welcome to my side blog dedicated to writing for cod characters!!!
my blog is strictly 18+ even if my work isn’t always smut, majority of them are or contain dark/heavier topics or triggers
my work is afab (i rarely use pronouns for reader as most of my work is in second-person) however am happy to take requests if you were looking for something else
i also do not describe skin tone, body characteristics, religion etc. for the reader but am also happy to take requests as well
i take requests (no beastiality, scat, incest, anything involving minors, fisting, or anything of those sorts)
MASTERLIST:
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley
Captain John Price
König
Poly!141
disclaimer: please do not reupload my work on tumblr or any other sites
Warning — This is an 18+ poly!141 series that has been rewritten and adapted from my original work
CW: Masturbation (M&F), listening to orgasms without permission, gun inaccuracies, minor gore
Previous,
Simon heard you as you said it.
“He just chooses to be loud here?”
He also hears the sliding of the back doors, a sigh leaving his Captain’s mouth.
“Feckin hell, LT. The lass’ll have us out by the morning,” Soap said, his voice stern as he crossed his arms over his chest. Ghost gritted his teeth under the mask, turning to face the sergeant.
“You think she doesn’t want us out to begin with?” Ghost’s voice was naturally harsh, a rigid edge to it.
“If you stopped acting like she’s some kind of terrorist, we’ve got a better chance of not being kicked out with the shit still in our ass,” Gaz spat back.
“Go after her, she’s ran off into the woods,” Price said, walking into the kitchen as the Lieutenant shot him a confused look.
“Fast little thing I’ll give her that,” he finished.
The sky was stagnant tonight, violet hues disintegrating into a deep blue, burning balls of light erupting into the atmosphere as they soothed the slumberous sun. The trees warped around the forest like a wall, caging the creatures of the night inside until light rose once more.
Ghost was proficient at his job. Had been since the day he joined the Special Air Service as a younger boy. Heavy combat boots squashed the wilting leaves that slept upon the muddy floor, a thick smell of pine and condensation in the air. He was gifted – naturally quiet, naturally sharp, naturally skilled.
Unlike him, you weren’t trained for this. You most likely hadn’t seen the horrors that breathed around you until the apocalypse, sheltered in a house in the suburbia. Truth be told, Ghost was almost envious. He heard you earlier talking about your father to Gaz, your voice almost soothing as you practically cooed over the memory.
Following the scuffed surface, he heard you before he saw you, his feet now thumping before you as he took in your deranged form, wailing figure deforming the dead below your body. Calloused hands wrapped around your waist, holding you in place as he lifted you away from the decomposed figure that you had decapitated. Your hair was wild, sticking above your head as you wriggled, your body hicking and sniffling. The smell of rotting flesh was pungent as he noticed your skin had been replaced by thick, grey sludge.
For once his voice was gentle, almost nurturing as he breathed into your scalp, “Calm down, y’alright.” Your throat was dry, the scream scratching your oesophagus as you pleaded to be let down. You were quick to react as he placed you down, shoving against the middle of his chest.
“What the fuck is your problem?”
He only watched you, taking you in. Your eyes were bewildered, an animalistic state to them but he wasn’t sure if it was a rabid dog or a frightened sheep inside them. He picked up how your chest was beginning to slow, calming you down as you huffed in the cool air.
“Did it bite you?” Turning to gaze at your dirty arms.
“Piss off,” you expelled, the hair on your neck raised as you spun on your heel, his hand coming out to grab at your wrist with a tug.
“I ain’t letting you infect my te-“
Ghost could feel the stench on his mask before he felt your hand around his face. His cheek shifted slightly, facing to his right as your eyes melted slightly, absorbing the anger before it boiled over once more. You were no longer touching now, your arms suddenly cool as you looked down with a shudder. The Lieutenant stilled as he turned away from you, disappearing into the knots of the trees as he huffed back to the farmhouse, following the same trail he had taken.
You stayed in the forest for a while, just standing and thinking. You didn’t like your mind to run as much as it did but in states like this, you enjoyed hearing another voice. As your feet padded through the fallen leaves once more, you noticed his menacing figure on the porch. He wasn’t looking at you, just at the acreage. His eyes were too dark to see but you could see his blonde lashes flickering, melting into the heat of his face before emerging into the cold air again.
You gripped the porch stairs as you hoisted your legs up them, almost afraid to disturb him. Almost afraid he would retaliate.
“The others have gone to bed,” he said as you pushed open the glass door.
“Right,” you replied, voice frigid.
You both stayed there for a second, backs turned to each other but both wanting to speak. Neither did.
Your sheets felt colder now as you wrapped up in them, coddling your spare pillow as you let out shallow breaths. Leaving your blinds open, the faint light from the porch stayed on until you fell asleep before Ghost creaked upstairs, only tugging off his mask when he closed the door, a confused sound coming from Soap.
“Just me.”
Unfortunate to you, Soap has written his own rule to assist you in the morning around the farm, pushing into your side slightly as you glare into the distance.
“I don’t need your help,” you argued, only to be met with, “Never said ye did, lass. Simply just wanted to.”
The Scotsman wasn’t all bad, and though you didn’t want to admit it, you got your usual chores done nearly twice as fast. Your eyes flickered to his hands as he clutched the broom, scars and cuts lining the delicate flesh as he carried on about his Grandparent’s farm back home. You noticed the slight quiver in his voice but never mentioned it.
“I apologise for Simon,” he said. His eyes scrolled over your face, noticing how untouched your features were. No excessive scarring, no wrinkles, no dirt. It was almost melancholic to him to stare at you. Melancholic in the fact that unlike him, and the others, brutes who have felt the crush of someone’s windpipe in their bare hands, you were just a civilian who had to face the same amount of horror they already had.
You met his eyes, your own gaze softening unintentionally - that same nostalgic sensation hitting you.
“I… I slapped him in the forest.”
Soap bit back a laugh, “Ye did? LT never mentioned that. Did he deserve it?”
You thought for a moment, “No. I was scared and angry and he grabbed my wrist to check if I had been bitten and I just did it.”
“Wouldn’t worrae too much, he’s dealt with worse.”
“Maybe, but, that’s not me. I- I’m just so… angry and I don’t know how to deal with it. Sorry I don’t even know why I’m talking to you about this.”
Soap placed a hand on your shoulder which you shrugged off slightly. He looked down at you slightly and you suddenly felt self-conscious. Your eyes dropped, glaring at the floor as you sucked in a breath, turning to focus on something else. The air felt stickier, humid and almost gross.
“Ye’ve got every right to be angry, lass but ye probably need to find a better wae to deal with it. Simon might get sick of being slapped,” he laughed as your brows clicked together.
“Simon?”
The Seargent only nodded, “Yae gonna tell us your name?”
Your eyes flickered over his face, reading it. His lip was quipped into a boyish smirk, almost testing you. Soap was trained to crack someone, torture them until they spluttered both their teeth and the truth. He would know if you lied but you weren’t sure if he would question you.
“Y/N.”
“Y/N,” he said softly, testing it on his tongue, “Suits you, lass.”
You rolled your eyes, playfully for once, speckles of bloodied lines running through the white as you adjusted on your feet, rubbing at your arms. They still felt dirty, tainted by the dead’s mark.
“Yae wanna take your anger out the wae we do?”
Furrowing your brows, you frowned, “You want to spar?”
Soap laughed, “Naet a chance, target practice. They’ve gat rifles?”
You nodded, following behind him. Nimble fingers quickly found themselves opening the garage. You weren’t sure why you were suddenly eager; Soap could easily turn around and kill you with one himself. Though you suppose, he would be able to do that with his bare hands as you looked down at them, taking in the bulging veins.
You felt your arms drop slightly as he passed it to you, the weight, though expected, still allowing for a small huff to leave your parted lips. Your cheeks were warm, a simmering feeling buzzing through them until they met your belly.
Dirt coated the room, tickling over the underused work bench that was left to decay, the metal fading into a coppery-green at the hinges. The dangling light above would occasionally flicker as Soap looked around, almost reminding you both that it was there, watching over the two of you.
You stumbled slightly into the living room as Gaz’ focal point shot to you, standing to help you balance as you ushered him off.
“Not planning to kill us, are you?” He said, eyeing you.
Soap redirected him with a quick, “Aye, teaching bonnie here tae shoot.”
The other sergeant raised a brow, and you almost buckled when he licked his lips at you, wetting them until a clear shine covers them. His eyes are warm and inviting, almost like dark pools that have absorbed the light and are ready to absorb you. He walked with you to the porch, resting along the railing as you turned around anxiously, gun slipping slightly from your quivering grip.
Pulling a knife from his pocket, the Scot walked towards a large log, balancing it on top of a taller one until it was almost at eye level with you, before he carved a small bullseye on it.
“Nat the best, but it’ll do,” he said, walking to stand behind you. You felt restricted under his gaze, almost ready to pass the gun to him and make up a pathetic excuse about how all your anger had magically melted away, but you didn’t.
“Alright, lass. The further yar hands are away, the more control you’ll have.”
You raised it, letting the scope meet your eye as you adjusted your clammy hands.
“That’s it, like that,” he whispered, coming behind you to move your hands better into place. You could feel his heat radiating off you now, emerging with yours as you began to sweat more. Looking behind you, blue eyes met yours as his lashes stop flickering, maintaining his gaze with you until you turned away, focusing on the make-shift target.
“Breathe, bonnie. Can feel how nervous you are.”
His words only fuelled whatever was going on inside you as you stammered on the fat in your mouth, pink flesh licking the roof as you bit down on it gently. A familiar taste of copper mixed with your spit as you swallowed.
“Keep it raised and pull the trigger when yar ready, ‘ave got yae,” he said gently, releasing the safety with an almost silent click. You felt like you had been standing there for ages until you pulled the trigger, a bang sending through your ears as you stammered with a gasp, losing your balance as you felt heavy hands wrap around your hips, holding you up.
Grabbing the gun off you, he adjusted himself against you before walking away to check the log that had not rolled off, picking it up with his spare hand, a childish grin on his face.
“Yaer a natural, bon!”
You glanced down at the giant hole that had torn through the thick wood, a smoky smell in the air as you bounced on the ball of your feet, returning the smile to him. Time passed as the air got cooler, the air darkening above the two of you as you continued to shuffle on your feet, shooting, and occasionally missing the many targets Soap had made for you.
The air was thick with the sounds of the night, bugs creaking through leaves, nibbling until the green was welled down their throats and they were stuck in winding webs drenched in condensation. You were the loud one for once, laughing amongst the two of you as Soap cracked another joke at his team’s expense.
His face was comforting as he ensured you that even though you nearly shot a bird out of the sky when he stopped guiding you, you weren’t half bad. You weren’t sure if he was only sucking up to you, but you didn’t say anything. He watched you pass the gun to him as you walked towards the house once more, your eyes glinting with a calmer demeanour as you spoke about watching your father train recruits when you were only a wee child.
The kitchen, though slightly steamy, smelt good as you shrugged off your jacket onto the coat rack, ignoring Ghost’s gaze as you sat down at the table, Soap’s hand on the small of your back before he let go, taking a seat next to you. You didn’t notice his eye’s drop to the man’s fingers, almost tugging together with a clench as he pulled away. Gaz walked over, a pot in his hand as he placed it on to a finely set table, a gruff mark of appreciation passing the captain’s lips.
“Hope no one minds potato and leek casserole.”
You spoke first, your voice cutting through the air, “Thank you for cooking.”
Dinner was smoother. You weren’t sure if the shooting actually helped or was just a placebo effect placing you under a temporary trance. You let yourself relax, settling into the conversation when you wanted to speak. The food rested in your belly as you felt it warm your bones, keeping you docile.
And as you headed up the stairs, the curvature almost making you drunk, you slammed your door shut louder than you expected. Your body was hot, a depth pitting in your oesophagus as you choked slightly, collapsing on the sheets in a sunken manner as you rubbed at your head.
Your heart was heavy in your chest, caged in as it thumped with each echo. You could feel a soft sheen of dampness against your shirt, sticking to your spine as you peeled it off, exposed skin lying beneath the painted walls, the moonlight basking down on you in a sultry manner.
Grumbling under your breath, you pushed open the doors to the en-suite, the air cooler as your nipples hardened, the nubs delicate and sensitive. Your hands cupped together as you filled them with water, splashing it against your face as it dribbled down the groove of your neck, basking onto your breasts with every slide.
With a huff, you leaped onto the bed slightly, pushing the sheets down. The cotton felt nice against your feet, rubbing against them slightly with every movement you made. Your body was sore, your arms worn down and floppy as you ran your digits over your eyes, rubbing until you saw stars, praying it would wear out the sensation that had just washed over you.
Your pants were the next to slide down your wanton thighs. You felt bare, though you weren’t. The thin material covering your mound was aching, drenched through in an obscene manner as your fingers ran over your clothed slit. You felt gross, uncomfortable, almost, as you pulled them down, letting them rest at your ankles.
You could almost feel Soap’s warmth against your back, still as your hand lowered, resting at your pubic region. The feeling was like static, sending bubbles down your body as you stammered out a weak breath.
A shallow gasp left your parted lips, slight cracks emerging from the plumping skin as one dipped into the crevice of your mouth. Warm saliva pooled below your tongue, a choked sob pushing through your chest as you finally chased the high that had been throbbing between your wanton thighs.
Slick absorbed into your fingerprints, scenting them with a slight tang as your eyes fluttered shut. The pleasure felt like an echo that had nestled between your ribs, cracking them open with an almost overwhelming sensation that caressed your flesh like a hug. You’re body had been bared to the sheets as ecstasy clawed through your veins.
With a shuddering gasp-like moan, you came.
Simon held his fist to the door, not knocking, only waiting, he let out a shallow breath that synced with your sounds. Pulling back, he let his hand rest at his side before clenching it into a hard ball.
And as the night strayed further into the light, he found himself mimicking you, his eyes rolled back as he hunched over, ghastly noises rocking through his throat as his hand found itself resting around his length, tugging almost delicately as he imagined the sight of you that he only had the pleasure to listen to.
Warning — This is an 18+ poly!141 series that has been rewritten and adapted from my original work
CW: Masturbation (M&F), listening to orgasms without permission, gun inaccuracies, minor gore
Previous,
Simon heard you as you said it.
“He just chooses to be loud here?”
He also hears the sliding of the back doors, a sigh leaving his Captain’s mouth.
“Feckin hell, LT. The lass’ll have us out by the morning,” Soap said, his voice stern as he crossed his arms over his chest. Ghost gritted his teeth under the mask, turning to face the sergeant.
“You think she doesn’t want us out to begin with?” Ghost’s voice was naturally harsh, a rigid edge to it.
“If you stopped acting like she’s some kind of terrorist, we’ve got a better chance of not being kicked out with the shit still in our ass,” Gaz spat back.
“Go after her, she’s ran off into the woods,” Price said, walking into the kitchen as the Lieutenant shot him a confused look.
“Fast little thing I’ll give her that,” he finished.
The sky was stagnant tonight, violet hues disintegrating into a deep blue, burning balls of light erupting into the atmosphere as they soothed the slumberous sun. The trees warped around the forest like a wall, caging the creatures of the night inside until light rose once more.
Ghost was proficient at his job. Had been since the day he joined the Special Air Service as a younger boy. Heavy combat boots squashed the wilting leaves that slept upon the muddy floor, a thick smell of pine and condensation in the air. He was gifted – naturally quiet, naturally sharp, naturally skilled.
Unlike him, you weren’t trained for this. You most likely hadn’t seen the horrors that breathed around you until the apocalypse, sheltered in a house in the suburbia. Truth be told, Ghost was almost envious. He heard you earlier talking about your father to Gaz, your voice almost soothing as you practically cooed over the memory.
Following the scuffed surface, he heard you before he saw you, his feet now thumping before you as he took in your deranged form, wailing figure deforming the dead below your body. Calloused hands wrapped around your waist, holding you in place as he lifted you away from the decomposed figure that you had decapitated. Your hair was wild, sticking above your head as you wriggled, your body hicking and sniffling. The smell of rotting flesh was pungent as he noticed your skin had been replaced by thick, grey sludge.
For once his voice was gentle, almost nurturing as he breathed into your scalp, “Calm down, y’alright.” Your throat was dry, the scream scratching your oesophagus as you pleaded to be let down. You were quick to react as he placed you down, shoving against the middle of his chest.
“What the fuck is your problem?”
He only watched you, taking you in. Your eyes were bewildered, an animalistic state to them but he wasn’t sure if it was a rabid dog or a frightened sheep inside them. He picked up how your chest was beginning to slow, calming you down as you huffed in the cool air.
“Did it bite you?” Turning to gaze at your dirty arms.
“Piss off,” you expelled, the hair on your neck raised as you spun on your heel, his hand coming out to grab at your wrist with a tug.
“I ain’t letting you infect my te-“
Ghost could feel the stench on his mask before he felt your hand around his face. His cheek shifted slightly, facing to his right as your eyes melted slightly, absorbing the anger before it boiled over once more. You were no longer touching now, your arms suddenly cool as you looked down with a shudder. The Lieutenant stilled as he turned away from you, disappearing into the knots of the trees as he huffed back to the farmhouse, following the same trail he had taken.
You stayed in the forest for a while, just standing and thinking. You didn’t like your mind to run as much as it did but in states like this, you enjoyed hearing another voice. As your feet padded through the fallen leaves once more, you noticed his menacing figure on the porch. He wasn’t looking at you, just at the acreage. His eyes were too dark to see but you could see his blonde lashes flickering, melting into the heat of his face before emerging into the cold air again.
You gripped the porch stairs as you hoisted your legs up them, almost afraid to disturb him. Almost afraid he would retaliate.
“The others have gone to bed,” he said as you pushed open the glass door.
“Right,” you replied, voice frigid.
You both stayed there for a second, backs turned to each other but both wanting to speak. Neither did.
Your sheets felt colder now as you wrapped up in them, coddling your spare pillow as you let out shallow breaths. Leaving your blinds open, the faint light from the porch stayed on until you fell asleep before Ghost creaked upstairs, only tugging off his mask when he closed the door, a confused sound coming from Soap.
“Just me.”
Unfortunate to you, Soap has written his own rule to assist you in the morning around the farm, pushing into your side slightly as you glare into the distance.
“I don’t need your help,” you argued, only to be met with, “Never said ye did, lass. Simply just wanted to.”
The Scotsman wasn’t all bad, and though you didn’t want to admit it, you got your usual chores done nearly twice as fast. Your eyes flickered to his hands as he clutched the broom, scars and cuts lining the delicate flesh as he carried on about his Grandparent’s farm back home. You noticed the slight quiver in his voice but never mentioned it.
“I apologise for Simon,” he said. His eyes scrolled over your face, noticing how untouched your features were. No excessive scarring, no wrinkles, no dirt. It was almost melancholic to him to stare at you. Melancholic in the fact that unlike him, and the others, brutes who have felt the crush of someone’s windpipe in their bare hands, you were just a civilian who had to face the same amount of horror they already had.
You met his eyes, your own gaze softening unintentionally - that same nostalgic sensation hitting you.
“I… I slapped him in the forest.”
Soap bit back a laugh, “Ye did? LT never mentioned that. Did he deserve it?”
You thought for a moment, “No. I was scared and angry and he grabbed my wrist to check if I had been bitten and I just did it.”
“Wouldn’t worrae too much, he’s dealt with worse.”
“Maybe, but, that’s not me. I- I’m just so… angry and I don’t know how to deal with it. Sorry I don’t even know why I’m talking to you about this.”
Soap placed a hand on your shoulder which you shrugged off slightly. He looked down at you slightly and you suddenly felt self-conscious. Your eyes dropped, glaring at the floor as you sucked in a breath, turning to focus on something else. The air felt stickier, humid and almost gross.
“Ye’ve got every right to be angry, lass but ye probably need to find a better wae to deal with it. Simon might get sick of being slapped,” he laughed as your brows clicked together.
“Simon?”
The Seargent only nodded, “Yae gonna tell us your name?”
Your eyes flickered over his face, reading it. His lip was quipped into a boyish smirk, almost testing you. Soap was trained to crack someone, torture them until they spluttered both their teeth and the truth. He would know if you lied but you weren’t sure if he would question you.
“Y/N.”
“Y/N,” he said softly, testing it on his tongue, “Suits you, lass.”
You rolled your eyes, playfully for once, speckles of bloodied lines running through the white as you adjusted on your feet, rubbing at your arms. They still felt dirty, tainted by the dead’s mark.
“Yae wanna take your anger out the wae we do?”
Furrowing your brows, you frowned, “You want to spar?”
Soap laughed, “Naet a chance, target practice. They’ve gat rifles?”
You nodded, following behind him. Nimble fingers quickly found themselves opening the garage. You weren’t sure why you were suddenly eager; Soap could easily turn around and kill you with one himself. Though you suppose, he would be able to do that with his bare hands as you looked down at them, taking in the bulging veins.
You felt your arms drop slightly as he passed it to you, the weight, though expected, still allowing for a small huff to leave your parted lips. Your cheeks were warm, a simmering feeling buzzing through them until they met your belly.
Dirt coated the room, tickling over the underused work bench that was left to decay, the metal fading into a coppery-green at the hinges. The dangling light above would occasionally flicker as Soap looked around, almost reminding you both that it was there, watching over the two of you.
You stumbled slightly into the living room as Gaz’ focal point shot to you, standing to help you balance as you ushered him off.
“Not planning to kill us, are you?” He said, eyeing you.
Soap redirected him with a quick, “Aye, teaching bonnie here tae shoot.”
The other sergeant raised a brow, and you almost buckled when he licked his lips at you, wetting them until a clear shine covers them. His eyes are warm and inviting, almost like dark pools that have absorbed the light and are ready to absorb you. He walked with you to the porch, resting along the railing as you turned around anxiously, gun slipping slightly from your quivering grip.
Pulling a knife from his pocket, the Scot walked towards a large log, balancing it on top of a taller one until it was almost at eye level with you, before he carved a small bullseye on it.
“Nat the best, but it’ll do,” he said, walking to stand behind you. You felt restricted under his gaze, almost ready to pass the gun to him and make up a pathetic excuse about how all your anger had magically melted away, but you didn’t.
“Alright, lass. The further yar hands are away, the more control you’ll have.”
You raised it, letting the scope meet your eye as you adjusted your clammy hands.
“That’s it, like that,” he whispered, coming behind you to move your hands better into place. You could feel his heat radiating off you now, emerging with yours as you began to sweat more. Looking behind you, blue eyes met yours as his lashes stop flickering, maintaining his gaze with you until you turned away, focusing on the make-shift target.
“Breathe, bonnie. Can feel how nervous you are.”
His words only fuelled whatever was going on inside you as you stammered on the fat in your mouth, pink flesh licking the roof as you bit down on it gently. A familiar taste of copper mixed with your spit as you swallowed.
“Keep it raised and pull the trigger when yar ready, ‘ave got yae,” he said gently, releasing the safety with an almost silent click. You felt like you had been standing there for ages until you pulled the trigger, a bang sending through your ears as you stammered with a gasp, losing your balance as you felt heavy hands wrap around your hips, holding you up.
Grabbing the gun off you, he adjusted himself against you before walking away to check the log that had not rolled off, picking it up with his spare hand, a childish grin on his face.
“Yaer a natural, bon!”
You glanced down at the giant hole that had torn through the thick wood, a smoky smell in the air as you bounced on the ball of your feet, returning the smile to him. Time passed as the air got cooler, the air darkening above the two of you as you continued to shuffle on your feet, shooting, and occasionally missing the many targets Soap had made for you.
The air was thick with the sounds of the night, bugs creaking through leaves, nibbling until the green was welled down their throats and they were stuck in winding webs drenched in condensation. You were the loud one for once, laughing amongst the two of you as Soap cracked another joke at his team’s expense.
His face was comforting as he ensured you that even though you nearly shot a bird out of the sky when he stopped guiding you, you weren’t half bad. You weren’t sure if he was only sucking up to you, but you didn’t say anything. He watched you pass the gun to him as you walked towards the house once more, your eyes glinting with a calmer demeanour as you spoke about watching your father train recruits when you were only a wee child.
The kitchen, though slightly steamy, smelt good as you shrugged off your jacket onto the coat rack, ignoring Ghost’s gaze as you sat down at the table, Soap’s hand on the small of your back before he let go, taking a seat next to you. You didn’t notice his eye’s drop to the man’s fingers, almost tugging together with a clench as he pulled away. Gaz walked over, a pot in his hand as he placed it on to a finely set table, a gruff mark of appreciation passing the captain’s lips.
“Hope no one minds potato and leek casserole.”
You spoke first, your voice cutting through the air, “Thank you for cooking.”
Dinner was smoother. You weren’t sure if the shooting actually helped or was just a placebo effect placing you under a temporary trance. You let yourself relax, settling into the conversation when you wanted to speak. The food rested in your belly as you felt it warm your bones, keeping you docile.
And as you headed up the stairs, the curvature almost making you drunk, you slammed your door shut louder than you expected. Your body was hot, a depth pitting in your oesophagus as you choked slightly, collapsing on the sheets in a sunken manner as you rubbed at your head.
Your heart was heavy in your chest, caged in as it thumped with each echo. You could feel a soft sheen of dampness against your shirt, sticking to your spine as you peeled it off, exposed skin lying beneath the painted walls, the moonlight basking down on you in a sultry manner.
Grumbling under your breath, you pushed open the doors to the en-suite, the air cooler as your nipples hardened, the nubs delicate and sensitive. Your hands cupped together as you filled them with water, splashing it against your face as it dribbled down the groove of your neck, basking onto your breasts with every slide.
With a huff, you leaped onto the bed slightly, pushing the sheets down. The cotton felt nice against your feet, rubbing against them slightly with every movement you made. Your body was sore, your arms worn down and floppy as you ran your digits over your eyes, rubbing until you saw stars, praying it would wear out the sensation that had just washed over you.
Your pants were the next to slide down your wanton thighs. You felt bare, though you weren’t. The thin material covering your mound was aching, drenched through in an obscene manner as your fingers ran over your clothed slit. You felt gross, uncomfortable, almost, as you pulled them down, letting them rest at your ankles.
You could almost feel Soap’s warmth against your back, still as your hand lowered, resting at your pubic region. The feeling was like static, sending bubbles down your body as you stammered out a weak breath.
A shallow gasp left your parted lips, slight cracks emerging from the plumping skin as one dipped into the crevice of your mouth. Warm saliva pooled below your tongue, a choked sob pushing through your chest as you finally chased the high that had been throbbing between your wanton thighs.
Slick absorbed into your fingerprints, scenting them with a slight tang as your eyes fluttered shut. The pleasure felt like an echo that had nestled between your ribs, cracking them open with an almost overwhelming sensation that caressed your flesh like a hug. You’re body had been bared to the sheets as ecstasy clawed through your veins.
With a shuddering gasp-like moan, you came.
Simon held his fist to the door, not knocking, only waiting, he let out a shallow breath that synced with your sounds. Pulling back, he let his hand rest at his side before clenching it into a hard ball.
And as the night strayed further into the light, he found himself mimicking you, his eyes rolled back as he hunched over, ghastly noises rocking through his throat as his hand found itself resting around his length, tugging almost delicately as he imagined the sight of you that he only had the pleasure to listen to.
Hi, I just read your exHusband!Simon x reader and OMGGGGG THAT WAS THE BEST, I mean it, THE BEST SMUT I'VE EVER LAID EYES ON!!! The way you describe his thoughts about reader being a mum... perfection. Also this part: "He knew your backstory, and the one you made up to impress people. He knew the hex of the colour of your eyes and the print of your thumb. No papers would take that away from him." I'M- IT'S PERFECT 😻❤️
Warning — This is an 18+ poly!141 series that has been rewritten and adapted from my original work
CW: Suicidal ideation, ptsd, mild violence/gore
Previous,
You scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. Your skin was raw, stripped of anything, but you still didn’t feel clean. You could feel him, tainting you with his prints, his thumb delving into your cheek as it concaves into the pit of your stomach. The water was freezing now, your hair sticking to the back of your neck as you shook, thrashing around as you sobbed, your hands rubbing at your forearms aggressively.
You relied on the splashing of the water as comfort, feeling it lap at your side, against you. It was against you. It was on you. You were never going to be clean.
“Are you alright?”
His voice was smooth, honey-like and rich, burning through his oesophagus as it lingered in the walls, waking gnawing termites into hiding.
You cursed under your breath, irritated. “Fine.”
You stared down at your thighs, taking in the slight bruising that faintly resembled hand marks. You felt warmer outside the water as you felt it sink from your lack of presence, squeezing the ends of your hair, the towel providing you with little comfort. The mirror had fogged as you wiped the condensation with bruised knuckles.
You weren’t sure if the person staring back at you was really you. You blinked fast, expecting it to falter, to fail at mimicking, but it didn’t. Peering closer, you took in the dirt under your pores, sighing as you rubbed a bar of worn soap between your hands, warming it as you lathered it on your face. It was harsh and chemical-like, tingling your flesh as you washed it off.
Nimble hands grabbed at the kettle, clutching it in a weapon-like manner as you opened the door ajar. Gaz was gone. You slammed it shut, the echo infiltrating downstairs as Soap grimaced slightly. You didn’t enjoy changing in the bathroom, normally used to wandering bare, exposed to the voyeuristic paintings that would now look down on you. The air kept your skin constantly damp making it impossible to change. You did anyway.
Plonking down the stairs, you walked past the posse of men seated in your living room as you wandered outside. You could feel a wet patch at the back of your sweatshirt, but you ignored it.
You found yourself wandering to the paddock, the wind hissing in your ear. It was dusk now, the sun beginning to cast a spell across the forest as the regular grey faded into a burnt orange, creeping its colours into the sun, resting its rays for the next day. Nancy greeted you as you pushed open the gate, her snout rubbing against you affectionately.
“Hi, girl,” you murmured, resting your forehead against hers before patting her gently on the behind to trot off. There was a strange warmth in your chest as you laid down, your back squashing against the dirt and worms beneath you. You wondered what would happen if the horses lost control and trampled you. You wondered if you would even mind.
The English countryside always held a place in your heart, even as a child. You remembered sitting down with your mother, counting the stars as she explained them, hushing you to sleep as she drew down your back. If you thought really hard, you could almost feel her stroking you. Almost.
With every blink, you would see a new ball of light burning in the sky. Hooves grinded against the floor as you finally sat up, shaking any dirt off your ass as you continued your nightly duties as though it had been a regular day. A smile made its way to your face as you bundled a few eggs into your jumper, protecting them before you headed indoors, a snarl lacing your features once more.
The living room was always cozy, the lighting low and the fire hot. You watched Price glance at you, his mouth opening before closing. Sitting on a bench in the kitchen, you examined the eggs as well as you could before placing them into little containers with a plop.
You could feel him behind you before you could hear him.
“I understand we haven’t become acquainted under the greatest circumstances, but I do appreciate you allowing us to stay here. ‘Was kind of you.”
“Did I have a choice?” You snapped back, shackles raised as you gripped at the timber island. He sighed.
“Listen, what happened to you tod-“
“Don’t. I don’t need a pity speech. I’m sure you feel great about fulfilling your duties as a law-abiding military officer, but I don’t need to hear it. Nothing happened to me today.”
“What those m-“
“Nothing happened to me today,” you snarled, roaring an ugly head at him as you turned around. You took in his expression. You were unsure how he always seemed so collected, so chill. You hated pity.
“Alright. Well, I still wanted to express gratitude, we’re sure it isn’t easy for you to let us in.”
You scoffed sarcastically under your breath, whispering how pathetic this all was. You shoved past him, barging your shoulder into his with a wince, now aware it hurt you a lot more than it did him. The others watched you, observing.
“Your rooms are the first two doors upstairs; you aren’t to walk past them. You can use the bathroom down here,” you began, pointing to a door, “and I even sniff that you’re near my room, I will blast shotgun shells at the door so fast you’ll think you’re back on the job.”
You laid awake that night, a small stream of light pouring under your door before it turned off. The cool metal coddled you; it’s mouth begging to meet yours as you stroked the foreign material, the faint smell of gunpowder sending a high to your brain as you breathed in.
You shouldn’t have let them in, they’re going to hurt you, Vienna taunted in your ear, they’ll finish the job this time, you know that.
Ghost could hear you in the night, thrashing side to side, small, pained sighs leaving your lips as you spluttered in the air. He knew your body was drenched with sweat, the sheets below you soaked and stained with your musk as your eyes fluttered into a shallow stream of darkness. He knew the feeling well.
The masked man was never fond of the dark, or sleep, his mind plagued with the flickering memories of his father. Blue knuckles knocking upon ivory cheeks until they turned to mush, bleeding under the skin as his mother played it off as an accident. Daddy didn’t mean to hurt me, she would say, but he knew. He always knew. The military only made it worse but at least now he felt like he had earned the nightmares.
The sky was melancholic today, more so than usual. Clouds puffed against one another, fighting for dominance as they blackened, thick quarrels of hissing rain building inside them. The pellets hitting the roof woke you for once, an orchestra harmonising you into lucidity as rigid digits scrubbed at your clumped lashes, the sleep sticking to them like glue.
Your sleeves fell over your hands as you grumbled, itchy sensation burning at your wrists from the liquid now drenching them. The tap turned off with a squeak. Your feet were heavy as they collided with the stairs, sending a small jolt into wood. Beneath the ground, termites squabbled, curling into frames of steels as they lurched upon the dirt. Nancy, your horse, was distressed as she jolted around the paddock, her coat slick with rain as she whinnied.
The fields were muddy and vocal, croaking out as boots slammed against them, desperation replacing your footsteps. “C’mon girl, let’s get you inside,” you said, praising her as you led her to the stables. It was warmer inside the barn area, the hay insulating it with its straw-like roots, contrasting yellow against the timid brown. The appaloosa appeared to calm down, snorting softly with a sneeze as you brushed over her, rubbing her snout.
“Time to get your brother, hm?” You breathed, your voice affectionate, a stark contrast to your previous conversations.
“’Ave got ‘im,” a Scottish voice spoke, the sound of horseshoes and hooves clattering against the floor. You frowned. You didn’t need someone to tend to your horses; you had been just fine on your own.
“I had him.”
“Thought I’d make yer life easier,” Soap conceded, offering you a small smile, “Pishin it doon out there.”
“I can see,” you scowled, scrunching your brows until you realised what he was saying. Guilt simmered inside you, sitting on top of a gas stove with one temperature until the liquids boiled over, staining the surface. He licked his lips, doing nothing to help with the dryness that had spread across his mouth. Soap’s laugh was slightly awkward as he attempted to ease the tension.
“Ae’ll leave you to it then.”
His hair was scruffier from the back, an overgrown mohawk evident as you held back a childish smirk. His skin was rough and littered with scars, tattoos littering his forearms and the evidence of a lack of moisture palpable in his elbows. The Scotsman patted the frame above the door as your voice called out before you could stop yourself.
“Sorry.”
No I’m, no tenderness, no bitchiness. Just a bit of guilt. You weren’t sure why you felt guilty; you had no reason to be. He turned around to face you, and you could take in more of his facial features.
You noticed the colour of his eyes. A proud Aegean, deep and sultry, reminding you of the fancy vase you had broken when you were a child, blaming it on the dog as you cried pathetically in your room when your dad iterated how he had been walking him at the time. They had pieced it back together with a thick white sludge that stunk, the pattern now unique but impaired. You felt no indifference towards it now, only nostalgic as you looked at the man before you.
His face was chiselled yet plumper around his chin, a small scar gashed into it, a slight whitish-pink blending in with a warm ivory. With darker features, you noticed the echoing contrast between his stocky build and the depth in his eyes.
“Nae need t’ be sorry, lass. Should’ve asked you before’and,” he concurred.
“No, it was... it was a nice thing to do.”
The blade glided through the starchy spud, bathing in the sink as they bounced off one another. A toothpick sat in your mouth as you nibbled on it until it began to dissolve, the woody taste dissipating on your tongue. You rubbed your wet hands against your apron, dark spots dancing across the fabric as you pressed down on the old CD player, a burnt disk in there that you enjoyed listening to.
The man’s voice was dreary and emotional as you tuned him out, throwing the cut vegetables into a giant pot to simmer. Gaz watched you from the living room, noting how rigid you were, your body coiled straight, erect and unable to return to a docile state. A part of him wanted to scruff the back of your neck and watch whether you would hiss or flop into place.
The London-born sergeant was fond of independent women, watching both his mother and sister strive with or without anyone. That didn’t mean he wasn’t polite.
“I can help, standing around doing jack shit anyway,” he said, attempting to humour you. You didn’t laugh, instead just handing him a knife as you turned to stir the pot behind you.
The liquid was a golden brown, the stock rich and pungent in aroma as you breathed in. You watched as carrots bobbed up and down with every stroke of the wooden spoon, growing tender.
“What did you do before this?” Gaz spoke, attempting to make conversation with the incredibly reserved woman next to him. He looked at you as he spoke, even if you didn’t look at him. There was no denying your looks, but that wasn’t the focal point for him. He saw past that, admiring your hardened demeanour, a stark contrast between who he expected you to be.
You paused.
“I worked at a law firm,” you began, meeting his eye, “I was, uh, training to be a solicitor.”
“A lawyer, hm? Interesting. Took you as more of a nursing girl.”
“Because I’m a bitch?” You jested, half-joking yet keeping your voice monotone.
Gaz laughed. You let the silence surround you for a moment.
“And you?”
“I was a Sergeant in the military, enlisted in ’08. Tough work but rewarding.”
You hummed in response, “My father was in the military. A colonel, I think. We moved around a lot as kids before he retired.”
“A military baby? The more you know. Knew you had some bite in you.”
His tone was teasing, testing you, almost waiting for the bite, but it never came. You always enjoyed talking about your father. Stilling for a second, you huffed out a breath as you added some home-made noodles to the broth, throwing the eggshells you had used into a plastic bowl.
You listened to the crack, the calcium mixing with the gook as you straightened up, almost returning to your prior state: hard and reserved. Gaz wasn’t blind; he could read your body language and only stepped back, placing the used dishes in the sink after it was emptied.
Dinner was quiet, the occasional slurp from Soap and a few comments about how good it was being all said. You looked down at your bowl, bits of pepper sticking to the sides. Staring at them, you merged them into made-up images, noting how the black dots almost resembled a dog. Almost.
A gruff hand grabbed at your bowl, clattering the spoon around as you met Ghost’s eye before he turned away, his bulky back almost sulking as he stomped into the kitchen, his boots heavy against the floor. You scowled at the idea of mud on your carpet but noticed the lack of footprints.
“He’s actually very quiet,” Soap said, noticing your sour expression, “S’ow he got his name.”
“He just chooses to be loud here?” You said it, audibly enough for him to hear. Soap shrugs with a boyish smile as you stand up and head outside, leaving the glass door open as you feel your feet move faster until you’re sprinting into the forest.
The green has faded into a deeper blue now, the moonlight almost transcending the shades as it bathes the leaves with a serenade. Hoots echoed through holes in trees, the occasional flutter of feathers shoving past you as you kept running. Beady eyes watched you, weaving into webs that were mangled with flies and maggots.
The air was cool beneath you as you trampled upon wet leaves, mounded into piles as your shoes collided with coiling roots, digging their claws into the earth until they sprouted, larger and thicker. Your chest was tight, coiling with the familiar sense of doom as you felt like scratching it, tearing it open as you fiddled with your ribs, stroking the bones until you welcomed them open, accessing the bleeding thump of an organ that was responsible for your heavy-set emotions.
You began to hick on the air, your lungs breathing but letting no air in as you placed your hand against your sternum, feeling the rapid beating of your heart.
Stop it, she spat, you’re drawing attention to yourself. You’re being pathetic, just breathe like I taught you.
Her voice was grating, fingering the curvature in your brain like a jagged knife as you began to scream, your throat scratching at the needed itch. You could hear her trying to yell over you, her voice slurred as she disappeared somewhere deeper in your head. Feet stumbled towards you, tripping amongst flesh as they groaned on their teeth, letting them chatter into their jaw.
Your body felt like it had been merged into theirs, an almost feral sensation taking over you as you picked up a rock, grating the rough material into its decaying skull as you clambered on top of it, straddling it. You didn’t notice how its blood was cold, a dark, sluggish grey that almost resembled tar. You didn’t notice that there was nothing left of its skull; the material now blended into your rock, creating a subtle powder. You didn’t notice Simon behind you, stepping through branches as he grabbed your waist, hoisting you off the zombie in an agitated manner.
“Calm down, y’alright,” he murmured, holding you against him as you squirmed and screamed, begging him to let you go. He placed your feet back down on the floor as you pushed against his chest.
“What the fuck is your problem?” You berated, your eyes bewildered.
His eyes held no expression, his stupid mask covering everything but the two piercing balls that consumed the night.
“Did it bite you?” He said, his voice sharp, looking at your arms that you had exposed while cooking.
You scoffed, “Piss off,” turning on your heel to storm back to the house. Ghost’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, tugging as you gasped.
“I ain’t letting you infect my te-“
Your hand rang as the echo of your slap jittered across the forest, a flock of birds dissipating above you. Pulling away from his grip, your eyes softened slightly as he watched you before he stepped forward, moving past you until his footsteps disappeared, not even the trail of his boots giving him away.
Loose bundles of cotton stained your bruised skin, knees wobbling with the aftermath of milking a plump cow. Your limbs were intertwined with the sheets, slumber seeping through your pores and out the hardwood floors, echoing through the halls as they taunted you.
As a crack of sun rose through the stained windows, dabbles of fingerprints kissed the clear sheet that protected you from outside, the weather, like most English days, dreary and bleak. Tender feet, wrapped in the warmth of barely fluffed slippers, graced your bedroom as you plonked down the stairs, navy carpet engulfing the middle.
Nimble fingers tugged open bare cupboards as an illicit groan rung from your chapped lips, the skin flaking off painfully as you rubbed at them carelessly, thick strands of spit coating them. Cursing under your breath, you flicked through the pages of your journal, noting that it had been just over a month since you did a proper raid in the nearby town.
Your stomach growled as you pushed open the glass doors, taking in the fog that covered them before tending to the animals. Innocent creatures, you often thought. Were they aware of the evil around them?
You pranced as best as you could over to the paddock, two docile horses blinking at you before glancing at the blue tub in your hand, whines snorting through thick nostrils as you pushed open the fence. You had grown fond of the pair, naming them Nancy and Cecil. Smiling softly, you watched them snort down the mixture of dry pellets that you had found an abundance of in the barn. That, and some dirt that always found it’s way kicked in by an irritable goat.
Satisfied, you turned away from the grazing herd of farm animals, tugging at your pants that clung to you. You took note of the clearing skies as you washed off quickly.
The rusting bike treated you well, practically whistling at you with every push of the peddles. You never knew how long it took you; you just knew your thighs would begin to burn, churning ripe as they mushed into a pile of muck that wrapped around ivory. Then you would turn the corner at a giant sign welcoming strangers into their deserted town.
There was the occasional scuffle coming from the treetops, a flock of birds squawking over you as you begged none of them to shit on you like they had done before. Ivy cascaded across oak trees, itching their roots, protruding into their wooden brains, knocking and banging against them. Sometimes you could hear the whispers of the wind, goading you.
The town was older. The windows, if not broken, dusted over in a way that was almost therapeutic given the circumstances. Reddish bricks layered upon one another, cuddling close as they piled into two stories, their doors one glossy, now a matte. You noticed the large rock you kept on the doors of stores you had previously looted, a faint smiley face carved in with a near by rock you would find.
You gave them names, playfully waving to them as you kicked your bike against the wall. The chains slacked slightly, drooping before settling. Soft hums left your lips as you patted your hair down with some spit, noticing the frizz in a passing window.
Fidgety eyes found the charity shop, peeling flowers placed tackily on the panes. You pushed slightly on a door that was slightly ajar, a creased frown finding your face. You don’t remember ever opening doors. Shaking it off as paranoia, you paraded inside, your bag falling from one shoulder as you choked in the damp smell.
You nibbled at your slightly swelled gums; had they followed you? Why didn’t you bring a gun? Were they waiting for you to leave so they could raid your home? Strip you bare of a place to slumber? No - you were ok. You wouldn’t put it past your mind to have made them up, shifting your thoughts into a faux reality.
The floor was disregarded, trampled by clothes and broken objects no one wanted. They had been left there, like you, alone. You took in the weight of the newly stuffed bag that adorned your back, huffing out a deep breath as you headed out the door, fishing for a large rock to place by the door.
Your feet crumpled against the ground as you bent over, bag falling towards your neck as you shot back up, slamming the door shut. You noticed how the door shut normally – even a strong draft unable to barricade the door from its hinges. Brows knitted together once more as you dropped the rock, watching it wobble before settling down.
You wandered slowly over to the abandoned co-op, the sign half mangled by hooligans as you watched the doors open automatically. Though growing sparse, you still found yourself doing a decent shop, holding a few 15p plastic bags in one hand, and a basket in the other. You often wondered why you didn’t make this journey more often. Shopping was always something you enjoyed, even now.
Your shoes squeaked across the floor, creating small black marks as you flicked items into the plastic carrier. You wouldn’t deny your greed, shoving boxes upon boxes until they toppled, and your arms felt the familiar burn your thighs did. Like clockwork, you approached the self-serve, pretending to scan your items as you packed them away, tucking the grocery bags under your sweating arms.
The sky seemed more ominous as you stepped back outside, wondering if you had noticed how harsh the wind was before you entered the smaller supermarket or if you were truly that oblivious. You sniffled as you approached your bike, placing the bags into the woven basket and another two on the handles. A zephyr stole your spine, wrapping around it, tainting it as it spread to your lungs, sucking any air from them as you spluttered, hearing the crunch of footsteps.
Frigid fingers clutched the bike as you heard a low whistle, praying it was the wind coming to mock you once more. You blinked as you turned around.
He was a nasty-looking man. His hair was greased, held in place simply by being unwashed, gunk building at his scalp as he itched it. You were sure that if you looked hard enough, you would notice the bloodied scabs that were beginning to tear away at the scalp. Thin lips quivered into a tight, smug grin as two dagger-like teeth poked through the paper-like flesh. He stood a couple of inches taller than you, and his build was stocky but plump, his clothes sticking to him in an unattractive way.
As he spoke, you noticed how clear his voice was. How easily he punctuated his words and directed his syllables. He was human. Unbitten and clean in the best way he could be, but the dirtiest thing about him was his eyes.
They moved slowly, predatory-like, watching every small flick of your skin under his gaze. They were a deep blue from what you could see, but consumed by a hole of black, pupils blown and dilated.
So yes, he was human, but his mind worked the same as theirs. He wanted something from you, something even the undead didn’t want.
“What’s a pretty lady like you doing out here alone?”
“I-I’m not alone,” you stammered, “I was just waiting for my husband-“
“Husband?” The man laughed, “Ain’t no husband for you around here, unless of course, you’re talking ‘bout me?”
He stepped closer now as you froze in place. You were like a deer in headlights, drawn to the escape but blinded by an echoing, dangerous light as his fingers graced your cheek, rubbing almost softly.
“She was talking about me,” another voice pestered, his tone sloppy and slurred. You looked at him, almost gasping. His skin was chalky yet brutish, littered by scarring and thick hair that looked itchy. You wanted to think about something else, but you couldn’t. His mouth was agape, a large hole carved into the side, deforming him as half his mouth was left exposed, puddles of spit pooling down his chin as he dribbled.
The other man laughed, “No pretty girl would wan’ a freak of a husband like you.”
He turned to you, “Would you, bambi?”
The deformed one grunted, charging closer as he shoved the man, his tongue lolling out as he panted rapidly. The first man hummed softly, jeeringly, patting his friend’s head in a degrading manner.
“Don’t scare her, Rupert, she’s already shaking,” he said, faux concern lacing his dreary tone as he turned to watch you one more.
“I-I need to be going, it was nice to meet you both,” you whispered, looking down as Rupert snarled, muttering under his breath.
“Speak up so she can feckin hear you, mutt!” The man bellowed, slapping Rupert around the back of the head. Under other circumstances, your heart would have bled for him, empathy coursing through your burning veins, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to falter your rigid composure.
“You ain’t leaving yet,” Rupert sniffled, his eyes flicking back and forth as he rubbed at his mouth, noting how he almost pampered himself with the healed wound. Stepping back, you clattered with the bike, landing on your ass as the tyre scraped down you, the rubber burning you even through the fabric of your pants. You scooted back as they approached you, your hands caught and moulding into the shape of jagged pebbles as you whimpered.
“Tell her, Eric,” he slurred, stomping slightly as he watched you pull away from them. You frowned at knowing the other man’s name as it settled in that before you was a human. Just like you. Birthed, raised and survived.
“C’mon now, let’s let her get back to her husband, poor birdie was just being a good wife, weren’t ye?” Eric ridiculed. You nodded fast, head bouncing at an obscene rate as you attempted to stand.
Smacking back down again, you felt a ghastly hand tugging at your ankle, dragging you further from the safety of your bike as you screamed out, your throat raw from the sheer effort it took. You were a hiccupping mess, bucking your hips as your legs ached for release, kicking into the air. The men above you were cackling, enjoying the struggle as you sobbed.
Your eyes shut, their peering faces leaking through your eyelids as they leaned closer to you, mocking your state.
“Get off me!” You shrieked, thrashing desperately.
“Ain’t on ye yet, bambi,” Eric whispered, leaning down to take your head into his hands as you felt his grime against you, rubbing the purity and cleanliness from your face as he slobbered against your mouth, irritating your teeth as you bit down on his tongue, feeling him swear before a fist knocked at your nose, delicate tissue colliding with the floor below your cranium. You groaned, eyes blurred as you reached to touch your face, feeling the hot flow of metallic cascade into your taste buds.
His face was stone-like now, chronic and grated as he spat insults at you that lurched into the air but never passing through you.
“Teach her a lesson!” Rupert cheered, almost child-like. You could smell the power dynamic between the two of them. The puppy and his owner. And you, the bone that would be shared.
“P-please,” you begged. Your words fell to death ears, just like his did as you felt the same grimy hands grip your waist band, tugging effortlessly as you bawled bloody murder, Rupert’s hand slapping over your face as tears streamed, doing little to sooth your hysterical state as you prepared both mentally and physically.
You spoke through his fist, praying that someone would save you, but you knew no one was coming. Was this why you were spared from the dead? So, you could be defiled by humans instead? Would they feast upon your naked flesh then? End your suffering by erasing you?
Eric smiled at your cotton panties, a delicate bow planted on top, slightly crooked. “Nice and pretty for me.” Your mind was blank now as you began to hold your breath, closing your eyes as you felt tingles shooting through your hair follicles, standing straight at the dirty skin that was left exposed.
You could feel the air bare on you now, joining his grimy fingers as they petted your inner thigh, admiring you. You let the burn of your lungs ring out as your lids fluttered, wispy lashes falling to the apple of your cheeks as you stammered with the spit in your mouth.
His voice was soft now, but he hadn’t changed his speaking levels; your head was only channelled in on the sound of his belt unbuckling. Everything was white now, your inside blank and wilting like a flower out of bloom, shrunken and dry, colour fading as though it was never there to begin with. Your fingers dug into the dirt, feeling your nails grow dark as you spluttered once more, struggling to lift your arm.
You didn’t open your eyes when you felt everything fade. You didn’t open your eyes when you felt the rush of hot liquid splatter against your face. You didn’t open your eyes when you felt him collapse on you, his weight crushing you.
You did open your eyes when a hand pathetically pulled away from your mouth, begging for mercy as you glanced at the still body on top of you, a gaping hole removing a chunk from his skull as he splattered across your chest, like a baby waiting upon its mother’s bosom. You didn’t blink or scream; you weren’t quite sure you even moved; you just lay there.
You heard the second shot but didn’t look, noticing how Rupert’s body fell beside yours from your peripheral vision. There were fingers on your face, pulling open your eyes as a bright light shone into them, squeezing your pupils as they shrank, darting into your irises. Your body felt light now, a weight lifted from you, though you weren’t sure if it was physical or metaphorical.
“S’alright, we’ve got you,” you heard before all sound stopped.
You awoke in the position you started in, limbs cascading into woven sheets as you sighed. Pulling yourself up, you winced. You looked down at your palms, gashes littering the delicate skin as it tugged free from its owner, parading with the infused scent of debris.
Your brows knitted towards one another, your frame almost paralytic as your head moved, looking around the room. Who brought you here? Was any of it real? Your body walked by itself to the standing mirror in the corner of the room, rarely used. You weren’t sure why; you weren’t disgusted by yourself normally. You looked at your torn trousers, a gash at both knees, your hands pebbled and scarred from the torment of the ground below you.
You could see him standing behind you, lifeless frame taunting you as the other stood beside him, tongue lapping at his owner like a desperate pup, greedy for a taste. You touched the back of your head, feeling the matted blood clump to your forehead. You felt her for a second. Vienna. You always felt her when you felt the most alone.
The clatter alarmed you once more, your wounded digits wrapping around the cold doorframe, a sickening contrast to the dirt and stones you had felt once before. You cursed at the realisation that all your guns are kept downstairs, the closest being on the mantle.
You were fast.
Are you?
You could feel her in your ear. An ugly head, rearing through your thoughts as you shivered. Maybe she enjoyed the torment. Did she get a sick satisfaction from your suffering, knowing she can’t anymore? You wanted to yell, maybe scream, but you didn’t.
Your feet were quiet as they padded along the carpeted stairs, grateful for the tacky choice of the previous owners. Their voices were low, almost gentle, but their words weren’t audible, blurred between thick walls and impaired hearing.
Maybe you should have been brave and run across the room while their backs were turned and grabbed the gun, firing shots into them until they painted the walls, their guts hanging from surrounding paintings like a Renaissance. But you didn’t.
Instead, you cowered, knees buckled as you slid across the floor.
You recognised him when he turned around now, his eyes indifferent to when you first saw them, still holding their glimpse of energy that almost felt innocent. You knew he wasn’t. You tilted your head as he approached you, holding a hand out to show he meant no harm.
“We ain’t gonna harm you, I promise, we found you and brought you back here,” he said, taking his hat off to place it against his chest, like a peace offering.
They were the ones who shot –
You paused, closing your eyes.
“Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why did you save me?”
The men around him look puzzled. Another stepped in, his face delicate and youthful, exuding the calmest energy as he offered you a polite smile, trying to calm you. It was obvious you were agitated, a lab rat under bright fluorescent lights begging to rest and succumb to a never-ending slumber.
“It’s our job to save people,” he spoke.
Your reply was harsh and calculated, choking you as you spat out, “And now you expect payment?”
You recognised him as he stepped forward, only his eyes visible under the mask as they flashed with what you had seen earlier – anger.
“Y’ think we shot them in the fucking head just to bring you here and-“
“Enough,” the eldest snarled.
The delicate one held his hand out, his palms rugged yet smooth as you hesitantly took it, rising to your feet before cowering away slightly.
“Look, we brought you back, along with your stuff.” You turned to look into the kitchen, noticing your bags there, some split, but all there. “We don’t want to bother you or scare you, just want a place to rest properly for a few nights.”
“Your husband going to have a problem with that?” Ghost, you think his name was, bit back. You felt like snarling, clawing at his heavy chest with your nails, dragging the dirt through his skin until the ivory was stained a deep brownish grey. You wanted to watch his chest implode as you dug around in it, allowing him to whimper underneath you as you planted him amongst your crops, allowing roots to sprout from the claw marks you granted him.
“Please,” the eldest cut off, his eyes docile.
Cautious eyes targeted them all, darting between them like an arrow, their faces the bullseye that you never quite seemed to grasp. You frowned slightly before nodding shallowly.
Your voice was intended to come out harsh, filthy like, but it didn’t. It was small, mousy as you whispered out, “Please don’t hurt me.”
You watched the sun set on the porch that night, a man who you learnt was named Soap, bringing you a bowl of vegetable soup as Gaz, the one you trusted most, tended to your head, rubbing ointment across it and wrapping it gently until you looked almost comical.
They spoke gently to you, beside Ghost, who wandered off into the forest. You spoke reservedly to them, excusing yourself after a while to take a bath, and as the water turned brown around you, you wondered what it would be like to live inside the dirt, your body decaying as flowers grew from your flesh.
Warning — This is an 18+ poly!141 series that has been rewritten and adapted from my original work
CW: Suicidal ideation, ptsd, mild violence/gore
Previous, Next
You scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. Your skin was raw, stripped of anything, but you still didn’t feel clean. You could feel him, tainting you with his prints, his thumb delving into your cheek as it concaves into the pit of your stomach. The water was freezing now, your hair sticking to the back of your neck as you shook, thrashing around as you sobbed, your hands rubbing at your forearms aggressively.
You relied on the splashing of the water as comfort, feeling it lap at your side, against you. It was against you. It was on you. You were never going to be clean.
“Are you alright?”
His voice was smooth, honey-like and rich, burning through his oesophagus as it lingered in the walls, waking gnawing termites into hiding.
You cursed under your breath, irritated. “Fine.”
You stared down at your thighs, taking in the slight bruising that faintly resembled hand marks. You felt warmer outside the water as you felt it sink from your lack of presence, squeezing the ends of your hair, the towel providing you with little comfort. The mirror had fogged as you wiped the condensation with bruised knuckles.
You weren’t sure if the person staring back at you was really you. You blinked fast, expecting it to falter, to fail at mimicking, but it didn’t. Peering closer, you took in the dirt under your pores, sighing as you rubbed a bar of worn soap between your hands, warming it as you lathered it on your face. It was harsh and chemical-like, tingling your flesh as you washed it off.
Nimble hands grabbed at the kettle, clutching it in a weapon-like manner as you opened the door ajar. Gaz was gone. You slammed it shut, the echo infiltrating downstairs as Soap grimaced slightly. You didn’t enjoy changing in the bathroom, normally used to wandering bare, exposed to the voyeuristic paintings that would now look down on you. The air kept your skin constantly damp making it impossible to change. You did anyway.
Plonking down the stairs, you walked past the posse of men seated in your living room as you wandered outside. You could feel a wet patch at the back of your sweatshirt, but you ignored it.
You found yourself wandering to the paddock, the wind hissing in your ear. It was dusk now, the sun beginning to cast a spell across the forest as the regular grey faded into a burnt orange, creeping its colours into the sun, resting its rays for the next day. Nancy greeted you as you pushed open the gate, her snout rubbing against you affectionately.
“Hi, girl,” you murmured, resting your forehead against hers before patting her gently on the behind to trot off. There was a strange warmth in your chest as you laid down, your back squashing against the dirt and worms beneath you. You wondered what would happen if the horses lost control and trampled you. You wondered if you would even mind.
The English countryside always held a place in your heart, even as a child. You remembered sitting down with your mother, counting the stars as she explained them, hushing you to sleep as she drew down your back. If you thought really hard, you could almost feel her stroking you. Almost.
With every blink, you would see a new ball of light burning in the sky. Hooves grinded against the floor as you finally sat up, shaking any dirt off your ass as you continued your nightly duties as though it had been a regular day. A smile made its way to your face as you bundled a few eggs into your jumper, protecting them before you headed indoors, a snarl lacing your features once more.
The living room was always cozy, the lighting low and the fire hot. You watched Price glance at you, his mouth opening before closing. Sitting on a bench in the kitchen, you examined the eggs as well as you could before placing them into little containers with a plop.
You could feel him behind you before you could hear him.
“I understand we haven’t become acquainted under the greatest circumstances, but I do appreciate you allowing us to stay here. ‘Was kind of you.”
“Did I have a choice?” You snapped back, shackles raised as you gripped at the timber island. He sighed.
“Listen, what happened to you tod-“
“Don’t. I don’t need a pity speech. I’m sure you feel great about fulfilling your duties as a law-abiding military officer, but I don’t need to hear it. Nothing happened to me today.”
“What those m-“
“Nothing happened to me today,” you snarled, roaring an ugly head at him as you turned around. You took in his expression. You were unsure how he always seemed so collected, so chill. You hated pity.
“Alright. Well, I still wanted to express gratitude, we’re sure it isn’t easy for you to let us in.”
You scoffed sarcastically under your breath, whispering how pathetic this all was. You shoved past him, barging your shoulder into his with a wince, now aware it hurt you a lot more than it did him. The others watched you, observing.
“Your rooms are the first two doors upstairs; you aren’t to walk past them. You can use the bathroom down here,” you began, pointing to a door, “and I even sniff that you’re near my room, I will blast shotgun shells at the door so fast you’ll think you’re back on the job.”
You laid awake that night, a small stream of light pouring under your door before it turned off. The cool metal coddled you; it’s mouth begging to meet yours as you stroked the foreign material, the faint smell of gunpowder sending a high to your brain as you breathed in.
You shouldn’t have let them in, they’re going to hurt you, Vienna taunted in your ear, they’ll finish the job this time, you know that.
Ghost could hear you in the night, thrashing side to side, small, pained sighs leaving your lips as you spluttered in the air. He knew your body was drenched with sweat, the sheets below you soaked and stained with your musk as your eyes fluttered into a shallow stream of darkness. He knew the feeling well.
The masked man was never fond of the dark, or sleep, his mind plagued with the flickering memories of his father. Blue knuckles knocking upon ivory cheeks until they turned to mush, bleeding under the skin as his mother played it off as an accident. Daddy didn’t mean to hurt me, she would say, but he knew. He always knew. The military only made it worse but at least now he felt like he had earned the nightmares.
The sky was melancholic today, more so than usual. Clouds puffed against one another, fighting for dominance as they blackened, thick quarrels of hissing rain building inside them. The pellets hitting the roof woke you for once, an orchestra harmonising you into lucidity as rigid digits scrubbed at your clumped lashes, the sleep sticking to them like glue.
Your sleeves fell over your hands as you grumbled, itchy sensation burning at your wrists from the liquid now drenching them. The tap turned off with a squeak. Your feet were heavy as they collided with the stairs, sending a small jolt into wood. Beneath the ground, termites squabbled, curling into frames of steels as they lurched upon the dirt. Nancy, your horse, was distressed as she jolted around the paddock, her coat slick with rain as she whinnied.
The fields were muddy and vocal, croaking out as boots slammed against them, desperation replacing your footsteps. “C’mon girl, let’s get you inside,” you said, praising her as you led her to the stables. It was warmer inside the barn area, the hay insulating it with its straw-like roots, contrasting yellow against the timid brown. The appaloosa appeared to calm down, snorting softly with a sneeze as you brushed over her, rubbing her snout.
“Time to get your brother, hm?” You breathed, your voice affectionate, a stark contrast to your previous conversations.
“’Ave got ‘im,” a Scottish voice spoke, the sound of horseshoes and hooves clattering against the floor. You frowned. You didn’t need someone to tend to your horses; you had been just fine on your own.
“I had him.”
“Thought I’d make yer life easier,” Soap conceded, offering you a small smile, “Pishin it doon out there.”
“I can see,” you scowled, scrunching your brows until you realised what he was saying. Guilt simmered inside you, sitting on top of a gas stove with one temperature until the liquids boiled over, staining the surface. He licked his lips, doing nothing to help with the dryness that had spread across his mouth. Soap’s laugh was slightly awkward as he attempted to ease the tension.
“Ae’ll leave you to it then.”
His hair was scruffier from the back, an overgrown mohawk evident as you held back a childish smirk. His skin was rough and littered with scars, tattoos littering his forearms and the evidence of a lack of moisture palpable in his elbows. The Scotsman patted the frame above the door as your voice called out before you could stop yourself.
“Sorry.”
No I’m, no tenderness, no bitchiness. Just a bit of guilt. You weren’t sure why you felt guilty; you had no reason to be. He turned around to face you, and you could take in more of his facial features.
You noticed the colour of his eyes. A proud Aegean, deep and sultry, reminding you of the fancy vase you had broken when you were a child, blaming it on the dog as you cried pathetically in your room when your dad iterated how he had been walking him at the time. They had pieced it back together with a thick white sludge that stunk, the pattern now unique but impaired. You felt no indifference towards it now, only nostalgic as you looked at the man before you.
His face was chiselled yet plumper around his chin, a small scar gashed into it, a slight whitish-pink blending in with a warm ivory. With darker features, you noticed the echoing contrast between his stocky build and the depth in his eyes.
“Nae need t’ be sorry, lass. Should’ve asked you before’and,” he concurred.
“No, it was... it was a nice thing to do.”
The blade glided through the starchy spud, bathing in the sink as they bounced off one another. A toothpick sat in your mouth as you nibbled on it until it began to dissolve, the woody taste dissipating on your tongue. You rubbed your wet hands against your apron, dark spots dancing across the fabric as you pressed down on the old CD player, a burnt disk in there that you enjoyed listening to.
The man’s voice was dreary and emotional as you tuned him out, throwing the cut vegetables into a giant pot to simmer. Gaz watched you from the living room, noting how rigid you were, your body coiled straight, erect and unable to return to a docile state. A part of him wanted to scruff the back of your neck and watch whether you would hiss or flop into place.
The London-born sergeant was fond of independent women, watching both his mother and sister strive with or without anyone. That didn’t mean he wasn’t polite.
“I can help, standing around doing jack shit anyway,” he said, attempting to humour you. You didn’t laugh, instead just handing him a knife as you turned to stir the pot behind you.
The liquid was a golden brown, the stock rich and pungent in aroma as you breathed in. You watched as carrots bobbed up and down with every stroke of the wooden spoon, growing tender.
“What did you do before this?” Gaz spoke, attempting to make conversation with the incredibly reserved woman next to him. He looked at you as he spoke, even if you didn’t look at him. There was no denying your looks, but that wasn’t the focal point for him. He saw past that, admiring your hardened demeanour, a stark contrast between who he expected you to be.
You paused.
“I worked at a law firm,” you began, meeting his eye, “I was, uh, training to be a solicitor.”
“A lawyer, hm? Interesting. Took you as more of a nursing girl.”
“Because I’m a bitch?” You jested, half-joking yet keeping your voice monotone.
Gaz laughed. You let the silence surround you for a moment.
“And you?”
“I was a Sergeant in the military, enlisted in ’08. Tough work but rewarding.”
You hummed in response, “My father was in the military. A colonel, I think. We moved around a lot as kids before he retired.”
“A military baby? The more you know. Knew you had some bite in you.”
His tone was teasing, testing you, almost waiting for the bite, but it never came. You always enjoyed talking about your father. Stilling for a second, you huffed out a breath as you added some home-made noodles to the broth, throwing the eggshells you had used into a plastic bowl.
You listened to the crack, the calcium mixing with the gook as you straightened up, almost returning to your prior state: hard and reserved. Gaz wasn’t blind; he could read your body language and only stepped back, placing the used dishes in the sink after it was emptied.
Dinner was quiet, the occasional slurp from Soap and a few comments about how good it was being all said. You looked down at your bowl, bits of pepper sticking to the sides. Staring at them, you merged them into made-up images, noting how the black dots almost resembled a dog. Almost.
A gruff hand grabbed at your bowl, clattering the spoon around as you met Ghost’s eye before he turned away, his bulky back almost sulking as he stomped into the kitchen, his boots heavy against the floor. You scowled at the idea of mud on your carpet but noticed the lack of footprints.
“He’s actually very quiet,” Soap said, noticing your sour expression, “S’ow he got his name.”
“He just chooses to be loud here?” You said it, audibly enough for him to hear. Soap shrugs with a boyish smile as you stand up and head outside, leaving the glass door open as you feel your feet move faster until you’re sprinting into the forest.
The green has faded into a deeper blue now, the moonlight almost transcending the shades as it bathes the leaves with a serenade. Hoots echoed through holes in trees, the occasional flutter of feathers shoving past you as you kept running. Beady eyes watched you, weaving into webs that were mangled with flies and maggots.
The air was cool beneath you as you trampled upon wet leaves, mounded into piles as your shoes collided with coiling roots, digging their claws into the earth until they sprouted, larger and thicker. Your chest was tight, coiling with the familiar sense of doom as you felt like scratching it, tearing it open as you fiddled with your ribs, stroking the bones until you welcomed them open, accessing the bleeding thump of an organ that was responsible for your heavy-set emotions.
You began to hick on the air, your lungs breathing but letting no air in as you placed your hand against your sternum, feeling the rapid beating of your heart.
Stop it, she spat, you’re drawing attention to yourself. You’re being pathetic, just breathe like I taught you.
Her voice was grating, fingering the curvature in your brain like a jagged knife as you began to scream, your throat scratching at the needed itch. You could hear her trying to yell over you, her voice slurred as she disappeared somewhere deeper in your head. Feet stumbled towards you, tripping amongst flesh as they groaned on their teeth, letting them chatter into their jaw.
Your body felt like it had been merged into theirs, an almost feral sensation taking over you as you picked up a rock, grating the rough material into its decaying skull as you clambered on top of it, straddling it. You didn’t notice how its blood was cold, a dark, sluggish grey that almost resembled tar. You didn’t notice that there was nothing left of its skull; the material now blended into your rock, creating a subtle powder. You didn’t notice Simon behind you, stepping through branches as he grabbed your waist, hoisting you off the zombie in an agitated manner.
“Calm down, y’alright,” he murmured, holding you against him as you squirmed and screamed, begging him to let you go. He placed your feet back down on the floor as you pushed against his chest.
“What the fuck is your problem?” You berated, your eyes bewildered.
His eyes held no expression, his stupid mask covering everything but the two piercing balls that consumed the night.
“Did it bite you?” He said, his voice sharp, looking at your arms that you had exposed while cooking.
You scoffed, “Piss off,” turning on your heel to storm back to the house. Ghost’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, tugging as you gasped.
“I ain’t letting you infect my te-“
Your hand rang as the echo of your slap jittered across the forest, a flock of birds dissipating above you. Pulling away from his grip, your eyes softened slightly as he watched you before he stepped forward, moving past you until his footsteps disappeared, not even the trail of his boots giving him away.
Loose bundles of cotton stained your bruised skin, knees wobbling with the aftermath of milking a plump cow. Your limbs were intertwined with the sheets, slumber seeping through your pores and out the hardwood floors, echoing through the halls as they taunted you.
As a crack of sun rose through the stained windows, dabbles of fingerprints kissed the clear sheet that protected you from outside, the weather, like most English days, dreary and bleak. Tender feet, wrapped in the warmth of barely fluffed slippers, graced your bedroom as you plonked down the stairs, navy carpet engulfing the middle.
Nimble fingers tugged open bare cupboards as an illicit groan rung from your chapped lips, the skin flaking off painfully as you rubbed at them carelessly, thick strands of spit coating them. Cursing under your breath, you flicked through the pages of your journal, noting that it had been just over a month since you did a proper raid in the nearby town.
Your stomach growled as you pushed open the glass doors, taking in the fog that covered them before tending to the animals. Innocent creatures, you often thought. Were they aware of the evil around them?
You pranced as best as you could over to the paddock, two docile horses blinking at you before glancing at the blue tub in your hand, whines snorting through thick nostrils as you pushed open the fence. You had grown fond of the pair, naming them Nancy and Cecil. Smiling softly, you watched them snort down the mixture of dry pellets that you had found an abundance of in the barn. That, and some dirt that always found it’s way kicked in by an irritable goat.
Satisfied, you turned away from the grazing herd of farm animals, tugging at your pants that clung to you. You took note of the clearing skies as you washed off quickly.
The rusting bike treated you well, practically whistling at you with every push of the peddles. You never knew how long it took you; you just knew your thighs would begin to burn, churning ripe as they mushed into a pile of muck that wrapped around ivory. Then you would turn the corner at a giant sign welcoming strangers into their deserted town.
There was the occasional scuffle coming from the treetops, a flock of birds squawking over you as you begged none of them to shit on you like they had done before. Ivy cascaded across oak trees, itching their roots, protruding into their wooden brains, knocking and banging against them. Sometimes you could hear the whispers of the wind, goading you.
The town was older. The windows, if not broken, dusted over in a way that was almost therapeutic given the circumstances. Reddish bricks layered upon one another, cuddling close as they piled into two stories, their doors once glossy, now a matte. You noticed the large rocks you kept on the doors of stores you had previously looted, a faint smiley face carved in with a near by rock you would find.
You gave them names, playfully waving to them as you kicked your bike against the wall. The chains slacked slightly, drooping before settling. Soft hums left your lips as you patted your hair down with some spit, noticing the frizz in a passing window.
Fidgety eyes found the charity shop, peeling flowers placed tackily on the panes. You pushed slightly on a door that was barely ajar, a creased frown finding your face. You don’t remember ever opening doors. Shaking it off as paranoia, you paraded inside, your bag falling from one shoulder as you choked in the damp smell.
You nibbled at your slightly swelled gums; had they followed you? Why didn’t you bring a gun? Were they waiting for you to leave so they could raid your home? Strip you bare of a place to slumber? No - you were ok. You wouldn’t put it past your mind to have made them up, shifting your thoughts into a faux reality.
The floor was disregarded, trampled by clothes and broken objects no one wanted. They had been left there, like you, alone. You took in the weight of the newly stuffed bag that adorned your back, huffing out a deep breath as you headed out the door, fishing for a large rock to place by the door.
Your feet crumpled against the ground as you bent over, bag falling towards your neck as you shot back up, slamming the door shut. You noticed how the door shut normally – even a strong draft unable to barricade the door from its hinges. Brows knitted together once more as you dropped the rock, watching it wobble before settling down.
You wandered slowly over to the abandoned co-op, the sign half mangled by hooligans as you watched the doors open automatically. Though growing sparse, you still found yourself doing a decent shop, holding a few 15p plastic bags in one hand, and a basket in the other. You often wondered why you didn’t make this journey more frequently. Shopping was always something you enjoyed, even now.
Your shoes squeaked across the floor, creating small black marks as you flicked items into the plastic carrier. You wouldn’t deny your greed, shoving boxes upon boxes until they toppled, and your arms felt the familiar burn your thighs did. Like clockwork, you approached the self-serve, pretending to scan your items as you packed them away, tucking the grocery bags under your sweating arms.
The sky seemed more ominous as you stepped back outside, wondering if you had noticed how harsh the wind was before you entered the smaller supermarket or if you were truly that oblivious. You sniffled as you approached your bike, placing the bags into the woven basket and another two on the handles. A zephyr stole your spine, wrapping around it, tainting it as it spread to your lungs, sucking any air from them as you spluttered, hearing the crunch of footsteps.
Frigid fingers clutched the bike as you heard a low whistle, praying it was the wind coming to mock you once more. You blinked as you turned around.
He was a nasty-looking man. His hair was greased, held in place simply by being unwashed, gunk building at his scalp as he itched it. You were sure that if you looked hard enough, you would notice the bloodied scabs that were beginning to tear away at the scalp. Thin lips quivered into a tight, smug grin as two dagger-like teeth poked through the paper-like flesh. He stood a couple of inches taller than you, and his build was stocky but plump, his clothes sticking to him in an unattractive way.
As he spoke, you noticed how clear his voice was. How easily he punctuated his words and directed his syllables. He was human. Unbitten and clean in the best way he could be, but the dirtiest thing about him was his eyes.
They moved slowly, predatory-like, watching every small flick of your skin under his gaze. They were a deep blue from what you could see, but consumed by a hole of black, pupils blown and dilated.
So yes, he was human, but his mind worked the same as theirs. He wanted something from you, something even the undead didn’t want.
“What’s a pretty lady like you doing out here alone?”
“I-I’m not alone,” you stammered, “I was just waiting for my husband-“
“Husband?” The man laughed, “Ain’t no husband for you around here, unless of course, you’re talking ‘bout me?”
He stepped closer now as you froze in place. You were like a deer in headlights, drawn to the escape but blinded by an echoing, dangerous light as his fingers graced your cheek, rubbing almost softly.
“She was talking about me,” another voice pestered, his tone sloppy and slurred. You looked at him, almost gasping. His skin was chalky yet brutish, littered by scarring and thick hair that looked itchy. You wanted to think about something else, but you couldn’t. His mouth was agape, a large hole carved into the side, deforming him as half his cheek was left exposed, puddles of spit pooling down his chin as he dribbled.
The other man laughed, “No pretty girl would wan’ a freak of a husband like you.”
He turned to you, “Would you, bambi?”
The deformed one grunted, charging closer as he shoved the man, his tongue lolling out as he panted rapidly. The first man hummed softly, jeeringly, patting his friend’s head in a degrading manner.
“Don’t scare her, Rupert, she’s already shaking,” he said, faux concern lacing his dreary tone as he turned to watch you one more.
“I-I need to be going, it was nice to meet you both,” you whispered, looking down as Rupert snarled, muttering under his breath.
“Speak up so she can feckin hear you, mutt!” The man bellowed, slapping Rupert around the back of the head. Under other circumstances, your heart would have bled for him, empathy coursing through your burning veins, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to falter your rigid composure.
“You ain’t leaving yet,” Rupert sniffled, his eyes flicking back and forth as he rubbed at his mouth, noting how he almost pampered himself with the healed wound. Stepping back, you clattered with the bike, landing on your ass as the tyre scraped down you, the rubber burning you even through the fabric of your pants. You scooted back as they approached you, your hands caught and moulding into the shape of jagged pebbles as you whimpered.
“Tell her, Eric,” he slurred, stomping slightly as he watched you pull away from them. You frowned at knowing the other man’s name as it settled in that before you was a human. Just like you. Birthed, raised and survived.
“C’mon now, let’s let her get back to her husband, poor birdie was just being a good wife, weren’t ye?” Eric ridiculed. You nodded fast, head bouncing at an obscene rate as you attempted to stand.
Smacking back down again, you felt a ghastly hand tugging at your ankle, dragging you further from the safety of your bike as you screamed out, your throat raw from the sheer effort it took. You were a hiccupping mess, bucking your hips as your legs ached for release, kicking into the air. The men above you were cackling, enjoying the struggle as you sobbed.
Your eyes shut, their peering faces leaking through your eyelids as they leaned closer to you, mocking your state.
“Get off me!” You shrieked, thrashing desperately.
“Ain’t on ye yet, bambi,” Eric whispered, leaning down to take your head into his hands as you felt his grime against you, rubbing the purity and cleanliness from your face as he slobbered against your mouth, irritating your teeth as you bit down on his tongue, feeling him swear before a fist knocked at your nose, delicate tissue colliding with the floor below your cranium. You groaned, eyes blurred as you reached to touch your face, feeling the hot flow of metallic cascade into your taste buds.
His face was stone-like now, chronic and grated as he spat insults at you that lurched into the air but never passing through you.
“Teach her a lesson!” Rupert cheered, almost child-like. You could smell the power dynamic between the two of them. The puppy and his owner. And you, the bone that would be shared.
“P-please,” you begged. Your words fell to deaf ears, just like his did as you felt the same grimy hands grip your waist band, tugging effortlessly as you bawled bloody murder, Rupert’s hand slapping over your face as tears streamed, doing little to sooth your hysterical state as you prepared both mentally and physically.
You spoke through his fist, praying that someone would save you, but you knew no one was coming. Was this why you were spared from the dead? So, you could be defiled by humans instead? Would they feast upon your naked flesh then? End your suffering by erasing you?
Eric smiled at your cotton panties, a delicate bow planted on top, slightly crooked. “Nice and pretty for me.” Your mind was blank now as you began to hold your breath, closing your eyes as you felt tingles shooting through your hair follicles, standing straight at the dirty skin that was left exposed.
You could feel the air bare on you now, joining his grimy fingers as they petted your inner thigh, admiring you. You let the burn of your lungs ring out as your lids fluttered, wispy lashes falling to the apple of your cheeks as you stammered with the spit in your mouth.
His voice was soft now, but he hadn’t changed his speaking levels; your head was only channelled in on the sound of his belt unbuckling. Everything was white now, your insides blank and wilting like a flower out of bloom, shrunken and dry, colour fading as though it was never there to begin with. Your fingers dug into the dirt, feeling your nails grow dark as you spluttered once more, struggling to lift your arm.
You didn’t open your eyes when you felt everything fade. You didn’t open your eyes when you felt the rush of hot liquid splatter against your face. You didn’t open your eyes when you felt him collapse on you, his weight crushing you.
You did open your eyes when a hand pathetically pulled away from your mouth, begging for mercy as you glanced at the still body on top of you, a gaping hole removing a chunk from his skull as he splattered across your chest, like a baby waiting upon its mother’s bosom. You didn’t blink or scream; you weren’t quite sure you even moved; you just laid there.
You heard the second shot but didn’t look, noticing how Rupert’s body fell beside yours from your peripheral vision. There were fingers on your face, pulling open your eyes as a bright light shone into them, squeezing your pupils as they shrank, darting into your irises. Your body felt light now, a weight lifted from you, though you weren’t sure if it was physical or metaphorical.
“S’alright, we’ve got you,” you heard before all sound stopped.
You awoke in the position you started in, limbs cascading into woven sheets as you sighed. Pulling yourself up, you winced. You looked down at your palms, gashes littering the delicate skin as it tugged free from its owner, parading with the infused scent of debris.
Your brows knitted towards one another, your frame almost paralytic as your head moved, looking around the room. Who brought you here? Was any of it real? Your body walked by itself to the standing mirror in the corner of the room, rarely used. You weren’t sure why; you weren’t disgusted by yourself normally. You looked at your torn trousers, a gash at both knees, your hands pebbled and scarred from the torment of the ground below you.
You could see him standing behind you, lifeless frame taunting you as the other stood beside him, tongue lapping at his owner like a desperate pup, greedy for a taste. You touched the back of your head, feeling the matted blood clump to your forehead. You felt her for a second. Vienna. You always felt her when you felt the most alone.
The clatter alarmed you once more, your wounded digits wrapping around the cold doorframe, a sickening contrast to the dirt and stones you had felt once before. You cursed at the realisation that all your guns are kept downstairs, the closest being on the mantle.
You were fast.
Are you?
You could feel her in your ear. An ugly head, rearing through your thoughts as you shivered. Maybe she enjoyed the torment. Did she get a sick satisfaction from your suffering, knowing she can’t anymore? You wanted to yell, maybe scream, but you didn’t.
Your feet were quiet as they padded along the carpeted stairs, grateful for the tacky choice of the previous owners. Their voices were low, almost gentle, but their words weren’t audible, blurred between thick walls and impaired hearing.
Maybe you should have been brave and run across the room while their backs were turned and grabbed the gun, firing shots into them until they painted the walls, their guts hanging from surrounding paintings like a Renaissance. But you didn’t.
Instead, you cowered, knees buckled as you slid across the floor.
You recognised him when he turned around now, his eyes indifferent to when you first saw them, still holding their glimpse of energy that almost felt innocent. You knew he wasn’t. You tilted your head as he approached you, holding a hand out to show he meant no harm.
“We ain’t gonna harm you, I promise, we found you and brought you back here,” he said, taking his hat off to place it against his chest, like a peace offering.
They were the ones who shot –
You paused, closing your eyes.
“Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why did you save me?”
The men around him look puzzled. Another stepped in, his face delicate and youthful, exuding the calmest energy as he offered you a polite smile, trying to calm you. It was obvious you were agitated, a lab rat under bright fluorescent lights begging to rest and succumb to a never-ending slumber.
“It’s our job to save people,” he spoke.
Your reply was harsh and calculated, choking you as you spat out, “And now you expect payment?”
You recognised him as he stepped forward, only his eyes visible under the mask as they flashed with what you had seen earlier – anger.
“Y’ think we shot them in the fucking head just to bring you here and-“
“Enough,” the eldest snarled.
The delicate one held his hand out, his palms rugged yet smooth as you hesitantly took it, rising to your feet before cowering away slightly.
“Look, we brought you back, along with your stuff.” You turned to look into the kitchen, noticing your bags there, some split, but all there. “We don’t want to bother you or scare you, just want a place to rest properly for a few nights.”
“Your husband going to have a problem with that?” Ghost, you think his name was, bit back. You felt like snarling, clawing at his heavy chest with your nails, dragging the dirt through his skin until the ivory was stained a deep brownish grey. You wanted to watch his chest implode as you dug around in it, allowing him to whimper underneath you as you planted him amongst your crops, allowing roots to sprout from the claw marks you granted him.
“Please,” the eldest cut off, his eyes docile.
Cautious eyes targeted them all, darting between them like an arrow, their faces the bullseye that you never quite seemed to grasp. You frowned slightly before nodding shallowly.
Your voice was intended to come out harsh, filthy like, but it didn’t. It was small, mousy as you whispered out, “Please don’t hurt me.”
You watched the sun set on the porch that night, a man who you learnt was named Soap, bringing you a bowl of vegetable soup as Gaz, the one you trusted most, tended to your head, rubbing ointment across it and wrapping it gently until you looked almost comical.
They spoke tenderly to you, beside Ghost, who wandered off into the forest. You spoke reservedly to them, excusing yourself after a while to take a bath, and as the water turned brown around you, you wondered what it would be like to live inside the dirt, your body decaying as flowers grew from your flesh.
Warning — This is an 18+ poly!141 series that has been rewritten and adapted from my original work
CW: Gore, death
Authors note: Hi to those who are reading this! If you read my original Immune series I hope you enjoyed the rewritten version. I wanted to make the series a slower burn and more realistic and also give myself the opportunity to rewrite something without having to remember minor previous details. Whilst most of the plot will have common themes (e.g names, locations) I’ve rewritten plot lines to make it different from the original! <3
You fidgeted on the stage, clammy hands trembling against your school uniform, your hair wrapped in childish pigtails, held together by two different coloured bows. Warmth spread against your chubby cheeks as you looked down at the crowd, spotting the familiar face of your parents who waved at you, semi-calming your nerves.
The man turned to you, his face contorted by wrinkles and what appeared to be razor burn that littered his plump chin.
“Spell privilege,” He rasped out, his voice croaky and overworked as you heard a girl, one you didn’t particularly like, snicker. Even at the ripe age of 9, the word bitch seemed to fit her just fine.
You stammered, letting out a short, shy cough.
“P – r – i – v-“ you began, thinking in your head, “l – e – g – e. Privilege.”
You heard the buzzer go off as his deep voice echoed out, “Incorrect!” before turning to the opponent next to you. You went home with second place that day, your parents still parading the badge around on Facebook as they gushed at how proud of you they were.
It’s funny the memories you think of when you’re about to die.
Scuffed shoes padded against worn concrete, skids and stains tugging at the grey like a child against its parents’ arm. The air was thick, smog filling your lungs. If they didn’t kill you first, you’re sure it would. Sirens blared, ringing through fragile eardrums as they simmered into your organs, buzzing through your brain like an alarm. Pupils darted, flashing across the street as you took in the falling leaves, colours of reddish-orange hues collecting on the pavement like everything was ok. Like everything was normal.
Potted plants succumbed to trodden on stairs, wood chipping and decaying like the rotten flesh you see before you. You could feel your heart against your ribs, digging into your lungs, almost suffocating them as you tripped, colliding against an iron railing, the thick, metallic feeling of blood blending with all the spit your mouth could gather. Numb fingers poked at the gummy flesh, wincing as you looked back down at your calloused digits, red meeting the eye once more, familiarising you with the nature around you.
A heavy hand grabbed your forearm, giving you a swift tug. Her voice was glass – sharp yet delicate as she spat two words at you, “Get up.”
You did.
Fingers laced between one another, your skin a dusty shade of grey as you coughed through the littering dust. You noticed the lack of nail on her middle finger, your brows furrowing as you tried to register when that occurred. The meat that was normally protected, now left to decay as it mixed with contaminated dirt and particles of God knows what.
Trembling gasps left your throat as you gathered your feet again. You felt like a toddler, only just learning to walk once more. The clothes on your body were stuck to you, clinging to whatever they could. If you were under any other circumstance, you would be rioting at the sickening feeling, your senses heightened by how poorly overstimulated you are. But you can’t afford to.
“We can go down this alley, rest for a moment,” she tiffed, her voice mellows, eyes a different story. They were pits of blackening hues, swallowed by dilated pupils, any white now a ghastly shade of jaundice, bloodshot and clouded. You remembered when they were once a resemblance to a deep forest, rich in smoky cedar.
The laugh that left her mouth was almost uncanny.
“Fucking hell, y/n. Thought you were dead there.”
You buried your head in your hand and let out a ghastly half-scream, a sob tearing through you as though a knife had gutted your spine, ripping the fragile cord from your already blistered skin. She hit you, wrapping a hand across your torn mouth as you shoved her away, regaining clarity.
“Sorry – sorry,” you whispered, your voice unable to register its usual octave. You choked on your own words for a moment as you looked at her, eyes darting across her face. So familiar yet so nostalgic.
“Are you ok?” She whispered, placing a hand on your shoulder.
“I’m sca-scared, Vienna,” you lamented, salty liquid framing your eyes. Under other circumstances, no matter how sad, your tongue would have darted out, tasting the resemblance of the empty beach your family would experience every summer.
“I’m scared too,” she said, attempting to relate to you. She never had, and you weren’t even sure she did now.
You sat. Your jeans were tight against your curvature, deep bruising most likely evident as you grimaced. The brunette sat next to you, still clutching your shoulder before darting down to grab your hand instead.
“We’re gonna be ok, I promise. I- I’m not going to let anything happen to us,” she murmured, tilting her head until it met yours.
“You can’t promise that,” you whispered. You were never able to find your voice when it came to Vienna. Even after that stupid spelling bee she beat you at.
“I can do my best.”
That was enough for you.
Then you laughed. Well, attempted to. She stared at you, puzzled, before joining in. Heavy fingers rubbed at your eyes, balls of colourful fuzz filling the void before you opened them once more. Vienna watched you for a moment, noticeably swallowing. Peeling the ragged backpack off herself, she swigged a mouthful of water, passing it to you.
“We need to move again; we can try and find somewhere a bit further out for the night.”
You nodded, rising to your feet.
You never liked to speak about death, the idea of endless possibilities always swallowing you whole and spitting you out at the mere thought of it. Would you pass and end up in Heaven? Or Hell? Would you reincarnate? Turn into an animal? Wander the planet alone forever? Reunite with lost ones? Would you just cease to exist?
Was it possible to experience death before you die?
Time felt slower in the moment as you clambered towards the fence at the end of the tunnelling alleyway. The wire did nothing to soothe your aching skin, cuts and gouges painting you like an image you would have walked past in a museum. Your knees were locked as you hoisted one leg over the fence, straddling it in a way that should seem uncomfortable but was strangely not. In a way, it felt hopeful. In a way.
You could hear them before you saw them. The sound of gargling flesh and decaying groans harmonised with one another as they rubbed rotting bodies between broken bones and toppled bins, the air stenched with the unfamiliar scent of mould.
Vienna looked at you that day with something you had never seen before. Sorrow? Regret? You would know now it was defeat. In her eyes, you had won for once. Your fingers clamped against hers, attempting to pull her trembling figure to meet you as her legs dangled between the rigid holes.
“I can’t do it – help!” She wailed, voice shrill and exhausted.
They were visible now, mangled bodies working their way down the alley, dancing almost therapeutically as they toppled, groans passing blue and green lips as gnawed tongues smacked against the air, hungry.
You could hear her screaming your name, desperation thick in her tone. Then her voice got softer, in a comforting way. Pupils met one another, your eyes almost blending into one, before you passed your trail to her chapped lips, reading the words ‘I’m sorry’.
You could answer now what you experience before you die.
You begin with hitting the concrete, hair matting against clumps of ichor as what feels like your final breath sips from your lungs. You’re tight, wounded together like a series of rubber bands all cascaded so thickly they form a ball. Then your body locks. You remember learning about it in school. Rigor mortis, they call it. You lie, almost perfectly, as atoms still flow through you, your blood still pumping, brain still running.
Everything works, except you.
You can close your eyes, expecting to see something, anything. But you don’t.
Your ears are working overtime, practically gnawing at the sounds surrounding you as you feel them trampling over your body, tripping and snarling. At this point, you’re static, your legs gathering that sensation that resembles a broken TV. A lone tear leaves your eye, sticking to the apple of your cheek but never moving.
You were meant to die that day – you should have died that day.
But you didn’t.
As a final hoard washes over you, tenderising your limbs as though you’re a butcher’s new toy, you wake yourself up enough to break free from the temporary paralysis, shoving past the crowd as you plead with a crack in your voice for them to stop as you bellow your bag down onto them.
“Why would they listen to you?” She would have said, “The girl who only ever came second.”
If you could, you would scream the word at her - the word that introduced you and the word you now live with – privilege. But you couldn’t. And as you look down at her body, you notice there are two of her. Half distorted into the fence, bone visible as ounces of flesh mingle into woven hands. The other half you’re more familiar with.
You watched Vienna die that day. You watched as her face contorted in pain as she held an arm out to you, pleading, whether that was to you or God.
You might not have been able to answer what happens when you die, but you can answer when you know someone has. And as any life drained from her face, she almost looked at rest. Innocent.
That was the last time you would see Vienna’s face. That was the last time you would ever see Vienna.
It had been 296 days since then, or so your handmade calendar had said. Your leather journal worked well, keeping score. It was also the last time you saw anyone. Alive, that was.
You had found refuge in an abandoned farmhouse, the sight of starving animals almost traumatising you more than the dead. Buried off a dirt road, you were isolated, ironically. Made from what you presumed to be timber, ivy cloaked the older design, the green merging into the surrounding trees made from oak and pine, yanking their claws into the swelling skies of blackish grey.
Set on an acreage, the house was hugged by fences, both electric and wooden, with small holes evident in the bottom of a few, no doubt caused by a rodent. You had grown accustomed to the place, realising quickly that they lived off the grid, but you remained vigilant.
You lived off their crops, swiftly understanding gardening was a lot harder than it seemed. No wonder your grandparents were so desperate for help all the time. As time passed, you began to hunt for yourself too, focusing on animals like rabbits and the occasional deer. You weren’t that good with a bow and arrow yet.
The house, quite large in size, boasted a comfortable room for you to live in, the sheets plusher than you expected and allowed for warmth when needed. You were grateful for the water tank on site, providing you with both running water and the ability to clean yourself. Not that anyone would smell you.
There was a quaint town nearby, only barely raided, which allowed you to assume you were hidden from most of society, concealed away. If anyone was alive, they wouldn’t find you, so you liked to assume you were dead already.
The walking dead didn’t stumble upon your new home either. Even if they did, you would presume they would walk past you – or perhaps trample you – as they did 296 days ago. Just in case, you realised quite quickly what kind of people owned this house as you faltered into their grimy garage, an old truck greeted you instantly before the rows of guns greeted you next.
You had gotten good use out of that automobile until you dug around in an old shed, plucking out the almost childish bike that had now become your other half. It was easier to think you weren’t alone even if you were. It made time pass.
So, when you settled down in the evening, eyes drifting off on the couch as you knitted away at an attempted jumper, you convinced yourself you were going mad when you heard a chug of an engine scraping across the handmade road. Stilling for a second, you pinched yourself, and then you jumped.
As you looked onto the front porch, grateful for the sliding glass door, you took notice of the pink hues that had gathered, relaxing as you pretended to convince yourself you were going insane. So, when a car door slammed, not only did you squeal in surprise, you also tripped reaching for the shotgun you kept on the mantle in front of you.
On the outside, your house looked vacant, available. It wasn’t. The blinds were drawn as you tiptoed over, toes fragile against the hardwood floor, rigid fingers peeling the soft white back until a man met your view, your skin feeling as though it was drawing away from your ligaments, piling beneath you into a smouldering abyss.
You feigned confidence as you grappled the gun in your slippering grip, trembling muscles aching beneath the sheath you would refuse to bare. You fidgeted with the doorknob. Stubborn, old thing. Cranking it open, a scowl wiped across your face as you held the gun high.
“This is private property,” you spat, holding your ground. You looked up slightly, stumbling back that one man had now multiplied into four. The eldest stepped forward, his hands raised as he let out a shallow breath.
“We don’t mean no harm, we’re milita-“
“I said, this is private property.”
You could hear the click of a gun turn towards you and you stammered to meet where it came from.
“Ghost, lower your weapon. She’s no harm. I would advise you to do the same,” the man said, a hat situated across his head. You began to read his features, taking in his calloused hands, thick with extra skin, no doubt from the weaponry (if he was truly in the military). He had a thick beard that was slightly greying, no doubt from stress, and a thicker moustache to go with it. His forehead was wrinkled but he didn’t look old, just overworked.
“My husband will be home soon, and he won’t want you here,” you snarled, lowering your gun but not completely. The man called your bullshit immediately but didn’t question you. You tucked your left hand further behind the shotgun as you noticed another man eyeing it.
“Don’t believe me?” You quipped, tone harsh as you turned to face the beady-eyed so-called soldier. His brows raised, blue eyes almost radiating distrust. He had strong features, exuding masculine energy. You weren’t a fan.
“Caen’t say I do,” he replied quickly but was cut off quickly by your gun raising in his direction again. You were aware how you must look. A deer in headlights – shaken – and as military men they could read that, stepping back.
“We’re not here to harm or bother you, just assumed no one was here. We’ll be on our way,” The eldest said, tipping his hat towards you. You watched as the one who raised his gun at you, Ghost, got in the car last, eyeing you with distain. You waited till they left, your weapon still at the ready before you bolted inside, breathing heavy as tears welled into your eyes.
You were panicked, naturally, but also curious. Are there more out there? Is anyone you know still alive? Are they immune too? Do they know you’re immune that’s why they’ve come for you? Are they going to kill you? Or worse?
You didn’t sleep that night. Instead, you waited anxiously by the door, gun at your side, constantly making your rounds through the house to ensure for the 10th time, all doors and windows were bolted shut. You didn’t know if you would ever see them again, you didn’t know if you wanted to.
Warning — This is an 18+ poly!141 series that has been rewritten and adapted from my original work
CW: Gore, death
Authors note: Hi to those who are reading this! If you read my original Immune series I hope you enjoyed the rewritten version. I wanted to make the series a slower burn and more realistic and also give myself the opportunity to rewrite something without having to remember minor previous details. Whilst most of the plot will have common themes (e.g names, locations) I’ve rewritten plot lines to make it different from the original! <3
Next
You fidgeted on the stage, clammy hands trembling against your school uniform, your hair wrapped in childish pigtails, held together by two different coloured bows. Warmth spread against your chubby cheeks as you looked down at the crowd, spotting the familiar face of your parents who waved at you, semi-calming your nerves.
The man turned to you, his face contorted by wrinkles and what appeared to be razor burn that littered his plump chin.
“Spell privilege,” He rasped out, his voice croaky and overworked as you heard a girl, one you didn’t particularly like, snicker. Even at the ripe age of 9, the word bitch seemed to fit her just fine.
You stammered, letting out a short, shy cough.
“P – r – i – v-“ you began, thinking in your head, “l – e – g – e. Privilege.”
You heard the buzzer go off as his deep voice echoed out, “Incorrect!” before turning to the opponent next to you. You went home with second place that day, your parents still parading the badge around on Facebook as they gushed at how proud of you they were.
It’s funny the memories you think of when you’re about to die.
Scuffed shoes padded against worn concrete, skids and stains tugging at the grey like a child against its parents’ arm. The air was thick, smog filling your lungs. If they didn’t kill you first, you’re sure it would. Sirens blared, ringing through fragile eardrums as they simmered into your organs, buzzing through your brain like an alarm. Pupils darted, flashing across the street as you took in the falling leaves, colours of reddish-orange hues collecting on the pavement like everything was ok. Like everything was normal.
Potted plants succumbed to trodden on stairs, wood chipping and decaying like the rotten flesh you see before you. You could feel your heart against your ribs, digging into your lungs, almost suffocating them as you tripped, colliding against an iron railing, the thick, metallic feeling of blood blending with all the spit your mouth could gather. Numb fingers poked at the gummy flesh, wincing as you looked back down at your calloused digits, red meeting the eye once more, familiarising you with the nature around you.
A heavy hand grabbed your forearm, giving you a swift tug. Her voice was glass – sharp yet delicate as she spat two words at you, “Get up.”
You did.
Fingers laced between one another, your skin a dusty shade of grey as you coughed through the littering dust. You noticed the lack of nail on her middle finger, your brows furrowing as you tried to register when that occurred. The meat that was normally protected, now left to decay as it mixed with contaminated dirt and particles of God knows what.
Trembling gasps left your throat as you gathered your feet again. You felt like a toddler, only just learning to walk once more. The clothes on your body were stuck to you, clinging to whatever they could. If you were under any other circumstance, you would be rioting at the sickening feeling, your senses heightened by how poorly overstimulated you are. But you can’t afford to.
“We can go down this alley, rest for a moment,” she tiffed, her voice mellows, eyes a different story. They were pits of blackening hues, swallowed by dilated pupils, any white now a ghastly shade of jaundice, bloodshot and clouded. You remembered when they were once a resemblance to a deep forest, rich in smoky cedar.
The laugh that left her mouth was almost uncanny.
“Fucking hell, y/n. Thought you were dead there.”
You buried your head in your hand and let out a ghastly half-scream, a sob tearing through you as though a knife had gutted your spine, ripping the fragile cord from your already blistered skin. She hit you, wrapping a hand across your torn mouth as you shoved her away, regaining clarity.
“Sorry – sorry,” you whispered, your voice unable to register its usual octave. You choked on your own words for a moment as you looked at her, eyes darting across her face. So familiar yet so nostalgic.
“Are you ok?” She whispered, placing a hand on your shoulder.
“I’m sca-scared, Vienna,” you lamented, salty liquid framing your eyes. Under other circumstances, no matter how sad, your tongue would have darted out, tasting the resemblance of the empty beach your family would experience every summer.
“I’m scared too,” she said, attempting to relate to you. She never had, and you weren’t even sure she did now.
You sat. Your jeans were tight against your curvature, deep bruising most likely evident as you grimaced. The brunette sat next to you, still clutching your shoulder before darting down to grab your hand instead.
“We’re gonna be ok, I promise. I- I’m not going to let anything happen to us,” she murmured, tilting her head until it met yours.
“You can’t promise that,” you whispered. You were never able to find your voice when it came to Vienna. Even after that stupid spelling bee she beat you at.
“I can do my best.”
That was enough for you.
Then you laughed. Well, attempted to. She stared at you, puzzled, before joining in. Heavy fingers rubbed at your eyes, balls of colourful fuzz filling the void before you opened them once more. Vienna watched you for a moment, noticeably swallowing. Peeling the ragged backpack off herself, she swigged a mouthful of water, passing it to you.
“We need to move again; we can try and find somewhere a bit further out for the night.”
You nodded, rising to your feet.
You never liked to speak about death, the idea of endless possibilities always swallowing you whole and spitting you out at the mere thought of it. Would you pass and end up in Heaven? Or Hell? Would you reincarnate? Turn into an animal? Wander the planet alone forever? Reunite with lost ones? Would you just cease to exist?
Was it possible to experience death before you die?
Time felt slower in the moment as you clambered towards the fence at the end of the tunnelling alleyway. The wire did nothing to soothe your aching skin, cuts and gouges painting you like an image you would have walked past in a museum. Your knees were locked as you hoisted one leg over the fence, straddling it in a way that should seem uncomfortable but was strangely not. In a way, it felt hopeful. In a way.
You could hear them before you saw them. The sound of gargling flesh and decaying groans harmonised with one another as they rubbed rotting bodies between broken bones and toppled bins, the air stenched with the unfamiliar scent of mould.
Vienna looked at you that day with something you had never seen before. Sorrow? Regret? You would know now it was defeat. In her eyes, you had won for once. Your fingers clamped against hers, attempting to pull her trembling figure to meet you as her legs dangled between the rigid holes.
“I can’t do it – help!” She wailed, voice shrill and exhausted.
They were visible now, mangled bodies working their way down the alley, dancing almost therapeutically as they toppled, groans passing blue and green lips as gnawed tongues smacked against the air, hungry.
You could hear her screaming your name, desperation thick in her tone. Then her voice got softer, in a comforting way. Pupils met one another, your eyes almost blending into one, before you passed your trail to her chapped lips, reading the words ‘I’m sorry’.
You could answer now what you experience before you die.
You begin with hitting the concrete, hair matting against clumps of ichor as what feels like your final breath sips from your lungs. You’re tight, wounded together like a series of rubber bands all cascaded so thickly they form a ball. Then your body locks. You remember learning about it in school. Rigor mortis, they call it. You lie, almost perfectly, as atoms still flow through you, your blood still pumping, brain still running.
Everything works, except you.
You can close your eyes, expecting to see something, anything. But you don’t.
Your ears are working overtime, practically gnawing at the sounds surrounding you as you feel them trampling over your body, tripping and snarling. At this point, you’re static, your legs gathering that sensation that resembles a broken TV. A lone tear leaves your eye, sticking to the apple of your cheek but never moving.
You were meant to die that day – you should have died that day.
But you didn’t.
As a final hoard washes over you, tenderising your limbs as though you’re a butcher’s new toy, you wake yourself up enough to break free from the temporary paralysis, shoving past the crowd as you plead with a crack in your voice for them to stop as you bellow your bag down onto them.
“Why would they listen to you?” She would have said, “The girl who only ever came second.”
If you could, you would scream the word at her - the word that introduced you and the word you now live with – privilege. But you couldn’t. And as you look down at her body, you notice there are two of her. Half distorted into the fence, bone visible as ounces of flesh mingle into woven hands. The other half you’re more familiar with.
You watched Vienna die that day. You watched as her face contorted in pain as she held an arm out to you, pleading, whether that was to you or God.
You might not have been able to answer what happens when you die, but you can answer when you know someone has. And as any life drained from her face, she almost looked at rest. Innocent.
That was the last time you would see Vienna’s face. That was the last time you would ever see Vienna.
It had been 296 days since then, or so your handmade calendar had said. Your leather journal worked well, keeping score. It was also the last time you saw anyone. Alive, that was.
You had found refuge in an abandoned farmhouse, the sight of starving animals almost traumatising you more than the dead. Buried off a dirt road, you were isolated, ironically. Made from what you presumed to be timber, ivy cloaked the older design, the green merging into the surrounding trees made from oak and pine, yanking their claws into the swelling skies of blackish grey.
Set on an acreage, the house was hugged by fences, both electric and wooden, with small holes evident in the bottom of a few, no doubt caused by a rodent. You had grown accustomed to the place, realising quickly that they lived off the grid, but you remained vigilant.
You lived off their crops, swiftly understanding gardening was a lot harder than it seemed. No wonder your grandparents were so desperate for help all the time. As time passed, you began to hunt for yourself too, focusing on animals like rabbits and the occasional deer. You weren’t that good with a bow and arrow yet.
The house, quite large in size, boasted a comfortable room for you to live in, the sheets plusher than you expected and allowed for warmth when needed. You were grateful for the water tank on site, providing you with both running water and the ability to clean yourself. Not that anyone would smell you.
There was a quaint town nearby, only barely raided, which allowed you to assume you were hidden from most of society, concealed away. If anyone was alive, they wouldn’t find you, so you liked to assume you were dead already.
The walking dead didn’t stumble upon your new home either. Even if they did, you would presume they would walk past you – or perhaps trample you – as they did 296 days ago. Just in case, you realised quite quickly what kind of people owned this house as you faltered into their grimy garage, an old truck greeted you instantly before the rows of guns greeted you next.
You had gotten good use out of that automobile until you dug around in an old shed, plucking out the almost childish bike that had now become your other half. It was easier to think you weren’t alone even if you were. It made time pass.
So, when you settled down in the evening, eyes drifting off on the couch as you knitted away at an attempted jumper, you convinced yourself you were going mad when you heard a chug of an engine scraping across the handmade road. Stilling for a second, you pinched yourself, and then you jumped.
As you looked onto the front porch, grateful for the sliding glass door, you took notice of the pink hues that had gathered, relaxing as you pretended to convince yourself you were going insane. So, when a car door slammed, not only did you squeal in surprise, you also tripped reaching for the shotgun you kept on the mantle in front of you.
On the outside, your house looked vacant, available. It wasn’t. The blinds were drawn as you tiptoed over, toes fragile against the hardwood floor, rigid fingers peeling the soft white back until a man met your view, your skin feeling as though it was drawing away from your ligaments, piling beneath you into a smouldering abyss.
You feigned confidence as you grappled the gun in your slippering grip, trembling muscles aching beneath the sheath you would refuse to bare. You fidgeted with the doorknob. Stubborn, old thing. Cranking it open, a scowl wiped across your face as you held the gun high.
“This is private property,” you spat, holding your ground. You looked up slightly, stumbling back that one man had now multiplied into four. The eldest stepped forward, his hands raised as he let out a shallow breath.
“We don’t mean no harm, we’re milita-“
“I said, this is private property.”
You could hear the click of a gun turn towards you and you stammered to meet where it came from.
“Ghost, lower your weapon. She’s no harm. I would advise you to do the same,” the man said, a hat situated across his head. You began to read his features, taking in his calloused hands, thick with extra skin, no doubt from the weaponry (if he was truly in the military). He had a thick beard that was slightly greying, no doubt from stress, and a thicker moustache to go with it. His forehead was wrinkled but he didn’t look old, just overworked.
“My husband will be home soon, and he won’t want you here,” you snarled, lowering your gun but not completely. The man called your bullshit immediately but didn’t question you. You tucked your left hand further behind the shotgun as you noticed another man eyeing it.
“Don’t believe me?” You quipped, tone harsh as you turned to face the beady-eyed so-called soldier. His brows raised, blue eyes almost radiating distrust. He had strong features, exuding masculine energy. You weren’t a fan.
“Caen’t say I do,” he replied quickly but was cut off quickly by your gun raising in his direction again. You were aware how you must look. A deer in headlights – shaken – and as military men they could read that, stepping back.
“We’re not here to harm or bother you, just assumed no one was here. We’ll be on our way,” The eldest said, tipping his hat towards you. You watched as the one who raised his gun at you, Ghost, got in the car last, eyeing you with distain. You waited till they left, your weapon still at the ready before you bolted inside, breathing heavy as tears welled into your eyes.
You were panicked, naturally, but also curious. Are there more out there? Is anyone you know still alive? Are they immune too? Do they know you’re immune that’s why they’ve come for you? Are they going to kill you? Or worse?
You didn’t sleep that night. Instead, you waited anxiously by the door, gun at your side, constantly making your rounds through the house to ensure for the 10th time, all doors and windows were bolted shut. You didn’t know if you would ever see them again, you didn’t know if you wanted to.
10 years from now, you’ll be married with a fat rock on your finger with two kids dancing with your husband in the kitchen, another on the way. The house smells like cheap cocoa and whipped cream before the night drowns on, the scent of glowing whiskey filling his glass as you tuck away into the lounge to watch an old re-run.
He would kiss you softly on the forehead and whisper an ‘I love you’ as you cheesed a grin, replying. He would take you to the bedroom and treat you how you wanted, rough or slow. Passionate or sloppy. Always loving.
Your days would blur to one as you found yourself growing older, wiser, different. But you were happy.
“So Simon left the military finally?” You laughed, thinking about your partner, before the psychic frowned.
“Your future husband is a lawyer named David sweetheart.”
NOTE: kinda bitter sweet but I like to think semi realistic </3
HIIII I love your work sm it’s just so scrumptious. I wanted to ask, because I was curious while reading one of your fics if you read them yourself! Like do you enjoy reading your own work? Or other creators?
Thank you my love!
This is actually crazy because I read some of my work today for the first time ever after publishing. I don’t normally as it kinda cringes me out knowing I wrote it 😩 but I love reading other work. I just look up tags and go from there
