#death x reader

Part I: The Premonition

The vision was an incision—precise, sterile, and irreversible. It wasn’t a nightmare, you were there. Nightmares are messy and unclear, hot things that come with teeth and sound. This was cold and you felt every moment, every emotion. A vision soaked in static and gravity. No monsters. No voice whispering warnings. Just inevitability. Something mathematical.

You knew before the bus flipped. You knew before you watched the driver’s head tilt ninety degrees too far to the left. You knew the sound the metal would make when it peeled back, the way your friend’s jaw would detach, the way fire would flicker under the hood of the oncoming truck before swallowing all of it.

You saw it before it happened. So you screamed.

They listened, eventually. Twenty-three people standing on the shoulder of a two-lane highway, half of them still holding Red Bulls and cheap headphones, staring at you like you’d grown teeth where your eyes should be. Seven minutes later, the bus became an inferno. The explosion took three street cameras to analyze. It made the news. You were a survivor. A hero.

Part II: The Pattern

The deaths didn’t begin loudly. That would have been easier to forgive. Your best friend, Jess was first. She had the sort of face that always looked surprised to be alive. That stopped being true the day her body was found. No water on the bathroom tiles. No impact bruises on the skull. Just a snap. The kind that doesn’t come from slipping, but from turning. Turning to look at something behind her. It was unnatural. Nothing in that bathroom could have caused her neck to snap so cleanly.

You visited the house. No one had touched anything yet. The room was clean. Sterile, almost. But there was a smell. Not rot. Not bleach. Roses.

The second was Max. Electrocuted. Burned from the inside out. His mother said he’d been playing music too loud again. You couldn’t hear her. You were staring at the song title. “You Are Mine.” It had repeated 147 times. It had looped itself even after the battery should’ve died. There were no roses in the room. But the screen of his phone had fractured. Not shattered—fractured. Hairline cracks, perfect and straight. Shaped like something you couldn’t recognise in your grief.

It kept going.

Part III: Stillness

It has been three weeks since the last death. Everyone else is gone. You’ve stopped opening the blinds. You can’t remember if the sun still moves across the floor. The plants in your kitchen are alive because they have learned to survive without you.

Your name was the last on the list. You checked it twenty-seven times. You scratched it into your wrist with the tip of a safety pin to make sure it stayed. But nothing happens. You wake up. You sleep, barely. You eat cereal without tasting it. No flickering lights. No pattern of footsteps in the hallway. No sound of breath when you hold yours just to check.

At first you tried to search in between the cracks of the vision. Hoped you could remember a part where you didn’t die or a part you remembered wrong or forgot. Then you accepted it and waited. Waited for the inevitable to happen, to take you out of your misery.

Then nothing happened and that was worse than dying.

You tried to kill yourself once. The gun didn’t fire. It clicked twice and the third time, the safety was on, though you remember checking it. You laughed for seventeen minutes. Then you stopped laughing. You haven’t tried again.

Like you are not allowed to die yet.

Part IV: The Romantic

The faucet drips in pairs. Two drops, pause, two more. Like breathing. Inhale, exhale, pause, inhale, exhale, pause. It stops each time you enter the room. Your furniture shifts itself a half-inch overnight. Your door never creaks, but your mirror fogs even when you don’t shower. You checked the pipes. You checked the seals. You unscrewed the bulbs and left them out. They still glow when you blink too long. Nothing moves in front of you. But everything rearranges.

You managed to gather enough will to go take a bath. The tub filled but the water wouldn’t go down the drain. You ripped the seal off with your bare fingers, your blood mixing with the water. Clogged. With rose petals. Not red ones, black ones. Ones that you never even owned. And when you took a single one into your hand, the black liquid started dripping down your hand, down your wrist. Diesel oil, like from the bus that was a curse in disguise of a blessing.

You don’t scream. That reaction burned itself out six deaths ago. What you feel now is quieter. Less human. Not fear. Not even grief. Just… a sharpening. Like the world has become too defined. Every edge now slices if you look too closely.

Part V: The Suitors

Why was it keeping you alive when you so desperately wanted to not be? There was a reason in your head, a passing thought. It was an experiment. You noticed every man that looked at you too long die, even if they’re not on ‘the list’.

His name was Julian. He was not important. He was an answer to a question you were afraid to ask directly: Will just everyone around me die instead of me?

He flirted over the counter at the pharmacy. Asked about your jacket. Said it reminded him of something French. You told him he didn’t look like he could spell "France." He laughed like it was a compliment.

You agreed to meet him. Not because you wanted to. But because you didn’t. That was the variable.

You chose a public place. A café with glass walls. You sat with your back to the room. You didn’t touch his hand. You didn’t even let your knee brush his under the table. You didn’t look at him for more than four seconds at a time. You kept your heart out of it.

It didn’t matter.

You excused yourself to the bathroom. Seven minutes later, when you returned, Julian’s face had been pressed clean through the sugar-glass tabletop. There were no screams. No witnesses saw it happen. His body was mangled from the glass, it was almost beyond recognition. But somehow his heart managed to stay in perfect condition, falling right into the bouquet of roses he gave you.

VI: The Courtship

You are being courted. Not with words. With consequence.

You find a poem carved into your bathroom mirror. It isn’t written in blood. It isn’t even legible at first. It only appears when the mirror fogs. The first stanza reads:

I have followed you through time not to take,
but to become the air between your thoughts.
You mistake silence for mercy. It is not.
It is longing.

You haven’t told anyone because there is no one left to tell. You’ve tried documenting it. Phone, camera, voice memo. Nothing records. The screen shows static. The files erase. Sometimes you play them back and hear your own voice repeating lines you don’t remember saying. One of them is, Please… don’t leave me empty tonight.

You don’t remember saying that.

VII: Repetition

Every man you meet dies.

One had a heart attack mid-sentence. You were at a museum. He said, You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever— and dropped. The statue beside him of the ancient Greek god Eros, god of love, fell on him. Buried him. Flattened his body completely.

Another was crushed by a piano falling through a skylight. You hadn’t touched him. You had only smiled. But you saw the look in his eyes before it happened. That shine. That beginning.

It’s the beginning Death punishes.

He knows the moment it starts. Not the touch. Not the kiss. The shift. The inward lean of your gaze. The way your breath slows when someone holds your attention too long.

You don’t think Death is jealous. Jealousy is petty.

This is ownership.

VIII: Consummation

Then it starts in sleep. Not a dream. You don’t dream anymore. This is something else. You are not lying in your bed; you are not even sure you have a body anymore. There is no weight, no edge to your shape. But there is pressure.

It begins at the back of your throat. A stillness that spreads inward, not outward. You are not breathing, but you are being filled.

Something is inside you. Not physically. There is no intrusion. No penetration. But there is a knowing. A widening. Like every part of your consciousness is being read, and rewritten.

You feel hands that aren’t hands, heat that doesn’t burn, but saturates. Your spine arches without your permission. Your jaw slackens. Your legs go taut. There is no touch, and yet every nerve is singing.

You try to speak. Your mouth moves, but no sound comes. There is no need. He already knows. He has always known.

Your thighs are wet.
You didn’t move.
You never moved.

But you are shaking now.

You feel a weight between your legs that doesn’t belong to gravity. A rhythm that doesn’t come from movement but from inevitability. There’s no thrust. There’s no friction. There’s just presence filling every silence in your body until your skin hums from the inside.

You come like a prayer. Silent. Shaking. No witness but the one who made you this way. When you wake, there are bruises. Not fingerprints. Not shaped by hands. They look more like your skin in those areas went grey, making your veins appear almost black.

Perfect, deep, cold. He didn’t touch you. He didn’t need to. He was inside you already. You check the sheets. The blood between your thighs is fresh. But you feel no pain.


IX: The Second Time

It happens again two weeks later. Not in sleep. Not in the safety of dreams where reality can be dismissed like fog. You are awake.

It’s 3:38 a.m. You are staring at the ceiling. Counting the cracks in the plaster again because it’s better than counting how many people you’ve buried. The air is still. Heavy. A pressure behind your eyes, like something is watching from inside your skull.

The sheets are stiff with cold. But something changes. You hear a small sound in the corner of the room, like something fell. As you almost jump out of your skin, you look at your AC that’s suddenly blowing chilling air into the room. The temperature drops a few degrees too fast. The air thickens—so dense your breath catches in your throat. And that’s when you feel it.

Not a touch. Not yet.

More like… gravity. Centered at your pelvis.

You don’t move.
You can’t move.

Your fingers twitch once, like they’re trying to say something. But your arms feel pinned, not by weight, but by expectation. Like the moment right before a plane crashes. That dead hush. Everyone waiting for something they can’t see.

Then: heat.

Spreading between your legs like ink in water. Not from outside. From within. Slow at first. Intrusive. Humiliating. You try to close your thighs. They don’t listen. You try to scream. Your lips part, but the air won’t come.

There’s nothing on top of you. But you’re being taken. Not violently. That would be easier. No, this is… intimate. Obsessive. Each wave is patient. Calculated. Like he’s learning you in real-time, mapping your nerves like constellations. Touching places inside you that don’t physically exist. Places your own fingers could never reach.

Your legs begin to shake.
You try to pull away from the feeling.
But it’s already inside you.

And then it escalates.

Your head falls back. Not from pleasure. From shock. You feel a tongue—no, not a tongue, not anything living—drag across the softest part of your throat. Just once. Slowly. But there’s no one there. Your heart stutters, skips a beat, and never picks it back up.

You can feel your own body clenching against something you can’t name. You are crying. But you’re also moaning. You’re unsure where one ends and the other begins. The pleasure grows unbearable. Not because it hurts. But because it doesn’t. It feels perfect. It feels designed. Your hips arch into the nothing above you.

You didn’t even notice it was your own hand in-between your thighs. But when you did, you realise he’s making you do this to yourself. He’s puppeting your desire like a marionette. You’re not being fucked. You’re being performed.

The orgasm tears through you like a collapse, ecstatic and horrifying. You bite your tongue. There’s blood. But you keep going. You can’t stop. Not until he lets you.

And then it ends.

Not gradually. Not with a soft come-down. But with a snap, like a switch flipped in reverse. Suddenly you’re alone. Cold. Wet. Wrung out and empty in a way you’ve never been before. You vomit over the side of the bed. Nothing but bile. You look down. Between your thighs: blood again. This time both on your thighs and your fingers.

X: The Sequence

You moved after that. A new apartment. Less mirrors this time. You thought if you denied him symbols, no roses, no mirrors, no candles, he would lose interest. You should’ve known better. Death doesn’t like it when you mess with his plans.

It starts when your tea spills. You left it at a weird angle without noticing. A single drop beading over the edge like it chooses to fall. It hits the corner of the newspaper, the one that arrived this morning with no name and no headline. Just an address. Your address.

The tea seeps across the table. Capillary action, stretching toward the edge. Where it drips once onto the extension cord below. The outlet sparks. The lights flicker. Your phone vibrates across the counter. It hits the floor with a crack, sliding until it bumps your speaker. The speaker turns on. You didn’t charge it.

It must have damaged it in some way because it starts to rapidly skip songs from their chorus until it stops on one song. “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” by Jeff Buckley. But it’s slow and distorted, echoing through the apartment.

Your laptop turns on next. You didn’t touch it. It opens a browser window. Auto-played video. No image. Just audio. Breathing.

Yours.

Overlaid with another. Deeper. Slower. Syncing to yours until it overtakes it. Your heater clicks. A vent opens. Warm air hits your ankle. Rises slowly. Like fingers. Like breath. You stumble back. But your body’s already responding. Skin flushed. The warmth sharpens. Concentrates. Your pajama shorts stick to your thighs. Not from fear. From sweat.

You hear a drawer open behind you. You didn’t move. Inside, a vibrator. One you didn’t use ever since before that premonition that took over your life. Sleek. Black. The rose emblem etched into the base. A single button. Already blinking.

You step back. Your foot gets tangled in some cables you left out earlier, causing you to fall onto your knees in-front of the couch. You hiss as you hit the ground, trying to untangle your foot and turn off your laptop simultaneously.

The heat from the vent crawls between your thighs. Air becomes pressure. The kind you only feel when someone’s looking at you from across a crowded room and wants you undone. The audio on the laptop moans. It’s your voice. You haven’t made a sound. As the audio keeps going you recognise it to be the one you took with your ex boyfriend, but you don’t hear his moans in it, just yours.

You have tears in your eyes at this point, your skin feels like it’s on fire. Then, you reach for the vibrator. Not to stop it. To beg.

You sit back against the floor, legs open. The hum matches the sound in the room. It isn’t random, it’s calibrated. Designed for you. Frequencies that resonate deep. It touches you—no, you touch yourself, but it feels like him. He is the pattern. He is the sound.

Your back arches. Your lips part. You cry out, finally, but the sound gets eaten by the song that is still playing on the speaker. The video on your laptop skips. You’re watching yourself now. From an angle that doesn’t exist. From inside the room.

You should be terrified. But all you feel is climax pulling you apart with surgical grace.

There’s no voice. No face. But his presence is wrapped around every nerve. No stranger could know your body like this. No living thing could.

You come so hard you forget your name.
The video ends.
The speaker dies.

You lie there, chest heaving, the vibrator still humming against you like it’s trying to coax your soul out through your cunt. You don’t move. Can’t. Your muscles feel like wet thread.

Then—click.

Not from the oven. Not from the walls. From the laptop. The screen flickers. White noise. Then video. Not porn. Not surveillance. Something worse.

Your best friend, Jess’ face appears. The one you took before that trip almost a year ago. She’s laughing, so are you in the video. It was a stupid video, taken in the moment. The camera pans to a white purse stained with red lipstick. “Now which one of us is the culprit?” you say through giggles. Jess laughs, “Im telling it was yours!”

Then it cuts.

You and your ex are on the next video. The one who went through the windshield. You’re singing in the car. He’s tapping the steering wheel. “My whole existence is flawed, you get me closer to God—“

Then cut again.

Your cousin. The one who drowned. She’s brushing her hair in the mirror. Humming. The same melody you heard echoing in your head for weeks after her death. You accidentally drop something in the video and she jumps, “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

Cut again.

You sit up, too fast. The room tilts.

The laptop cycles through them. One by one. Not their deaths, just before. Clips of them alive. Intimate, private.

Next video is Max, mad about Jess dropping his guitar. “Jess, you ruined it!”— cut. Then it’s you filming a video of yourself walking through your family home and seeing a snack you really like. You take it in the video while saying, “Oo, mine, thank you very much—“ then the videos start circling. Again and again, shorter and shorter until each clip is overlaid with a single word. No context. Just fragments:

“Yours.”
“Closer.”
“Nearly.”
“Ruined.”
“Mine.”

The final clip loads. It’s you. Sleeping. Mouth parted. One hand between your thighs. But the angle—it’s from the ceiling. You don’t have a camera there. You don’t remember touching yourself that night. But you’re watching it happen. The way your hips twitch. The way you whimper.

It keeps playing.

“What the fuck?” you nearly whimper out. You shouldn’t be surprised after the paranormal shit you have been living through for months, but it feels weird to see it.

Your voice comes through the speaker—soft, like it’s buried under a pillow. “Please… not again.” The video keeps playing. You press pause. It doesn’t stop. You hit the keyboard. The screen flickers—just once—and your own eyes on the video open.

Not like sleepwalking. Not like waking. Like looking right at you. And your voice—through the speaker now, soft, stretched too long, like it’s been slowed down on tape:

“Please… don’t leave me empty tonight.”

You step back, hand over your mouth. That’s not what you said. You remember what you said. Didn’t you? The clip cuts abruptly. Sequence Interrupted. Rerouting.

You freeze. The air behind you doesn’t move, but you feel it, an intelligence that isn’t breathing down your neck, but inside your lungs. Your mind connects the words. Sequence interrupted. The death sequence, the same one you interrupted—the final video;

A spreadsheet.

Names.

Times.

Methods.

Your friends. Their deaths.

Your name at the top.

But instead of a timestamp, it says:

Outcome: Claimed.

Not “survived.” Not “deceased.” Claimed.

And then you understand.

You didn’t cheat Death. You were taken out of the system. You didn’t die but you’re not living either. Your life wasn’t taken physically, it was taken in every other sense.

Not spared. Stolen.

You laugh through your tears, you feel dizzy. Your hand goes to tug on your own hair, but then—

Click. The vibrator turns on again. And you give in, because you know your life isn’t your own anymore.