#anna x reader

You press your back against the double hinged doors, pushing through whilst carrying a heavy crate of beer. You grunt in effort as you lift the crate onto the counter, releasing a sigh of relief as you step back, elbows perchiing on the sink behind.

“Looks like it won’t be as busy today, sunbae.”

You turn your head, and watch as she saunters her way to the crate with an exaggerated sway in her hips. She crouches down in front of you, her shirt riding up and exposing the small of her back. Your eyes drop before you can stop them, admiring the dimple. You look back up only when her head turns to you.

“Pass me the beers.”

You push off the sink, and walk to the crate. You pull out one beer, and place it in her open hand. Again and again. The movement is almost mechanical. Your eyes stay trained on her—the soft curve of her chest from above, and her thighs, all tense from crouching. You breathe sharply through your nose, your grip on the neck of a beer bottle a bit too tight. You want to put your mouth there. Between her legs. You don’t even try to take it back.

After the last bottle, she rises to her feet so slow it’s almost performative. You know you’re staring, but you can’t wrench your eyes away. She stands up tall next to you, fluttering her eyelashes, a small smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

Anna Tanaka is a shameless flirt. Has been since she first stepped foot into this small, decrepit place your boss calls a bar. Throughout orientation, her eyes stayed on you. Only you. And she made no effort to hide it, either. She even personally asked for you to train her.

Not that you’d object. One look at her and you’d have said yes to anything.

Both of you stare out to the rest of the place, watching the few patrons already here. Jackasses in office suits, nursing a couple beers that will later evolve into buying tequila shots or whiskey bottles. A lone man at the other end of the bar. Looks like he’s been crying. Not your problem as long as he pays and doesn’t make a scene. There’s one person dancing to some shitty bar music you no longer care to remember the name of.

It’s a wonder you haven’t gone deaf yet with how terrible and loud it is.

“It’s rarely busy on a Wednesday night Tanaka. People who come into bars on a Wednesday are here for two reasons: one,” you lift your index finger. “They fucked up so bad at work, they have to drown their sorrows. And two,” you lift another finger. “Their home life is so shit, they’d rather be anywhere else.”

She looks over to you. “So what does that make us?”

You meet her eyes, holding her gaze far longer than necessary. “We’re the exception. We’re here to make money.” You flash her a toothy grin, one that she reciprocates.

You glance over her shoulder, and you see someone wave for service. You point with your eyes. She scoffs before making her way over, and you watch as she taps her fingers across the counter, the other hand coming up to her hair, shaking it loose.

You gulp unconsciously.

Her forearms press against the hard counter. She’s on her tiptoes, leaning closer to hear his order, and you can’t help yourself. Your eyes travel from her long, toned legs to her ass. Her skirt is so short that it rides up, revealing its curve and the panties underneath.

Black. Lacy.

You grip the counter harder than you intended, standing there for a second, jaw tight, cock already half-hard, reminding yourself that you’re here to work.

Once your breathing is under control, your eyes travel up and meet hers.

She’s smiling that sultry smile that tells you this was all on purpose. Her eyes travel lower to your tight jeans, biting her lower lip before turning her attention back to the customer.

It started with mindless flirting. She’d tell you that you look good, and you’d say that pigtails suit her, like you haven’t been thinking about them all shift or imagining wrapping them around your hands. And it evolved from there. Your hand lightly grazing against her lower back, her pressing up against you to light slaps on her ass and not so light gropes on your balls. You never complained.

A new customer pulls your attention to the edge of the bar.

“Behind.”

You try and squeeze past her except she arches her back and presses her ass against you and the sound that leaves you isn’t professional or controlled or anything close. You feel yourself strain against your jeans.

She doesn’t look back, but you see the way her thighs press together and you know she’s just as affected.

She later joins you in making a drink and she has the audacity to press up against you. Her chest presses against your arm as she reaches for a whiskey glass. You feel the stares from behind, the daggers thrown at you by men who thought they had a chance with her.

You breathe out slowly, head tipping back.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Tanaka—”

“And you’re a willing participant sunbae.” She’s right, but you’re not going to answer her. “Pass me the bottle.”

You grab it without looking, handing it over and ignoring the way her fingers linger on yours for a few seconds. You watch as she pours the content into a shaker, watch as her wrists snap back and forth, and you can’t help but imagine it’s your cock in her hands. And that thought has your pulse thrumming in your ears, and your throat dry.

She leaves your side, moving to serve the customer, and already you miss her scent.

The alarm on your phone rings out. 6PM. You finish serving your customer before you walk behind her, one hand on her waist, mouth grazing against her ear, your breath washing over her. If the customer she just served had anything to say, he didn’t, not when it’s clear she’s enjoying you behind her, her eyes slightly rolling back, a shaky breath escaping.

“6PM. Evening rush.” You gently blow against her ear, your hand tightening on her waist. “Want a shot?”

She turns her head slightly to look at you, eyes travelling down to your lips. For a moment, you see it, the composure slipping. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, her cheeks flushing. Her breath is warm against your mouth, and you push yourself further into her.

“Y—yeah.”

Your free hand reaches down, grabs two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila from under the counter. Your eyes stay on her as she turns her head, watching you pour two shots and making a mess of the counter. The hand on her waist travels up, slowly. Fingertips grazing her exposed midriff, between the valley of her breasts before planting themselves at the base her throat. She swallows hard, and you can’t help the smile on your face. You put the bottle down, take a shot glass, and hold it to her mouth.

“Open up.”

Her head tilts back, resting against your shoulder and you’re hit with her scent, surrounding you. Vanilla and sweat mixing together. Intoxicating and arousing. You harden at her feel and smell, your cock pressing firmly against her ass.

She can’t help the moan escaping her, quiet like a whisper. Only you and the person she just served could hear her.

You tip the shot into her mouth. Watch as her face grimaces at the taste and burn, her throat working it down to her stomach.

“Good girl.”

A drop of tequila lingers on her bottom lip, threatening to make its way down her chin. You place the shot glass down on the counter hard, moving your thumb to swipe at the offending drop.

She watches, eyes half-lidded, as you press your thumb against her lips. They open without resistance, sucking with fervour.

You groan in her ear, loud and obnoxious. If she sucks your thumb like this, you can’t imagine what she’d do with your cock.

A squeaking barstool interrupts your little performance. The customer adjusts himself, the drink already gone.

“Take this,” you push your shot glass of tequila towards him. “On the house.”

You turn to face her again, your lips coming down and pressing on her temple. Your voice is soft yet rough, your arousal seeping through despite your best efforts to cover it. “Let’s finish our shift early.”

She nods enthusiastically. Whines when you step away just as more customers enter the bar.

The next couple hours were hectic.

You go through through the motions. Taking orders, mixing drinks, and the occasional wave to the security guard to kick someone out. There are too many bodies. The room smells like sweat and a concoction of perfume that don’t mix well. You watch people move to the dance floor, grinding all over each other as if they won’t have regrets come tomorrow morning.

The bass from the speakers vibrate throughout the bar, the music muffling the orders from the patrons. The floor and counter is sticky from spilled drinks, and other liquids you don’t want to know about.

And through it all, Anna is the only one that makes working these shifts all worth it.

The two of you work in sync, moving around each other like it’s a practiced dance. Neither of you speak, already knowing what the other needs. Whenever you go high to reach something, she’d go below you, occasionally brushing your cock with her arm. She doesn’t look back at you as you shoot a glare in faux annoyance, stuck standing in that awkward position until you’ve calmed yourself down. 6 months of training, of teasing and being teased—it adds up.

A patron flags you down. “I don’t want you. I want her!”

Your expression turns cold. “I’m sorry sir, she’s busy with a customer right now. You can wait but it could take a while.” You turn to her, watching as she makes eyes to some nervous university student, chin propped up in one hand, the other placing featherlight touches against the back of his hand. You smirk despite yourself, watch as he goes red in the face, stuttering incoherently. She smiles, eyes turning into crescents as if she was genuinely interested. He pulls out his wallet, slaps more bills down onto the counter as a tip.

You chuckle, turning back to the man. “Or you could get a drink now and enjoy the rest of your night.”

He grumbles his order, turning around to look for someone more willing as you move off to make his drink.

It’s simple really. You deal with the sleazy, old men that come to leer at her, some of them don’t even bother removing their wedding rings. And she takes care of the young, and shy interns or students who don’t know what to say to someone as hot as her. You protect her from unwanted advances and she rakes in huge tips.

Simple. Effective.

Eventually, activity at the bar slows down. Besides the men eyeing her up, no one has come up for drinks in the last five minutes.

You lean against the wall, eyes darting from a group of girls making a nuisance of themselves on one of the tables to a man being overly aggressive with the DJ. The place is getting warmer, unbelievably so. Everything feels damp, your hands are clammy from doing nothing, and it feels like you’re breathing in sweat more than anything else.

“Sunbae…” You turn to Anna, pushing through the doors, walking up and joining you against the wall. “You were right. AC is down."

You suck air through your teeth. “Of course it is. What did the boss say?”

She leans against you, head resting on your shoulder. She takes one of your hands, intertwines her fingers through yours.

“Nothing much. Can’t do much about it now he said. Technician’s coming in tomorrow.”

She keeps talking. You don’t hear any of it though, eyes trained on the way her hand melds perfectly with yours, how your thumb instinctively rubs the back of her hand as if you’ve been in a long term relationship.

Your eyes travel up her arms, glistening with sweat, rivulets finding their way down before falling on to the floor. Her crop top sticks to her like a second skin, the top of her breasts shining against the strobe lights. You watch her face, and how matted her hair is, sticking to her forehead, and you think you want to see her like this again. But in bed.

“Seriously?”

You swallow thickly. “W—what?”

She turns, properly facing you now. “Tell me.” One leg moves between yours, a constant, pleasurable pressure on your cock that you can’t help but release a rough moan. “Tell me what you’re thinking about. It must be good if it has you like… this.”

You smirk devilishly. “Are you sure you can handle my fantasies?”

Your hand moves from your side, presses against her navel. Your thumb swipes against the smooth plane before you bring it to your mouth, tasting her.

It’s tart. And addictive all at the same time.

Anna’s eyes grow wide, pupils swallowing the colour of her eyes. Her breathing becomes shallow and the flush on her cheeks from the heat in the air, darkens further in lust.

You lean down until your mouth brushes against her ear. You start whispering just as your hand on her stomach inches its way down.

“I want you so bad. Ever since you first joined. Your constant teasing…” your hand dips underneath the hem of her skirt, “… made it so hard for me. How are you going to repay me?”

“I—I—” She doesn’t finish.

You press down against her pubic bone, and the sound that escapes her is a revelation. Far better than whatever sound your mind concocted. Her eyelids become heavy and her breathing erratic against your face. Her lips are parted, and you stare at them for the longest time, trying your best not to kiss her right there.

Your hand travels lower against her panties. Soaked through. You leave your hand there, rhythmically tapping against her core in time with the beat of the music, and you watch as her composure slowly falls away.

She’s pushing herself onto your hand, grinding against you in such a way that it’s not obvious to those on the other side of the bar. The movement is light and miniscule, bouncing on her tiptoes for more friction.

You laugh in her ear, mocking. “Is that enough?”

Her eyes flutter shut, head falling and resting on your shoulder. Both her hands have a hold on your arm, keeping your hand right where it is.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t affected by all this. The top of her hair right under your nose, the smell of her shampoo filling your lungs. Her chest touches yours, her erratic breathing pushing her tits into you. The soft mounds a sharp contrast to the stiff peaks of her nipples poking you. What’s affecting you the most though is the wetness coating your hand. It’s soaking through the lace and it’s sticky and the fact you’re the root cause feeds your ego.

“Hey, you two.” Her eyes snap open, body frozen against yours. You both turn towards the voice. Your co-workers come through the door, one on their phone, the other struggling to carry a new crate of beer. “You’re on break. Take—”

You don’t hear the rest.

Anna forcefully pulls your hand out of her skirt, her grip tightening on your wrist so that it’s almost painful. She drags you through the doors, ignoring the puzzled look from the others. She doesn’t stop, not until you’re in the storage closet, shutting and locking the door behind you.

You’re already on your knees as she turns around. Your hands finding her waist, pushing her flat against the door.

You hear the sharp intake of breath, feel her thighs quiver as your breath washes over them. She looks down at you, her eyes screaming, begging you to follow through. You press a kiss on the inside of her thigh, and she’s snapped, her head hitting the door with a heavy thud.

You take things slow. A soft kiss against her knee, a lick up her thigh followed by quiet suction, and eventually, your teeth grazing against her core. You repeat this on both legs. 10. 20 times. You don’t know. But the painful strain in your pants and the way her fingers thread through your hair means she’s done waiting.

“Pl—please sunbae… please…”

Her sentences are incoherent, too lost in the feel of you to properly say what she wants. But you know. And you’re excited to give it to her.

Your hands travel down from her waist, and climbs up underneath her skirt. Her skin feels hot against yours, and you suddenly remember all the times you’ve touched her prior to this moment. Like when she used the shaker for the first time, her small hands encompassed by yours as you taught her your technique. Or when she brushed hair out of your eyes during that one shift, her fingers lingering against your temple longer than necessary.

You’re not stupid. Her signals were obvious. And so were yours. Both of you were bound to fall off the edge at some point.

Your only regret is that you’re going to fuck her in the dirty storage closet of your workplace.

Your hands find what they’re looking for. Her panties. You pull them off slowly, watching as it clings onto her lips before peeling off. You inhale her scent, breathing in deeply. It’s intoxicating and it makes your head dizzy. Your tongue darts out your mouth, one long lick and you can’t wait to taste more.

“Oh… fuck…”

You stay down, tasting every inch of her, focusing especially on her clit, sucking and flicking it with your tongue. Her arousal starts coating your mouth as you keep going despite the ache in your jaw and the lack of oxygen as she clenches her thighs around you.

Soon enough, her legs start to give out, back sliding down the door. Your hands quickly move, throwing one leg over your shoulder before making their way to her ass, holding her up as you continue eating her out.

Her moans are loud, unrestrained. She’s repeating the same word like a chant, slowly devolving into broken noise. They used to be measured, coming out every few seconds or so. Now it’s an endless stream of curses and your name spilling out of her mouth. If it weren’t for the loud music at the bar, you’d surely be caught by now.

You can’t see her, face covered by her skirt but all the signs are there. The way her walls flutter around your tongue as you push in. Her thighs shaking incessantly around your ears, and how her grinding has become more forceful. She’s lost all semblance of control, the dull ache from her grip in your hair turns into searing pain. It’s like she’s forgotten you’re a person; you’re a toy, your sole purpose being to help her reach her high.

“Fuck… fuck…”

You’ll gladly be a toy if it meant seeing her like this again.

You lap at her folds, tasting every inch of her like she’s some delicacy no one’s heard of. The pressure of your tongue is consistent, driving her crazy. It’s enough to keep her on edge, just not enough to push her over it. The hand in her mouth leaves, and the music from the bar is replaced by her.

You move up, tongue darting over her clit with precision, circling it with the tip. Or you press it flat, feel her shake at the constant stimulation. You replace your tongue with your mouth, sucking on her clit gently. Her whimpers grow louder, pitched higher, and she’s arching her back, pressing herself firmly into your mouth.

She goes quiet first, her body frozen. And then she breaks. Her whole body convulsing, thrashing hard enough that you’re losing your grip. Her mouth is open in a scream, and you feel her arousal coat your chin and stain your shirt.

Your mouth returns to her folds, lapping as much as you can while she whimpers, oversensitive. Her grip on your hair loosens, her arms like jelly as she tries to push you away.

You eventually relent, lowering her down to the floor, her leg falling limply from your shoulder. You remove yourself from under her skirt, and already you miss her smell and taste.

It’s the first time you’re actually seeing what you’ve done. She’s folded against the door, her exposed stomach glistening from exertion, chest heaving, an attempt to get as much oxygen into her lungs. Your eyes move to her mouth, lips parted, tongue partially out as she looks at you with glassy eyes. Her hair is matted against her forehead and her cheeks are flushed a deep crimson.

You crawl over her, hand moving behind her neck before you kiss her. It’s messy and languid, her tongue gently caressing yours. She moans against your mouth, tasting herself on you—sweet yet tangy—and she wants more, kissing you with so much fervour, it catches you off guard.

“I—I taste so good…”

Only now you realise this is your first kiss with her. And it’s in the back of the bar, with her cum all over your mouth. You don’t know what you expected your first kiss with her to be like but it certainly wasn’t this.

You move your lips down as she tilts her head up, sucking hard against her skin. She moans, hand coming up and cradling your head against her as you leave a bruise. You swipe your tongue along the column of her throat, all the way up to the shell of her ear as you use your free hand to free yourself from your jeans.

You’re harder than you’ve ever been before, the head is swollen, red, and dripping precum in the small space between you.

You slowly get to your feet, one hand on your cock as you shuffle closer, the jeans around your ankles making it awkward and annoying. And Anna’s staring at it the whole time, her glazed eyes focusing, tongue wetting her lips as she swallows thickly.

Her head is still pressed against the door as you press the head of your cock against her lips, coating them with your precum. She opens without resistance, letting you push all the way until you’re at the back of her throat. She gags around your length before closing her lips around it, tongue flicking underneath the head. You rest a hand against the door, the other pulling her hair into a ponytail as you start slowly thrusting into her mouth.

The haze of her orgasm has made her pliant, more willing to your advances. If it were anyone else, you wouldn’t consider fucking their face like you are with her. She just brings that side of you out.

“Fuck… your mouth feels so good.”

You hear a muffled mewl at your praise, and she starts working harder, timing her head bob with your thrusts. She pays extra attention to your tip, circling her tongue around it and flicking at the slit. You watch the way her lips cling to your cock as you pull out, at the spit escaping from the corners of mouth, dripping slowly down her chin.

Her arms that were limp at her side, suddenly gain strength, and slowly makes their way from her toned, sweaty midriff to her crop top. She pulls on the neckline, releasing her breasts from their confines just as the spit falls, landing in the valley between. She pushes her tits together, coating them in spit, twisting and pulling at her nipples. She moans, and the vibrations along your length almost sent you over the edge.

You grab her head with both hands, forcing yourself further down her throat. She’s gagging at the intrusion, cloudy eyes that were staring up at you now squeezed shut with tears threatening to fall. Your pace turns brutal, the slap of your balls against her chin drowns her gagging and the patrons outside. Occasionally, her head bangs against the door. She doesn’t complain though, hands moving to your ass, pushing you further in until her face is flush against your stomach. You keep her there, amazed at how well she’s doing. How she swallows around you, massaging you, and how, despite your attempts to pull away, she traps you there, refusing to let you leave despite her tears mixing with her mascara down her cheeks.

You breathe heavily through your nose, the grip on her head loosening, replaced by gentle pats on her head. “Good girl.”

She swallows around you, tries to push you in deeper. As if your praise was the encouragement she needed to deepthroat you further. But eventually, she had to let you leave.

Your cock is slick with a mixture of her saliva and your precum. You look over at her, chest heaving, coughing every few seconds. You don’t give her much rest though, already pushing back in, slower, gentler. You’re not chasing the high, only the feel of her wet mouth around you.

The suction, the vibration of her moans all becomes too much. Your hips stutter, the rhythm of your thrusts breaking.

You pull out immediately, catching your breath, your hand resting on the door, keeping you up.

“W—why did you stop?” She looks up at you with wide eyes, the flush on her cheeks spreading down her neck to the top of her breasts. She tries reaching for your cock again, mouth almost over it before you press two fingers against her forehead, stopping her in her tracks.

You don’t say anything. Instead, you reach your hand out to her, and you see how quick the decision was made in her eyes. She takes it without hesitation, allowing herself to be pulled up by you. Her hand is small in yours, dainty too. Like she doesn’t belong in a place like this, making drinks and relying on tips to get through the months.

Her feet are still unsteady as she stands, her hand reaching out and landing on your chest as she steadies herself. Your free hand instinctively wraps around her waist, pulling her flush to you.

You stare at her for the longest time, memorising her features. The tiny freckles along her nose, her deep, dark eyes that you could get lost in if you let yourself. She’s staring at you like she belongs to you, waiting for you to do something, and it tightens something in your chest. Your eyes start mapping her face and you see what you’ve done to her. The mascara streaks down her cheeks, the smudged lipstick across her parted lips. She’s still panting, her breath washing over you.

You let go of her hand, placing it where your heart is. You caress her cheeks, wiping at the mascara before doing the same at her lips. You watch in silent surprise at the way her mouth automatically opens wider as your thumb brushes against it before entering. Her lips, red and swollen, wraps around it, sucking on it gently. Her cheeks hollow as she stares into your eyes with a sultry look.

You’re breathless, eyes dilating at the scene, your cock hardening too, especially when her free hand reaches down, stroking you against her stomach, twisting at the head.

You close your eyes, your forehead finding hers as you let her continue sucking your thumb and stroking your cock. The sensation is wonderful. Her soft, lithe hand feels exquisite on you, the way she squeezes at the head or rapidly jerks you off at the base and it reminds you of when she uses the shaker.

“Anna…”

You slowly open your eyes, removing your thumb from her mouth. You place both your hands on her cheeks before closing the distance.

The kiss is different. It’s not an act of passion or an in the moment kiss. It’s one that highlights how much she’s liked you in the time you’ve known each other. All the emotions poured into it as if words aren’t enough to tell you everything.

You just hope you were able to show how much you care for her through yours.

You begin to move, stepping out of your jeans, hands still on her face, and your lips still attached as you drag her further into the closet until her back is pressed against the shelves. A groan escapes her as her back softly slams against it before she finds your mouth again. The spare pint glasses on the shelves start shaking as you push her further into it.

You both separate, foreheads touching as you both breath heavily in the space between. Both your eyes fall to your cock, twitching against her folds, leaking precum, and the pair of you moan at the sight. You hold it by the base, sliding it along her folds, and she pants against you, her head falling onto your shoulder, biting you gently to muffle the sounds spilling from her mouth.

“S—sunbae…”

You don’t wait any longer. You continue rubbing yourself on her as your other hand finds the back of one of her thighs. You lift it high. Until her foot is beside your head, and her leg is sandwiched between your bodies.

“F—fuck…”

You push inside, groaning at the overwhelming heat and tightness. Her orgasm has left her wet and dripping, making it easier to slide in further. Anna exhales shakily against your mouth, her breathing uneven. Her hands find your shoulders, nails digging deeper the further in you go. When you finally bottom out, your pelvis pressed flush against hers, do you release a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and you watch as her eyes flutter close, head falling backwards, knocking a few tumblers down.

You stay like this, enjoying the feel around you, the way her walls flutter along your length. You look down at where you join, and her name comes out your mouth subconsciously.

“Anna… look.”

And she does. Watches as you start grinding. She’s moaning softly, and her eyes start dilating. The hands on your shoulders move down to your chest, weakly pushing at you. “Move.”

You start slowly, pulling all the way until your tip before slamming all the way in. Your thrusts are heavy and hard. She takes your whole length with every stroke, and every time you bottom out, a whimper spills from her mouth, broken and desperate. Her back arches against the shelves, and the way she clenches around you as you pull out—like she’s trying to stop you from leaving—is overwhelming.

“Y—you’re so deep…”

Her eyes roll back at a particular hard thrust, jostling her against the shelves. More glasses tip over but you don’t care anymore. Your entire focus is on her.

You fuck her faster, harder. Her walls start fluttering around you with no rhythm, trying to milk you. She breathlessly repeats your name, eyes closing in pleasure, hands grabbing the uprights. The slap of skin on skin, and your panting, drowns everything out, even your ringing phone.

You see everything. The way she bites her lip in a futile attempt to stay quiet, her tits bouncing with every hard thrust. You look down, and you can see where you connect, how she has a tight grip on you, how she stretches around your girth. Every time you pull back, more of her arousal escapes, running down the one leg she’s standing on.

“Shit… don’t stop—please…”

The leg on your shoulder starts shaking violently. Your hand moves, gently grabbing the ankle, thumb soothingly caressing it while you plant soft kisses against her calf. The smooth skin feels wonderful against your lips, and you imagine how great it would be to have them tangled with yours in bed.

“M—more…”

Your other hand grabs her breast, kneading the flesh, her nipple poking through your fingers. You hold on as your pace increases, your hips snapping against hers. You’re breathing heavily, eyes travelling to her face where her eyes are closed, tears spilling.

Her walls clench around you erratically, her moans growing louder, becoming more high pitched, more desperate. “I—I’m gonna c—cum…” Your thumb and index fingers find her nipple. You pinch and pull and that’s all it takes.

Her orgasm hits her hard, back arching high, a scream tearing from her throat. It’s so loud, you had to cover her mouth. Her pussy strangles your cock, gushing around you, and you feel wetness on your thighs.

You keep your pace steady, ignoring her oversensitive gasps. Her hand claw at your shoulder, and she tries to remove her leg. You hug her leg, keeping it on your shoulder as you continue to fuck her through her orgasm, her tears flowing freely now.

Her flushed cheeks, parted mouth, and her glazed over eyes. She’s so distractingly beautiful like this that you temporarily lose your rhythm.

You feel your balls tighten, pleasure coiling at your spine, and the fact that she whispers your name—all broken, desperate, and rough—sends you over the edge.

You slam into her one final time, burying yourself deep. And you cum. The orgasm is blinding, your vision blurring as the pleasure rips through you and you empty yourself inside her, filling her with rope after rope of cum. She moans brokenly as she milks you for everything you have and more.

For a few seconds, nothing exists except the two of you. Your heavy breathing mingles in the space between you. Her slick skin presses against you, and you wish you could stay like this forever. But reality comes back—Anna’s chest moving up and down quickly, the mess between her legs, and your legs start shaking too.

You pull out slowly, and she whimpers at your loss. You slowly lower her leg onto the floor, catching her as she falls forward. You gently bring her down to a sitting position, back against the shelves as you take a seat opposite. Your cum starts leaking out of her, mixing with her arousal, staining the floor underneath.

She starts laughing breathlessly, her foot tapping against your thigh as she looks at you with what can only be described as adoration in her eyes. “My legs are numb.”

You chuckle under your breath. “Sorry. Guess I got a bit carried away.”

Her hand moves to her hair, ruffling it slightly before it makes its way between her legs, scooping up your cum with two fingers. You watch as she plays with it. “Don’t be. That was the best sex I’ve ever had.” She puts her fingers in her mouth, cleaning them before pulling it out with a loud pop, showing you the evidence.

“You’re going to be the death of me Tanaka.”

She moves, crawling towards you with an exaggerated sway of her hips and a predatory grin on her lips. She settles on your lap, fingers gently grazing your cock back to full mast. She leans toward you, until her lips are inches from yours.

THE TRICKSTER

He'll immediately recognize you to be new. He prides himself in recognizing every survivor he's encountered, either by their face or by the sound of their screams. Mostly their screams.

And he certainly didn't recognize the scream he heard when one of his throwing knives ricocheted and hit you while he was chasing down another one of the newer survivors; Sable. It was a small, startled scream, nothing worth his attention, but it was new. That was enough to make this trial more exciting, and he found himself keeping his eyes peeled for you.

Which... was a lot easier than he expected it to be, because you just kept running right into him. Seriously. Did you not pay attention to your surroundings? Do you think he's a survivor?? Do you not see the bloodied fucking bat he's holding???

He's not sure if he's annoyed or amused by this. Partially both, to be honest. It's amusing to see you relax for a split second after bumping into him, not recognizing him to be the killer immediately. It's annoying because he'd like to hear you scream, please and thank you.

Jiwoon doesn't necessarily target you during the trial. To be honest, he's trying to weed out the other survivors before focusing his attention on you.

He wanted to take his time with you, to see what sounds he could pull out of you before the Entity forced the trial to end. Just the sound of you gasping whenever you bump into him has his mind racing.

This was honestly enough to keep him motivated throughout the entire trial, a certain bloodlust sparking in him. He relished the sound of everyone else's screams, but they weren't appealing to him right now.

He needed the other survivors out of the way. He needed you alone. And when he finally got rid of the last pesky survivor, the fun began.

And when he corners you in killer shack, he really didn't plan on being merciful. He wanted to hear you scream, and then he wanted to kill you, really. That was his plan.

The only way you'd get out of this alive is if you beg, honestly. And I mean beg. On your knees, crying, pleading, offering something in return for your survival. That sort of begging.

You were new and shiny in comparison to all of the other survivors, and maybe it's because he's a sadistic bastard, but he really does adore the sight of you on your knees, crying as he absently nicks your skin with one of his throwing knives.

This is where Jiwoon feels a bit torn, truth be told. He's never been a patient man, so he wants to get as many screams out of you as he can before the Entity forced the trial to end. But at the same time, he knew he'd see you again in a future trial, sooner or later.

It wouldn't hurt to prolong his time with you, would it?

The entire time he's pondering this, he's dragging the blade across your skin, relishing in the sweet sounds of your gasps and whimpers, and you stutter out a desperate 'please'.

Ultimately, Jiwoon decides to be nice, just this once. He'll mutter a quiet, "짜증나..." before hoisting you over his shoulder and carrying you off.

You struggled, obviously, assuming he was ending your misery and taking you to a hook. He didn't really mind much, having an iron grasp on you that kept you from wiggling free.

He dropped you right next to the hatch once he found it, finding your small pained sound to be adorable as you look at your salvation with a confused expression. But before you can crawl into it and escape, he's grabbing you by the back of your shirt and pulling you back a bit.

For a moment, you think he's going to kill you, and you squeeze your eyes shut, expecting pain. But nothing comes. You feel him tuck something in your shirt, and he lightly pats your cheek, cooing a bit at your terror before he lets you go and leaves you alone.

And when you're back at the campfire, you find a photo of Jiwoon neatly folded and tucked into your shirt, signed with his autograph.

He'll have an encore the next time he sees you, and you can only hope you don't find yourself in a trial with him again any time soon.

THE GHOSTFACE

Would actually never give you hatch under normal circumstances. He's here to kill, so kill he shall. He treated you the same as any other survivor when he first saw you, though it wasn't until he was in chase with you that he realized how interesting you were.

For one, you were... surprisingly good at looping him?? For a newbie, he was rather impressed. That's not enough to get him to let you live, but it's definitely a start.

No, his interest is only truly piqued when you start quoting horror movies during chase.

Honestly, if he didn't know any better, he'd think you to be flirting with him. A person after his heart, truly.

It was only when he had you cornered that you really caught his attention. You weren't scared, and it intrigued him as much as it annoyed him.

He was just itching to dig his knife into you and take a photo of your lifeless corpse once he was finished. But even with your life at risk, you showed no fear.

Hell, you even mocked him.

"No, please don't kill me, Mr. Ghostface, I wanna be in the sequel."

Sure, you weren't the first survivor to mock him, and you certainly won't be the last, but he found you interesting.

Oh, he needed to kill you. He needed your photo in his collection, it would be his favorite.

But he thought it would be more fun to humor you. Danny was a patient man. This isn't the first time he's drawn out a kill.

You were honestly surprised that he had left you alone. You didn't think that would actually work, and you were... a bit concerned, actually. None of the other killers you had ended up in a trial with during your short time here has entertained you the way Danny has, and you're not sure if you should be scared or not.

And, much to your very hesitant relief, you didn't see him for the rest of the trial. You knew he was watching you though. Every once in a while, you just felt... you're not quite sure how to describe it, but it almost felt as if you were being hunted.

You'd see him from the corner of your eye though. Never for long, just quick flashes of his screaming mask. Honestly, you felt less scared when he was actively trying to murder you.

That's how the rest of the trial went for you, at least. Until eventually, you were the only one left standing. You may be new, but the other survivors had given you the rundown of what to do if you were the last one standing before the trial had started.

You had to find hatch. Which was... easier said than done, truthfully. Especially since you weren't sure where the fuck Danny was. There's no way he was letting you go, right? He's probably saving you for last, right?

Whenever you so much as caught a glimpse of something moving, you were scurrying in the other direction.

This is pretty much Danny's way of giving you hatch. There's no way he'd give it to you directly, not yet.

You had honestly thought you had found it all by yourself until you were fucking stabbed, the flash of a camera in your face blinding you.

Truth be told, Danny did plan on killing you. He had wanted to give you a false sense of hope. But your stupid little smile when you saw hatch got to him, okay? So he'll settle for this for now.

"You owe me."

And he doesn't even spare you a glance as he pushes you into the hatch's mist, his gaze intently focused on the photo of you he had just taken.

Unfortunately for you, you've caught his attention.

THE ARTIST

Carmina is one of the more merciful killers you may come across, so she'd be fairly likely to give a new survivor hatch depending on how the trial has gone and whether or not she's consumed by anger.

She only realizes that you're new to the fog when her crows surround you and you don't try shooing them away. When she finds you, you're actually... rather content having a murder of crows surrounding you.

Very very confused. She'll probably just stare at you for a hot second as you go about the trial without a single care for the crows swarming around you. Even the crows are confused.

You distract her long enough with your antics that a good chunk of the gens pop, and she had to force herself to leave you be in order to focus on hunting the other survivors.

She'll ignore you for the entire trial after she leaves you be. Her crows can keep watch for her.

So for the rest of the trial she's only vaguely aware of your location, occasionally stopping once in a while to determine whether or not her crows were still with you. They were.

Even the other survivors seemed confused by your behavior.

On the rare occasion that she bumped into you during the trial, it was always when another survivor was nearby trying to tell you how to get rid of the crows.

You never even tried to shoo away the crows throughout the entire trial, and at some point, they stopped swarming around you. They didn't go away, no. You, somehow, managed to tame Carmina's crows with little trinkets that you found littered across the place.

Honestly, the crows seemed to like you enough that even if Carmina told them to hurt you, they probably wouldn't listen to her. It's hard to believe that you were a new survivor with how calm you were about everything happening.

It's probably that calm nature, coupled with your ability to calm her crows, that solidified in her mind that you were the only one who would make it out alive.

And with a newfound determination, Carmina sacrificed the other three survivors with no issues, and she could hear hatch opening not too far away from her.

With the help of her crows, Carmina was able to easily bring you to hatch, and she could only tilt her head to the side and make a small, croaking sound as you smiled and thanked both her and her crows before jumping into the hatch.

This is one of the many moments Carmina laments no longer being able to create art. She'd love to immortalize the image of you smiling at her, surrounded by her crows.

THE CANNIBAL

Bubba is honestly torn when he spots you, because you look so afraid, cowering in fear at every little sound and struggling to repair a generator like the others had told you to. He understands your fear because it's something he's very familiar with.

And while he has a job to do, not wanting to disappoint the Entity, he can't help but find it hard to hurt you. No matter how hard it was, Bubba had no choice.

But when he approached you, you didn't run. Sure, you let out a startled shout, the generator blowing up in your face as you stared up at him like a scared animal, quietly begging him not to hurt you.

But you didn't run.

How could he hurt you when you weren't running from him? Everyone always ran. But not you. You weren't running from him, and he didn't know what to do about that.

Bubba's trouble was so very evident. He's always been an expressive person, so it wasn't hard to tell that this was stressing him out. His free hand kept clenching and unclenching his apron, and he kept making small noises in the back of his throat.

He doesn't want to disappoint the Entity, he doesn't. But he's not sure if he can hurt someone who's not running from him. You aren't running! He really likes that! The only people who never ran when he was around were his family!

The nail in the coffin is when you, even despite your fear, took a chance and set down the toolbox you were holding. You... you gave him a gift. Not one that he could use, but a gift nonetheless.

There was literally no way he could hurt you now the guilt would eat him alive. So, he just opts to leave you be to instead focus on the other survivors. He wouldn't feel guilty hurting them.

The entire trial, Bubba focuses all of his attention on getting rid of the other survivors. If he sees you, he gets all nervous and can't even look at you for long without babbling incoherently before scurrying away.

Some of the other survivors may pick up on Bubba's strange avoidment of you, and may even use that to their advantage by running by you in chase because Bubba just... he can't hurt you, I'm sorry.

He's swinging his chainsaw, and then suddenly Kate is running by you and he's coming to a full stop out of fear of accidentally hurting you.

It really stresses him out, and even though you're still scared of him, and even though he's supposed to be killing you, you can't help but feel bad. So whenever the other survivors got a little too close when Bubba was chasing them, you always made sure to stay out of his way.

It's okay to be a bad teammate because it's Bubba.

Jokes aside, Bubba takes his job as a killer very seriously. He may avoid hurting you, but he makes quick work of the other survivors.

And when hatch opened right next to Bubba after killing the third survivor, he took it as a sign from the Entity that he was meant to give it to you. Why else would it open next to him?

Bubba was ever the gentleman when he brought you to hatch, guiding you to it carefully and making sure you didn't trip on any debris littered across the area.

He even scared off a few judgmental crows! He knew how off-putting it was to have them watching you all the time, especially when you're new in the fog.

And when you quietly thank him, smiling at him as if he weren't a killer, Bubba was just over the moon.

It's been so long since he's had someone to protect. The fog is a scary place to be but he'll do his best to make it a happy place whenever you two are in a trial together.

They traveled in herds, packs, whatever it was that people wanted to call them—murders, perhaps—and shuffled aimlessly across any land they could find. Eager for food, for sustenance, to fill the empty bellies that would never be full. Gorging themselves on creatures like you. 

Officially ‘the other’. Officially ‘the enemy’. The sole survivor of a good group that was attacked some days ago because an idiot forgot to shoot one of the creatures in the head. And by sunrise, it was over. Screams echoed into the silence and you soon found yourself alone… running for your life with a duffle bag over your shoulder (slowing you down) and a gun in your hand (low on ammo). Trekking through thick woods in a heavily-infested Vermont town was not a good idea, but you had no choice. The house you were camping in was left behind, ravaged by bullets that you put into your friend’s heads, and every other spot nearby had been looted. You couldn’t move all of those bodies yourself. You couldn’t do much yourself. There was no army background attached to your name, no conspiracy theorist survival-obsessed gene in your body, and not much training in fighting either. All you could do was run. Run and run and run until you were miles away and your lungs started to burn. Not the most useful skill considering most people could run, but if you were quick enough to speed past the shuffling bastards, you were quick enough to make it to safety. 

—

Safety…what a joke. A shit joke. A joke that was, quite honestly, the worst joke to ever exist. There was no safety. No place, nowhere. You’d been walking for a few hours, hearing nothing but the forest’s silence, and stumbling over leaves and branches. They ravaged the animals, took them into their mouths like they were people, and ate until there was nothing left. Not even a squirrel, or a fox, and the birds had grown weary of the vast number of hunters (both dead and undead) that found themselves in the woods looking for food. So no birds either. And no houses. And you were pretty sure, as you paused to catch your breath, that you were doomed. 

Only a few bullets left and your aim was never perfect. One knife tucked into your waistband but it was getting uncomfortable, digging into your skin, and caked in blood. Creature blood. Everything smelled horrible. Like burning flesh or dirty meat, raw and soiled. You probably didn’t smell too good either. It wasn’t like the world still worked without the people; only a few places had running water and you couldn’t trust the creeks and rivers. The undead enjoyed walking through shallow water, knowing somehow that there’d probably be prey nearby. 

But you hadn’t seen anything in a while. A long while. A suspiciously long while... 

Everything was green and brown around you, whisked by wind and soil, and you stood out like blood against snow. The last thing you saw was yesterday. Ever since? Not a single flash of undead flesh. 

You swallowed, throat embarrassingly dry, and tapped your fingers against your thigh. 

It wasn’t good when everything was still. You were vulnerable, out in the open, and without a good few rounds of bullets to spare. Every muscle and organ in your body screamed for mercy, crying with the effort it took to keep surviving even when you didn’t want to. 

You thought about it a few times; gave the gun in your hand a long look on several occasions, but ultimately decided that ‘opting out’ was only a last resort. Somehow, even amidst the chaos and hatred and swill of humanity’s nature, you managed to hold hope. And often wondered where it would get you. How it would get you. While you were sleeping? While you were already wounded? Fighting off the hands of a loved one? The twist of hope’s rope… would you feel it closing in around your neck? A literal metaphor for the eventual death you’d experience? 

Thinking about it gave you a headache. 

For where was the point in wondering? 

You had no one else. Whatever form of death awaited, it would end up being your fault. Probably because you couldn’t run fast enough. Probably because- 

Because-

Wait. 

Somewhere behind you, on the right, was a low sound. A hum. The smooth whoosh of something quick. The parting of wind… the low growl of… 

“Fuck.” 

You shot off in that direction, bag smacking against your shoulder blades, and instantly felt the exhaustion pull at your body again. It lingered like a plague, like the undead disease, and you yearned to fall to your knees - to give in - but it wasn’t the time for that. You had to at least try. You had to at least make it over the hill. Right over the hill. So close but so far. You leaned forward, threw yourself at the ground, and grasped onto gnarled tree roots. The Earth smelled wet with decay, sweet with promise - you huffed against dry leaves. They crunched and scratched at your fingers, eventually crinkling into nothing when your arms worked to drag you up. You probably looked a little mad, scrambling up a steep hill to reach something that probably won’t save you, but there was no other option. The hum grew louder, the quiet was broken, and you only had a few moments to get this right. 

“Help!” Your lungs caved around your scream, but the forest swallowed it instantly. Greedy trees with their greedy barks, wanting to keep you hidden from salvation. The hum grew louder. Your fingers grew clammy, sweating and slipping against rough wood. 

You’d be bruised to high heaven later, and probably exhausted, but the hum and the growl of an engine meant a road and a road meant civilization and goddammit you just needed to get over the stupid fucking hill. 

There was a loud ringing in your ears, nearly deafening, and making your voice sound fuzzy. 

“Help! Help!”

Was that you? Were you the one screaming like that? Why couldn’t you be quiet? Those things could have been lurking… wandering nearby… coming up behind you, eager to grasp at your ankles and drag you back down to Hell. 

A glance back over your shoulder, aching from the duffle bag, found nothing but blurred terrain and darkened leaves–a symptom of the setting sun. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. If the light went out, you’d be screwed. You couldn’t use the last of your matches and the world went black when evening struck. So there really was no choice. As the growl turned into a roar… there was no choice. Just a little higher- a little more. Your arms pushed, biceps straining against the cotton of your shirt, and your pants threatened to get caught on wayward sticks and tear into rags. The boots on your feet pressed hard against loose rocks, kicking them out of place, and gained just enough ground to push you up - over the ridge. The final stretch. Your chest pushed to the hard dirt and forced a grunt of effort from your tired body; the sound echoed through the woods, through the ground, and through the air that sat above the concrete road in front of you. Hard and vast, grey and long… you looked at it as though it were the holiest of grails, lying just beside it with your arms outstretched, your fingers still pulling at dirtied grass. Soil covered your skin, masked your features, caked beneath your fingernails, and when the roar of the speeding vehicle grew so close you had to close your eyes and wince, you knew raising a hand for help would not be enough. In the shade of the forest’s edge, half draped over the peak of the hill, you were inhuman to other survivors. Your dry mouth opened, your throat croaked, and your legs moved to push you up–closer–just short of the wind that caressed your hair when the car, the truck, ran past you with no second glance. You looked after it, watched it pass, and felt the burn in your heart grow into its own inferno. It licked at your insides, at your desperation, and had you hauling the duffle bag off of your shoulder and out onto the road. It rolled, a shuffling sound, and you followed after it with deep growls of effort and dwindling strength. 

“Please,” you wheezed, panting for breath as soon as you staggered up to your feet. 

In the distance, the car turned into a disappearing black spec. It drove and drove, out of sight, and you stood there, putting your arms in the air to wave it down and bring it back. To beckon it back. To beg and plead.

“Please please no-,” your voice was soft, weakened by days of rugged survival, “no…” rough and lost to the wind, it dissipated into nothing and you were forced to swallow again.  

The thick smell of car exhaust settled against the steaming road. You watched the horizon, tracking the space in the atmosphere where the gold traced into a deep blue, and felt your bones quake beneath your skin. Their final cry. The last hurrah as you watched your future, the tatters of it, drive away from you. 

Too late. 

You were too late. 

And you’d die there, on that road, and they may never come back and find you again in the morning. And your corpse would be chewed upon by undead bastards who would never give you a proper burial. And you’d be just another stupid human that found themselves trampled beneath the stinking feet of the walking dead. 

Tears teased your eyes, burning the dry lands of your irises, and you felt the heart in your chest lurch against its cage. 

 Too late. 

You were too late. 

You had a duffle bag, a handgun somewhere off to the side, and the clothing on your back. One lasting water bottle, the knife you felt poking your side, and small bags of food that wouldn’t last you long at all. The tent, too, was destroyed by animals the night before. The most you could go was perhaps one more day, but your feet were aching so terribly that each step was a journey within itself. And you couldn’t push yourself to go further. There was no further. There was nothing in the woods and there was nothing beyond the road and you were running on fumes that no longer existed. 

But you couldn’t just lie there and take it. You were about to reach over, bending at the waist, to grab your bag. To pull it up over your shoulder and trek on, even though it was pointless. But something stopped you. 

Something–a sound–made you freeze. 

It was faint. It didn’t sound like the undead, with their discordant groans and disgusting squelches, no… it was far. Getting closer. Closer. The hum and the growl. The purr of a motor. The hiss of pavement. 

Your head snapped up, eyes bulging wide as you looked over the horizon to see…. Yes. Yes! Yes, it’s them! The car! A grin pulled at your lips. Halle-fucking-lujah! You felt the anxiety ebb, slowly falling away from your body, as they got closer. The black spec turned into a black blob, then a figure that took shape, and finally you could make out a Vermont license plate and the dirt that stuck to big wheels. Up close, it was a sleek thing, tall and well-built. Midnight black and aside from the splatter on the rubbered wheels, it was polished and clean. The dark paint reflected the bright world around you, turning it into weird warped versions of a faux-paradise. You swallowed at the feel of warmth against your legs, the exhaust from the truck flooding over the smallest sliver of skin around your ankles. Suddenly fearing a changed mind and bad intentions, you stumbled back until your heels pushed against your bag. 

Tinted windows stared down at you, menacing and opaque. Not a thing to see behind them, even if you squinted. Nothing moved, nothing jumped, and you watched with bated breath for a window to roll down - until finally, it did. 

The driver’s side. It went whirr-ing down, sliding for the shortest period of time in the world until only a shadow met you - and then a flicker of movement. And then- 

“Oh my god! Jesus! Okay okay!” You flinched, not even hesitating to raise your hands above your head. You spread your fingers out, desperate to prove your innocence to the stranger in the car. And the gun they were holding, pointing at you, through the gap. 

“Were you bit?” A rough voice, muted and deep, broke the atmosphere. 

You shook your head.

“Words. Use them.” 

“No,” you licked your lips, instantly deciding to turn around in a slow circle. “Not bitten. Not scratched.” You tried to ignore the way your hands shook, even as you shifted all the way back to face the gun’s muzzle. 

“Ask where…” a voice, soft and feminine, came from somewhere beyond the driver’s seat. It was saying something, telling something, but faded into a whisper so quiet you couldn’t hear a thing. Your eyes shifted to the dark backseat windows, trying to see something- anything- and found no surprise in the lack of life. 

“Any weapons?” The driver seemed to ignore the other person, and instead held the gun steady. You watched it with weary eyes.

“Yes.” And before they could ask, you tugged the knife out of your belt and the gun out of your pants pocket. They were held up in the air, another white flag, and you twitched the hand that held the firearm. “At least three bullets left, but that’s it.” 

“And the others?” 

You blinked. “Others? What oth-”

“Where is the rest of your ammunition? In the skull of a human or scum?” The stranger spat, and you detected the hints of an accent. 

Scum… you’d never heard them referred to as that before. Your last group called them walkers, and some others claimed flesh-eaters. You were tempted to use ‘zombies’, but it felt rather silly. The world took that term too lightly, and the undead were nothing if not a very serious problem. But scum? Like they were beneath humanity and not its current destroyer? You’d ask about it later, you decided, if they deemed you well enough to take in. 

“Both,” you breathed honestly, dropping your weapons to your sides with a heavy sigh. “They um- weren’t quite there yet. Got ambushed overnight.” 

The gun still didn’t move. 

“They don’t ambush. What really happened?” 

Hm. They weren’t wrong. Animated corpses didn’t ‘ambush’, but when a herd of them went lurking about, it certainly felt that way. You didn’t think logistics were entirely necessary, but you understood the need for specifics. Trust among men was eviscerated in the face of danger, especially against those once living. You’d seen paranoia before, in others. Humans simply didn’t take each other in anymore… not without some level of severe mistrust. The second thought after seeing the truck drive off was that you probably wouldn’t be accepted anyway - you’d killed without technical reason. Could have just left. Run away. 

But you didn’t. 

You didn’t want to see them turn into those… creatures. 

So what else was there to say? You stared at the gun, willing a click and the shot of a bullet, as you opened your mouth. 

“A herd. A lot of them. Just… descended upon the place. Someone might’ve been walking around in the woods or something, and there was just not enough protection,” you paused, licking your lips, “...I was the last one alive. Had to shoot them and go.” 

“How long since?” 

“Few days, give or take,” you shrugged. The exhaustion only built as you stood there, trying not to sway and collapse in your spot. The truck was still running, hissing hot exhaust; it was the first genuinely warm thing you’d felt in so many days that you wanted to crawl underneath and take a nap. The world, turning to autumn, was growing chilly. There was no chance you could survive winter on your own. 

“...Give or take,” you heard the driver scoff and laugh, bitter and mean. You frowned. 

Then the window started going up, and you couldn’t help yourself. With a hard thunk, you pushed your shoulder hard against the car, and knocked on the thick glass with the butt of the knife. A look of utter desperation crossed your features, heavy and thick. Urgency, anxiety, fear forced any sense from your mind. There was no chance. There was no survival at all.

“No please- please I can’t be out here alone please- I’m smart and- and I can run fast and be an asset. Please,” you shook your head, searching with worried eyes, “please, please you can’t do this to me-” 

Something dark spliced through the corner of your vision, dragging a shadow with it, and you just barely dodged the sudden swing of the truck’s backseat door. It bounced with force and you glanced back at the driver’s window once before stepping back and hastily swinging your bag over your shoulder. The knife and gun were slipped back into your clothing, concealed, and you held yourself strong as the black leathered interior bore itself to the world. 

“-we can’t just leave them-” 

“-on’t be stupid. They could be a liability-”

“-not stupid. We need more people-” 

Voices, at least two, were rushed and tangled in an argument. You didn’t pay much attention to what you could hear, though the growing irritation was hard to ignore. It would be a hassle to be accepted, you knew, but you’d deal. There was no choice. The backseat door was open and there was a figure hustled back against the other window. 

“The offer won’t last,” the stranger murmured, somehow louder than the two people in the front seats, and you decided not to take any chances in the world alone. 

With a grunt, a push, and a final slam of the door, you found yourself in the truck. Your bag was pushed down by your feet, you tugged your knife out to rest it on your thigh, and you turned to say thank you- but was cut off by a cold blade at your throat. It grazed the soft dirty skin, less than a centimeter away from pushing, and you felt saliva pool in the back of your throat. Swallowing would have pressed you closer, so you fought the urge and only stared.

“Woah-” 

“Try anything and you die. I don’t want a peep, not a shuffle. Do I make myself clear?” 

The driver’s voice, clearer in such close quarters, was deep and mean. Accent, as you had clocked, from somewhere in the United Kingdom. It held a natural growl, a gruffness from years of smoking, perhaps, and you couldn’t help but sense the intimidation. It wasn’t fake confidence, you noticed, as you looked up and met the cool sharp grey gaze of a woman. Her hair, a deep blonde, was slicked back and short, ruffled slightly by the nape of her neck. A long neck… that led to strong looking shoulders. They were half covered by a jacket, but you could see the strength in the chords of her muscle. A force to be reckoned with. A leader, perhaps. She was pale, with a defined nose and lips twisted into a permanent sneer, and you probably would have thought she had some potential for post-apocalyptic modeling, if it weren’t for the scar that covered one half of her face. Slashed across the left eye, the wound was jagged and rough - it dragged from a point close to the exact middle of her forehead, right to the corner of her jaw. Thicker at parts and thinner at others, it split through a pale eyebrow and seemed to have permanently rendered her blind. The lid didn’t even move when one stormy eye shifted, and you suddenly felt extremely creeped out. Something about her was undeniably cold. Almost reckless, but her hand was so steady with control you knew not to make a move. She’d probably kill without hesitation, dump you back into the road, and drive off with the duffel. There was no choice but to answer, answer quickly, and do as told. 

“Yes, clear.” Your head shifted half an inch up and half an inch down, still cautious of the blade. 

But she didn’t move. 

It was a battle of wills for just a moment, with your hands in your lap, empty and docile. You weren’t looking for a fight, or a staring contest, but the stranger didn’t let up until the figure to your right decided to sit up and speak. 

“Ah they do not seem so bad. Look at them. Tired and scared, like sad city mouse,” another woman, one with a Russian accent and a voice a hint too loud, cooed. 

Silence followed, persisted, for only a minute- and then the blade was tugged back so quickly you swear it nearly cut the air in two. The driver tsked as she twisted herself around, murmuring as she went. 

“More like a rat.” 

And then you were thrown to the side with a heavy wheeze as the truck lurched and began moving, working into a turn so you could go back the way they’d come.

You glared at the back of the headrest, not feeling above a little bit of irritation for some poor handling, but eventually grew bored. With some apprehension, your eyes flicked over to the person in the passenger seat. Their profile was strong, feminine, and you noted the unbelievably well-kept head of snowy hair. She looked clean, just like the driver, and a spark of hope welled up in your tired heart. Running water and food existed where they came from, wherever they were camped out, and if you played your cards right, you could finally indulge in some good hygiene. Unless the woman in the passenger seat was stingy with her water… god her skin was so clear, and she seemed to be wearing makeup. No one wore makeup anymore. Not the people in your old group and not the few stragglers you’d stumbled across. It simply wasn’t a necessary luxury anymore, but the woman sitting across from you, back straight and hands in her lap, seemed to think it was of the utmost importance. You wanted to speak, wanted to ask her name, but found yourself turning to your right - and catching the gaze of the person that opened the door for you. 

“Anna,” your savior spoke, tilting her head to the left and regarding you with curious eyes. A pale hand, big and long-fingered, shot out and hovered above your lap. You glanced down at it, at the clean skin and the perfect fingernails, and knew that you hit the survivalist jackpot. 

With a nod and a quick clasp of her hand, you whispered your name in reply. She nodded before leaning back against the door and crossing her arms; she seemed quite comfortable there, with a rather large gun resting across her lap. Her hair, blonde as well, fell in gentle waves to her shoulders. She saw with deep blue eyes - a contrast to the cold steel of the driver - and didn’t hesitate to flick them over your body in some sort of analytical search. Weapons, you figured, is what she was looking for. And the knife in your lap, which she eyed with some interest. 

You wanted to say something, wanted to thank them, but it didn’t feel like enough. Nothing felt like enough those days. Asking something of someone was a risk every single time. And you’d asked—begged—them to take you in. You needed to pull your weight, no questions asked. 

“Um- thank you for-”

“Shoot them.” 

“What?!” You straightened up, eyes going wide as, in your peripherals, you saw Anna’s hand inch toward her gun. Through the rear-view mirror, you caught the way the driver’s brow twitched. 

“You heard me. Shoot them.” 

“Pha-”

“I said no talking,” the stranger growled, not even bothering to address the woman in the passenger seat. The white-haired woman looked frustrated, her red lips tugging into a frown, as she watched the driver double down on her focus. “Didn’t I say that?” 

“But I-,” you wanted to plead your case, wanted to defend yourself, but were cut off. 

“I am not going to shoot,” Anna said before you could speak. “Why do you expect her to be quiet hah, Phasma? We just saved her жопa. No need for fighting.”

You glanced at her, picking up on the Native tongue. Fresh off the boat, or perhaps visiting, with the way she said it so easily. Zhopa? Given the context, it wasn’t hard to tell what she meant. Yes, they had just saved your ass. And yes, you wanted to say thank you. Even if that Phasma person wasn’t too keen on a bit of gratitude. 

“I hardly think thanking us for a kind deed is worthy of execution, no matter how much silence you require,” the fair-haired woman across from you said smoothly, throwing a slight glare to the woman on her right. And finally, she took that moment to turn around in the seat and make eye contact. 

Something that proved to be far more difficult than you thought it would. Good lord, she was gorgeous. Pale skin, deep admiral blue eyes, and lips redder than blood. Not even a scratch on her face, not even a single spec of dirt - as if the apocalypse never happened and there weren’t dead people roaming every street in the world. In fact, she didn’t seem incredibly worried about the predicament the human species found itself in, and was looking at you with kind eyes, a furrowed brow, and a smile that she hoped was welcoming. 

“My name is Larissa,” her hand, gloved in white fabric as soft as silk, reached out as an olive branch. You wanted to take it, wanted to feel something so lovely for the first time in a long time and create some sort of bond, but your hands were very dirty. A part of you guessed that Larissa hadn’t put them on earlier that day with the hope to return to camp holding soft fabric smudged with dirt and dried blood, so you only looked down at your palm and then back at hers. 

“Oh uh- I don’t wanna get your gloves dirty-” 

“Oh,” she glanced down, realizing that she was, in fact, wearing hand-coverings. “Later, then,” a warm smile shone back at you - and you were helpless, instantly offering her a nod in return. 

“Finished?” The driver piped up, eyes cold as she stared at you in the rear-view. 

As if on cue, Larissa turned back around in her seat, rolling her eyes as she went, and you could only fall quiet. Introductions were over, you were warming up to the easy heat in the car, and Phasma–if you dared address her by name in your head–had a good handle of the wheel. You were safe. For now. And with one last suspended look at the gun on Anna’s lap, you reached over for the seatbelt, tucked yourself in with a click, and leaned back in the seat. It was so suddenly comfortable, such a huge contrast to the shit you’d dealt with recently, that you couldn’t help but close your eyes and revel. Even for a moment. Even for a second.

—

“Get up,” a mean grunt, paired with a quick rush of piercingly cold air, tugged you from the depths of sleep. 

Before you could even open your eyes properly, a shiver set itself into your bones. Eager to escape it, and the confines of the car, you jolted and scrambled for your seatbelt. Leaning against the open door, watching you grab your things, was the driver. Phasma? Weird name, but there was no time to dwell - especially not when she was looking at you like that. Eyes sharper than the knife on your lap, holding a polished chrome pistol in one hand, and waiting with some tension for you to hurry up. The duffel was pulled up onto your shoulder, the knife was tucked into your belt, and your hands scratched at the leather as you looked around wildly for your gun. 

“We took it. You’ll get it back when you prove you’re not a complete imbecile,” she spat, peering down her nose at you. Disgust danced in her expression, sparking flames of unwanted insecurity, and you felt compelled to look away. Her nostrils were flared, her pink lips curled into something disdainful and mean, and you couldn’t help but watch the way her jaw shifted as she tensed, watching you watch her. The hatred seemed a bit out of place, too strong for normal trust issues, and you briefly wondered if perhaps she’d always been that way - even before the end of civilization. She was clearly a bitch, and not interested in showing you kindness any time soon, so you decided to forgo a response, ignored her glaring, and slipped out of the car without a word. 

Before your feet were completely on the ground, and your bag was out of the way, the door slammed closed behind you, quick and sharp. The speed of it nearly clipped your shirt, and you whirled around to face the stranger’s irritation. She seemed to have lost interest in you and side-stepped your figure without another glance. One finger on the trigger, a shit-ton of audacity-filled swagger in her walk, and a back broad and strong. She looked like an outlaw, tall, mean, wearing grey with a belt around her strong hips and a leather jacket over her shoulders. You wanted to throw your gun at her and watch it hit the back of her head, but there was no way in Hell you’d be able to run away faster than she could catch you. 

“Come,” you heard Anna speak, interrupting your train of thought as she trudged up to your left. You turned, seeing the way she cocked her head. “I’ll introduce you.” The gun swayed in her grasp as she turned, making little shuffling sounds in the grass. 

The grass. 

You went to go forward, but stopped. The grass. It was… terribly neat. Very well maintained. Not like apocalypse grass, which was flat and bloodied and mudded and dusted, but like rich person grass. Striking green grass, healthy, it bounced back behind you when you stepped on it. And the air… you took a deep breath and closed your eyes. It was fresh. Pure. Free of the smell of death and free of gunpowder and spraying blood. Just where on Earth were y-

oh.

Oh. 

You looked up, finally, and found yourself in a courtyard. On all sides was a wall, sections of it made of brick, others of stone, and the rest of wrought iron fence, bolted hard into the ground; and across the way, piercing the sky, was a manor. Or what looked like a manor. No - what was definitely a manor. Dark, illuminated slightly by the deep blue of the atmosphere and the torches that littered the ground in neat paths, splitting off into cobblestone sections. You swallowed. It was gorgeous. Untouched. A world that seemed to run on and on while the rest of the globe went to shit. 

How fucking lucky were you? 

“Come! I must say twice?!” Anna called, giving you an exasperated beckon as she started disappearing behind the dark stone brick of the main entrance. 

Sparing a quick glance behind you, you found a fortified gate and short stone walls - reinforced and built upon with barbed wire, wood, and sheets of metal. It must have opened up for the truck when you were still asleep, but was very much firmly shut and impenetrable once closed. You wanted to explore it more, wanted to study the mechanism and the layout and come to understand just how they managed to get the place so protected, but you didn’t want to leave Anna waiting. And a low rumble of thunder, far but rolling quick, told you that rain was eager to make her appearance - and you did not want to get caught in that. 

After adjusting your bag and patting the knife in your belt for reassurance, you set off after the Russian stranger. 

—

“So I am Anna, this you know already,” she pointed to herself, tapped her chest twice, then rolled her hand over to gesture to the clearing ahead. 

It was beautiful, outlined against a dark wood. Rocky paths led to a big circle in the middle, and the ruins of stone benches and statues littered the camp. You could definitely see what it used to be - a beautiful place for the elite to sit, to bask, to enjoy the nice air and the wind. But the end of the world had gotten to it, not with the bearings of total destruction, but with the promise of change. A big spruce shelter had been built to the far left, reinforced with four beams and no walls - clearly just meant to keep the rain at bay while they worked outside. Beneath it, there were wooden benches and designated spots for farming equipment, guns, and even a water purifying system from the looks of it. If you assumed that sleeping quarters and showers existed in the castle, then they seemed to be in the best shape anyone could be in.

Even the people, who were busy going about their evening and tending to their duties, while you watched by Anna’s side and felt your excitement grow.

“Phasma was woman driving. Not so kind,” she tsked, giving you a knowing look, and you found yourself unable to ask about the strange name. You figured she wouldn’t have known the answer anyway. Then her hand moved, stealing your attention. “That is Jane,” she pointed to a pale woman sitting on one of the large stone benches. 

Her back was turned, but you could see the severity of her expression in the reflection of a hand mirror. She was handsome, free of makeup, with jet-black hair. The strands fell from between her fingertips, spilling like water, as she threaded them into a braid around her head. Her movements were slow, methodic, and you watched, sort of hypnotized, as the long sleeves of her hooded dress stretched across her slim back. Tight along her arms and resting over the black pants covering her thighs, leading down to knee-high leather boots. Fit for an apocalypse, but somehow still chic. You watched her hands for a moment more, and turned slightly to her right when Anna gestured to the woman beside her. 

“Miranda. Good girl, but way too skinskie,” she nodded to herself while crossing her arms. 

The stranger in question–Miranda–was holding up an antique hand mirror for Jane to look into while doing her hair. They seemed to be the same height, though Miranda’s build was lankier and toned. The sleeves of her white top had to have been torn off, leaving freckled shoulders free to the air, and around one wrist was a black watch. It nearly matched the same leather as her belt, which held an attached holster and a sleeve for a walkie-talkie. Its antenna stood out against the baby blue of her uniform pants; tight by the hips but baggier toward the ankles, tucked into dark laced boots. Her hair was styled into a fair blonde bob, probably recently cut by the sight of such clean edges. It looked unbearably soft kissing the back of her neck.

“She was policewoman. Strong.” Anna commented, gazing at her from your spot by the castle wall. 

You nodded absentmindedly, looking over the two strangers and the chess board that sat between them on the bench. Jane had black and Miranda white. The latter seemed to be focusing quite hard on the game, holding a pawn loosely in one hand, as the dark-haired beauty tsked and adjusted the hand mirror that slowly slipped to the side. You watched Miranda jump and offer what you assumed was a sheepish apology, as she tried to multitask. Her small smile was pink and soft, warm and welcoming. A friend, perhaps. 

“Very…domestic,” came your soft murmur, sparked by the surprise of such a peaceful camp. In the past group, everyone was too busy trying to sleep, find food, or talk themselves through panic attacks. Maintaining sanity with comfort was not a priority. 

“Da. Comfortable,” your companion nodded. “Jan is there, washing.” And you turned, yet again, to find a figure standing in front of a clothesline. 

The combat boots made her seem tall, though they were a bit out of place—not really matching the long white sleeved shirt and full red skirt combo. Immaculate and clean, you noticed, though that was to be expected from a woman trying her hardest to get blood out of a white blouse. Her hands were covered by blue rubber gloves, with one clutched around a sponge and the other around the neck of a bottle of white wine vinegar. On the ground by her feet was a large pale jug of hydrogen peroxide and a bucket of what you assumed was water. And the blouse in front of her, held up by wooden clothespins, rippled from the breeze. It seemed to get colder and windier the longer the night went on, probably bringing the rain with it at some point. With any luck, it would clear up the light splotches of pink that covered most of the shirt’s chest up to the collar, but ‘Jan’ didn’t seem too patient and satisfied with that. She got back to her scrubbing a moment later, the strict waves of her blonde hair bumping gently against her neck. 

“Jan is very chic. You go to her for fashion advice, no?” Anna tilted her head at you, dragging dark blue eyes over your face. The lawn lamps stabbed into the grass lit everything up with a sweet warm glow, bringing out the flames in her expression as she peered at you curiously. Very handsome, in her own sharp-featured sort of way. You couldn’t help the snort that bubbled up. 

“Respectfully, I think fashion is the least of my concerns right now, Anna.” 

“Hm. Maybe,” she hummed, shrugged, and gave you a once-over that set your heart racing before turning her attention back to the group. 

“Brienne!” You jumped, flinching away as Anna’s loud voice carried into your ear. In the distance, a hulking figure shifted and unfolded, moving to look up at the call. They were sitting on a big pile of cut logs, holding a stone cylindrical sharpener in one hand and a… sword… in the other. Anna waved, talking to you gently as you both watched the figure’s expression change into one of suspicion. She was handsome. Pale, with the lightest blonde lashes and brows, and eyes that sparkled even from that distance. They squinted, drawing frown lines across her face, as she straightened up in her spot. You tried desperately not to stare at her figure, but it was impossible. The deep blue ribbed shirt clung to her torso like a second skin, wrapping tightly around strong biceps and broad shoulders. It was tucked into muddy green cargo pants, offsetting the brightness of the steel that covered the toes of her dark boots. You tilted your head and watched as she glanced between you and Anna before she finally decided to shoot the woman a firm nod. Anna’s lips quirked up into a smile. “She was once soldier. Good woman - she will protect you if you’re in trouble. Saved me many many times.” Her blonde curls swished as she nodded to herself. 

That was good to know, you reasoned. Everyone seemed quite strong. Tall, too. And pale. The camp was gorgeous, the people seemed mundane enough, and the company was… well. Your eyes drifted over to Anna’s side profile, a silhouette of soft dips and curves, and you couldn’t hide the attraction you felt even if you tried.

“Larissa, you know too. She is leader, xорошо?” You didn’t really know what ‘harasho’ meant, but the light intonation of her voice had you saying ‘Yeah’ anyway. 

Then an arm was winding itself around yours, jostling the bag on your shoulder and the gun slung around Anna’s body. It rested against her back, hitting her thighs, and you were suddenly powerless to the way she steered you further down the gravel path. Toward the right, there was a makeshift driveway; a patch of land ripped up from the grass and replaced with gravel, soil, and rocks. The black truck made an appearance again, probably having been driven up from around the back, and you watched with curious eyes as Phasma busied herself with a few bags and boxes from the trunk. Jesus, she was fit… tall and lethal. A small grunt left her lips when she hauled two boxes up into her arms, never faltering or pausing. Damn. You found yourself getting lost in the sight of her legs in those cargo pants, filling them out, until Anna clicked her tongue. 

“Lucifer is strange, but ultimately harmless. Do not worry, they are not naked under the robe.” 

Lucifer? Naked under the what? 

You were going to take a quick glance around, to find whatever the hell Anna was talking about, but there was no need. Some feet in front of you, lounging on a red and gold velvet chase, was a lithe figure. They were almost glowing in the reflection of the walkway lamps, with the deep crimson of a flowing silk robe offsetting the smooth pale planes of soft skin. One elbow was propped up on the arm of the chair, and you traced the folds of flowing sleeves up to a slim forearm, wrist, and a delicate hand. Slender fingers were curled under the curve of a pale cheek, and you felt your heartbeat speed up at the sight of soft features and  crystal eyes. And their hair, curled so perfectly into handsome shining ringlets of spun golden-web… goodness, they were… 

“Luxurious,” you murmured, tilting your head as you watched the stranger chat with Larissa. She was standing over them, in front of the chase, and even at that height, you had a feeling that the one laying down was somehow a little bit taller. “Is Lucifer their real name?” 

“Da,” Anna nodded, “little strange, no?” 

“Yeah,” you gave her an odd look. “Strange as fuck.” 

“Don’t get comfortable,” a voice growled from behind you, making you slip away from Anna’s hold and turn around. Phasma was walking past, holding a big bag under each arm. Her muscle was impressive, but dear god she was an asshole. You had to sort out that situation as quick as possible.

“Hey what’s your problem, man?” You spread your hands out at your sides before letting them slap against your thighs. “You picked me up, and while I’m grateful for that, I am, you didn’t have to-”

“Exactly,” she bit out as she whirled around and marched right back to you. Her breath was cool, washing lightly over your face, and she stood so close that your foreheads nearly touched. From that angle, looking up, you could reach out and trace the jagged line of her scar. It was quite attractive actually, even if her eyes narrowed as she watched you look at her. They were cold. Not an ounce of care.

“Don’t. Get. Comfortable.” Her lips twitched, carrying a silent threat.

“Okay,” Larissa’s voice, sing-songy and weary, cut into the conversation. “Why don’t we all take a moment to calm down, hm?” Her smile was blinding as she turned to you. One gloved hand hovered above Phasma’s right shoulder, but was instantly shrugged off the second it made contact. Her sneer didn’t fade even when she stepped back, eyes still flaming with anger. Larissa cleared her throat. “Y/n, you’re new here. Why don’t you and I have a little chat?” 

Her expression, although kind, hid a sharpness that you didn’t think was wise to fuck around with. If Larissa was the leader, according to Anna, then it was her you had to charm. You didn’t really know why she was the top dog, especially because some of the other group members seemed more… abrasive… but clearly something about her was good enough to be the one in charge. And pissing her off, messing around with her people, was a one-way ticket to possibly turning into those fuckers lurking in the woods. So you didn’t really have a choice - and you didn’t really want one. No matter what, you’d stay. You’d be of some help. You’d stay on the soft grass, smelling the clean air. You’d become best friends with Larissa, the group would learn to like you, and you’d try not to combust when any of them looked your way.

Easier said than done though, of course. Especially when Larissa’s smile knocked down all of your reservations at once, in one big swing, and coaxed an obedient nod from your body. 

“Okay. Yes. Sure.” 

“Perfect,” Larissa’s grin, somehow, grew even wider. 

“It’s getting late,” were Phasma’s parting words before she turned away and headed off toward two big wooden double doors. 

You watched her strut without much thought, and found yourself on the other end of a staring Larissa. Her eyes were utterly striking in the evening light, and the outline of her face… a sight to be seen for a person as weary as you. 

“So… is your group considered women only?” You murmured, peering up at her through your eyelashes. 

Red lips twitched. 

“Not intentionally. Though we have had the discussion before,” she contemplated her next words carefully, looking all over your face before resuming, “and we think it’s best if it’s just women. And Lucifer.” 

“And Lucifer?” You still can’t get over that being their real name. Probably just picked out in a moment of edginess when they were a teen. Lucifer did sound cool, sort of bully-worthy. Like they were emo kid once upon a time.

“Lucifer is what many would refer to as non-binary. Not a man and not a woman. I hope that won’t be a problem?” Something flashed behind her eyes. Not a threat, but a warning. You couldn’t help but smile.

“Not at all. They and I are… one and the same,” you shrugged and adjusted the bag on your shoulder. 

“How lucky I must be…,” someone purred from over your shoulder.

You tensed up, surprised by the closeness, and felt yourself grow a little weak at the tone. Like spiced honey, their voice was intense and smooth. You wanted to lap it up. 

“Ah right on time for a proper introduction,” Larissa, ever the most efficient woman from what you could tell so far, found herself a golden opportunity. One hand shot out and gestured over to you, then to the person slinking around to your right. “Y/n this is Lucifer, one of the strongest members of our group. Lucifer and I make most of the big decisions, with the necessary input from everyone else. And Lucifer,” Larissa’s grin relaxed into a smile, “this is Y/n. Depending on our discussion of the rules, they may become a familiar face, so I suggest you play nice.” 

You found that you couldn’t look to the side without short-circuiting. There was something.. something… about their aura that had you wanting to shy away and cower. It wasn’t the explosive intensity of Phasma or the consuming strangeness of Anna, or even the gentle but strong hand of Larissa… but instead a subtle sort of consumption. Utterly intriguing and fascinating - like they were put on the Earth to confuse humans. You didn’t even look at them and you could feel that. Didn’t even know them and you could feel that. Standing so close. So much body heat. 

“It’s a pleasure,” they murmured, turning to you fully. 

You swallowed, braced yourself, and looked up to your right. 

Sweet holy Jesus. They were even more handsome up close. Just absolutely soft and glorious. And carrying the faint scent of… firewood? You cleared your throat. 

“Um yeah- likewise. Hi.” 

A flash of black, followed by measured footsteps in the grass, had all three of you shifting to see Jane walking past. Miranda was not too far behind, taking her time to cross the yard. 

“Dinner is being prepared. Show face in the next 20 minutes or go to bed hungry.” Jane didn’t even spare you a glance before she disappeared behind the same doors Phasma had gone through. 

“Thank you, Jane,” Larissa managed to call just before they closed behind her with a dull bang. 

“Three moves…,” Miranda was muttering, holding the box for the chess set in one hand. “She beat me in three moves.” 

“Oh it’s not hard. I would’ve beaten you in two,” another voice entered the fray, polite but amused. Jan, you recognized, as she sidled up between you and Larissa with a small smile on her deep red lips. 

Miranda scoffed and turned to look at Anna, only to find that she was gone. One glance behind you revealed that she’d wandered over to Brienne, probably prompting her to go inside for dinner. You hummed, hiding the amusement of friendly banter. It had been so long since you felt even the smallest sense of normalcy. If they were so comfortable with each other, then it must have been a bit since they were all alone out in the world. You’d probably ask Larissa about that later - once everything was said and done. 

“I would’ve beaten you in one,” Lucifer smirked as they pulled away and went walking inside. Had they been barefoot the entire time? 

“That’s not even possible!” Miranda yelled, but the door was already shut. “...Is it?” She turned to Larissa, then to you, then back to Larissa. 

“I don’t think so, Miranda,” Larissa smiled before looking at you. “Any chance you’re good at chess?” 

Dear lord, having two sets of beautiful blue eyes on you was nerve-wracking, but you ignored the flush building up on your cheeks and nodded. 

“Um yeah- it’s possible to beat someone in two moves. But it’s only black, I think.” You gave Miranda an apologetic smile and a shrug as she pouted. 

“You will beat her next time Miranda,” Anna returned with Brienne in her wake. The sword she was sharpening earlier was still in her hands. “She cannot win forever.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Brienne cut in, her voice strong and deep. Her mouth was pulled into a light frown, and you noticed the scar that cut through the upper lip on the right. From the time before, you suspected. Otherwise she’d be turned. “She beat me and Phasma one after the other.” 

Miranda sighed, tsking beneath her breath. 

“Then there’s no hope…” Goodness, she looked like a sad puppy.

“Why not?” It slipped out of your mouth before you could grab it. 

And of course, all of the attention then dragged itself over to you. Five sets of sea-blue eyes, all gorgeous in the glow of the evening lamps, traced lines over your tired body. In comparison to them, you looked a sight. Obviously having been picked up from the side of the road, unclean and awkward, somewhat detached from society. In your bag? Not enough clothing and not enough supplies. In your belt, peeking out from beneath your shirt? A knife, dirty and growing dull. And in your eyes? Lurking sadness and horror - the same which probably lived in the women that were observing you. 

Larissa, thank goodness, finally broke the lull of silence. 

“Brienne and Phasma were in the military,” she said gently.

“Oh. That makes sense.” And it did - Jane must have been an intellectual force if she beat people that used to be in the military before the world ended. Though that made you wonder… “What branch?” You turned to Brienne, not really surprised that you had to look up to meet her eyes. It seemed you’d been adopted into a camp of skyscrapers. Though the sharpness of her eyes had you swallowing. “I mean- if you don’t mind me asking.” 

She seemed to consider it, sizing you up, before saying, rather shortly, “SAS. Then Delta Force.” 

You couldn’t hide the way your eyes widened. 

“Oh.” 

“Oh, indeed,” Larissa hummed. “But I think now would be a good time to head in, wouldn’t you say?” She spared her smile for everyone, meeting the gaze of each woman, before finally looking at you and raising her eyebrow. 

It wasn’t really up to you, so you just shrugged and waited for Anna to say ‘Da, da, xорошо’ before heading in. Brienne followed after her, then Miranda, who was studying the back of the chess box, and Larissa, who started taking off her gloves. Jan, meanwhile, stayed where she was and kept her eyes on you. They were curious and deep, never-ending, and lined with mascara and eyeliner. Mascara and eyeliner that… well it suited her, but goodness it was certainly intense. Dark and shadowed, but beautiful nevertheless. You couldn’t look away. 

“Jan Stevens,” she breathed and gave you her hand, elegant and admittedly quite charming. Her nails were painted a deep cherry red. Utterly flawless.

At the sight of it, you weren’t entirely sure what to do. Your palms were still dirty, and sort of calloused, and you didn’t want to… ruin her. So you hesitated, stared at it, looked back up at her, and found her kind smile to be unwavering. 

“Go on,” Jan finally whispered, giving her hand a pointed look, and you fell prey in an instant. 

Quickly, you shot out to gently cup her hand into your own, and gave it a gentle shake. You felt strangely compelled to bring it up to your lips, but you weren’t sure that meeting a stranger in an apocalypse really called for such formalities. Even though you yearned to feel her skin beneath your mouth. It wasn’t proper; though you did think that Jan’s expression fell just a little bit. Like she was excited. Like she wanted you to kiss her hand. 

“Y/n. It’s nice to meet you.” 

“Likewise,” she purred, looking you up and down, before turning toward the door. “Come quickly now. If we’re late, Jane will send us off to bed without dinner. And we wouldn’t want that.” 

It probably would have been wise to consider and contemplate the fact that you were in a stranger’s camp, with a stranger’s group… but the saucy little wink that Jan threw over her shoulder sent a deep blush crawling up your cheeks. And just like that, without fail, you were one of the flesh-eaters… caught in the pretty paws of eight different beasts. 

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Please let me know if my characterization is okay and if you'd like to see more. Be safe, darlings. - Rip x

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Far too many names to tag. Find it as you come.

David Kawena -

The Hawaiian sun shimmered on the waves the day you met David

You’d come to Hawaii on a long-overdue vacation

A much-needed escape from the noise of city life

You’d been wandering the shoreline with your sketchbook, hair tousled by the sea breeze, when David caught sight of you trying to balance a coffee cup, your sandals, sketchbook, and a camera all at once

You had forgotten a bag and didn't want to walk allllllll the way back to the hotel just to grab it

He chuckled softly, stepping forward with that easy, radiant grin

"Need a hand there, sunshine?" He teased, offering help

You looked up, and that was it

The kind of moment poets try to capture and fail

His warmth was disarming, his laughter easy, and the way he carried himself - onfident but never overbearing - immediately set him apart

It started with casual chats by the water, him teaching you how to surf

"Okay, so don’t fight the board- Let it dance with you" He’d say

You’d bring your sketchbook and draw while he surfed, sometimes sketching him

He’d take you to hidden spots locals adored

Little roadside stands with fresh pineapple juice

Tide pools that glowed at dusk

And the kind of quiet beaches where the stars seemed close enough to touch

David would show up at your hotel door with leis he’d made himself

Soft pink plumerias and white orchids

"For the prettiest flower on the island"

He’d brush the hair from your face, fingertips lingering a second too long, both of you pretending not to notice the way your hearts raced

Nights were spent lying on the sand, talking about dreams and fears

His voice soft and steady beside you

You realized you’d fallen for him the night he walked with you along the shore of the beach, your fingers brushing his as he told you a funny story about work

One golden sunset later, he confessed

In his way, calm and sincere

He found you painting near the shore, the ocean breeze tangling your hair

"I’ve been thinking," He said, scratching the back of his neck, "I know you'll be going soon, but I was wondering if you'd, maybe, I don't know, want to go on a date with me tonight?"

You laughed, cheeks burning, "and when he leaned in to kiss you, it felt like the sea itself sighed with relief "I'd love to"

You and David are the embodiment of warmth and tenderness

You spend lazy afternoons with your legs tangled as you sit on a picnic blanket

He calls you "sunshine" and "babe," sometimes "my lucky charm"

You wear his shirts when painting, and he wears the bracelet you made him from pink coral

You cook together

He insists on teaching you Hawaiian dishes

Nights are for slow dancing barefoot on the sand to early 2000s songs from your phone, his hands steady at your waist

Every year, he takes you stargazing on your anniversary, pointing out constellations as you rest your head on his chest

You’ve become his muse

He still claims your laugh is the prettiest sound on the island

~~~

Disney;

Queen Anna of Arendelle -

You were Arendelle’s newly appointed archivist

A dream job for a curious, detail-loving mind like yours

Most days were quiet until Queen Anna herself wandered into the archives, hair slightly messy

"I’m supposed to be finding the royal family’s old travel logs," She confessed with an embarrassed smile, "But I got lost somewhere between 'maps' and 'miscellaneous'"

You laughed, guiding her toward the correct shelves

And just like that, your friendship began

Anna would visit the archives often, pretending she needed help with records but mostly just wanting your company

You’d end up sitting on the floor, surrounded by tomes, giggling over ridiculous letters or sketching doodles

She loved your humor and admired how passionate you were about art and stories

She made you try Arendellian pastries until you had a favorite

A sweet berry tart she started bringing just for you

Your feelings grew quietly

In the way her gaze lingered too long when you talked about your art

How your hand brushed hers when you reached for the same book

You noticed her cheeks flush deeper every time you complimented her smile

You’d stay up late with her by the fire, talking about everything from old legends to silly gossip, both of you unaware of the world outside that moment

It came unexpectedly

One night, she found you outside sketching

"You’ll catch cold," She scolded, wrapping her scarf around your neck

You smiled, whispering, "You always take care of me"

She looked at you then and admitted, voice trembling, "Because I don’t want to imagine this place without you"

Your relationship is full of laughter and small acts of love

She calls you "sweetheart"

And you tease her endlessly about her inability to hide how much she adores you

You paint her in secret

Sometimes regal, sometimes just her in a nightgown laughing

She surprises you with picnics in the royal gardens, bringing cocoa and your favorite pastries

You help her with royal speeches

Nights are for reading in bed together, her head on your shoulder as you hum an old songs softly under your breath

Every winter, you build a snow fort together

Though she always cheats and asks Elsa for help

~~~

DC;

Clark Kent (Superman) -

The first day you walked into The Daily Planet, bright-eyed and armed with too many pens, you accidentally spilled your coffee right onto Clark Kent’s shirt

"Oh no- I’m so sorry! You blurted, fumbling for napkins, and he just laughed

That low, soft laugh that made everything else fade away

"Don’t worry about it" He said, smiling that impossibly kind smile, "Happens to me more than you’d think"

Clark quickly became your mentor

Showing you how to chase leads, encouraging your writing, gently teasing you when your curiosity got you into trouble

"You can’t charm information out of every police officer, you know" He’d joke, though you always somehow did

He admired your energy, your creative chaos, your ability to see beauty in everything

You’d share lunch breaks in the park, talking about music and philosophy, him always genuinely interested in your every word

You started noticing how his gaze softened whenever you got excited about a story

How his voice always lowered when he said your name

You’d stay late editing, and he’d bring you coffee

"Cream, two sugars, right?" He’d say, and you’d wonder how he remembered

He found your chaos endearing; you found his steadiness magnetic

When a thunderstorm hit and you flinched at the sound, he was there instantly

Large, reassuring hand on yours

"You’re safe" He murmured

It happened after a long night of writing

You both stood on the Planet rooftop, watching the city lights glitter below

You were rambling about constellations when he said quietly, "I absolutely adore you"

You turned, startled, and saw the truth in his eyes, "Clark…" You whispered

His confession wasn’t a grand gesture, but it felt cosmic nonetheless - two souls meeting mid-orbit

Dating Clark is equal parts tenderness and awe

He calls you "darling" and "angel"

You leave him little doodles on his desk, and he leaves you Post-it notes with tiny hearts drawn on them

Date nights range from simple (home-cooked dinners where he insists on washing the dishes) to extraordinary (flying you to a secluded mountaintop just to watch the sunrise)

You love slow Sunday mornings

Him in soft flannel, you in his shirt, sharing pancakes while an old record hums in the background

You make him laugh more than anyone else ever could

And sometimes, when the world gets heavy, he finds peace just by resting his forehead against yours

~~~

DC;

Helena Bertinelli (Huntress) -

It was late

Far too late for comfort

When you found yourself walking home after studying at the library

The city was quieter than usual

Shadows stretching long and deep between the streetlights

You didn’t notice the footsteps behind you until a gloved hand reached for your bag

And then suddenly, she was there

Huntress

Hair whipping in the wind, a blur of motion and strength

She disarmed the mugger in seconds, then turned to you with a reassuring smirk

"You alright?" She asked

You nodded, breathless, captivated by the glint of her eyes behind the mask

You didn’t expect to see her again, but fate had other plans

You kept crossing paths with Helena, the brilliant, mysterious woman who seemed to show up at the same café you frequented, the same art galleries, even the same lecture you attended once on Gotham architecture

Coincidence?

You didn’t think so

You found her quiet confidence alluring, her subtle humor intoxicating

She found your curiosity and charm disarming, your warmth something she didn’t realize she’d been craving

It was a slow unraveling

The way she’d look at you when she thought you weren’t watching

The way she’d walk you home, fingers brushing yours just briefly

You’d share drinks in quiet bars, her teasing you about your chaos energy, you teasing her about her brooding

She admired your creativity and your fire

How you could hold your own in any conversation

You loved her sense of justice, the softness she tried to hide

It came one night after a mission went wrong

She showed up at your window, bruised and exhausted

You helped clean her wounds, your hands shaking

"You shouldn’t be here" You whispered, tears threatening

"And yet, I always end up here," He murmured, eyes locked on yours

The silence between you burned

Then she kissed you

And you melted into her, the world outside forgotten

Helena loves deeply, though she doesn’t always know how to show it

You become her anchor

Her softness in a city of sharp edges

She calls you "trouble," "sweetheart," and when she’s teasing, "my favorite distraction"

You two spend evenings cooking simple meals, music playing in the background, you humming along as she watches, a rare smile on her face

Sometimes she’ll take you on her motorcycle, your arms tight around her waist as the city lights blur by

When she’s Huntress, you wait up with tea and a blanket

When she’s Helena, you trace the scars on her shoulders, whispering, "I love you"

You make her laugh

A deep, rare sound

And she makes you feel protected in a way that’s both thrilling and gentle