amidst an apocalyptic world where the sun burns humans alive and entities called "visitors" knock on doors during nighttime, not even those closest to you can be trusted.
✩ CONTENT : short fics of them in the "no i'm not a human" au ; established relationship ; character death(s) ; gn reader ; probably part 1/? ; cliffhanger :3 (who knows if they're visitors or not...)
✩ NOTES : HELLO TO MY NINAH PILLED PEOPLE !!! (probably like 3 of you/j) there is honestly WAY too many things to note so i'll make a separate author's note post for that! for now, just know this is a little eerie + sorrowful, and it contains non-explicit death scenes (usage of gun) so please beware of that if you're sensitive !! that is all nod nod, enjoyy <3
with his work, blade is away from home most of the time.
so obviously, it would come as a surprise when he is back on the front porch of your semi shared house, eyes looking up at the peephole.
all while an apocalypse is happening.
"[name]? are you there?"
the other side of the door stands you, slightly sniffling due to the irony of the situation — under any other circumstance, you would be delighted to have him in your arms once more.
yet now, you are not even certain if this is still the man you love. or if he has transformed into a ravenous beast that has little sanity to hold onto and only hunger to blind him.
"[name]?"
you snap away from the horrifying thoughts, trembling voice uttering a short "i'm here" in response.
"listen", blade starts, palm reaching just above the knob before he pauses, "it's no longer safe here. you must come with me."
where else is safe?
"but…"
the silence becomes deafening as your lover realizes something.
you have your suspicions — of course you do. this is mankind's new way to stay alive for those whom, despite not being used to it yet, are trying desperately to survive in it.
he freezes, a tight knot forming around his throat which the hunter tries to swallow down. even you have turned to fear him, thinking of him as a monster.
a sigh louder than the crickets outside, he merely knows to reason with you. never about his shelter, rather for your safety.
"you may do those tests on me. i just need to make sure you're alright."
a sentence. out of character enough for him to be shot dead if it were anyone else occupying the home.
you are not "anyone else" though. not to blade.
because of you, he still finds the will to live in this wretched earth, still scouring his way through the city crawling with visitors to arrive at a once warm home that death has taken her liking to.
with each pounding heartbeat causing a sense of dizziness, your breath gets more uneven. it really is difficult to ever imagine: this is real life.
taking the huffs as you demanding him to test, blade checks for any dirt stuck in his fingernails. after ensuring so, he widens his eyes and bares his teeth — both the same as you remember them.
but the problem doesn't lie in the possibility of him infected with deliration.
there is an equally dangerous third party claiming to help survivors… yet are not much different from the beasts themselves.
fema, the government agency experimenting on people. most guests in your home were taken because of their cruel actions, never to be seen again.
who can say he is not one of them? though a horrible idea to your brain, humanity would extend that far.
"let me in, won't you?"
you squint at his change of tone. despite instinct screaming to not follow whatever he says, your palm is already on the door handle.
one swift turn.
the gentlest smile of relief along with a nod. something you cover up as "maybe he has improved his communication skills, especially at hospitality."
blade scurries you to bed like he always does, planning to save all those tests for next day when the scorching sun continues to burn bright through the windows.
albeit… whether you actually will be there for it — whether you will be in his embrace, death's one or both, is for a you of the flaming tomorrow to find out.
you can not help it.
the signs are one too clear: his palm does not feel right in yours, like he dug up from underground to crawl his way here; his teeth that once held the most hearty smile he tried to hide now too… perfect to be true; fungus grows on his underarms as if he is made of dead soil, wearing another person's skin to escape the blazing sun; his voicebox sounds stolen. masked, you were well fooled.
you spot it all.
"so death has come for me… and by your hands?" your fingers sweat against the trigger, eyes locked on the target in front. which unfortunately, is your blade out of everyone else.
he would be relieved for HER to come take him away, yet his eyes twitch with vulnerability. a slow acceptance that you are standing across and not in his arms.
you do not trust him anymore.
"[name], proceed cautiously. do not make a choice you will regret."
…even when facing death, he still worries over you first. the fact alone loosens your grip a bit, maybe stop this act of "self defense" in its entirety. a bullet is not worth aiming at your lover, right?
you cannot shake off how his final sentence seems pitiful, like growling at the floor for mercy. a soul conflicting between humanity and monstrosity. a battle the latter is winning.
this will be a guilt for you to bear only.
you pull the trigger.
this is brought upon by yourself.
a loud thud.
this man has fallen because of you.
dropping the gun, three words barely formed in audible tone.
"i'm sorry, dear."
───── SUNDAY : the immortal man of ending five.
golden eyes. feathered wings.
anyone human would think he is a savior to this falling world, a prophet sent from heavens above to sew happier ends through divine guidance. those who are not and instead choose to follow death's path would believe he is a threat, an active roadblock against their idea of a peaceful rest.
you wanted to reside with the theory, engrave it in your mind that if you are in danger, sunday could find a way.
because he is an angel, is he not?
so why is he at your doorstep, mumbling about sweet dreams?
"[name]… we are all in need of a sweet dream, especially during such times like these. allow me back into the warmth of our home."
you wonder if the cult peons who recently visited would be delighted to see "a supposed saint" act this way — anything but what remaining survivors hope for.
noting your speechlessness as refusing his request, sunday's eyebrows visibly knit together, which doesn't help the hesitance buried deep inside your heart.
"[name]." quite harsh, then quickly covered up by a desperate "please" to not scare you away. to make you recognize him. mentally nod to yourself how he has yet to be tainted by the horrors from underground.
mentally hope, more like.
still, having sunday here would really ease your mind, whether it is spiritually or for the theories he surely has drawn out about this calamity.
not to mention… he is your lover. your fates are intertwined. you are standing on the floorboard of your shared house. it would be diabolical if you decide to abandon him in the burning daylight and shivering nighttime.
unless he is one of them. even so, your heart would shatter into pieces not guaranteed to be repairable.
"show me your hands." trying to keep a firm voice toward the halovian always fail you horribly. he complies though. good enough.
scarred, rough palms from endless document stacks as workload, yet fit so perfectly against the comfort of yours. something you both have agreed that fate has a hand in.
the sight alone evoke the most precious memories inside you.
"my dove, i merely wish to see you alright. thinking of you being alone with strangers in our home does not sit right with me. their whispers are… rather loud."
no one is standing in the hall. how can he hear them?
then again, do not underestimate the power an "angel" holds.
you look deep into the pair of eyes you love, both to spot signs and relish in their beauty. gleamingly magnificent. thankfully, no red spots, only a deep hue of fear.
is it from knowing you possibly will not let him in? or because you might catch him instead?
maybe for you have turned your back on him. soft gaze now a calculated glare, head speculating multiple reasons on why he might be one of them. a monster whose heart no longer has love for life, let alone you.
although everything seems wrong about him, your instincts screaming at him to get lost… is it not way too cruel to shut your door on the man whom has loved you for what feels like forever?
your throat closes before it could proceed any further, hand already on the door knob.
"thank you, dear."
it appears no one else is coming tonight.
sunday strides quietly down the hallway, careful not to alert other guests. he waits at the end for you, offering a hand as invitation to go into that sweet dream together.
a solitary aura soon dreads the house to a point where it becomes hard to breathe. many prophets and cult leaders have stood before the peephole to inform you of your strayed path.
your "angel" himself has also been acting worse for wear. words sweet yet scripted, gaze lovely yet dead, hands familiar yet rough.
you have to do what you have to do. THEY have told you.
"…do you wish to see the worshippers of death rejoice, my love?"
perhaps in another life, you would not have to worry about constant survival. so much so that you are willing to aim a gun at him, that you are willing to throw away everything you had as a couple just from a few measly signs the news announced.
you do sound insanely like a hypocrite now, do you?
no matter. you are already this far down the road. sunday being here have done more harm than good to the people around you.
finger on the trigger.
or you could still stop, have it all in your control again.
target an area that deals the least amount of pain.
"stay safe then, [name]."
yet enough to deliver him to the gates of death, where SHE welcomes him.
"i shall be in the sweet dream."
calm yourself.
"…awaiting you."
there it is. the loud bang.
the world freezes.
what have you done?
he was so composed during his final words. has he been expecting this? has he been waiting for you to deliver eternal rest ever since he stepped foot into the house?
…no matter.
because tonight, you will have to greet the people who were waiting. they can congratulate you, praise you, name you as their salvation… it will never be enough to sink the guilt in your heart.
───── FLINS : the fairytale enjoyer of ending four.
being a lightkeeper means to banish evil, to guide those who are lost back onto their path — that is the meaning you have painted based off of flins.
so why is the man himself acting nothing like it at your doorstep?
a piece of your heart insists he is tired. with clear exhaustion on his face, not just from being constantly relied on but also worry for the fate of the world, he cannot keep up his reserved composure all the time.
your mind though, suspects something is amiss.
the number of times he has gone on extended leave, his sweet words growing more distant day by day, golden eyes suddenly bearing a coldness to them… no, he would not be unfaithful to you.
rather, his duty to protect is the one being affected instead.
looking through the peephole, you can only register flins' bright lantern held a little too close, his face illuminated by the neon purple hued flame.
"my light, i have come back."
him? or a creature making itself comfortable in his soul? even worse, an impersonator stealing his skin and behavior?
"[name]?"
maybe you are spiraling.
on instinct, you squint your eyes to avoid getting blinded, before a short hum escapes as letting him know you stand on the other side.
"there you are. it is dangerous, so i've decided to return early for the night."
your hand pauses its journey to the door knob, droplets of sweat collecting in your palm when hesitation hits.
then blurts out, "show me your eyes."
a soft, almost uncanny chuckle lets out as the man obliges. those orbs that hold so much love and gentleness for you…
or well, held.
he does nothing to hide the slightest red tint surrounding his scleras — you doubt he knows, really. plus, it should be from lack of sleep and the increase in stress.
nothing else.
yet the inspection continues, "fingernails?"
flins swiftly takes off his glove to reveal his slender digits, delicately taken care of despite being a cemetery's lone guardian.
obviously. he would not have any business digging up soil near people's graves, unless it is to free his figure, to knock on doors like what certain creatures roaming around have been doing.
you take a selfish moment to yourself, as if etching his appearance into your mind in case anything happens for the last time: ragged, anxious, burdened. the fae can hide these expressions all he wants, but you can read them oh so clearly.
one can imagine the relief flooding him upon hearing your voice again. the knowledge of you still being alive after he was away, living with certain individuals you have to accept into the isolated house.
…no use for melancholy. at least you are safe.
"i need to see you, [name]."
so do you.
that hovering fist finally finds its place on the door hinge, your skin meeting the cold material — much in contrast to flins' eyes. a quick delay of a second passes as you swing the border between you and your lover open, welcoming him back home.
his ungloved palm extends, patiently waiting for you to place yours on top. exactly how you used to.
you will be heading for the night together, free from worry of what will occur when the sun rises; of obstacles, harm.
even if the person will be flins.
who knows what will happen anyway?
perhaps this is a bad idea.
pointing a gun at someone who has been protecting you silently.
it does not seem like he would do so any longer, with inhabitants in your house slowly dissipating one by one, until clues all point to the lightkeeper.
"[name]. please. be careful."
now he is pleading. for what? who knows.
are you in the right state of mind?
would the death cult say something? would the visitors filled with bloodlust and powered by hunger to take over the world be proud? to see humanity so willingly unleashing their wrath against their loved ones?
probably.
what are you doing?
as you have made up your mind, flins has come to acceptance: you feel a need to survive, even if it means without him, causing him pain.
it is human instinct. whil he is a fae.
on the brink of death, and he still has such softness in his eyes — a pair so golden, you might get hypnotized into pulling your finger away from the trigger.
the man stands cornered in the empty room, gaze set everywhere but you.
he cannot get himself to look at his beloved this moment. the moment where everything ends by your hands.
he will miss this house. miss you, as much as a knife twists in his heart to admit that.
the whispering voices in your head stop when you get it over with.
what have you done?
your hands seem out of place. like they were never yours in the first place.
the once lively house, full of chatter falls silent.
is this your doing?
…they are all in peace now. in the same place as HER.
maybe you helped them, not yourself though.
that is good enough.
WOW i sure took my time with this <//3 anyhow !!! i'm pretty proud of it hehe ^3^ i'll make the author's note post later i am oughhh tired . but do tell me your thoughts !! other parts soon maybe ?!? 👁️ thank you for readingg ! comments/reblogs are much appreciated <3
i can actually do without remmick fanfiction. like why is the market over saturated with that white man?? could have sworn this was a black movie but idk.
Stop writing hard dom Sunday, that boy is not a hard dom. Bring back yearning and desperate Sunday, literally just blessed to be in your presence Sunday, nut in his pants after kissing Sunday….
BRING BACK PATHERIC SUNDAY *I screamed as they dragged me back into the mental asylum*
back on my bullshit —- why is it the reader that usually has the embarrassing misunderstanding? why not the character??
character misunderstands reader’s relationship status and starts acting kinda catty about it instead of cold and ghosting
character not realizing the reader was the royalty/popstar/ceo that they were badmouthing and getting that ice cold shock once they find out
character who is a hater of their classmate and finds out their sweet online friend is said classmate and starts getting acting nicer around classmate because if their online friend hated the real them they would crash out
turnnoffyourmind
kianamaiart
vaporwave
blakekathryn
discoholicmusic
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
amandla
