The Strength of a Soldier: Male Reader x Pyrrha Nikos (Part I)

Chapter XII: Souls of the Dead

To (F/N), the war seemed only a few weeks ago. Then he blinked and it was all over. He was sitting in a classroom instead of the trenches, no explosions to make his ears ring, the bell being the loudest sound throughout his day. Spitballs and paper airplanes whizzed by his head, not bullets and shrapnel, and the only battlefield he had to cross was the crowded hallways as students fought to get to their next class. It took (F/N) a while to become accustomed to a peaceful life, not that he was complaining. He much preferred the tension of waiting for test scores to be posted to that of awaiting the arrival of an approaching army. He appreciated being able to wake up after five and go to bed before midnight. Most of all he enjoyed having friends, people he could talk with, laughing at each other's jokes, and groaning at Oobleck's announcement of a pop quiz.

(F/N) had been at Beacon for just over two months. As of present, he was locked in his room, his hand caught in a beautiful cascade of scarlet. The smell of her perfume was intoxicating, the green of her eyes mesmerizing. She had ensnared him; mind, body, and spirit. The tension had been building for the past few weeks. The subtle looks and stolen glances they snuck while they should have been paying attention to the professor. The close proximity during class, their arms and shoulders occasionally bumping each other as they took notes. Eventually it had reached a tipping point, and now the two were alone in his room. (F/N)'s fingers tangled through her soft hair. She pushes him down onto the bed, one leg after the other, climbing over his lap so she can straddle him properly. In the same moment she grasps the collar of his vest, (F/N) angles her jaw towards his. Their mouths meet, joining together like waves crashing against the shoreline. Her fingers work on the buttons securing the fabric on his chest until both vest and shirt are opened, his bare chest exposed. His hands find the strings on the back of her brown leather corset, the ties loosened until the garment falls to the floor. The fasten on her bra is next, unclasped in seconds, exposing her ample cleavage, goosebumps rising along her flesh as instantaneously as the hardening to the peaks of her breasts. She moans breathlessly as her head leans back, (F/N) burying his face in her chest, covering her with love marks as he suckles and nips at the exposed flesh. He inhales deeply before retreating to look up at her face once more.

Suddenly everything changes. Pyrrha's face is pale, her eyes white and lifeless. A small trickle of blood falls from the corner of her mouth and runs down her chin. Her flesh, once so warm in (F/N)'s palms becomes ice cold. (F/N) releases a shout of shock, quickly jumping to his feet, Pyrrha's corpse falling to the ground. The bed is gone, the walls disappear. There is no light; no sun, no moon, just an eerie red glow, as if the skies had turned to blood. Looking down, the face that greets (F/N)'s eyes is no longer Pyrrha's. The red hair is gone, replaced by a head of short brown hair, matted down by a thick coating of dried blood. Dirt and grime obscure the facial features and the uniform the figure wears is tattered and torn. (F/N) steps backwards, tripping over something on the ground behind him. Catching himself, he comes face to face with another dead body, this one's head looking backwards, its neck twisted and bruised. Quickly scrambling backwards, (F/N) pushes himself to his feet. Suddenly he stands in a field of corpses. Bodies strewn all across the ground, in every direction, extending to the horizon and well beyond. His eyes widen in fear as he turns, searching in desperation for an escape, for some kind of exit. But none present themselves. All that (F/N) finds are more bodies. He winces in pain as he feels a stabbing sensation in his right shoulder. Looking down, he sees his old arm attached at the joint, the jagged crude design of the cold metal, a series of small spikes jutting out at regular intervals all down the forearm. Something drops onto the arm, like a raindrop. Another one follows, then another. (F/N) blinks his eyes rapidly as he feels a drop on his nose. He moves to wipe it away with the arm made of flesh and bone. Retreating his hand, he looks down to see not a droplet of clear water, but a splash of crimson. The droplets increase in frequency as blood begins to pour down his face, seemingly from his forehead, but his hair is covered too, the (H/C) now covered in a slimy coating of red. Suddenly the ground gives way, like quicksand. The corpses begin to rise as he sinks further and further into the ground. His arms are pinned to his sides by some unknown weight, preventing him from pulling himself up. They're at his chest now. (F/N) finally manages to free his right arm and he reaches upwards, as if waiting for God to grab his hand and pull him from perdition. He keeps sinking, past the neck. He struggles to free himself, his breathing coming in short panicked bursts as their dead eyes stare into his soul. He turns his head frantically, only to be greeted by more white eyes, more blood leaking from the corners of slack jawed mouths. His screams echo throughout the expanse of nothingness until his head finally submerges, silencing his cries. Silence. A metal arm reaching skyward in the middle of a mass grave.