#immortal!reader

“This jacket’s from 1643. I’d like to keep it intact.”

Basic Information:

Name: It’s your name, of course!!

Age: 20’s physically. Cannot age.

Story: Despite centuries of life, you’ve retained a fragile kind of hope. You're weary, yes, but still gentle, still kind. Because if you lose that… then what’s left?

Even if you stay in your 20’s for the rest of your life, unable to truly age, you must still move forward.

You’ve survived plagues, wars, collapses, Alien Invasions™ — but none of them truly stuck with you. Until music. Humanity’s desperation, their need to sing when all else fails? That’s what makes you stay. That’s what you love.

You’ve refused Alien Stage for as long as you can remember — you know how dangerous it is. If you entered, you could never leave. The aliens would never let a living myth walk away now, would they? Look at what they’ve done to Luka.

You can’t die, and henceforth would kill the other opponent. And they don’t deserve that. They do not deserve death.

So you hide away from peering eyes.

You don’t want to be worshipped.

You want to be remembered right. For your love of music. Your strange doodles. Your favorite fruit that went extinct.

You’ve remembered every name of those who have crossed your path, even writing them down so you wouldn’t forget them. Every name, every soul, has a story. You’ve long come to realize that from your many years of living, thinking you’d have no other reason other than that.

But, now? You’ve found them.



Sua makes you kneel on silk.

Originally, you’d just handed her a dagger as she stares at the thing within her pale hands.

“1431. A jealous queen’s last kill. She swore to the corpse she’d never touch another.” You mention, standing in front of the short woman.

“And you want me to be her?” Sua softly speaks, brows slightly furrowed as she looks up at you.

“I want you to understand that even if you destroy me, I’ll crawl back to you.”

You bare your chest to her. Kneel before her.

“Right here.”

Then—

She stabs you in one clean motion.

No hesitation.

You gasp. Golden sprays her wrist, her cheek.

And you grab her shirt and kiss her with everything left in you.

It’s hungry. Brutal, even. And you moan into it.

You die in her arms. Still kissing.

And when you return, gold leaking from the corner of your mouth, she doesn’t even speak.

She grabs your face gently and kisses you again.

Now? This time, as you kneel on the silk before her, the dagger now is polished to gleam. She kneels behind you, kisses your shoulder.

“Do you trust me?”

“With my death.”

She drives the blade into your spine.

You choke, lurching forward. Gold splashes all around you.

She wraps her arms around you as you go limp. They envelop you, keeping you pressed against her as she begins whispering into your ear:

“You’re beautiful like this. Still. Quiet. Mine.”

And then she tilts your head to the side over your shoulder, and kisses you. Tongue slick with your blood. Your head lolls back into her mouth.

When you awaken, she doesn’t stop.

She keeps kissing you.

Keeps cutting.

Keeps whispering,

“More.”

Mizi holds the gun more steady now

You give her the pistol like it’s just an ordinary flower. She holds it like a poisonous snake trying to bite her.

“1920s. A wedding, a gun, a suicide. I watched the whole thing happen.”

Her hands are shaking.

“Please—don’t make me do this.”

You tuck hair behind her ear. All while smiling softly at her.

“I’m not making you. I’m offering myself. Because I want you to see the worst of me, and still be able to love me.”

Your hand guides hers. Now pointing the barrel to your heart.

Then—you lean forward.

And kiss her. Slow. Full. Sticky with her tears.

She gasps into your mouth, tears still falling.

And—she pulls the trigger.

Your body jolts. You stagger.

And yet, you’re still kissing her when your lungs collapse.

You die slumped against her, mouth still open, gold dripping onto her collarbone and seeping through her shirt.

When you come back, she’s still holding you like she’s praying.

“You’re not real,” she whispers, tears filling her vision.

You kiss her again. Softer this time. With a smile.

“But I’m yours.”

But this time? She holds the pistol like a dance partner now.

“I still have nightmares about the first time.”

“I don’t.”

You kneel. Chest bared for her.

“Show me how far love can go.”

She cries. But her hands are steady.

She places the barrel against your sternum. Then kisses you first. Slowly. Desperately.

“I’m going to kill you like I mean it this time.”

You nod in response, wrapping your arms around her neck.

Then, she fires.

Gold splashes her. You gasp, coughing on your own blood before—

You die with her name still in your throat.

And she kisses your dead lips until you gasp awake again, blood drying on your chin.

“You’re mine,” she whispers.

“Even if I have to kill you every night to believe it.”

Hyuna doesn’t even use a weapon this time.

At first, when you first handed her the gun, she was confused. It was after a mission and the two of you were just lounging about.

“1871. A rebel missed. His lover forgave him anyway.”

You give it to her.

She’s shaking, staring in disbelief. You kneel in-between her legs, wrapping your arms around her waist.

“Kill me. If that’s what it takes for you to believe me.”

She cries as she holds the gun.

“I’ve lost too many people. I can’t lose you too.”

You smile. You lean in.

And kiss her.

It’s a mess. Desperate. Loud, even.

And then, in the midst of it all, she fires.

You slump forward. Still kissing her.

And when you return to your consciousness—bleeding and smiling—you find her still frozen, just staring at you. Your head resting within her lap, the gun on your chest.

Your gold blood is still on her lips.

And you lean up and kiss her again.

Longer this time.

As if sealing a promise.

The second time? It’s not a gun.

It’s her teeth.

She pushes you down against a wall. Unbuttons your shirt. Hands sticky with wine after the long night.

“No weapon. No steel. I want to feel you break under me.”

She bites your throat. Hard. Blood spurts. You gasp.

Then she punches you in the gut—once, twice, until your organs rupture.

You’re slumping.

And she’s kissing your mouth between every blow.

“Come on,” she whispers.

“Die for me. Show me I still matter.”

You do.

And when you wake up against the couch with her hovering above you still, she then straddles you. Your blood in her mouth dripping out, but she doesn’t care, just caging your head with her arms.

“God, you’re disgusting. Let’s do it again.”

Ivan has become obsessed.

When you first spoke of it, you pressed the scalpel into his hands. Glinting under the sterile lights, you’d cleaned it before handing it to him.

“A hospital in 1952. The doctor fell in love with every patient. He called it healing.”

Ivan blinks slowly.

“You want me to operate on you, or murder you?”

“Both, if it means you’ll kiss me first.”

He doesn’t laugh. He studies you. Cold. Sharp. Unreadable.

You guide the blade to your wrist. Drag it down until gold pours free.

He doesn’t stop you. He watches. Face frozen.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers.

“Only if you leave.”

He kneels. Stares up at you. Then—so sudden you don’t flinch—he presses his mouth to yours.

It’s warm. Slow. Open. Sticky with blood.

You whisper against his mouth, “Slit my throat.”

And he does.

It’s clean. Precise. Quick.

Your body twitches as gold sprays from your throat. And yet—your lips never leave his.

You die with your tongue still inside his mouth.

And when you return, breathing shallow, you finish the kiss properly.

Ivan looks wrecked. His voice cracks.

“I thought I’d have to lose you to keep you.”

“You did. And you still kissed me.”

He has posed you like a study. You’re lying naked across a table, wrists open, ribs bare. And yet, you don’t mind it.

He’s already cut you tonight.

Just to see.

He kisses your shoulder. Then your neck. Then your thigh. All gold-stained, from your blood, from the amount of times he kissed you all over while cutting up your body.

“Every part of you grows back… Does that mean I can take everything?”

“Do you want to try?”

You offer him the scalpel again next to you which he’d placed down. And this time, he sinks it into your sternum slowly.

Your body arches under him.

You whimper. Bleeding for him.

And he kisses you during the entire process. Desperate. Deep. Hands on your broken ribcage as your chest collapses.

“You’re still warm. Even dying.”

And just before your heart gives out, you mutter to him :

“Make me feel yours again.”

And he kisses you one more time before you die under him.

When you return from unconsciousness, he’s still there.

Still kissing your lips.

Still trembling atop of you.

“You’re disgusting,” he whispers, his hand now gripping the scalpel so tightly his knuckles are white.

“And I’d still do it again.”

Till asks if he can while lying in your arms.

He sits with you in a greenhouse, one made by the aliens thinking “humans would thrive better in an environment more akin to that of their old home planet”. Midnight dew coating the petals around you. You press the obsidian blade into his hands like a sacrament.

“I watched this blade cut out a heart for a god. The crowd screamed.”

He gulps audibly. His voice breaks.

“Why would you let me use it on you?”

“Because even if you carved me open, I’d still reach for your hand.”

You kiss him first.

It’s hesitant. Tender. He gasps when your tongue brushes his—sweet and sticky with blood already leaking into your mouth.

You guide the blade to your abdomen. He trembles. He’s crying already, tears blurring his vision.

“Push. I’ll hold you through it.” You encourage in-between kisses

And so, he stabs.

You twitch, then moan. Not from pain—but from surrender. Your fingers stay tangled in his.

You slump against him, blood painting his lap gold.

“Even death can’t take me from you,” you whisper against his skin.

When your body stills, he kisses your lips again—still warm. Still slick with your blood.

You wake up in his arms, your mouth already finding his.

“I dream about killing you now. Is that okay?”

That’s what he asks the next time.

“Yes.”

You offer the obsidian blade like a gift again. He straddles your lap, trembling, tears already welling up in his eyes.

He kisses your jaw.

“Last time I cried. This time… I want to see what happens if I go deeper.”

You gasp, not dramatic — just.. a soft gasp, just from shock of being kissed.

“You can. I won’t stop you.”

He kisses you. Soft, fevered, blood-sweet. Then drives the blade between your ribs, down, twisting.

You cry out—more from the intimacy than the pain.

“You always make a sound right before your eyes roll back,” he breathes. His other hand rests on your hip, keeping you steady.

“Like… like you’re about to come.”

You smile at that.

And die in his arms again.

He kisses your dead mouth. Keeps kissing. Until you jolt back to life beneath him.

“Again,” you beg.

“Again,” he says.

Luka ends up cornering you this time.

It’s late. Quiet. The kind of quiet that only happens after someone’s screamed too much to go on.

You place the knife in his palm. Spanish steel, heavy with history.

“1844. A duel. One man died. The other never touched anyone again.”

He turns it in his hands, scoffing.

“And you think I care about some lovesick fool with a blade?”

“I think you already are one.”

You remove your shirt. Let your chest show, golden veins of blood beneath skin. Your voice is soft.

“Right here. Under the ribs. You’ll feel it hit the heart.”

He doesn’t move.

You walk to him. Guide his hand. Let him feel your steady heartbeat.

“This is yours. Even if you stop it.”

And that’s what breaks him.

He thrusts the blade in.

You jerk—but you smile. Gold pours from your lips.

And before the light leaves your eyes, you kiss him. Your blood smears his mouth, his chin, your joined lips.

You gasp his name into the kiss. And collapse.

He holds you.

You come back. Seconds later. Chest still glowing. Mouth still brushing his.

“Now you know I’m yours.”

He doesn’t speak.

He just grabs your face and kisses you again—this time not as your killer, but as your devotee.

It’s dark once again while doing so. The same Spanish dagger in hand. Still faintly stained with your blood from before.

He doesn’t ask this time.

“Take off your shirt.”

You do.

“Kneel.”

You do.

He presses the blade to your chest—not to kill you, not yet. Just to watch your body shiver beneath it.

And he leans in.

“Tell me who this blade really belonged to.” He demands, his voice still soft.

“A man who killed his lover. Then carved his name into his own throat.” You say, eyes drifting off elsewhere

His eyes gleam.

“That sounds familiar.”

Then, he stabs you mid-kiss. And this time, he doesn’t look away.

Your body lurches forward, gold spilling out, tongue still tangled with his.

You’re dying. Again.

And Luka moans into your mouth.

“You’re mine. You don’t get to die without kissing me first.”

When you come back, he doesn’t let you speak.

He just pulls you back down. Tongue, teeth, gold between your lips like honey. It’s all just heat between you.

You feel a pull towards someone else. Someone who carries his immeasurable strength with quiet dignity, someone who would be honourable enough to fight for a lowly knight against his own kin because it was the right thing to do. And you might call him a fool for it too, but you don't get to curse anyone but yourself when you run away from the crowd, let the flames consume you, and you step in to save Baelor from the cruel, untimely death that you have just witnessed in a flame a few minutes before it would come true.

And now they all know, for the first time in a long time, there's a living, breathing dragon in Westeros. Fortunately, no one but the mad prince knows it's you.

You hit the ground hard enough to crack concrete.

The shrapnel tore through your side like butter. Should’ve knocked you out. Should’ve stopped your heart.

Instead, you grin through the blood coating your teeth.

The alley’s spinning when footsteps thunder toward you. You don’t need to look to know who it is. The stomp is all Winter Soldier panic—controlled chaos, barely leashed.

“Where is she?” Bucky’s voice is hoarse in your comm. “Where the hell is she?!”

You close your eyes and wait.

Five… four…His shadow falls over you just before “three.”

“Shit.” He drops beside you with a sound that’s almost a growl. “Hey—hey, look at me.”

You crack an eye open. “Took you long enough, Barnes.”

“Jesus Christ.” He brushes hair out of your face, hands already slick with blood. “Don’t talk. You’re losing too much.”

“You think this is me quiet?”

He glares. “I’m not kidding.”

Neither are you—but you do like the view from down here. Bucky’s crouched over you like you’re something fragile. Like one wrong move will break you in half. You like the way his hands tremble when they press into your side, trying to stop the bleeding.

He doesn’t know it’s already stopped.Well. It’s trying to.

You’re slowing it on purpose. Keeping the wound open. Keeping his hands on you.Because damn—he’s warm.

“You’re okay,” he mutters, as if saying it will make it true. He leans over you, breath brushing your cheek, hands steadying against your ribs as he applies pressure. “Just hold on. Med team’s close.”

“You’re real bossy when you care,” you murmur.

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off. “You’re on my team.”

“Didn’t know you held all your teammates like this.” You raise a brow, lips curling despite the blood. “Should I be jealous?”

He looks like he wants to yell and shake you and hold you tighter, all at once.

“Shut up,” he grits. “Don’t do this. You’re—bleeding out, you smartass—”

You hum, eyes half-lidded. “You’re so serious when you’re scared. It’s kind of hot.”

His fingers tighten. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Oh, Bucky,” you sigh, “if I listed all the things, we’d be here all day.”

He presses harder into the wound and your breath stutters—not from pain, but from the way he curses softly under his breath like he’s the one breaking.

His hands are slick, shaking. Tender.

Your body’s already trying to stitch itself back together. But you hold it off.

You want more of this.

More of his touch.

More of him.

Then he notices it—the blood isn’t pooling as fast. The color’s already starting to return to your skin.

He goes still. Eyes narrow.

“What the—”

“Fun fact,” you say sweetly, “I don’t die easy.”

His brows furrow. “What?”

“I heal,” you say with a cheeky grin. “Fast. Like, ‘this would’ve killed a normal person ten minutes ago’ fast.”

He stares at you, hand still hovering over the now-closing wound. “You’re kidding.”

“Cross my heart.” You wink. “Which you were cradling, by the way. Awfully romantic of you.”

“You let me think you were dying.”

“You grabbed me like you’d break if I slipped away. I wasn’t gonna ruin the moment.”

His mouth opens. Closes. He looks furious. He looks wrecked.

“You—” His voice is rough. “You’re—insane.”

“Maybe.” You sit up, your shirt clinging to drying blood. “But you like it.”

He glares at you, jaw tight. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You stand, steady on your feet. “You’ll live.”

He looks you up and down, gaze lingering on your now mostly-healed side. “You’re trouble.”

You smirk. “And you’ve got a type.”

He grabs your arm before you can turn, voice lower now. “Next time, tell me. I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

You lean in, close enough to smell gunpowder and adrenaline. “Next time, kiss me first. Then we’ll talk honesty.”

He freezes. You grin wider.

You walk ahead, hips swaying with mischief, and Bucky stays frozen behind you, blood drying on his gloves, heart still lodged somewhere in his throat.

You’re healing right before his eyes—wound vanishing like it never happened. And yet, the imprint of you beneath his hands lingers like a burn.

You let him panic. Let him hold you. Let him feel for you.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

And goddammit, it should piss him off more than it does.

But instead?

His jaw clenches. His pulse stutters.

And something under his ribs twists sharply.

Because it’s not just the way you survived—smirking through pain like it was a game—it’s how you looked at him while doing it. Like you could see right through the hard edge he hides behind. Like you weren’t afraid. Like you enjoyed it.

Like you knew he’d catch you if you fell.He watches you go, sunlight glinting off blood-streaked skin, your laugh still in his ears.

That attitude should be dangerous.

And it is.

It’s lethal.

He mutters a curse under his breath, lips twitching against his will.

He’s so fucked.

You're chaos wrapped in a pretty grin. Trouble in a bloodstained uniform.

And he's already falling.

Hard.

Whether you slow your healing next time or not—he knows damn well he’s going to be right there again.

Hands on you.

Heart on the line.

And this time?

Herta’s puppet turned at the sound. The tilt of her head wasn’t curiosity so much as calculation, a scientist already deciding where to place you in her grand chart of “useful versus tedious.”

“You’re late,” she said.

“I’ve been alive for so many millennia I’ve stopped counting,” you replied, strolling in like you owned the place. “I can’t be late, only inconveniently timeless.”

“Mm. Screwllum said you might show up.” She adjusted her gloves. “You’re the archivist.”

“Among other things,” you said. “I’m also banned from approaching Nanook within two planets’ radius.”

The puppet froze for a beat. “…You got a restraining order from the Aeon of Destruction?”

“Apparently saying ‘Call me the father of destruction the way I’ll be getting you pregnant’ is considered inappropriate,” you said with a shrug. “Diplomatic incident. Whole thing.”

Her lips twitched — not quite a smile, but close enough to qualify as amusement in Herta’s vocabulary. “I can already tell this will be irritating.”

She gestured toward a table littered with maps of the Simulated Universe. “I’m looking for reliable accounts from the Epoch of—”

“Oh, that era? Yeah, I have a few books from then.” You flexed your fingers, and an ink-like substance dripped to the floor. It pooled, bubbled, and from it emerged pale, wailing half-formed things, like children that never quite made it to being. They carried a stack of old books to her desk and vanished back into the shadows.

Her puppet’s expression flattened. “Those are—?”

“They were people who tried to keep my books for themselves,” you said casually. “Now they work for me. Poetic archival justice. You should be careful, Herta. My knowledge is addictive. I’d hate for Nous to lose their precious emanator so soon.”

She sat down, opened one of the books… and froze. Words shifted into images, images into sound, and then — her puppet’s feed stuttered.

When Herta pulled herself back, her eyes were narrowed. “You just spent an hour explaining something in such detail my memory replaced it with one long beep to save itself. Even Xipe wouldn’t take you into their harmony after hearing that.”

“Flattery,” you said, “will get you everywhere.”

Her puppet handed you the empty coffee cup she’d been using as if to shoo you away. “One last question before you go. How have you been alive this long?”

You smiled without answering — then: “Forbidden knowledge.”

The puppet’s smile was thin. “Of course it is.”

The laboratory was quiet except for the soft hum of containment fields. Ruan Mei stood at the far table, hair neatly pinned with her golden DNA clasp, turquoise eyes focused on a petri dish that looked suspiciously like it was holding something that breathed.

She didn’t look up as you entered. “Close the door. You’re letting the temperature drop.”

“Hello to you too,” you said, shutting it. “You know, you’re the first person in centuries to tell me to close a door instead of begging me to leave?”

Her gaze flicked toward you, briefly scanning your posture, your oddly anachronistic clothing, and the faint shimmer around you — like you were wearing time as an accessory. “You’re the archivist Herta mentioned.”

“That’s what they call me. Also the proud holder of the only restraining order Nanook has ever filed.”

That got her to pause mid-measurement. “…What did you do?”

“Let’s just say I may have suggested the Aeon of Destruction and I make a little destruction of our own. In bed.”

There was the faintest sigh. “I see.” She went back to work, though her shoulders were just a little stiffer.

“I hear you’re looking into the origins of life,” you said, walking over to one of her preservation tanks. Inside floated something that looked like a whale and a tree had decided to meet halfway.

“I am,” she replied without looking at you. “Which is why you’re here. You’ve… seen things. Lived through eras nobody else remembers.”

“Oh, I don’t just remember them,” you said. “I wrote about them.” You extended your arm, and the now-familiar ink dripped, pooling on the floor. The pale, half-formed wailing figures emerged, carrying books bound in strange hides. “Don’t touch the bindings. They bite.”

Ruan Mei finally looked at you, expression unreadable. “Are those—”

“Yes. People who tried to steal my work. Now they make deliveries.”

She didn’t flinch — unlike most people, Ruan Mei didn’t seem easily unnerved. “I’ll take your word for it. And your warning?”

“Knowledge is addictive, Ruan Mei. You’re dedicated enough to be a risk. I’d hate for Nous to lose another bright mind to me.”

She raised a brow. “You speak as if you’ve done that before.”

“I have,” you said simply. “It never ends well.”

Her hands brushed over the books, each one whispering in a language that seemed to change with her breath. She lingered, but didn’t open one yet — maybe she knew better.

“I heard you find Aeons… attractive,” she said, tone just dry enough to be teasing.

“Some are hot, some are beautiful,” you said. “IX, though? Cute as a button.”

She actually huffed a soft laugh at that. “You’re… stranger than I expected.”

“Stranger than anyone expects,” you corrected, and then you were gone, leaving faint black smears on her pristine floor.

Screwllum’s workshop smelled faintly of oil and polished wood, a strange mix of the mechanical and the old-world elegant. He stood near a large drafting table, gloved hands sketching a blueprint for what looked like a railgun shaped like a fountain pen.

“You found me,” he said without looking up. His voice was calm, calculated — the tone of someone who always knew the end of the conversation before it began.

“Of course I did,” you said, leaning against a cabinet. “We ancient archivists have a knack for it.”

“I’ve read about you.” He set down his pen. “I’ve also read the incident report involving Nanook.”

“Two planets minimum,” you confirmed. “Apparently my sense of humor isn’t destruction-proof.”

“I suspect your sense of self-preservation isn’t either,” he said mildly. “But I digress. You have records I need. Pre-Collapse era.”

“Mm.” You held out your arm, letting the black ink drip to the floor. The pale, half-formed figures emerged, their little wails echoing in the workshop. They set a stack of books on his table and retreated.

Screwllum regarded them with the same curiosity he might give a new type of gear mechanism. “Interesting… animated constructs born from…?”

“Those who tried to keep my work,” you said. “Now they deliver it.”

He nodded once, accepting that explanation without judgment. “You realize your knowledge has… side effects.”

“I’ve been told,” you said. “Herta beeped out an entire hour of me talking to preserve her sanity. Even Xipe would think twice before inviting me to join their harmony.”

His glowing cyan eyes studied you for a long moment. “And yet, you persist in sharing.”

“Of course. What’s the point of knowledge if it’s locked away forever?” You tapped one of the books. “Besides, you’re one of the few who might survive it.”

He didn’t answer immediately, turning a page in one of the tomes — the script rearranged itself to match his processing speed. “You’ve seen Aeons, haven’t you?”

“Hot, beautiful, terrifying — depends on the Aeon. IX, though? Cute.”

That actually earned you the faint mechanical whirr of amusement. “You are… unique.”

“‘Unique’ is the polite word,” you said. “Others prefer ‘existential hazard.’”

Screwllum closed the book, storing it carefully. “And your longevity?”

“Forbidden knowledge.”

He inclined his head. “I believe you.”