like they did in life, but drained, expressionless, and ridged in their movements, neither asleep nor awake, their eyes dead, and the color drained from their cheeks. Recognizable, yet without personhood, their higher selves, their place outside the massive swarm of the dead, gone.

They bowed to him, looked at him, they worshipped him. That’s what they worshipped in this new faith, this faith of the dead, endless expansion, endless conquest, until nothing was left. They were the apocalypse, and they worshipped their own apocalypse, worshipped growing forever until they had taken everything, all humanity until there was nothing left.

He stepped back, but they reached out their hands, like a congregation begging an apostate to return. Their dead eyes staring him down.

He yelled to them, “I am a human! A mortal human!”

The pale woman who had bitten him spoke again, laughed, and asked him, “Not for long. Do you even remember your name anymore little one?”

He yelled back, “Of course, I’m E… Er… Eren? Erel? Ervin?”

“You don’t even remember, soon they’ll be nothing left. I’d recommend submitting now, you haven’t lost that much of your mind, there’s still a lot more to lose. We’ll need a name for you though? Since it’s your face that I sired you with is face a good name?”

He had no name. Had no place to run. Had only his voice, his fading memories. He prayed, but felt no peace, so there was no peace. He yelled to the sky, “Old gods hear me, and see my voice. Great Zeus spare me from these creatures of darkness, and Poseidon let the great Atlantic swallow them whole. Sekhmet and Thor let your wrath burn them and boil their blood. And great Anubis, Lady Hel and Dread Persephone destroy these creatures that have rejected your great kingdom! If any god exists here may you give these demons no mercy!” The yelling hurt his mouth but it healed so fast, and became even more inhuman, by the prayers end his voice sounded nothing let in did in his mortal form.

And suddenly there was rain.

It began slowly, but the clouds hung high above the beach, and drops of water began falling, faster and faster and faster, and thunder struck, and the Atlantic churned, and undead looked in fear as if there was an invading army at their feet, and they fled as if death itself threatened them and they feared for a moment that they were being called to the home that they had been denied by the swarm.

As the rain fell they were soon all gone, to take shelter from a storm that could destroy their broken bodies. And he realized that he was of the same fate as them, he too had to flee, his body likewise weak to the storm.

He stepped into the dark woods, they seemed so comfortable. Decided that it was time for him to sleep. Sleep would be good. Sleep would protect him.

He did not know how long he slept. His sense of time was off, and he had not dreamed at all. When we woke up it was midday, but that was all he could know. He tried to remember his name, he had to have one. She had called him Face, face would be his name for the time being. He tried to remember his old name, the best he could do was remember it started with E.

Looking at his arms was shocking. As Face got up he noticed his arms had changed, or at least they weren’t what he expected them to be. Face’s arms were grey, with their veins very visible, and black fingers like a body dying of frostbite. There was skin flaking off them, in tiny pieces, and it wasn’t even red on the inside. The cloth that covered some of his body was also different, ragged, and already showing signs of age, he realized he had been wearing it for many days without even taking it off. He neither urinated nor defecated, he hadn’t since he was bitten, so it didn’t really come up. Face tried to feel his face, his mouth had changed, it had healed so strangely, his mouth was twisted, not really shaped like a line anymore, and some of the teeth in the front were sharp and long like a bat’s. He didn’t think he teeth used to be that way.

He started walking. The rains had washed away most of the snow, but it would still be weeks (at least assuming he hadn’t been asleep for weeks) until anything began to bloom. It made the entire landscape a grim place, with no snow capping them the trees were just these black and brown wires, leafless and crooked tangles of branches. The sky above the forest was blank, white and pale but with few visible clouds. Or maybe it was all clouds. Either way the entire thing was not the most pleasant sight in nature. But once again Face started walking, it felt like what he was meant to do, he had been walking for a while. He was probably walking before he was bitten. He didn’t remember much of the day he was bitten, like that specific day was hard to remember for him for whatever reason. He realized he seemed to be able to remember less and less as time went on.

He walked further. The trees all looked the same. Occasionally he’d be greeted by the mercy of an evergreen, the only type of tree that still looked like a tree. The sweet mercy of autumn was so very far, any reminder of it was a kindness. Though the winter was only grey now, the coldness had faded, or more specifically Face could no longer feel any pain from coldness, he felt the coldness, coldness that could kill people, coldness that did kill people. But that coldness gave him no pain. It was around the time that he was thinking about his lack of pain from the cold that he noticed that he had stepped on a spike and it was now sticking out of his leg. It didn’t impede his walking at all, nor did it hurt, he realized he didn’t care at all. It was never a very pretty leg.

Occasionally he would see a ruined house, or road or rest stop. They were all dead. All signs of dead things, the animals alone found them to be good shelter in the state they were in. Perhaps some members of the swarm, or even a few scavengers had utilized such ruins, but he didn’t pass any ruins with such signs.

There was a pack of wolves at one point in his journey he saw a pack of wolves, eating the body of a large animal that he had forgotten the name of. He forgot how much bigger their bodies were compared to dogs. They were small in numbers when he was young, but as humans became rarer and rarer on the mainland their old rivals who had not been entirely driven to the grave had slowly regained their old populations. Wolves again roamed the woods, and sharks once again were a common sight in the Atlantic. These wolves were thriving, well fed, strangely real, blood on their mouths. He stood to admire them for a moment.

For some reason, Face began to feel something other than admiration for them. Jealousy, a desire to feast on that large creature he had forgotten the name of alongside them. No instead of them. That was his red stuff to eat. These wolves had nothing that he couldn’t claim. He jumped down and screamed and hissed at them. Oh the noises that his mouth made now. The wolves looked at him with yellow eyes of fear, as if they were looking at something deeply unnatural. They didn’t bother to fight. They knew to run. They knew he outranked them.

He began eating the creature whose name he forgot. It tasted good. It had a hard shell that was hard to penetrate, but it had a bunch of meaty bits on the inside. It wasn’t the wolves that killed it, it looked like it had been dead for a few hours, maybe days before the wolves got to it. He realized he wasn’t eating like he did when he was human, he felt neither hunger nor any satisfaction, just an intense desire to eat what was in front of him. It was almost like he wasn’t eating at all, like he was just observing the act of eating happening with his body in front of him. It was the same way he’d watch an illness overtake his body, like he was looking at the symptoms, it was something his body did but that his mind and his soul had no part in. He would just eat. He would just eat.

It took less time to eat then he expected. He just ate and ate, with the only breaks being to find something else that was edible within the creature, and his definition of edible seemed to have become far more open.

Suddenly he noticed himself coughing, choaking on something. As if by instinct he didn’t bother trying to remove it from his warped and distorted mouth. He ripped open his neck to pull out whatever he was choaking on. It only dawned on him just how brutal an act it was to his body after he had done it. Didn’t hurt very much.

Though what he found he had been choaking on was more terrifying to his soul. It was a dog tag, a badge of NewSoc faction rangers. How could whatever he was eating have one of those? But when he looked down at what he was eating it wasn’t a creature, it was a vehicle, a crashed jeep. It must have crashed and then the wolves started eating the corpses of the people inside… and they he started eating the corpses of the people inside. He had done it. He had eaten human flesh. Those fleshy bits he had gone after…

For some reason he was less shocked then he felt like he would have been. Maybe he always knew it would happen. They weren’t alive when he was eating them. He didn’t kill them. He would try not to eat dead human bodies again, it seemed like a bad idea to do.

He walked more. It took time but the time didn’t feel like time, it just was. The sun set. The sun rose. The sun set. The sun rose. Though he had no desire to keep track of the days, didn’t even know if he could keep them in his head if he needed to. But they passed and there were a lot of them. At least a week it seemed, maybe more. The forest grew thicker, and it started to snow again, more harshly then before, to the point where he could see the horizon fade, and the precipitation pile on the ground as he walked further and further. Yet still he walked, still he walked, for there was nothing else he could. The alternative would be just to sit, and he knew that would somehow be more painful.

He thought he saw things, but they weren’t there, hallucinations and visions and whispers in the dark that existed in his mind alone. Like some part of his mind was trying to see things he would never see again. He saw false images of people’s faces, soldiers, rangers, of some sort, people who he felt he had once traveled with, but who now were long gone to this world. And then they disappeared, as he realized they were nothing more then visions, nothing more than suppressed memories. He saw a young man who he knew was dead, and wished to call out his name, even though he knew the man was merely a hallucination, merely a construct of his depleted mind, he wished to call out a name to place upon that face one last time. But it was too late, he remembered nothing.

He saw for a moment, a street from his childhood, a part of the city he had once known for so long, with old stone buildings, and murals on the walls, and pigeons resting on the windowsills. It was autumn there. Early autumn. Warm autumn. He was no fool, he knew it was a creation of his mind, knew it was no more real then a dream. But he ran towards it, ran towards the hallucination because he knew that such a vision would be the only way he could stand there again. But when he came close to it, it was gone, and he saw nothing but the forest around him. And soon he didn’t remember those streets at all, and there was nothing left for his mind to fool him with.

All hallucinations ended. And he could see no more human face to be familiar with. No more sweet memories.

After further days of travel Face found himself spotting humans again. It was snowing harshly, the sky white, and the snow half hail and half rain, falling almost sideways, Face feeling it within his wounds. But he had found humans, hadn’t gotten a chance to see them but he saw the light of a fire, the type of bonfire rangers used to keep warm, or perhaps scavengers trying to just survive the night and day. If they were warm, he could be warm, he forgot exactly why he wasn’t traveling alongside other humans, or why he couldn’t create fire for himself. But he needed to go closer. As much as his body didn’t want to be cold, he was cold nonetheless, it wasn’t painful be he understand the lack of benefit for his twisted form’s dear health.

Yet as he approached the human flames a vision struck him, not a hallucination, for his mind had lost that ability, but a vision of the divine, an experience mystical. A tall and powerful god, with fiery eyes and a long beard, and a hammer in his hands, Thor great protector of humanity. The spirit turned to him, and for a moment Face felt comfort, for this spirit had protected him before. But this time the god did not protect him, Face felt the gods power turning him back, the howling winds picking up and sending him further and further from his path, hoping to destroy his body, hoping to make him suffer more. And Face understood, he understood that he was no longer a creature that such a deity would protect, he was now a being that such spirits must protect humanity from. His dearest gods were no longer his to prey to, now others prayed to them to protect themselves from him. And he understood. As much as he wept he understood too well. It was a rare night when such invocations worked so well, and when face turned away from the fire, the vision ended, and the people who needed such protection were safe.

There were no friends, no gods, no glory upon Face’s new path. Only the winter and the forest knew him, for he was of the winter, and he was of the forest. There was no going back for him now.

He walked through a strange sort of snow. He began to feel nothingness. Days meant nothing. Weeks meant nothing. Time meant nothing at all. He would just march on, towards his death. But he would never get a chance to even die. He just walked. He just walked.

He thought for a moment that he could protest, resist the curse of the dead, refuse to join the swarm. But that’s what most did, and most lost their mind, their reasoning. He would join the swarm, that was predetermined, it was up to him if the swarm forced him to or not.

There was nothing for him to get back to anyway. He would never be let back into the city. He barely remembered what the city was like. He would never again know again what it was to feel pain, to fall into a warm bed and feel it’s graceful comfort, never know again what it meant to taste sweet wine on his lips and chocolate on his tongue, never again make love, never again cry. His body was not human. He was cold now, he had realized there was no more internal heat within him. His blood was cold and black and as thick as honey. And it was always dripping behind him now, yet never running out. He had no more humanity within him. When he felt the shape of his own face it no longer resembled anything human, it was twisted, with teeth everywhere, eyes where they shouldn’t be, a mouth that opened in a way mammals jaws weren’t meant to, twisted and strange. And for some reason he wasn’t scared. Face tried to remember his old face, his human face, with a name that started with E. But he didn’t know how it looked. If his eyes still could weep they would have, he didn’t even remember his human face, didn’t remember his mother or father, he knew there was someone waiting for him at home but didn’t know who they were. There was only the forest, and there was only the now.

He decided he didn’t want to walk anymore. He found and old stone church, a human structure still standing in the winter woods. He lay down and started sleeping. Not really sleeping, just laying down and trying to think of nothing. It was no rest. But the snow began to cover him, and it felt as if he barely was anything at all.

The snow fell and it melted, the church roof long gone. There was no more freedom in his heart. He was just there. And that was just his fate.

He thought back to memories watching them fade as he slept, seeing their last resolve. Seeing the memories that stayed strong. A black and white poster placed up by Terminous faction in the west village, saying over a printed illustration of a ranger the words “humanity is not dying, it is being murdered. You can defend it!”. Singing with friends his last night before leaving the city for the firs time, the hope and fear in their eyes, not knowing if they would die. Seeing the view of the city surrounding him, on the hill of Sunset Park, seeing the entire city, a human life in every window, a world that looked so massive, all the humanity he needed to protect. A kiss, someone he cared about, below the above ground rails, they told him to stay safe, told him not to die. He told them he wouldn’t. He didn’t know he lied. He begged the void. Begged for forgiveness for betraying such a sweet voice.

He realized he was gone. There was no more denial. His body now a corpse.

There was only sleep.

And suddenly he woke up. It was the edge of spring. Still winter but the first hint of warmth of spring barely peaked through as the snow melted. It was right when, yes, right when the rangers would be preparing to see the city again. Perhaps a few of them have already stepped through the city gates. And then he remembered, he wanted to die as he remembered, he would not be going with them.

He sat up. His body feeling mechanical in its movements, it was flesh but not living flesh, it didn’t move with that animating force of breath but instead an uncomfortable supernatural power. He looked around him. Other undead looked at him, they must have woken him up. They were what Terminous would have called standard ghouls. Withered, almost skeleton like, with sharp teeth and claws, and glowing white eyes. There must have been an entire pack of them looking down at him. They would have lost parts of their minds, but they wouldn’t be entirely drained for sure. Smart enough to hunt and plan like cats or wolves at the very least.

They looked at him. They didn’t help him up. It wasn’t in their nature. They were wondering weather he could walk with them or not it seemed. Wondered if he was fast enough for them, if he was strong enough for them, if he could get up at all. And he could, and he did. And when he stood with them he just started walking with them, the same type of walking, but suddenly in a group.

For a few hours he was in a larger group, but as they split, likely to try to increase their chances of finding humans, Face ended up in a group with just three others. It felt almost like a group of friends, or coworkers. But it didn’t truly. For one none of them could talk, Face and another one, in an Incubus faction ranger’s armor, with him had no ability to talk it seemed, likely both because of mouth shape. Another could only seem to repeat the same phrase over and over again, “we’re reducing prices by fifty percent this holiday weekend”, judging by his pre fall suit and tie it was a phrase from his old life, echoing as the last memory of who he once was. The third that was traveling with him, never spoke, but sang, her song being rather beautiful though rarely intelligible, taking bits and pieces from music she once knew. By her dress it seemed she had been a high school student when the swarm attacked, still wearing her old school uniform.

They passed by a sign that said, in vivid yet rotting letters, far bigger then the human scale but perfect for the now dead and rusted automobiles, “Garden State…” the rest of the words rotted off. The sign should have been humorous in such a harsh winter. But winter as it was, February showed the first signs of winter’s end. As he looked upon the frigid landscape he could see the first budding flowers, hear the first songbirds coming up from the lands to the south. Spring would come, and he thought that if he was to be undead it would be good to at least be undead when everything was in bloom.

There was no kindness between the dead who traveled together. They were not friends. They would help each other. Those who had been rangers helped navigate the woods. They pointed out targets to each other. But they helped the swarm, not their friends. Face once saw the suit wearing ghoul start hitting the uniform wearing ghoul as she was distracted by something. He wanted to yell out “she’s just a kid” but he had no mouth that could scream such things. She was fine, the singing, and the repetition of “this holiday weekend” did not end at all during the whole interaction. It wasn’t in their kind’s nature to have mercy on each other. It wasn’t in his kind's nature to have mercy on each other.

They found an old man caught in a simple leg trap. From his age he had to be a scavenger, there were no rangers that old, if he’d been from the city he’d have been in the city, layers of coats from a lifetime out in the ruins were on his back. Face wondered what a man like that would be like, proud, he would be proud, having avoided the swarm his entire life. He would have been one of the few humans old enough to have only known the undead as an adult, to have truly lived in the pre swarm world before that. He may have even been one of the few people alive to remember the 20th century. He’d have learned as a grown man to fend off the dead, and had years and years of stories of surviving as a scavenger… one could even imagine him sitting around a scavenger campfire, telling stories of the old world and of the first days of the swarm to his children.

But it would be best for Face not to imagine. Because he knew what would happen to him. The old man screamed for help, his bearded withered face crying into the woods, hoping that a human of any sort would come. But it wasn’t a human that was coming. Face and his fellow ghouls slowly walked towards him, looking only to make sure he was properly restrained, harmless, of course he was, the trap had broken his leg, left him stranded there. There were people who could help him, but they wouldn’t find him in time.

Face tried to distract himself. Looked at the trap as if it helped him any. Black metal, well made, too industrial for the swarm or the scavengers to have laid. Rangers, not from Terminous though, his people would have never put down something that could so easily harm a random human. Perhaps a rival faction such as Incubus. He thought that as his new people prepared to devour a human alive, for a moment Face realized just how far he’d fallen. He’d gone all the way from being a defender of humanity to something that attacked humanity at it’s weakest. He realized he shouldn’t have thought any more of such things, else the curse of the undead would take that from him too. He’d let himself ignore rather than forget, evil as it seemed.

The old man began to scream as the creatures began eating him. They didn’t bother to do anything to make him dead first. They just chewed his flesh, barely bothering to taste and swallow. There was no distinction between what was eaten and what was spit out, the instinct of the swarm was to destroy over all else. It didn’t matter if it could be utilized, it mattered that it could be conquered, that it was the swarm’s and not another free being’s.

Everything within his body told him to join, it was like the deepest hunger, the most ravenous lust, the most pressing need to sleep. His mouth wanted to chew flesh, his hands wanted to feel it being torn between their fingers. The last of his mind knew that it was wrong, that it was so very wrong, but his body wanted to more then anything. He was so far beyond doing anything to stop it, but he felt if he could just look away, just stand there and watch it would mean something. But then he felt it, then he felt the force of the swarm telling him that he had to partake, that the swarm would take as much of his mind as it needed to until he could no longer resist eating that flesh. His time of standing on the sideline had ended, he would submit or he would be forced to submit.

Better to keep his mind and eat then to lose his mind to eat.

He ran towards the old man, let his body take control, as he sunk his teeth into that succulent blood filled neck, tasting the organs on what remained of his lips, feeling the death between his hands, smelling the moment the old man died. And it smelled so good to him now. A few minutes into the feast he didn’t think about the morality of what he was doing anymore, he just was. His actions all became things to be said in a passive voice. He wasn’t eating anyone. The undead swarm wasn’t even eating anyone. Someone was being eaten. It’s not like there’s anything he could do about it.

They walked on, left the old man’s bones to dry in the sun. Perhaps help would finally come for him, only to see him nearly entirely gone. There’s was something almost funny about it. And once to eating was done, the singing began again, and once again was “this holiday weekend” continuously repeated.

He wondered as he wandered, what would happen if he died of natural causes, some sort of disaster, at that point. Would his body be identified as his own. Would he have a chance to be known as himself. Would anyone get a chance to see him, or would he just be another body in the melting snow. He thought he knew the answer too well. He hoped no ranger would see and recognize him at all, then perhaps his legacy would be nice and pure. He wanted to say nobody would blame him if they knew what he had become, but he couldn’t say anything at all.

There was some peace to the forest when he was alone. With other ghouls near him it lost the little charm the frozen ruins ever had. But he didn’t have a choice. He realized he didn’t have a choice when it came to anything anymore. The storm wouldn’t permit it, even if it made him desire what it forced him to do. All that happened simply was. And in his final moments, as he realized the last of his humanity was gone from him utterly and completely, there was no more difference between the things he did, and the things that happened to him.

He could fantasize, think about attacking one of his fellow undead, taking them out, and the swarm let him fantasize, as he was so utterly submissive to it that it was like fantasizing about growing wings and flying. No part of him would act against the swarm, and even if he did kill his fellow undead, he would not stop being undead himself.

Eventually, as he was walking along, he realized he was very close to the city. The amount of ruins, and how clearly they’d been touched by rangers made it obvious. He could almost see the hint of the skyline on the horizon. He knew he couldn’t actually go much more near it, any undead who was close enough to threaten the city walls would be destroyed by the forces of the city. But he could just almost remember what it was like to see the first hint of the skyline all those years ago. He felt the city close to him, as if he could almost be there again, but he knew he never would. As close as his body was it was too late for his poor little soul.

Suddenly he heard gunshots. To his undead mind the sound of a gun no longer seemed as though it was from a natural yet brutal weapon anymore, but it seemed like something of cosmic horror, barely understandable, and so very alien to the form he had taken. Everything the weapon represented, every person such machines had killed, and every person such machines had saved, were all in qual parts alien to Face now.

The undead around him didn’t have much to do when hearing gunshots though. It was not in the swarms plan for them to scatter, but they didn’t see what they needed to fight yet. They just merely stood, knowing something would happen soon…

And then suddenly it happened. That repeated phrase that Face had been forced to listen to for so long finally ended forever. “We’re reducing prices by fifty percent this-“ The ghoul who had been saying it again and again stood with a bullet in his head, standing upright longer then a human would, stumbling back, and then being hit by two more bullets from what must have been a vantage point in the woods.

There was a fear between all three undead as they walked into the woods. There was something all undead seemed to know, that perhaps none of them could admit, that would be unseemly to admit, that humans were terrifying. Humans who could fight back, who were good at fighting back, were truly terrifying. Most humans were prey, it felt natural for them to be prey, which made it so horrifying when they fought back, and reversed such relationships. Face realized he knew what the lions and wolves must have felt when they first saw humans mastering fire and holding spears and clubs, what it must have meant to see humanity reverse it’s place in the food chain, and tell the world; no hierarchy is sacred. In past tellings Face had been on humanity’s side in such a parable, but he saw them now from the other side, and wanted his natural and genetic superiority in tact and the end of the day.

Then suddenly a human could been seen running out from the woods, a fully armored one, his actions so fast, so deliberate, so full of life, nothing about him could be confused with an undead’s equivalent actions. And suddenly Face realized that it wasn’t just a human warrior coming out from the woods, in was a human he had known in life, it was Gail. Face wanted to hide his appearance, to make it so they wouldn’t know, wouldn’t seen what he had become. He just hoped his body was too distorted for anyone to tell his human self.

In a moment he saw one of his undead companions destroyed by Gail’s polearm. It was so fast there was no hope of survival, like a wolf pouncing upon its prey. Face knew to just run. He wondered why he remembered Gail’s name but not his own, maybe his name just wasn’t worth remembering, or it was worth too much to the swarm.

For a few moments he ran through the woods, and there was nobody but himself. Only the singing ghoul near him could be seen, and her voice always heard even as she felt the fear of destruction. There was only her song, and only destruction.

Then suddenly the song ended, and he could see the human that had shot her. They had tripped! The human who had shot her had tripped, he had the perfect in the attack them. He ran over to the fallen human, ready to strike.

His body was so very hungry, he saw the human who had been shooting at him, who had shot his fellow undead. Their body was small, slight, easy for him to overpower just by jumping on top of. He held them down, touching their soft living flesh, thinking about how nice it would be to bite into them. He was so very lucky that they had tripped. And Gail was nowhere to be seen.

But then he saw their face! Oh god he saw their face! Ava! It was Ava, somehow he still remembered them, still remembered that even if he had lost his life they didn’t have, and suddenly mourned that they would, so certainly would as long as they were below his body. He wished so desperately he had not those urges, that they didn’t trip, that it could have been anyone else to fall that way. He hoped Ava did not know it was him, hoped they could not know that he was the one who was going to kill them.

He looked in Ava’s eyes, their crying face, he didn’t expect it to hurt so much to see them crying, and realize that he couldn’t comfort them, couldn’t protect them. He wanted to hug them and say it was ok, but it wouldn’t be, his body needed to eat flesh, and their flesh was there.

And then he realize he could protect them. Even if the swarm would destroy him for it.

He jumped off of them, Ava looking shocked as he did. Of course they did they had never seen the undead spare someone before. And he did, he knew the swarm would turn him into something that can’t spare soon, take away everything that made him himself until he didn’t remember an Ava to spare. But it didn’t matter, he wouldn’t last that long against them. He could see Ava raising their gun again, to give them more time, as he felt himself forgetting, felt the swarm rotting his frontal lobes away, he tore himself apart, ripped off his jaw, ripped off his arm, broke his legs on the stones below him, made himself harmless to Ava as the swarm made him forget who they were. He would stand back no more, he would not be complicit in another human’s death, even if it killed him.

The last thing his dead eyes saw was Ava raising their gun towards him, and firing their shot. He was rapidly forgetting who they were, but he was proud of them, he was so very proud.

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starlightshadowsworld · 12 days ago

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Alright so imagine BSD ends with the 6 months promise fight of Sskk where Akutagawa actually is able to kill Atsushi. Because yk he keeps his promises. But he also does something unusual.

Aku kneels on the ground and pulls Atsushi's now still body in his arms and presses atsushi's head closer to his chest. His grip on Atsushi's body tightens as a single tear drop falls from his eye.

The emotionless heartless cur grieving for his once enemy turned rival turned partner.

Dazai stands a few feet away. He was there to witness the final battle of his two prodigies. To see who lives to see the next day.

If he wanted both of them to compromise their promise and live together as the next generation of double black then he doesn't say it. He'd accepted very early on in life that whatever he cares about would always be taken from him by this vast cruel world

And now Dazai stands In front of Akutagawa, cradling the dead body of the one he despised beyond comprehension, But the scene In front of proves otherwise.

Dazai can't help but recall his young self, cradling the body of his dear friend Odasaku while he takes his final breath. The exact same way Akutagawa was cradling Atsushi in his arms right now. History repeats itself.

"So I guess you've gotten stronger? I've trained Atsushi this past few months and you still managed to beat him. You really were the stronger one between you too. Congratulations Akutagawa. You won."

Dazai says. Because after everything, he owes it.

Akutagawa doesn't look up. His eyes still focused on the face of his now dead partner.

After what felt like an eternity, Akutagawa lays down Atsushi's body onto the ground gently. The gentle touch he never gave Atsushi when he was alive.

When he turns his back on Dazai to walk away from that wretched place, he replies

"That doesn't matter anymore. In a few weeks I'd be joining him too"

Ah Dazai remembers. Akutagawa was actively dying due to his lung disease. He recalls Atsushi begging him to get treated by Yosano. Going as far to even ask Dazai to convince Akutagawa. And Akutagawa just like the stubborn man he was, refused both of them.

Maybe now Dazai knows why.

Because there's no world where Atsushi dies and Akutagawa lives. They were the other half of each other's souls. Yin and yang. One cannot exist without the other

(yeah ik it's unlikely that bsd would end like this but IMAGINE)

No hi? No hello?

We’re just gonna walk in and punch me in the face with emotional devastation? Yeah no no I will not imagine this because reading it was enough.

I’m good message was received.

If this happens I’m gonna quit

For several reasons.

That got so much worse the more I scrolled down. I thought it was gonna end with Akutagawa killing himself with either his own ability or Atsushi’s claws.

That’s where I thought this was going and I cannot tell if this outcome was better or worse.

I am genuinely speechless for one of the first times in my life. I have no idea how to respond to this truly I have no words.

You know I think I think I’m gonna go read that last chapter of the manga because that was nowhere near this soul crushing.

Thanks I hate it.

(Btw this is me joking incase it doesn’t come across that way although I am genuinely lost for words.)

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd atsushi #bsd sskk #shin soukoku #bsd akutagawa

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chaosister · 1 year ago

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𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ RUNNING UP THAT HILL, SHADOW THE HEDGEHOG

shadow never truly knew what he would do without you, he could never bare to lose another dear one ever again.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ 𝓼ummary. gn!reader, angst, possible ooc character, mentions of death, abandonment issues, trust issues.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ 𝓷ote. oh em gee.. THIS MAN IS SUCH AN ANGST CHARACTER MATERIAL. (he's so silly you guys i love him) I write like a turtle that's why this took so long 🐢 (I usually don't write stories like this but I needed to get this out) also, my writing commissions are open!!

Shadow never experienced warmth, he was always surrounded by the feeling of coldness that came with his existence.

when he met you, his world was suddenly full of colors– his monochromatic world suddenly boomed into a colourful world when his eyes met yours.

he could remember the electric shock that wrecked through his body when his gaze landed upon your form and once he finally got to know you and be with you, shadow never felt that coldness anymore.

But sometimes, Shadow can feel how fast his heart was beating whenever he was in your presence– shadow was scared, he was scared that one day you'll vanish and he'll never be able to see you again, that's why shadow always held himself back from fully loving you because deep down he knows that all good things must come to an end and he doesn't want the same situation with Maria to happen all over again.

Shadow's heart was bruised and battered up from the shattering experiences he'd gone through but despite how flawed he was– how broken his heart was– you held him as if he was made of glass, your touches were so gentle that shadow didn't know how to react to such gestures that were filled with unfamiliar emotions.

Shadow always hoped that each day would go by faster because of how tiring it was but that reason changed when you came to his life, everyday he hoped that each day would go by faster so he could come home to your awaiting figure that always greeted him with a warm hug.

He never wants this to end, he'll fight against god if it means that you'll forever always be there for him.

———

“Shadow?” the sound of your soft voice interrupted the comforting silence that wrapped around the two of you as his ears perked up at your voice, his face that was buried in your shoulder raised a little to let you know that he was fully paying attention and a muffled hum escaped him.

“..are you happy being with me?” there was doubt hidden beneath your voice that shadow sensed and made him look up at you, your eyes that were filled with gentleness stared back at him and shadow knew at that point that something was wrong.

“why are you asking such questions? did something happen while I was gone?” the hand that was running through his quills stopped as shadow sat up to observe your face

he noticed the way you bit your lip and your gaze was suddenly full of sadness, “nothing happened, I was just curious..” Shadow's hands twitched and soon his hands found themselves wrapped around yours and the coldness that emitted from his own calloused hands contradicted the warmth that came from your soft ones.

“I apologise if I'm not as open as you'd like... I'm not used to these kinds of things but do know that my heart beats rapidly for you and only you, my world would blast with colors whenever I'm with you, and you fill me with hope that makes me wish that the day would go slower when I'm with you.”

Shadow said those words with such sincerity that it made your heart beat faster and your face to feel warmer, his gaze was filled with such intensity that it made you feel naked in front of him.

“...I love you, shadow.”

——

The two of you embraced each other at the end of it all, that was one of his memories that he cherished.

...But why was the world so against him? why was the world so cruel to him? those thoughts rampaged inside his mind as he blankly stares at your bleeding form on the floor, you were one of the few good things that happened to him and yet he failed to protect you.

sometimes, the world can be cruel to some unlucky souls and shadow was unfortunate to be one of those said souls.

Shadow didn't know how to react to your bleeding figure and so, he turned away his head as his trembling hands covered your form with a white blanket that blood seeped through.

he hopes that the ambulance would hurry up and help you despite the fact that you were already dead.

shadow doesn't believe that you're dead, you couldn't be, you were resting just like how you were when he left you.. all alone in this house that was filled with warmth and now it felt cold and empty house.

pleas left his mouth as he begged whoever was out there that could save your life– that could bring you back.

his cold hand tightly held your bloody hand that has the unfamiliar feeling of coldness and the realization that you were missing your usual warmth made him break down into tears as he desperately held your bloody figure in his arms.

the medics that rushed inside the house tried to pry off shadow from your corpse yet he refused to let go, no, he won't leave your side again.

but despite the sound of his pleas and crying the medics had no choice but to whisk you away to the hospital.

“please-! don't take them away-!”

he was left all alone again but this time, his heart was fully shattered and closed off. He was now just a broken man walking around hoping that today will be his final day.

#sonic x reader #shadow the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog x reader #shadow x reader #x reader #shadow the hedgehog headcanon #sonic the hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog x reader #I usually don't write like this but I had to post something #cringe angst fr

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livingdreams97 · 1 year ago

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Rhaenyra Targaryen -"The Personal Guard." (Part 6)

Rhaenyra Targaryen x Male reader/oc

Summary: The barely known third son of Lord Lyonel Strong, surprisingly ends up becoming the personal guard of none other than the Targaryen princess, after an incident in the forest.

Words: 3.690

Masterlist

Rhaenyra POV

I was more than nervous. I never thought I would feel nervous on my wedding day, I always imagined this day as a dark day full of misfortune. But it was the opposite of what I imagined.

I had barely been able to close my eyes for more than half an hour, being awakened by the excitement and nerves of the day.

Today would be the day I would officially and publicly join Y/n Strong. Today I would become his betrothed officially and he would be mine, today we would unite as one in front of the gods and I couldn't be more excited.

The preparations for the wedding had been quick. Just two weeks ago I was arguing with my father about the unfounded rumors of his former hand and fighting not to be forced to marry Ser Leanor Velaryon.

And after two hectic weeks, due to the organization of the wedding, the banquet, the dress and everything that goes into the preparations for the big day. The big day had arrived.

In these two weeks my father put another personal guard on me and I hadn't been able to see Y/n more than passingly during this time. But today I would finally see him, I would see him walking towards me and at the end of the day I will be in his arms again.

Although I can't help a bitter feeling, when I am aware that I will experience one of the happiest days of my life and that my mother will not be with me on such an important day.

I would like to be able to live this with her, listen to her talk about how happy she is for me and telling me that she was right; like I did when I was a girl.

I would like to know that you are proud of me, for having left behind the negative idea of getting married and having chosen the best man in all the kingdoms. I would like to have her by my side to calm my nerves, hug me and whisper to me that everything will be fine.

But even though she is not by my side, I know that she watches me from the heavens and that she is happy for me.

Nora: Are you nervous, princess? - my trusted servant asks me, getting me out of my head.

Rhaenyra: Terrified.- I admit with a nervous laugh.

Nora: Don't worry, everything will be fine.- she assures me, placing her hands on my shoulders and leaving a reassuring squeeze.

Nora has been my personal servant since I can remember, always by my side and taking care of me. She was something of a mother figure, especially after my mother's death and Alicent's betrayal.

Rhaenyra: I know.- I nod, taking a deep breath. -But I can't help but feel nervous.- I admit, biting my lip, seeing my reflection in the mirror and realizing that I'm completely ready.

Nora: Nerves are good.- she assures me with a smile. -That means you care.- she explains to me without removing the smile from her face and I return the gesture.

We both remain silent, while Nora helps me with the last details of my hair and a doubt invades my head.

Rhaenyra: Am I doing the right thing? - I let the question hang in the air without stopping to look at my reflection in the mirror.

Nora: Do you want to marry Lord Strong? - she asks me back after a few seconds of silence.

I remain silent at her question. My mind immediately searches for every existing memory of every conversation, every touch, every word, every gesture, every interaction, every sensation and every detail of Y/n Strong towards me.

The fact that with a mere smile from him my day becomes happier, how with each of his gestures towards me they make me feel protected and loved, just like the feeling of his worked hands leave a path of softness. and delicate all over my body. About how every tiny thing he does for and for me makes my heart race in an exorbitant way.

Rhaenyra: With all my soul.- I respond bluntly with total sincerity and with a smile completely flooding my face.

Nora: Then you're doing the right thing.- she assures me, placing the last ruby in my hair and taking a step back. -You're ready, princess.- she informs me with a slight smile.

Rhaenyra: How do I look? - I ask her, turning towards her and biting my lip with some insecurity.

Nora: Perfect.- she answers me with a smile full of sincerity.

Rhaenyra: Do you think Y/n is going to think the same? - I ask, feeling my body vibrate in anticipation of her response.

Nora: No.- she answers and my shoulders fall at it. -He won't be able to think of what to say to you with how dazzled you are going to leave him.- she finishes answering me, making my spirits rise and a warm sensation settle in my chest.

Rhaenyra: Okay.- I whisper, trying to calm myself down.

Nora: Ready for the first day of seven? - she asks me calmly.

Rhaenyra: I'm ready.- I assure with a sincere smile.

My feet walk calmly but with a certain nervousness through the castle, feeling the bustle of the people closer with every step I take and the moment of seeing my betrothed becomes more and more imminent.

My steps resonate in my ears and add to a symphony with my heart. Each heartbeat is accompanied by a step and an echoing sound every time my foot hits the ground.

The symphony of my steps along with the beating of my heart stop when I land in front of the entrance to the dining room and the place is full of people for the celebration.

This time it is my breathing, along with the racing heartbeat and bustle of the people that create a symphony of different sounds. But the symphony ends when I hear my name announced to the room.

With a nervous smile, I begin to descend the stairs at the entrance and watch as everyone gets up from their seats to greet me and congratulate me on the imminent event.

I just smiled at them in response and walked as quickly as possible towards the table at the end of the room, where I can see my father standing and giving me a big smile.

Viserys: You look beautiful, daughter.- he says, grabbing my hands when I reach his side.

Rhaenyra: Thank you, father.- I thank him with a shy smile.

Viserys: I'm sure Lord Y/n Strong will be enthralled as soon as he sees you. - He assures me, leaving a loving squeeze on my hands and helping me to what will be my chair during the celebration.

I sit on my father's left side, watching the big houses being announced as they enter the dining room and how the heads of said houses congratulate me on the nuptials as well as my father.

But holding back my smile and holding my tongue against any cruel comment becomes very difficult when Lord Jason Lannister makes an appearance.

But thank the gods, I don't have to endure it for long and it's thanks to the announcement I was most looking forward to.

Ser Harrold: Lord Lyonel Strong, lord of Harrenhal, former councilor of buildings and current hand of the king. - begins to announce. -His first son Ser Harwin Strong, city guard and future lord of Harrenhal. And his youngest son, Ser Y/n Strong, the future king consort.- finishes announcing, causing a wave of applause in their presence and I get up from my chair quickly.

I smile as i see my future husband walk towards me, appreciating every detail of his clothes and face as best as I can given our distance.

POV You

I swallow heavily, trying to calm my nerves and appear as composed as possible. But it is very difficult for me to see the princess looking at me and the sincere smile she gives me.

Everything falls silent, as my father and brother bow before the king and I do the same when it is my turn.

When I stand up, the princess turns and begins to circle the table. I look at my father and he gives me a sign that I can move towards her. Which I do immediately, walking towards where the princess is and holding one of her hands delicately when we are facing each other.

Rhaenyra: Betrothed .- she greets me with a smile full of life and a certain point of fun.

Y/n: Betrothed .- I greeted, without taking my eyes off of hers and leaving a kiss on her soft hand.

The entire room erupts in applause again, but my attention is only on the woman in front of me and her incredible beauty.

Rhaenyra gently pulls at our hands to follow her and places us in front of the chairs we will occupy at the banquet. My father greets the king and takes his place on the right side of the table, occupying his seat as a hand. While my brother Harwin stands next to me and Larys in the corner.

Once the family is in front of their seats, we all begin to sit down and I lean slightly towards my betrothed's ear.

Y/n: You look like a goddess.- I whisper affectionately, noticing how her smile widened and how her cheeks took on a more pinkish color.

She turns her face to answer me, but her words remain in her mouth as everything falls silent at the sudden presence of her uncle, Prince Daemon.

But as soon as he sits down at the table, the place fills again with conversations and the clatter of dishes.

The king rises to give a speech about the union of our houses, but the room falls silent again due to a new presence in the room. But this time it is none other than the queen who enters and dressed in green.

I look at my brother, remembering something he once told me about the Hightowers and that is that when they rise to war the color green is the color they use to summon their bannermen.

But no one but the Hightowers themselves stand up to applaud their presence and color of clothing. The rest remain silent as they walk and approach the royal table. She congratulates us with an evidently forced smile and sits down in the seat to the king's right.

Once seated, the king begins his speech again and congratulates us on the union of our houses, as well as my union with his daughter as king consort. With the speech finished, the music begins to play and the laughter of the people fills the room.

Rhaenyra: Do you want to dance? - she asks me excitedly.

Y/n: Umm I don't know, will you step on me during the dance? - I ask her amused.

Rhaenyra: Maybe.- she answers me with some malice.

Y/n: Then I'll have to take that risk.- i smile, lifting me up and stretching my hand towards her.

She accepts my gesture and with my help gets up from her seat. We walk hand in hand to the center of the room, where there is a space for dancing, and we start dancing.

As soon as we finish the first dance, more people join the floor and start us dancing a new one.

Y/n: Are you happy? - I ask her when we are close enough.

Rhaenyra: With you? Or with the wedding? - she asks me back with a smile.

Y/n: With the wedding.- I respond amused. -I hope she's happy with me, because otherwise I don't know what we're doing here.- I say and she laughs at my comment.

Rhaenyra: You're right, with you you don't need to ask me.- she assures me. -But I would be happier if the wedding was more intimate and quick.- she answers with a grimace.

Y/n: Does seven days seem like a lot to you? - I ask, feigning surprise. -And here I was thinking it was a short wait.- I joke earning a laugh from her.

Rhaenyra: Seven days are too many to be able to call me your wife.- she admits with a smile and I return it.

Y/n: What's seven days with the rest of our lives.- I whisper with a smile before moving on to a new partner.

I continue with the dance, but some screams and a brawl at the end of the room cause everything to stop. I look everywhere, trying to find my betrothed and get her away from any possible danger.

Y/n: Harwin!- I call my brother when I see him among the people. -I can't find Rhaenyra!- I shout nervously, pushing people and trying to find a silver hair.

Harwin: Look to the left and I'll look to the right! - he shouts in response, pushing each person in his path and looking for my betrothed.

Rhaenyra: Y/n! Y/n!- I hear her calling me and look to my left. -Y/n!- I listen again and see her on the floor against one of the chairs.

Y/n: Rhaenyra! - I shout, pushing anyone who gets in front of me. -Are you okay?- I ask, bending down and holding her face in my hands.

Rhaenyra: Get me out of here, please.- she begs me with fear in her eyes.

I place a delicate kiss on her forehead, before helping her up and hugging her against my body.

Y/n: Harwin! Harwin, help! - I shout and it doesn't take more than a few seconds before my older brother is in front of us. -Help me take her to the king.- I ask and he nods.

Harwin: Stick to my back.- he orders me, turning around and I do what he tells me.

I place Rhaenyra between them for her safety. My brother leads the way and I make sure no one touches her in any way.

The king quickly hugs her when we get to the table and she is safe from whatever is happening.

-------------------------------------------------- -------------------

I walk at a fast pace through the corridors of the castle, greeting all the nobles I meet along the way and trying to get to our room as soon as possible.

I was training with my brother, when one of the servants told me that Rhaenyra needed me right now and that it was urgent.

So I had started to run through the castle and try to get to my wife as soon as possible.

Y/n: Rhaenyra!- I exclaimed when I entered our chambers. -What happened? Are you okey? Is the baby okay? - I ask quickly, kneeling on the floor in front of the sofa where she is and I look at her worried.

Rhaenyra: No, calm down.- she tells me with a smile, placing her hand on my head and moving a strand of my hair behind my ear. -You have to cut your hair.- she comments calmly and I look at her confused.

Y/n: I don't understand anything.- I confusedly whisper. -The servant told me that you needed me urgently, I had thought that something had happened to you or the baby.- I commented trying to catch my breath.

Rhaenyra: The baby is fine and so am I.- she assures me, grabbing my hand and placing it on her swollen belly.

Y/n: So, why the urgency? - I ask, relaxing my body.

Rhaenyra: This is why.- she whispers and moves my hand from the center of her belly to one of her sides.

I look at her confused, but when she puts light pressure on her belly with our joined hands, something moves and I open my eyes in surprise. I stare at my wife's belly, completely surprised and excited.

I bring my face closer to the belly, placing one cheek on the fabric of the dress and gently pressing the belly again.

I can feel the movement of our baby again and I can't stop a tear from falling from my eyes.

Rhaenyra: Was it urgent? - she asks with some amusement in her voice.

Y/n: Very urgent.- I whisper still, without separating myself from her belly and feeling how her hands go into my hair.

Rhaenyra: As soon as I noticed it, I asked them to call you.- she whispers, stroking my hair.

Y/n: Thank you.- I whisper gratefully, separating myself from her belly and staring into her eyes.

Rhaenyra: For what? - she asks me confused, taking her hands out of my hair and caressing my cheeks gently.

Y/n: For everything.- I respond with a sigh. -For loving me, for being braver than me to the point of almost forcing me to marry you and for giving me an heir even with your reasonable fear of giving birth.- I list, making her laugh at the comment about the wedding and causing her to grimace at the end.

Rhaenyra: With you I'm not afraid of giving birth.- she assures me with a slight smile.

Y/n: Why? - I asked curiously, raising my other hand to her belly and leaving soft caresses on the spot over her dress.

Rhaenyra: Because I trusted you and I know that you will never do to me what my father did to my mother. - She answers me with a certain pain shining in her beautiful lilac eyes. -Because I know that you love me like I do and that you would put my life before even your own.- she assures me and a tear falls from her beautiful eyes.

Y/n: Rhae.- I murmur, touched by her response getting up from the ground and sitting on the couch next to her.

Rhaenyra: Stupid hormones.- she growls when followed by the first tear, the others come out after her and she begins to cry.

Y/n: Hey no.- I deny when she abruptly wipes away her tears. -You're going to hurt yourself, Ñuho glaeso hūrus (Moon of my life).- I tell her, putting her hands aside and gently removing the tears from her face.

Rhaenyra: I hate these mood swings.- she growls, crossing her arms and looking completely cute.

Y/n: I love them.- I whisper against her forehead, leaving a kiss on the spot and then descending my kisses all over her face.

Rhaenyra: You love them because you can laugh at my expense. - she hits my side and I can't help but grunt from the pain. -What's the matter? I haven't hit you that hard.- she asks me, frowning and with some concern.

Y/n: Nothing's wrong with me, it's just that Harwin has been faster than me in training and has had his fun with me. - I explain with a slight amused grimace.

She looks at me seriously, before reaching her hands towards my black training shirt and starting to take it off. Once the fabric is off my body, she looks at my ribs where a reddish area with small purple parts is located.

Rhaenyra: I'm going to have to talk seriously to your brother.- she comments, caressing the area delicately.

Y/n: Leave it, I hit his butt quite hard. - I comment with amusement, removing all traces of tears from her face and looking at the movement of her eyes.

Rhaenyra: Of course. - She rolls her eyes, letting out a small laugh, before returning her attention to my body.

Y/n: Better? - I asked quietly with a hoarse tone, noticing how my wife's eyes and hand ran over my entire torso.

Rhaenyra: Much better.- she assures me, biting her lip and unconsciously leaning towards my body.

I place my hand on the back of her neck, leaving a caress in the area before pulling her towards me and joining our lips. It doesn't take Nyra more than three seconds to deepen the kiss and moan against my mouth.

Y/n: This is why I love your mood swings. - I comment with amusement, separating myself from the kiss, feeling her hands run over my body and my hands over her.

Rhaenyra: Pervert.- she murmurs against my lips, putting her hands inside my pants and trying to take them off.

Y/n: That's what the person who tries to undress me says.- I laugh, standing up a little to help her undress me.

Rhaenyra: Shut up and take off my clothes.- she growls at me before kissing me hungrily.

I undress her as best I can, trying to do it in a way where our lips don't have to separate and where it is comfortable. But in the end the kiss is interrupted when I manage to release the dress and take it off over her head.

She gets up from the couch, taking off her underwear as best she can and walking naked towards our bed.

Rhaenyra: Are you coming or not? - she asks me maliciously, biting her index finger and looking at me innocently.

I don't respond verbally, but I jump off the couch as best I can and pick her up in my arms quickly, making her laugh. I lay her on the bed, placing myself on top of her and starting to kiss her entire body.

Y/n: I hope little Jacaerys or little Aemma prepare for what's coming. - I comment amused, leaving a kiss on my wife's belly and earning me a slap on the head from her.

Rhaenyra: Don't say that! - She exclaims with amusement and horror at the reference to our future baby.

I just laugh, leaning towards her face and staying a few centimeters away from her.

Y/n: Avy jorrāelan (I love you)- I whisper against her lips, knowing how much she likes me speaking to her in Valyrian.

Rhaenyra: Avy jorrāelan (I love you).- she whispers before hugging me by the shoulders and joining our lips for the third time in a very, very long afternoon full of something more than kisses.

Because maybe the beginning of our relationship was not the most orthodox or the most common. And our wedding may not have been the most pleasant for many, thanks to the death of a close friend of the Velaryon family at the hands of Ser Criston.

But to me, everything about Rhaenyra is perfect and natural. Our relationship arose from sincere feelings and although the wedding was brought forward 7 days due to a misfortune, I only look at the positive side of that day; marrying the love of my life.

Because from that day forward, my entire life is dedicated to my wife Rhaenyra Targaryen and the family we are creating.

Because even now after all the time that has passed since the day we met, just looking at her or feeling her hand touch mine makes my heart beat wildly just like the first day.

THE END

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