Requested by: anon
Main Characters: Scp-106/The Old Man and Class-D!GN!Reader
Warnings: suicidal thoughts, violent thoughts, distorted view of faith and religion, murder due to mysterious corrosive substances, scp 106 is practically a decomposing corpse, kidnapping, mention of torture through tooth extraction, mention of dehydration, mention of forced fasting, isolation, blasphemy, lowkey toxic relationship dynamic, even reader becomes toxic towards the end if you squint your eyes
W/C: 5,635
A/N: I didn't quite understand what kind of ‘desperate’ reader was supposed to be so I left it to my imagination. I hope I fulfilled the request anyway and that this work will be appreciated by all you scp 106 lovers out there. enjoy <3 (btw I love scp 106 so much, I see too little about him and ughhh while writing this I was kind of feral)
All you wanted was some kind of excuse to keep from killing yourself.
Of course it was a very drastic, dramatic, and desperate choice and reflection, but you had come to the conclusion that it could be the only thing that could save you from this desperate and corrupt life.
Now you were a Class-D, you had left your pathetic life of hardship behind, you had come to think that maybe this was what you were meant to do.
The water, warm but bordering on cold, ran over your head, then trickled down your neck and down the rest of your body as you curled up against the corner of the shared shower wall. The liquid didn't help you feel any less dirty; it was as if it were dirty itself. In the background of your thoughts was the loud chatter of your "colleagues," a tasteless way of saying it when you could all be lumped together like a pack of animals just waiting to be slaughtered by some strange predator.
Maybe this was more brutal.
You seem to be the only one who understands this simple concept; desperation was now all you'd known for a few years. Christ, you wondered how you'd managed to endure for so long without thinking about it first, perhaps because you were hoping for change, as if it could be positive in the shithole you were now in: the SCP Foundation.
Your nails, chipped and damaged by hard labor and the little care you had, dug into the tender flesh of your biceps, your teeth gritted as you tried not to have another attack right here and now. The Foundation was no place for the weak, and not even among Class-D, most of them were delinquents, murderers, and good-for-nothings who had believed in their luck a little too much until the sheet of ice they had been walking so boldly had finally crumbled under the weight of their mistakes.
You shouldn't have been there, fuck. You didn't belong there, you were like a white fly who had unfortunately fallen into a pool of tar and had become like all the scum around you.
A chuckle escapes your throat as the relief of water is denied you by some asshole from the "special" Class-D, the ones whose job it was to observe and monitor the other groups. Apparently, a ten-minute shower was far too much.
With the calmness only seen in those who know they'll have to die sooner rather than later, you queue to leave, head down to look at the shower tiles and, if you had the chance, at the heels of the person in front.
You didn't belong in that shithole.
It had been bad luck, yours. A series of unfortunate events that had led you to... well, this. When you were a normal citizen, you'd had a few minor problems here and there, you'd physically hurt a few people for reasons you hated to remember, but nothing that put you on the same level as these subhumans. You'd tried everything to escape this immense darkness that was your pathetic existence and redeem yourself. You'd never truly believed in God, but now that you'd seen what lay within the Foundation, you gave the Holy Creator the certainty of doubt. Even the little crucifix you'd worn so condescendingly had been ripped away from you.
You couldn't see them any other way. Not that they were to blame, but just being compared to them made bile rise in your throat. It burned. You wanted to kill everyone in this damned hellish facility, human and otherwise, yet you were a too small fish in what seemed like the jaws of a gigantic marine predator.
As you dressed, the fabric sticking to your clammy skin and your hair dripping like a broken faucet, you thought back to the sacred act. According to the protocol everyone seemed to follow religiously, you were supposed to report certain... options, so to speak, but you already knew that wouldn't help.
The psychologists in charge of monitoring the Class-Ds' mental health didn't give a damn, to be brutally blunt and honest. You were an easy target for any experiments on you, but the rule was that, in the end, when one Class-D died, another was born, a bit like popes, but the latter are remembered and elevated to sainthood. You could only hope that the worms would thank and venerate your carcass in their own way, devouring you with tender devotion.
On the best of days, you saw yourself as a Savior, good enough to not only descend to the level of Sinners but even lower, being sacrificed so that others could be safe from the anomalies.
You regain consciousness only when you hear the methodical sound of the cell doors opening, creaking sadly, welcoming you in their own way. The antiseptic smell that lingered in the closed room was nauseating; they must have been late in cleaning your room: bad luck or a sign that you just had to give in to your suicidal desires? You take a step forward and the room closes with a dull thud.
Your eyelids are heavy, and what you really want is to throw yourself serenely into the arms of the hard mattress that made up your bed, along with a creaking, rusty metal frame and an equally uncomfortable pillow. You huff and puff as you drag yourself along, ungratefully dissatisfied that you were still alive: suicide seemed so pathetic, but perhaps it truly was the only way; a purification, Death, from your desperate despair, Life.
Automatically, you kneel before the cold, uncomfortable bed, resting your elbows on it and intertwining your fingers in an innocent, hopeful gesture. You pray, over and over again, knowing full well that God won't save you today either; perhaps he was too busy helping wealthy entrepreneurs who were about to make their fortunes.
What a fucking irony of fucking fate.
You take a deep breath, the taste of your own blood hitting your taste buds and your tongue retracts. Rather than experience your own depressing taste, your brain would have made you choke on your own tongue. You bring your fingers to your lower lip. How long had you been biting it? Well, certainly long enough to cut the skin and let the fresh, colorful liquid out.
You only recover when suddenly your fingers disappear from your sight, darkness falls in the room, and a voice in the hallway outside yells for you to go to bed or something.
Limply, and in total darkness, you lie down in bed, curling up so you can hug and comfort yourself. Within seconds, your eyes close completely, allowing you to fall into a dark dream world.
You wake up only to the sudden, annoying sound of the siren: "All Security Personnel are requested to implement Primary Security Measures following the containment breach of anomalies. This is not a drill. Any Class-D found outside their cell will be targeted on sight: do not resist."
Was this perhaps God's benevolence? Had he perhaps listened to you? Or was it just a trap of the Devil?
The red light flickered against your four walls, which you'd hated since day one. You wouldn't have minded dying here and now... but did those damned MTF agents deserve to kill you? Maybe not, probably not, absolutely not. You wouldn't let those devils touch you, but maybe you could find a way to kill yourself right now.
As if someone was actually listening to you, which made you a little uncomfortable at first, with a clang of metal, the door to your cell burst open, and from your position sitting on the bed, you could begin to glimpse the corridor lit up, like your cell, in red. The light was more constant there; it wouldn't have seemed so scary if it weren't for the sight of a Class-D lying dead in front of the entrance. Pitiful.
The wheels were turning in your mind: you were fairly certain that the doors were designed to remain hermetically sealed during containment breaches, primarily to prevent leaks and that there was more damage than necessary. Therefore, something must have happened to Site-19's control panel, giving you the green light to do whatever you wanted. For a moment, you forgot where you were, but then again, that would be your end. Until now, you had only postponed the inevitable fate that would soothe your despair.
You didn't even realize you were crying.
A hysterical attack explained all your thoughts, your tears and your laughter but it was as if the weight that was making you sink deeper and deeper was slowly lightening, making room for salvation.
Your legs were moving before you knew it; it was like living in an extremely lucid and real dream. Now you were in the corridor, the screams and gunshots echoing through the terrifyingly huge Site-19, but they were distant, as if you'd just been given a free pass to do anything.
You already knew what the Class-D cell area looked like: nothing special, really. You turned your head to the right and, as you already knew, there was nothing special, just a pointless dead end that would have led to death if you were chased. Well, you wanted to die, so it wasn't really unfortunate from your unstable perspective. Then you turned your head to the left, and after a few meters, you saw the corridor bifurcating into more than one path. If you thought about it carefully, you could compare the Site to an anthill: at the center was the hub of everything, the anomalies, while all the other "roots" led to fairly useless, yet crucial, places, like the cells where those condemned to death slept at night.
You began walking, spurred on by the sudden, profound silence. If the containment breach was ending, you had to hurry and do what you had to do; you wouldn't have had another good chance like this one. To be honest, you didn't even know exactly where to go, much less what to do.
As soon as you arrive at the three crossroads you immediately notice that only one door was open, the others required a keycard which, however, you clearly didn't have.
So you decided to take the only clear path. You just had to hope you found something that would help you end it... or maybe even a way out. You were pretty sure that escape wasn't impossible, especially when chaos had set in at the Site.
You'd never felt anything like it in years. Your heart pounded with adrenaline as a splashing sound and gurgling sounds echoed through the hallway, while your eyes gazed at what seemed like an angel of death.
You'd walked for a good ten minutes, passing melted corpses and strangely corroded walls. You'd never been in this area before, but it couldn't be normal— an SCP, perhaps? Probably. You weren't really afraid of encountering one; you were sure that your determination, fueled by your desperate desire for suicide, would be more than enough to help you escape any anomaly.
You expected anything but to see that macabre splendor.
A Class-D pathetically pushed himself against the wall, trying to get away from the creature, a hand to his throat, which seemed to have suddenly rotted and melted, slowly becoming sticky tar that slid across healthy skin and sizzled, reeking of pestilence, death and burning.
And then he, the angel in his most terrifying yet ethereal form. His skin was black, probably rotten, yet as he moved, you could see, even from your slightly distant spot in the corridor, his muscles flexing beneath the dead layers. He wore what appeared to be a uniform, brutally ruined by time, a very old military one, perhaps from the early twentieth century. The jacket, however, was open, revealing to your eyes and the victim's a sickly, dark body, clearly not human. The creature was bald, with a plastered smile that stretched from ear to ear, pearly teeth that stood out uncomfortably to the observer. And the eyes…
God, his eyes: completely black, sunken, beautiful in the most morbid way. Only two small, disturbing white lights, were observing everything around him, focused primarily on the victim before him. He was hungry, you could see it.
You swallow hard as you feel an uncomfortably hot heat rising to your cheeks, you almost felt like you could cry: he had been sent by God for you, you would have put your hand in the fire and ignored the pain that would have been released by the fresh burn, you really believed it.
Your angel, the only one who could have gently taken your life, rotting your mortal body to leave you free to live your blissful life in Heaven.
Your eyes shone as if you'd just witnessed a miracle: his entire arm slowly extended to the head, which was bobbing in supplication. The man's screams were loud enough to annoy you, but you were too engrossed in the scene to realize that your hands were now resting on your ears. Your pupils dilated, the dead hand pressed against the skin of the man's face and... sank, the fingers pushing against the victim's closed eyes, and even then the organic material molded, as if it were butter. You watched in ecstasy; suddenly, the ground beneath the sufferer had become like mud, black and sticky. Soon, the man was gone and the floor was back to normal, as if nothing had ever happened, no evidence or trace. You hadn't seen Class-D actually die, his screams had stopped abruptly when he sank, yet you knew he was in a better place now.
“Wow…” you muttered out loud, unconsciously. Perhaps you had done it on purpose because, finally, the rotten man's attention was now focused on you: his bald head had slowly turned in your direction, his white pupils focused on your body, his smile, if that were possible, had decidedly widened at the sight of a new victim faithful. He took a step forward, then another, at what seemed to be his pace: slow, predatory, dangerous.
For a few seconds you stood still: was he coming to you, or were you genuinely going crazy? Was it finally your turn?
A nervous chuckle floated through the air as your arms fell limply to your side. You'd also taken two steps forward, and in response, the man stopped. He tilted his head, his pupils of light shrinking, as if considering a possible reason why you'd actually wanted to get close to him, not having just seen another Class-D brutally untied by him. He almost flinched, though it was barely perceptible to the naked eye, as you took a third, fourth, and fifth step.
He snorted. Now he stood still, unsure whether to give up for someone more fun to hunt. "Do you have a death wish, human?" His voice had come out hoarse and more hoarse than he'd intended. He never spoke to anyone in this prison of his, he had no reason to when everyone seemed too stupid, but at least they were tasty.
“Yes!” you exclaimed, your voice brimming with pure joy and ecstasy. He hadn’t even expected this. “You… you’re an angel, right? I’ve heard of you in the Bible, you carry out God’s judgment, right? Oh my goodness, and I’m even talking to you, such an honor. I left my cell because I was allowed to come and meet you, now it all makes more sense! I’ve been thinking about killing myself for a while, and then this.” I gestured, pointing around to see the breach in the containment. “God brought me to you, my time has finally come. I don’t deserve to stay here with these criminal scum, but I also don’t deserve to go back to the shit that was my life before: my only salvation is you, do you understand?”
Scp-106 didn't know what to say: your pointless rant was a mixture of pure nonsense, suicidal desires and a sick faith. Calling him an angel? Nonsense, the closest he was to being a demon from Hell, and you were here babbling about how he was going to save you? You had truly reached the limit of dignity. "Pft, that's the most pathetically funny thing anyone's ever said to me. Not even the doctors who work here are that funny, and they say and ask a lot of bullshit..." He chuckles, his rows of pearly white teeth lengthening to make his smile wider. "I'm anything but a salvation, for the mentally stable, that is."
You shake your head violently as you move again, this time clasping your hands together and placing them against your chest. “No, no! I can’t be wrong! You are the right one, the only one, apart from me and God, who can save me from this life of despair and pain. I beg you, touch me with your hands imbued with the power and strength God has given you, no matter the pain I'll feel!” You were so blinded by the will to complete your life that you didn’t even realize you’d started crying. Joy, pain, desperation and faith mixed inside you, creating a confusing mess you couldn’t name.
The man, the angel, the exterminator looked at you again, silently. He cocked his head to the side as he looked you up and down, flattered but with the morbid manner you'd find in a sinner. "Aren't you the sweetest?" He asked in a teasing tone as he opened his arms, as if to welcome you into a hug. "Then why don't you come get your prize, kiddo?" His smile, perhaps even his teeth, stretched upward as those white pupils waited, hungry, for your reaction.
You wouldn't have needed to be told twice. With a leap of your legs, your eyes shining and occasionally blurring your vision, you leaped forward, very awkward if anyone outside had observed the scene. You threw yourself, desperate but with a heart full of hope, toward what seemed like the golden gates of Heaven. When your skin, your clothes, your face came into contact with the corroded and corrosive flesh... nothing happened. No pain, no dark, sticky mud, no smell of burning flesh unless it came from the man.
“I hate cheeky little pets.” That was the last thing I heard before everything went dark.
When you woke up, you didn't remember much. You didn't even know where you were, but you certainly weren't in the white clouds of Heaven. The basement where you found yourself was pitch black. You gasped like a fish out of water as you turned in every direction, observing the moldy walls, with cracks here and there, and in the worst cases, even holes. There seemed to be some pipes, too, but they too were damaged and the color of rust.
It wasn't what you expected.
You wanted to get up from the floor to get a better look at the strange surroundings. From your position, you could see that there were corridors and corridors outside your room. Where the hell were you? You didn't remember ever leaving the Foundation. Could it be some sort of dimension? Or maybe it was Hell. You shook your head as the thought gave you the strength to react and get up. You hadn't expected to feel no pain; in fact, your body felt intact. Were you even dead?
The blood in your veins had been frozen ever since you regained consciousness. You'd made a huge, fucking mistake. You'd thrown yourself into the arms of a monster, mistaking him for a damned angel, and now you were paying the consequences. You just wanted to go home, or at least to the Foundation. A shiver ran down your spine, making your whole body tremble. This wasn't okay. You had a horrible feeling you couldn't shake. You were at the mercy of an anomaly, and who knows what he would do to you: this wasn't your goal; you would only suffer more.
You'd begun running desperately through what seemed like room after room, all the same, except for the mounds of what looked like corpses now reduced to a disgusting rot. After the fifth mound of brown flesh, you'd vomited your gastric juices, you'd leaned against a wall, and it had almost collapsed under your weight. Your throat burned terribly, dry and ravaged by the acid you'd just vomited, your eyes were red from so much crying as you wandered desperately through that labyrinth, you didn't even know what you were looking for. Was there even a way out?
Eventually, you'd stop running, first moving to a fast march, and finally to a slow walk. You'd considered that you didn't know when you'd be able to get out, or if you ever would, yet saving your energy for the moment seemed like the brightest and most intelligent idea you could have. Not that you could do anything else. You kept looking around, hoping to find someone alive; even a few dying people would have been fine. You just didn't want to be alone in this parallel world, especially when there was a monster roaming around and you had the constant feeling of being watched.
Many times you'd whirled around; you thought you felt someone touch the top of your head, yet each time, behind you, waving sadly, there were only corridors, rooms, and rubble.
You finally gave in and sat down in a random room, specifically chosen for its lack of corpses, to rest. Staying still wasn't the best option, but did you have any other choice? Slowly, your eyelids drooped, and your tired brain, guided by the pain in your muscles, decided it was best to sleep.
SCP-106 had never been so amused during a containment breach before. He'd encountered countless victims, stupid humans who, at such moments, resembled wild beasts rather than sentient, intelligent beings. Containment was optional for him. The Old Man was a predator, a hunter. If he'd been let loose, he'd be at the top of the food chain, especially since he doubted anyone would want to eat him: they'd be melted and corroded before they'd even sunk their teeth into his rotten flesh.
Speaking of teeth, he'd made a pretty big hoard of them. Pulling teeth was probably his favorite hobby; the screams were like classical music, sweet and majestic.
Torturing his victims was perhaps the best part of the hunt. He had even more power as the poor, life-giving body writhed beneath him, curling up, leaking that salty liquid from his eyes, and begging him. The prayers made him laugh heartily as he tried to calm the poor creature down in a mocking tone.
Speaking of prayers... SCP-106 didn't believe in God. How could he when he could be compared to one? His strength far surpassed the human mind, his essence had no logical explanation, and he certainly wasn't merciful. All of this made him comparable to a hunting deity, something dangerous yet strangely attractive. He had never considered this question before; he saw his imprisonment as a break from hunting season, and then, when hunger returned, he too would reappear in the lives and deaths of everyone at the Foundation.
And then, there you were. Like a grain of sand in the palm of his hand. Yet you were a grain unlike any other: you had run into his arms, begging him to kill you, and oh sweet memory, your luscious expression of dismay when you realized he wouldn't kill you was a delicious memory in his mind. So he had brought you into his kingdom, he had decided he would play a little, but it would have been too easy to immediately give you the pain you sought, right?
Now he watched you, hidden among the endless rubble of his Pocket Dimension. Everything you unknowingly gave him, from the tiny sounds of dismay to the jolts you felt when you sensed that something or someone was actually following you, were truly a blessing. Eventually, you'd collapsed, naively thinking you were safe. Now in The Old Man's mind, there was only one thought, one plan: to keep you with him forever, or at least until your body buckled under the force of dehydration, constant fasting, lack of sun, and, of course, just his disgusting presence, both physical and mental. He had decided he wouldn't corrode you like the others; he would do it in another way, to take away that spark of life he'd seen when you looked at him.
He hated that moment deeply, he didn't comprehend that expression, no one had ever looked at him like that, you shouldn't have been happy, instead you should have started to despair and cry, run away from him and his touch, not go towards him and hug him.
Now that you were sound asleep, still and unaware, he could finally come out into the open. As usual, he slowly emerged from one of the room's undamaged walls and, as soon as he was finished, he approached you. He knelt, his white pupils dilating and narrowing as he observed you closely. To be honest, he'd never bothered to do so with any of the victims who had come before you, but still, he cared only to a certain extent, and yet you were such a pretty little thing compared to him. Your cheeks rosy from the effort, your chest rising and falling steadily, the heat rising from your skin... everything about you screamed Life. He looked at his hands, cold, bony, and smelly from putrefaction; he was the antithesis of you.
He stood up straight, never taking his eyes off you in the process. He would continue playing and taking advantage of this special opportunity.
When you regained consciousness, you didn't know how much time had passed. You slowly opened your eyes, lulled no longer by the cold, hard wall of the room where you'd fallen asleep but by the softness of blankets, pillows and a bed. You blinked and sat up. You hadn't slept so well in years. You looked around and almost couldn't believe it: this was your childhood bedroom, the one that had once been your safe place, but which had slowly drifted further and further away with the inevitable passage of time. You almost fell out of bed when you tried to get out because of the tangle of blankets that had formed around your legs. You couldn't believe it. Had it all been a dream, a childhood nightmare? No, it wasn't possible because your body was in its adulthood, yet everything seemed so perfectly in place. You rushed to a window, it opened, and you could feel the spring breeze entering the room, gently lashing your face. The sun warmed your skin, and you could smell a nostalgic scent you couldn't quite identify, but it screamed 'home’.
“How strange, I expected to find something worse in your mind, I guess you just wanted to die on a whim, after all.”
And just as it had been created, the perfect image of your bedroom shattered into a thousand pieces: a bit like when you accidentally dropped a beautiful snowflake ball as a child, now all that remained on the floor was sharp shards and a decidedly less beautiful swamp. You turned, your smile gone, to look at the all-black man who surely stood out in your colorful, childish bedroom like a sore thumb.
“Oh come on, don't look at me like that. I was trying to be nice, wasn't I?” The mocking, superior tone accompanied him like a melody— a siren one, actually —that indicated the real danger he posed. “As nice as someone giving a photo of a recently deceased pet to its owner.” You hissed, holding on as tightly as you could to the windowpane. He hummed happily at your comparison. “How long have I been here?” You asked, hoping for a direct, not vague, answer.
The man snorted as he remained completely still, his gaze never faltering. “Do you want to know how much time has passed here or in the other dimension?” You didn’t answer, knowing full well he knew what you wanted to know. “Troublesome kid, huh? Well, what’s the fun in telling you? It’s not like you’re leaving anytime soon anyway.” He muttered with that cheeky smile you wanted to punch away. His bald head tilted to the side as he looked into your eyes. “Oh, are you angry now? Definitely more suited to you than devotion: do you still think I’m your dear angel?”
You stiffened. He noticed. In response, you turned away from him so he wouldn't notice your face, flushed with embarrassment. How could you have made such a trivial mistake? Both during your first meeting and after your first awakening, you had everything wrong! He was anything but an angel: he clearly had to be a God! How embarrassing to mistake him for his emissary. Sure, you were angry because he hadn't given you what you wanted, but... if you had to guess, your bedroom was more like Heaven than you cared to admit. He was pardoning you by giving you what you lacked most: a safe place.
Your eyes wandered to the beautiful landscape outside the window: he was giving you Heaven, how could he be evil?
A baritone laugh broke the awkward silence that had settled in the room. “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s damn pathetic, but also, you know, hilarious. Do you really see me as a God? Don’t you think you’re exaggerating now? Do you think a God could treat such an innocent little creature like you so cruelly?” His voice grew closer as he continued his rapid-fire, stinging questions. He wanted to make you understand that you were wrong, that you should see everything differently, yet you couldn’t, not even with the best of your mind. You couldn’t think otherwise; it was as if a blindfold had been placed over your eyes, distorting the harsh reality you didn’t want to face. “Tell me, precious, do you find it difficult to understand my nature? Your little human brain can’t strain much longer, can it?” He was practically breathing down your neck, and you swallowed hard, embarrassment making you confused and weak; in his eyes, you were nothing more than a curiosity. “Uh, just as I thought— how about I kill you now? I’d make your desperate dream come true and free you from this desperate farce you call 'reality.'”
His words hung dangerously in the air. Your eyes, which had unknowingly become moist, rested on the wonderful nature He had created for you. As if to console you in an unprofessional manner, the man had placed his hand on your neck, perhaps to emphasize his honeytrap, and perhaps also to feel the constant pulse of blood pumping through your body beneath his dead palm.
And as the minutes passed, you realized that, well, you didn't really want to die: not when you had before your eyes and in your hands everything you'd been searching for since you'd ended up working for the Foundation. You needed this.
“What if I don't accept?” You said with a trembling voice, very afraid of the consequences because you wanted to stay here. “What if I want to stay here forever?” you asked immediately after, turning to face him, his smile not faltering even an inch.
“Do you want to stay here? Forever?” The creature replied, and in that moment you realized you didn't even know his name. “Who am I to stop you from staying? Not that you have much of a choice anyway, my dear: if you haven't noticed, there's no door.” He said as his black-and-white eyes shifted to the spot where, if you were ever going to win this little game, there would have to be an exit to your own little paradise. His thumb, as if it were natural and normal, began dragging along the thin, fragile skin of your neck.
You nodded silently, and immediately a slip of the tongue made you stiffen. “Use your words, dear.” His tone was stern, uncompromising, and now you realized how dry your throat was. “Y-Yes, I want to stay here: please let me stay!” you begged, your hands unconsciously clutching the worn fabric of his old uniform. “T-This is what I crave: no other place would do. I want you to be my salvation… even if your nature isn’t.” You stated, this time with more conviction as your face flushed because you wanted more: you were the only one who saw him for what he was, a God. You wanted to be the only devotee he ever needed. The exception.
“Aw, aren’t you sooo good? So hungry to please your God, aren’t you?” And SCP-106 found himself, for the first time, absolutely persuaded by these words. He didn’t know how long this, you, would last, but he was pretty sure he could get far more enjoyment out of it than just a pathetic chase. “I will grant your wish and many more, my dear, if you'll deserve them.” He whispered, his words like a melody if it weren’t for his distorted voice, but you didn’t seem to care. Without him even realizing it, he was wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you closer.
“I can do it.” You murmured softly, confident, your eyes never leaving his gaze for a second. Emotions swirled inside you. For years, you had hoped God was there for you, and now, finally, you had everything you needed.
“Oh I’m very sure of that, little thing.”
