#|| ❝ if the gods made anything better they kept it for themselves ❞ || ooc

[therabbitthatpostthings]

Live Arcane Reaction; Act 3:

Ep 7: Thank god the killmonger cut only exist in the hell dimension- don’t let them give you a fuck ass cut Ekko.

Powder my princess- IS THAT VANDER’S FINE ASS

OH MY GOD MILO CLAGGOR!!!

Jayce my princess I never doubted you. I knew the Hexcore fucked you up girl🫶🏾

Goddammit every frame in this show is a painting

VI MY POOKIE BEAR WHY

There is something so heartbreaking about the Bridge of Progress being used as an actual progression between the two cities. An olive branch. What could have been.

Jayce istg they do not want you to be happy-

BRO HE JUST WANTED TO PLAY WITH SOME MAGIC-

“Viktor is the mage” theory you might just have merit

Arcane artists I will see you in HELL for that Viktor/Jayce parallel of them literally building themselves up, morphing their damaged bodies to move forward.

Ekko and Jinx girls enjoy your SCRAPS-

WHAT WE COULD OF BEEN GODDAMMIT! FUCK!!!!!

Actual fucking tears in my eyes- FUCK THEY COULD HAVE BEEN SO CUTE- also the hard cut to Jayce and the Hexcore glitching like TV glitches as the universe breaks down.

MY BOY JUST WANYES TO PLAY IN SOME MAGIC!

Thank god he didn’t die in that universe too I would have crashed out Powder deserves to be- SHE KEPT THE CRYSTAL!?

Ep 8: oh thank god my Pookies is alive- IS ANYTHING SACRED- why the fit kinda eat tho….

I need everyone to understand I was SO happy about Mel being alive that I barely understood anything those mages said. I was just happy my babygirl is alive. GOD THAT MAKES THE FLOWER IMAGERY IN THE OPENING MUCH BETTER.

I just remembered Isha is dead... FUCK HIEMERDINGER DIED TOO 😭

Nooo Vander- NO VIKTOR- nice to know I am not immune to indoctrination.

Huck cannot catch a break omfg

LORIS MY BELOVED 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

Hi traitor- omg Cait cute hairstyle

The divorce is not going well for these two.

Jayce and Mel have not seen each other for god knows how long- DONT FUCKING YELL AT HER JUST CAUSE YOUR SITUATIONSHIP WENT SOUTH!

The throuple is back together and it’s TOXICCCC

I would just like to point out that when Viktor said this all started with Jayce, the parallels between Jayce and Ekko is still going. Like I could on for pages about these two at this point.

Fuck they made this Yaoi TOXIC-

FUCK THEY MADE THIS MAGIC TOXIC- is it wrong still stand by Viktor. Like I know he’s wrong but he’s so fine. Jayce and Viktor’s parallels, Jayce and Ekko- lord.

FUCKING FINALLY THE SISTERS ARE- well shit

Jayce and Mel, I never doubted this ship. I never doubted this relationship. I thought they were good for each, the rest of the world is just full of haters.

Sevika thank god they dumb bitches get on my nerves, I need someone with a functioning brain cell to lead us to salvation.

I’m gonna be on my fucking deathbed talking about the Zaunites joining Piltover to fight a battle they done have to, to save their homes- to make Progress.

Vi, it’s okay- OH MY GOD

Istg this show cannot- I’m- Ambessa my love I’m still reeling from the gays, give me a moment. VANDER MY LOVE NOOO! SINGED I'LL SEE YOU IN HELL!

Oh fuck- we’re in it now

Ep 9:

EKKO THANK GOD- most stressful 3 mins of my life.

Honestly I don’t trust these dumb bitches at all. Jayce and Vi are like 2 for 2 on losing fights. Ekko save us Ekko. I had hope on Sevika but her leaving is so real. She has been let down by these people so many times- GERT NOOOOO

LORIS NOOOOOO

Thank god fish guy made it

Ambessa rises from the ashes like a demon- I KNEW IT I KNEW THAT BITCH WAS A TRAITOR!

GOD IS A WOMAN AND HER NAME IS MEL MEDARDA!!!

YEA JINX! SEVIKA IM SORRY I DOUBTED YOU QUEEN NEVER AGAIN I SWEAR!

There is something so special to me about piano boy being the one to make the shot. Like the smallest thing can make a difference, anyone can rise to the occasion.

Of course Ambessa is one step ahead

I have issues, I still think Viktor is so hot rn.

I know my girls are getting their asses beat rn but let’s appreciate they let the girls get down and dirty in a fight. No pretty fighting- my bitches scrap-

Bow your heads. We lost THE bad bitch today.

Omfg there’s still like 20 mins left

I should have known this plan was gonna go to shit the minute Jayce and Vi sat next to each other.

Praying for the salvation for my girl, Sevika I promised not to- FUCK

Ekko please save these idiots- SAVE US EKKO.

Jayce understanding that he was the soldier in the ash like yeah dummy- DID IT CLICK YET- Please let Viktor be the mage, I will not let this theory die.

Fuck I wanna side against Viktor but he looks gorgeous in the Arcane.

Oop Jayvik nation rise.

EKKO THANK GOD THATS MY BOY SAVIOR

HE WAS THE MAGE THE WHOLE TIME-

I’m actually in tears this isn’t a bit, like I’m actually crying

Viktor I never doubted you, I never forsaken you, I never hated you, I never turned against you, I never thought less of you. He could have actually succeeded and I would have stood by him.

Oh damn Jayvik nation rise for real, I was just joking the first time-

JINX I NEVER DOUBT- FUCK

This show is so beautiful, every scene a painting. Mel in all noxian gear while still wearing her purple eyeshadow, a mix of her roots but also the promise to move forwards and look ahead.

Yall im so fucking stressed and there’s only 3 minutes left.

No one talk to me for the next few days- I’m going through some shit okay-

[rubistella]

do you guys ever just...?

story of my life as a roleplayer.....

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - SEVEN

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of pregnancy, abortion, alcohol, drug consumption.

MASTERLIST

You never spent much time on The Cut, unless you were being dragged by duty, mostly charity events for the local populations, fundraisers for their schools usually.

You always showed up in something tasteful but subtly expensive—pearls, understated Louboutin heels, and a blazer that whispered wealth without screaming it. 

Your mother taught you that.

Now, you sat in Poguelandia, doing god knows what.

The name alone sounded like some bad beach-themed party game. But you kept the snark to yourself—mostly. Sarah swore to you this was her new "thing," her big redemption arc, and who were you to judge? It wasn’t where you pictured spending any afternoon, yet there you were.

Pregnant. On The Cut. Drinking—well, holding—a very flat ginger ale out of a plastic cup.

You smoothed your dress for the hundredth time, light linen in a neutral tone that looked effortless but cost more than most people’s rent, while pretending not to notice Pope and Cleo staring like you were a rare bird that had wandered into the wrong habitat. 

Were they always this... intense? Did people on this side of the island not know how to look away when someone made eye contact? Your mother’s voice echoed in your head. They’re not staring at you, dear; they’re staring at themselves in relation to you. 

Whatever that meant. 

To their credit, they weren’t mean about it. Just... curious, as if you’d wandered in from a wildlife documentary called Kooks in the Wild.

You moved your weight around in your seat, hyper-aware of every grain of sand sticking to your hérmes sandals. Every time you shifted, you felt the grains grinding between the straps and your skin.

Should’ve worn the espadrilles, you thought ruefully, but even then, this wasn’t the world’s most glamorous venue. Sarah had begged you to stop by, though, and you owed her. It was also good for you to leave the house instead of being cupped up inside all alone.

“Okay, seriously, what’s with the staring? Do I have something on my face? Is my makeup smudged? Be honest.”

Cleo snorted. “No, you’re fine, princess. We’re just surprised to see you.”

You were still holding your sad little plastic cup. “Just thought I’d participate in—whatever this is.” You gestured vaguely at the mismatched chairs and string lights that looked like they’d been stolen from someone’s backyard wedding. “Community service?”

It was supposed to come off as witty. You weren’t sure it did.

Pope choked on his drink—sweet tea? soda?—and Cleo chuckled outright. “You’re funny,” she said, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if she meant it.

“Thanks?” It came out like a question, and you wanted to die just a little bit inside.

Pope grinned, leaning forward with a chip in his hand. “You don’t seem like the kind of person who hangs out in The Cut, that’s all.”

You blinked, feigning shock. “You don’t think I spend my weekends in—what is this, a glorified surf shack? I’m crushed.”

Cleo laughed again, which—fine—made you feel a little better.

“Nah, it’s just... you’re different up close. Not like, scary kook different. Just human. Y’know?”

“Great. That’s exactly what I was going for today.”

Pope gestured to the bar. “You want a snack? Chips? Cookies? We have...three options.”

You straightened, eyes narrowing like a hawk zeroing in on prey.

Food. Your stomach growled loudly, as if it had been cued by a stage director. “What kind of cookies?”

He blinked, not expecting you to care. “Uh... chocolate chip? Maybe oatmeal raisin?”

“And the chips?” You pressed, leaning forward now.

“Salt and vinegar,” Cleo piped up, eyeing you curiously. “Barbecue too, I think. Why?”

“Okay, shit, great.” You clapped your hands together decisively. “I’ll have all of it. All the chips, both kinds of cookies. Do you have anything else? Pretzels? Popcorn? Random condiments? I’m not picky.”

Cleo stared at you, her mouth slightly open. “Everything?”

“Yes, everything. Is that a problem?”

She blinked, her eyes darting to Pope like he had an explanation. He shrugged helplessly.

“Woman” she muttered under her breath. “Did you not eat for a week, or...?”

The salt and vinegar chips were divine, borderline transcendent, as you shoved another handful into your mouth. The truth was, you weren’t just hungry—you were still terrified. Every bite, every easy conversation with other people that weren’t Sarah, was a game of jenga to you. One wrong move, one offhand comment, and your secret could be out in the open.

Six more days until this would all be... over. Until the secret growing inside you—the one you’d barely admitted to yourself most mornings—would be gone.

The past three days had been the best you’d felt in ages, cravings and all, thanks to Sarah. She’d slept over, stayed up late talking with you, making you laugh, distracting you from the endless pit what-ifs and why-mes.

It was the longest you’d gone without crying in three months. The longest you’d lived without feeling like you could suffocate at any given moment. With her help, it had been easier to forget—to pretend that things were still okay.

But Sarah wasn’t there, she’d left earlier with John B, something about helping him with a tour.

“You good, princess?” Cleo’s voice cut through your thoughts.

You blinked at her, realizing you’d been crushing the chip bag in your hands like a stress ball. “What? Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to fight that bag of chips,” Pope said, grinning.

You forced a laugh, leaning back and tossing the bag onto the table. “No fighting. Just... intense snacking."

You reached for the chocolate chip cookies he had offered earlier, focusing on the sweetness, the comfort of food that tasted good for once. Sweet, crumbly, safe. If only the rest of you life felt like that.

Pope and Cleo knew something was up, they all did, probably.

Sarah had been glued to your side, and it wasn’t exactly subtle.

Her sudden move to “stay over” at your place had obviously raised eyebrows, especially since you two hadn’t had a proper conversation in months before all this. And there was the beach clean-up, Kie and JJ had been there when you felt ill, and while you’d been too disoriented to keep up with the cover story once Rafe drove you away, Sarah had stepped in later to handle it.

Heat exhaustion. Overworked. Totally fine.

Still, to your relief, neither Pope nor Cleo seemed inclined to pry, perhaps it was pity, or maybe they were just decent enough to let you keep the little shred of privacy you had left. Either way, you were grateful.

“So,” Pope said, leaning back on his elbows and flashing you an easy grin, “How are you finding our place? I mean, other than our fine selection of snacks.”

You swallowed a bite of cookie, forcing a smile. “It’s...charming. Rustic. A real je ne sais quoi vibe.” You waved your hand vaguely, trying to mimic the way your mother used to describe terrible restaurants we’d never go back to.

Cleo snorted. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

“It’s cute,” You offered, looking around, “I can tell you guys put your heart into it.”

Pope smirked, lifting a brow. "That's nice of you to say."

You gave a small shrug, feigning nonchalance, but you meant it.

For all the mismatched chairs and questionable decoration, there was something undeniably warm about the place. You weren't used to that—spaces filled with love instead of decorators and florists, it wasn’t bad. Just different.

“I mean it,” you said, brushing crumbs from your lap. “It’s very authentic. ‘Pogue Chic’ or something.”

Cleo laughed, loud and genuine, her grin lighting up her face. “Pogue Chic?"

Pope chimed in, “Hey, don’t knock it. We’re trendsetters. Ahead of its time.”

You smiled, but your mind was already falling back to the sand clinging to your dress and the ginger ale that tasted like disappointment. You’d never say it out loud, but you admired them, that ability to make joy out of scraps. It was something you didn’t quite know how to do. Not yet, anyway.

Cleo leaned forward, her elbows resting on the makeshift table. “So, are we going to see you around more? Or is this just a one-time royal visit?”

You hesitated, twirling the rim of your cup between your fingers. “I don’t know. Maybe. If Sarah keeps dragging me here, I guess I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

You didn't know if it was the way he said it, the tone he used, or just your hormones fucking you up, but suddenly there were tears in your eye sockets. You blinked rapidly, tilting your head back slightly and praying that the tears stayed put.

These kids, all of them, sitting here like they hadn’t spent their lives scraping by, like they hadn’t been hurt or abandoned or let down a hundred times over by people they loved and trusted. Yet somehow, they were still full of hope, full of life.

You envied that.

You wished you could bottle it, whatever it was that kept them laughing and fighting and welcoming someone like you—a result of privilege and mistakes and heartbreak—into their home. It was humbling in a way that made your chest hurt.

“Does that mean I can choose to order better snacks next time? Maybe some sparkling water? Flat ginger ale is a crime against humanity.”

Cleo snorted, still not fooled by your deflection, but she let it slide.

“Good luck with that, princess. Our snack budget’s about three bucks and whatever we can steal from Kie’s pantry.”

Pope chuckled, tossing a chip in his mouth. “And you’re welcome to contribute if you’re so concerned about the menu.”

It surprised you, how easy it was to talk to them.

On paper, you had nothing in common. They were younger, grew up in a completely different world, and you were used to the polished conversations of country club luncheons and charity galas. 

Here, things were different.

They didn’t seem to care if you stumbled over your words, if your jokes were awkward or if you occasionally sounded like a walking trust fund catalog. They didn’t care about your last name, your family’s money, or any other things that had weighed you down for years.

That was disarming.

You’d spent your entire life around people who mirrored your upbringing—kids who summered in the Hamptons or Barbados, adults who measured their worth in stock portfolios and vacation homes. Now, you were here, in this cobbled-together haven with salt-stained cushions, sitting with people who’d grown up struggling for things you took for granted.

You thought it would feel more awkward or forced, but it didn’t.

It was easy.

Pope sat on the counter, gesturing with a half-eaten chip. “Serious question. How do you even survive on Figure Eight? Do they hand you iced lattes and designer handbags when you’re born, or do you have to work your way up to that?”

You raised a brow, smirking. “Oh, absolutely. The moment you’re born, they issue you a monogrammed diaper bag and a gold-plated pacifier. It’s very exclusive.”

Cleo nearly choked on her drink. “See, this is why we can’t take you seriously.”

Your phone buzzed on the table, lighting up with your cousins name, interrupting the fun. You sighed, rolling your eyes before picking it up. “Yes, Top?”

Topper’s slightly whiny tone spilled into your ear. “Can you believe Mom’s threatening to rent out the beach house for the summer? Actual strangers, staying there. What’s next? Turning it into a hostel?”

“Tragic,” you deadpanned, resting your chin in your hand. “Truly, a devastating blow for humanity.”

Pope fake-coughed, mumbling “white rich privilege problems,” while Cleo mouthed, “Hostel!” and shook her head, laughing silently.

“I know. Anyway, I’m coming over later.”

“Where’s your invitation?”

You heard him scoffing, “I’m family, I don’t need one.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “Top, you can’t just announce you’re coming over. I might have plans.”

“Yeah, and I’m your family, so those plans now include me,” Topper said, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “Besides, I’ll bring food.”

Across from you, Pope was already gagging dramatically, holding his stomach as if the mere sound of Topper’s voice made him physically ill. 

“I don’t know if—”

“See you at noon,” he interrupted. “Later!”

The call ended before you could even argue, and you set your phone down with a resigned sigh. 

“Looks like I’m hosting a one-man Topper pity party,” you said, crossing your arms and slumping back in your chair.

Pope clutched his chest. “Will you survive?”

You only left once the sun dipped lower into the horizon, you gathered your things promising Sarah you’d drive safely and talk to her tomorrow.

Cleo, Pope and John B were mid-argument about the best way to fix something in the shack. You felt lighter than you had in weeks.

With a few more quips exchanged and goodbyes said, you walked back to your car. That night, the ache in your chest wasn’t completly unbearable. You weren’t okay, but you weren’t drowning, either.

You’d been terrified of this afternoon all day, worried you’d stick out like a sore thumb or say the wrong thing.

But the Pogues hadn’t cared about your awkwardness, your polished self, or even the giant invisible cloud you carried everywhere these days. They let you just be.

The drive home was quiet, but this time you even hummed along to a song on the radio, which was strange because you couldn’t remember the last time you cared about music or even turning on that thing. When you pulled into the driveway and stepped into your house, it didn’t feel as cold and empty as it did last week.

You set your bag down on the entryway table and kick off your sandals, the floors cool beneath your feet. Heading to the kitchen, you decided to see if there was anything decent for tonight’s impromptu early dinner with Topper. The fridge greeted you with a sad bag of lettuce, half a bottle of sparkling water, and a single container of leftover pasta you weren’t sure was still edible.

“Great,” you muttered, closing the door and moving to the pantry.

The situation there wasn’t much better. Sarah’s latest health-kick contributions—a bag of chia seeds and some organic trail mix—laughed at you from the top shelf. You frowned, pushing them aside to reveal a dusty box of crackers and a jar of Nutella.

“Guess we’re going shopping tomorrow,” you murmured, grabbing the crackers and Nutella to snack on now.

You placed them on the counter and glanced around. The sink held a few dishes from earlier —a couple of coffee mugs, a bowl, a plate.

You sighed, rolling up your sleeves, might as well get this out of the way.

Normally, you’d have had someone else to take care of this—stocking the pantry, cleaning the dishes, even deciding on the menu for your lunches. But lately, you’d been scaling back. You hadn’t let anyone go, of course. You could never do that; the staff had been with your family for years, and many of them felt more like extended family than employees. Still, you’d quietly rearranged their schedules, giving them more time off.

They didn’t question it—probably thought it was some new phase, another eccentricity of a bored, privileged young woman.

Truth was, you liked doing these things.

Focusing on something small, tangible, gave your brain a break from drilling itself into a million dark corners. Folding laundry, washing dishes, even the routine of chopping vegetables—it kept your hands busy and your thoughts manageable enough. It wasn’t that you’d suddenly become a domestic goddess or anything. Most of the time, you’d forget to pick up groceries or burn whatever you tried to cook.

It wasn’t about being good at it. It was about doing something.

You looked around the kitchen, noting the little imperfections you wouldn’t have noticed before. A small water stain on the counter from where your glass had sat too long, the scuff marks on the cabinets where your chair scraped when you leaned back. They weren’t problems to be fixed—they were just signs of life.

And right now at that very moment, life felt…okay.

The house didn’t seem as cold or empty when you were doing things for yourself, even if it was mundane work. You finish up wiping down the counters, glance at the time—definitely cutting it close—and head toward the dining room to tidy up a bit.

Topper was not the type to notice if the place is spotless, but you always liked things to look... presentable, yourself included.

You heard the doorbell ring in the distance, he was early as usual, probably checking his watch just to make sure he wasn't a second late.

"Of course he’s early," you muttered to yourself, a little smirk pulling at your lips.

You walked towards the front door, ready to greet him, but when you opened it, your eyes immediately locked onto the large takeout bag in his hand. It smelled... amazing.

Topper grinned at you, an exaggerated flourish as he held up the bag.

“Guess what I brought?”

“You brought... Korean chicken wings? Really?”

“Hell yeah, I did!” He stepped inside, completely ignoring any formalities and heading straight toward the kitchen, “They just opened.”

He placed the bag on the counter with the confidence of a man who knew he’s just won “Best Dinner Host” without even trying. You peeked inside, the crispy wings drenched in a glossy, sweet-spicy sauce that looked downright delicious.

Topper laughed and took a seat, pulling out the wings, not even bothering with plates. “You’re welcome.”

You rolled your eyes but sat next to him, picking up a wing, the heat of it still making your fingers tingle. The crispy exterior cracked open with a satisfying crunch as you bit into it. It was everything you'd hoped for—tangy, spicy, perfectly cooked. You nearly moaned in pleasure, not even caring that your cousin was watching you with that cocky grin on his face.

“You look like you’ve seen the light,” He teased, leaning back in his chair as he grabbed a wing of his own.

“I mean,” you said, savoring another bite, “this might make up for you barging in uninvited.”

“Barging?” He clutched his chest dramatically, mock offense radiating from every inch of him. “I'm saving you from a night of sad dinners, and this is the thanks I get?”

You gave him a pointed look, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward despite yourself.

“Fine. Thank you, Topper. You’re the hero of the day. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” he said, grinning as he reached for another wing. “What’s new? Still slumming it with my ex and the Pogues?”

“First of all,” you said, wiping your fingers on a napkin, “slumming it implies I’m suffering, which I’m not. And second, Sarah’s not a pogue. She’s pogue-adjacent.”

“Pogue-adjacent?” He snorted. “You’ve been spending too much time over there.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” you shot back. “You basically live at Kildare Brewing these days. That’s like, one pogue away from full assimilation.”

He opened his mouth to argue but then stopped, realizing you had a point. “Okay, fair. But only because they have good beer."

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you should even bring it up, but curiosity got the better of you. You hadn’t heard about her in a while, and you knew by experience, that was never a good thing.

“So... Ruthie,” you started, watching him over the rim of your glass as you took a sip.

Topper paused mid-chew, looking up at you like he wasn’t sure he wanted to have this conversation. “What about her?”

“I mean, you two are still together, aren’t you?”

He wiped his hands on a napkin. “We’re… not talking right now.”

You tried not to look pleased, but a rush of vindication bloomed in your chest. You'd grown to hate her, plain and simple. Her recent proximity to your cousin had always baffled you. He wasn’t perfect, but surely, he could do better. 

“I’m surprised.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, reaching for another wing. But then he stopped, like whatever he was thinking was messing with his head.

“What happened?” You asked, trying to sound more curious, concerned, than nosy.

You weren’t sure if he’d tell you, but the look on his face made it clear something big had gone down.

He hesitated, debating whether to answer. Finally, he sighed. “She... started a rumor about you.”

Your head jerked back in surprise. “About me?”

“Yeah,” he grimaced like he’d swallowed something sour. “She said you passed out at the beach cleanup and decided to spread some bullshit about you doing drugs.”

You just stared at him. “She what?”

You weren’t sure why you were so surprised.

You knew what she was capable better than anyone, especially when she was bored out of her mind.

“I didn’t believe it,” he added quickly, his tone defensive, as if that made it better. “I told her to shut the fuck up about it, but you know how she is. She thought it was funny.”

“Funny?” Your voice was sharp now, “She thought it was funny to spread lies about me? About drugs? What the fuck?”

“Yeah, it’s so messed up. That’s why I’m not talking to her. I told her if she couldn’t act like a fucking decent human being, we were done.”

You blinked, stunned.

You weren’t sure what shocked you more—the fact that Ruthie had stooped so low or that Topper had finally stood up to her. You shook your head, biting back another nasty comment about how awful she was. You’d been saying it for months, and he hadn’t listened.

No point in beating a dead horse now.

“It’s about time you saw what she’s really like. She’s really bad fuckin’ news, Top. Always has been.”

He gave a low grunt, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the counter. “Yeah. Took me long enough, huh?”

You didn’t answer, just raised an eyebrow and sipped your water.

“She’s always been weird about Sarah,” Topper muttered, almost to himself. “Even when we were together, she’d find these ways to dig at her. Like that one time at Midsummers—”

“—When she ‘accidentally’ spilled her drink on Sarah’s dress,” you finished, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I remember. She’s always had this thing about trying to one-up her. Honestly, it’s so pathetic. But you never listen to me, so.”

“Okay, ouch.” He threw a crumpled napkin at you, which you easily dodged. “I listen to you sometimes.”

“Do you, though?” You gave him a pointed look.

“Yeah, I do!” Topper protested, though the whine in his voice made him sound more like the teenager he used to be, back when he’d follow you around during family holidays like a puppy. “Just… selectively.”

“Selective listening isn’t listening, dumbass. You’re just proving my point.”

He narrowed his eyes at you but didn’t answer, reaching for another wing instead. He took a bite, chewing dramatically, as if the exaggerated crunch would somehow end the conversation.

“Look, I’ve been saying for months that Ruthie’s bad news. Since she showed up at last year’s Christmas party wearing a dress identical to Sarah’s, just in a different color. You thought that was a coincidence?”

Topper groaned, dropping the wing. “Okay, fine, you’re right. Are you happy now? Can you stop rubbing it in?”

You grinned, propping your chin on your hand.

“Oh, I could. But what kind of older cousin would I be if I didn’t remind you how often you’re wrong?”

“You’re not that much older than me.”

You shrugged. “Old enough to know better than to date someone that awful.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a genius. I get it.” He looked over at you again, his gaze softer, this time, “But seriously, you’ve been off lately. If there’s something going on, you can tell me, y’know? We’re family, even if I don’t listen to you half the time,” he added with a small smile, though his eyes were searching, hoping you’d let him in.

It would be so easy to tell him the truth—that you were pregnant, scheduled for an abortion in six days, and drowning in uncertainty and dread.

But he was still Rafe’s best friend, and the risk of this ever reaching him was too high. Instead, you forced a lightness into your voice.

“Nothing I can’t handle. And right now, I desperately need the bathroom.”

He looked at you skeptically, not fooled for a second.

“You’re really okay?” he pressed, his voice dropping to a level that told you he wasn’t going to let this go easily, "I texted and called before, you didn't answer. Thought you were resting from the scare."

You’d been having such a calm, easy time with Sarah, you almost forgot about everything else. The thought of picking up the phone, letting all that anxiety and worry back in, just wasn’t appealing—so you’d ignored his calls, but not on purpose. You were doing him a favor.

You plastered on a smile and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as you passed. “I promise, I’m fine. Just felt a little light-headed and needed some peace."

His eyes narrowed slightly, unconvinced. “That’s all?”

You forced a giggle, hoping it would sound more genuine than it felt. “Yes, Dr. Thornton. Just needed to eat more or drink water or whatever the fuck it is you’re always telling me to do.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, crossing his arms, watching you closely. “Because you’ve never just fainted before.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything. Besides, don’t you think I’d tell you if something serious was wrong?”

It took everything to maintain eye contact, your stomach twisting at the lie. He was family, and you wanted to trust him, to let him help you. But you couldn’t. He hadn’t even told you about Rafe and Sofia until you found out by yourself. 

Topper tilted his head, considering you, then sighed and gave a reluctant nod. “Alright, fine.”

“Okay, if you’re done being weird,” You pushed back from the counter, grabbing your glass. “I gotta pee,” you announced casually, as if this was the most normal interjection in the world. The wings were good, but running away was tempting. And also, the pregnancy had made your bladder a ticking time bomb, and you really didn’t want to risk any accidents. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

You offered him one last smile, hoping it was convincing enough. He whined some sarcastic comment about your water consumption as you hurried away, but you barely heard him.

All you thought about was the blessed relief that awaited on the other side of that door.

You didn’t usually spend this much time with Top nowadays—your own tendency to avoid “close” family drama—but tonight had been oddly… nice.

Even if you wanted to wrap your hands around his neck half the time. Even if you hated lying to him. If he’d just pushed a little harder, maybe you would’ve folded, let it all spill right there in the kitchen.

Every time you thought you’d come to a decision, another doubt would take over you, leaving you back at square one. You knew what you wanted, so why was this so hard? 

Topper had looked at you with such genuine concern back there. The “if you need me, I’m here” sentiment was the same one you’d grown up with, the kind of care only a cousin, practically a sibling, could have.

This was hard.

When you came back into the kitchen after taking your sweet time in the bathroom you immediately noticed something was off.

Topper was by the counter, staring at the half-eaten pile of wings by the table like they’d personally offended him. He looked paler, too—almost like he’d seen a ghost.

“Uh…” You stopped mid-step, furrowing your brow. “What’s with the stupid face? Did the wings betray you or something?”

He jolted slightly, as if he hadn’t even heard you come in. “What? No. No, the wings are fine. Great. Amazing, even.”

“Okay…” You gave him a skeptical look, setting your glass down and crossing your arms. 

Topper laughed, but it was this oddly nervous, stilted sound. He glanced at his phone, tapping the screen for no real reason, then shoved it into his pocket.

“You know what, though? I totally forgot—I have something planned. Like, super important. In about… ten minutes.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “You forgot you had plans? Sounds fake, but okay.”

“So unlike me!” He got up from his chair with such sudden energy that it made you take a step back. “Anyway, I should really get going. Don’t want to be late. Uh, thanks for… hanging out. And for, uh, letting me use your wings as a form of therapy. Yeah. Later!”

And with that, he was sprinting for the door.

“Topper!” you called after him, confused and mildly annoyed. “What the hell is going on? You’re acting fuckin’ weird!”

“Nope, not weird! Just busy!” he shot back over his shoulder, not even looking at you as he opened the door.

You didn’t have time to yell at him before he disappeared out the door, the sound of his Jeep starting up echoing from the driveway a moment later. You stood there bewildered, staring at the now-empty doorway.

Something was definitely up. He was many things—dramatic, stubborn, occasionally insufferable—but shifty wasn’t usually one of them.

You went back to the kitchen, glancing at the counter, ready to brush off his weird exit as just another of his dramatics, when your eyes landed on a random envelope— the one you’d been using to scribble down everything lately. 

Extra small grocery lists, reminders, and, unfortunately, the number for the abortion clinic.

Rafe’s fingers curled loosely around the tumbler of bourbon, eyes set on nothing in particular. The lunch rush was winding down, country club regulars filing out.

He’d been there for over an hour—first, the meeting, listening to those finance guys ramble on about numbers, projections, all that bullshit he usually liked to hear. 

He’d faked his interest well enough, but his mind had been miles away. Mostly thinking about you. And the company, of course, because that was his priority right now. Or, it should be.

The whole thing with you, three days ago, it was a slow-mind-burning headache he couldn’t ignore, even if he wanted to. And he had wanted to, tried to, in fact.

He took another slow sip, hardly tasting the bourbon. Across the room, Sofia was working between tables, balancing trays and forcing her best country club smile.

All he saw when he looked at her was you, it only made him force down another swallow, running his thumb over the rim of the glass, mind somewhere between the company projections and the mess he’d made of things with you. 

It was ridiculous that you were still in his head. He should be thinking about that deal, about locking down his place in the Cameron empire. 

Rafe pushed the glass aside, signaling for the check when something caught his ear—a conversation from a nearby table.

“Yeah, she actually passed out the other day. Pathetic.” The voice was loud, sneering.

A dude’s voice followed, fake sympathy dripping from his tone. “I heard she was a fuckin’ mess after the whole breakup.”

“Oh, totally.” A different girl laughed, high-pitched and cruel. “She’s probably on something. Can you blame her? I’d be desperate too if he dumped me.”

It didn’t take a fucking genius to know who they were talking about. Small town and all, of course, things got around, mostly turning into half-truths and petty rumors.

He stopped all his movements, jaw clenching. His fingers tightened around the edge of the table, the only thing keeping him from breaking something, preferably bones.

They were talking about you. 

About some made-up version of you, the fact that these spoiled, airheaded brats thought they could shit talk about you like that, rip you apart for fun just because you weren’t there to defend yourself made him sick.

He pushed his chair back and stood, crossing the room with long strides. He didn’t care about the eyes following him as he walked up to their table, the laughter stopping the moment they looked up and saw the look on his face.

“What did you just say?”

The girl who’d been laughing, a petite brunette with too much makeup and a self-satisfied smirk, blinked up at him, her smile faltering.

“Oh, Rafe! We didn’t see you there. We were just…joking around,” she stammered, trying to backpedal.

“Joking?” He laughed, the sound making them flinch. “That what you call it? Spreading some bullshit rumor because it’s all your pathetic little lives have to offer?”

The brunette’s face went red. “I mean, we all heard about it. I’m just saying what everyone’s already thinking—”

His fists clenched and his patience, already thin, snapped the second he heard the guy—one of those trust fund preps with an overdone tan and a too-tight polo—chime in.

“Oh, come on, dude,” the guy smirked, leaning back in his chair, feigning nonchalance. “It’s not like she’s worth all that trouble, is she?”

His entire body went rigid, and before he registered it, he was leaning down, letting them feel the weight of his glare.

“Say that shit again,” Rafe taunted him, something almost amused twisting at the edge of his mouth, daring him to keep talking. “I’d love to hear you repeat yourself.”

“Relax, man—”

He didn’t even let him finish, eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a near whisper, more dangerous than shouting ever could be.

“You think it’s funny? Talking about someone who’s not even here to defend herself?”

The guy’s face paled, and Rafe swore he was seconds away from landing a punch, from wiping that smug grin off his face. Just as he prepared his fist, ready to make good on his threat, he felt a hand on his arm, a small, insistent tug. 

“Rafe,” a soft voice hissed. Sofia. He barely glanced at her, shrugging off her grip.

“Don’t,” he snapped, his voice sharp, dismissive.

He kept his eyes on the guy, who looked more uncomfortable by the second, squirming in his seat.

Sofia’s hand still hovering near his arm, cautious now. “Rafe, come on, this isn’t worth it. You’re better than this.”

She looked scared. Scared of him, scared of the situation. He wasn’t better than this.

He’d never been, and he’d been good enough at lying and pretending for her even to think that.

You would’ve known better.

Fuck, you wouldn’t have wasted time talking.

You would’ve yanked him back by his collar, shoved yourself between him and the guy, shot him that warning glare, daring him to keep pushing you so you’d have to drag him out by force. You always knew when he’d get like this, that edge in his voice, that look in his eye that told you he was seconds away from snapping. You knew better than anyone how to pull him back when he hit that switch.

But you’d never bothered with gentle.

Sofia’s eyes darted around the room, clearly embarrassed, maybe even afraid of drawing attention. He knew this wasn’t fair to her, that she hadn’t signed up for this part of him—the anger, the unpredictability. It wasn’t in his nature to stay silent, to ignore things and walk away. 

He could almost see it—feel it, like a familiar bruise under his skin. You’d shove him hard enough that he’d stumble back, half-pissed and half-shocked. You’d get in his face, not even close to scared, cutting through his spiral. “What the hell is wrong with you, Rafe? You wanna end up in jail over some loser? Grow up.”

If you’d been here, you wouldn’t have given him a choice. You’d have grabbed his arm and dragged him away, kept a grip on him until he’d snapped out of whatever dark place he’d dropped into. You’d push him until he finally let go, forced him to come down from that blinding fury and face the mess he’d just caused. It was the only way he’d ever been able to listen—when you pushed him to wake up, forced him to look at himself and see just how reckless, just how stupid he was about to be.

But Sofia? She had no idea. 

She thought saying “you’re better than this” was going to do anything, that with a light touch and some empty words, he’d suddenly be calm, reasonable, soft. 

But he’d never been that way, never with you, never with anyone.

She hadn’t done anything wrong; she’d just seen the version of him he’d wanted her to see. The version he’d put together, patched up and polished, all so he could convince himself he was something he wasn’t.

With her, it was easy to pretend. He could smooth his sharp edges, show her just enough of himself to keep her interested without letting her close enough to see the mess underneath.

He’d let her believe he was the kind of guy who could just calm down, let things slide. The kind of guy who’d listen. He’d wanted her to believe he was controlled, calm. Sofia’s softness had appealed to him, but now, it only highlighted the differences between them.

With you, he’d never had the luxury of pretending.

You’d seen through him from the start, never let him get away with putting on some act.

You hadn’t let him pretend to be better than he was, hadn’t let him off easy when he’d tried to brush things off or shut down. You knew every side of him, even the ones he’d rather ignore. You’d always known exactly who he was, who he wasn’t, and you’d never been afraid to remind him.

He didn’t want to let it go, didn’t want to give the guy an inch of leeway to think he’d won this. Rafe sighed and released his grip, his hand falling from the table as he finally stepped back. Sofia relaxed, giving him a relieved smile, but it only made him feel emptier. 

“You talk about her again and I’ll fucking kill you, you hear me?” 

The guy sputtered, looking down, embarrassed and shaken. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like an apology, but Rafe didn’t care enough to hear it.

Sofia’s hand was still on his tail when he left, and as soon as he walked out of earshot of the table, she followed him, crossing her arms. Her eyes narrowed with an expression he’d never seen from her —disbelief. 

“What was that?”

Everything.

Rafe didn’t speak. He was staring past her, back at the group, mind far from the confrontation and miles away with thoughts of you. She seemed to notice, her lips pressing together.

“I can’t believe you did that. You threatened to kill him, Rafe. Over what, a stupid rumor?”

A stupid rumor? She was making him feel like he was out of control, irrational—even though he couldn’t explain why this mattered so much.

“You wouldn’t get it. It’s not your problem.”

She flinched a little, her face falling, but to her credit, she didn’t look away. “You’re right. I don’t get it. Tell me.”

He wanted to believe that it could work with Sofia.

Nice girl, pretty too. She laughed at his jokes, and she didn’t call him out on his bullshit, because she didn’t even know that side of him existed. On paper, she was perfect. But she wasn't you.

He looked back at her, her worried eyes scanning his face.

It was frustrating—seeing the fear, feeling her judgment when she didn’t even know what she was judging.

To her, this was just some meaningless outburst, something he could turn on and off at will. This wasn’t her fault. He knew that. He hated how this wasn’t something he couldn't put into words, not in any way that would make sense to her.

“Forget it, alright?” his tone was harsher than he meant.

Sofia shook her head, clearly not willing to let it drop this time.

“Why would you get so worked up over something like this?"

To her, that’s all this was—just noise, harmless, inconsequential. 

She looked up at him expectantly, her brows furrowed in confusion, waiting for some reasonable answer.

And it pissed him off, how she kept waiting, expecting him to offer some calm, measured response when he didn’t even understand it himself.

Sofia’s eyes softened, but it only irritated him further.

“She’s nice,” Her words drifted out casually like she didn’t know she’d just cracked him open. “She defended me, last week, when I was serving brunch.”

He couldn’t stop the self-loathing.

You had always been that way—ready to defend anyone, even when you were the one hurting. Rafe winced, hating himself for it, hating that you could still be so good even after everything. He swallowed hard, keeping his expression blank.

“Did she?” he muttered, trying to sound indifferent.

“Yeah,” Sofia replied, watching his reaction with mild curiosity. “Guess I wouldn’t have expected that.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched, that familiar hurt in his chest.

His mind was already conjuring all the times you’d jumped in, backed people up, and called out anyone who crossed a line. Even when it came to people you barely knew.

It made him feel like the worst person in the world, knowing that you’d been there for Sofia of all people, that you’d shown her that same loyalty. It made him hate himself even more.

His phone buzzed, saving him from the inevitable conversation, his hand brushed the side of his face as he glanced down at the unknown number flashing across the screen. He didn’t hesitate, before swiping the answer button.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Cameron, this is Dr. Harris from the hospital,” the voice on the other end said. “We’ve been trying to reach Miss Thornton about the blood work results from her visit three days ago. Unfortunately, there’s been an issue with our system and a few patient’s data has been deleted, except for the emergency contact information.”

Rafe’s stomach dropped.

He was still your emergency contact, not by choice probably. The hospital was calling about your blood work.

Was something wrong?

His blood ran cold. “Is she okay? Did something happen?” The urgency in his tone made Sofia’s eyes widen again, her confusion growing.

“We’re concerned about a possible infection. We need to run more tests to rule it out, but the symptoms suggest it could be more complicated. We must check thoroughly to be sure.”

“An infection?”

“Yes, but it could be nothing serious. We just need her to come in as soon as possible for a follow-up,” Dr. Harris explained.

There was a pause as if he expected Rafe to say something reassuring or offer to pass on the message. 

Sofia’s brows knitted together as she watched him. “Rafe?” 

“I’ll tell her,” he said, the words cracked in his throat. The doctor thanked him and hung up.

He stared at the phone waiting for it to ring again with more news, a reassurance that this wasn’t as serious as it sounded. 

You probably hadn’t changed your emergency contact because it slipped your mind.

He couldn’t stand the idea that something could be wrong, and he was not the one you called when you needed someone. All he’d ever done was mess things up between you.

“What’s going on?”

How the fuck was he going to tell you when you'd blocked him everywhere?

He couldn’t call, couldn’t text, couldn’t even show up unannounced without risking the usual argument that would end with you screaming at him to get out, or worse, you looking at him with that unforgiving stare.

He knew you’d locked every door, bolted every window to keep him out, and he deserved it. 

“It’s nothing,” he said, the lie slipping out automatically. He could feel her studying him, waiting for another explanation he also didn’t have the patience to give.

Maybe Topper could help.

The irony wasn’t lost on him—he’d given your cousin the mission of checking in on you, playing the careful messenger while Rafe kept his distance. That was supposed to be him.

But the reality was you hated him now, hated him enough that Topper was a safer option and yet, the private information still landed on his lap. As if he still had the right to be in your orbit, let alone the person trusted with this kind of news.

It felt wrong.

He knew you were going to hate him even more for still having access to your private details. It wasn’t really his fault—the hospital called him. He should have hung up the moment the hospital mentioned your name, told them they had the wrong guy. But he didn’t. He listened. 

“If you need to go—” she started, trailing off when he didn’t answer. Her voice softened, tentative. “It’s about her, isn’t it?”

Rafe’s jaw ticked, and he looked away, out at the horizon where the sun was setting.  “Yeah,” he muttered, not bothering to lie this time.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard. He typed something out, then deleted it, then typed again.

Finally, he just went with the simplest thing he could think of and hit send.

Can we meet up? Tannyhill in 30. I think I know what’s wrong.

He half-expected some lame excuse or joke from Topper. Instead, the text he got made the deep lines across his forehead make an appearance.

Shit, you do???

Did the fucker already know?

Did he suspect? Or was this just the kind of baited question someone asked when they thought they were the last to know something big?

He frowned, gripping the phone tighter.

If Topper did know, why hadn’t he said anything?

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[savanir]

DP x DC prompt [6]

Weapon design always came easy to Jack Fenton. He grew up with it, all the way back in Atlantis, when he was just a little guppy.

What he wasn’t aware of at the time was that his parents were from a long and prestigious line of scientists and weapon manufacturers in Atlantean society. But things had been getting dangerous. 

The King at the time cast them out when they refused his demands of greater, stronger, deadlier weapons. The kind of weapons they knew would not only destroy their enemies, but themselves as well.

They fled and went where they thought they would never be found, the surface.

Jack had the easiest time adapting, being as young as he was getting used to breathing air was a lot less of a struggle. 

He adopted one of the most generic male names he could, and adapted the family name of Fenestratus into Fenton. And then it was just living as a human, as humanly as possible, nothing to see here.

By now Jack basically doesn’t know any better. but this piece of heritage is coming back now all these years later, when his son is looking to him for help from the government.

But first he holds his boy close and apologizes, because he sees the fear, and he understands a little too well, and he doesn’t like the picture he’s seeing now that all the puzzle pieces are falling into place.

“I almost became the thing I hate the most. I’m so sorry Danny, I’m sorry I made you feel unsafe in your own home”

The hug is long and warm and tight and Danny isn’t ashamed to admit he might have clung a little bit.

Then Jack holds Danny tightly by his shoulders and gives him a big grin, “Good news though, you’re only half ghost, the other half is not only human but also Atlantean, and there are laws protecting us now” Jack mutters to himself, “I wonder if the whole ghost stuff would actually be put under the meta protection thing… hmm”

Danny blinks for a moment, Jazz gapes, Maddie is suddenly no longer spiraling about how her baby boy got in a terrible accident in their lab and she didn’t know.

“I’m also what?”

“Dad!?”

“oh did I forget to mention that? I thought I did, I know for certain that I had been meaning to”

“Jack sweetie, are you-”

“oh yes, and I remember now, I decided to tell you after our big breakthrough because I didn’t want to distract you, and-” Jack looks sheepish, “I hope you aren’t too mad at me Maddiecakes”

“mad? oh I would never be mad at you about this but we could have- I don’t know, accommodated- Atlanteans are aquatic, well I guess that explains how you could always put away so much water, and when you gave me your umbrella and I thought you were just making an excuse when you told me you didn’t mind and in fact loved getting pelted by the rain-”

Maddie goes on, and Jack thinks to himself that this is exactly the reason why he kept it to himself at the time, Maddie never half asses anything, he’s sure a lot of things are going to change in the house now, it honestly only makes him fall in love with her even more.

Meanwhile Jazz had filled up a bucket of water and then dunked her head in, then came back out not even slightly gasping for breath, just saying “oh my god” over and over.

Danny timed it, “yeah okay, I guess that proves it. now I’m starting to wonder if my weird relationship with air is ghost related at all”

[dilf-c0nn0isseur]

Guilty As Sin - Logan Howlett x fem!reader

WARNING! MDNI! includes: age gap(legal!), oral(fem!receiving), p in v penetration & ejaculation, just a lot of smut tbh

word count: 5,094

a/n: i imagined x-men 2000s logan while writing this, ik the timelines kinda fucked but i love writing him like that so.

You had heard of Logan, or what he was better known as, ‘Wolverine.’ Anything you knew of him though was what you had heard during your time at the mansion where you attended Xavier’s school for the gifted. Your studies were short, as you had only attended the year you were set to graduate. Your mutant genes had manifested themselves slightly later than others. Now, a few years graduated, you had found a permanent residence at the mansion as a member of the X-Men. 

You had not once met this man that everyone spoke of, but word amongst the mansion’s occupants suggested that he had gone off on his own for the last couple years. From what you’d gathered, he seemed to do just fine by himself.

After his rather drawn-out absence, Logan finally found himself back at the mansion. He was not troubled by the lack of company over his time away, but some part rooted deep down in him missed the sense of community this place provided. This was something he kept to himself. Vulnerability was not his style. His return was completely unannounced, but word quickly spread. Your curiosity to see Wolverine in the flesh was what brought you downstairs from your room, now leaning against a door frame to catch a glimpse of him without drawing attention towards yourself.

Your eyes focused on him as he pulled back from a welcome embrace with a member of the team, greeting his colleagues that he couldn’t have helped but missed while away. He sported an old, faded brown leather jacket that he unzipped to reveal a black t-shirt. You let your gaze wander to where his shirt was tucked into a pair of dark-wash bootcut jeans, a matching leather belt looped through the holes. 

Then you realized how tall he was in comparison to those that stood around him. He practically towered over the crowd that formed around him. Just his presence took up space. He brought up a large hand to his dark hair and ran his fingers through it.

God, his fingers are long.

From that moment forward, you were irrevocably captivated by him. 

No doubt he was much older than you. It was obvious in his appearance, the way he carried himself, his cadence. This fact did nothing but fuel your fixation. And so, you began on your attempts at his attention.

That afternoon, a few hours after his arrival, Logan had settled back in. He was content with returning back to his room, a space that was uniquely his. He got to work at unpacking the duffel bag that he had brought with him. There was not much to put away since he packed light. Everything he needed could often be easily found wherever he found himself escaping to. His travels had left him exhausted though, and he craved a glass of whiskey.

Logan made his way down to the kitchen, where unbeknownst to him, you had been waiting, expecting this to be the place that you two would be likely to cross paths for the first time. When his large frame appeared in the entrance to the kitchen, your eyes fluttered up, this time taking in his appearance much closer. Your stake-out at the table, however boring, was worth it. 

He didn’t notice you right away. He moved swiftly to the bar, set on getting his drink. You watched as the tall, burly man located the whiskey and poured the amber liquid into a small glass. The proportion of his hands around the drink really put it into perspective just how large he was. How much larger than you he was.

You had to get his attention before he retreated back to his room. Sure, you may have spared the dignity to sit and wait for him to coincidentally walk into the kitchen, but following him? Too much.

“Hey.”

Your voiced appeared suddenly from behind him and caused him to slam his glass against the counter. He whipped around to see you, sitting at the table, arms folded across the wood in front of you. 

“Shit, kid, can’t just sneak up on me like that,” he cursed. His fingers flew to the bridge of his nose and pinched it.

His use of the word ‘kid’ to address you should have annoyed you, but had the opposite effect. It reinforced that tempting age gap between the two of you.

“Sorry,” you apologized with a sheepish grin. “Logan, right?”

You had to play it off cool, casual, as if you didn’t know exactly who he was.

“That’s me.” He took a swig of his whiskey, the familiar burn against his throat soothing him from the surprise you just gave him. “Haven’t seen you around before,” he said after swallowing. “You are..?”

You introduced yourself. “I started here after you left. Heard a lot about you, though.”

“Oh, yeah?” Logan tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow. “Good things, I hope.”

You could tell he was more relaxed now, analyzing the way he leaned back against the counter, one hand propped behind him, the other holding his glass. “For sure. Heard all about your mutation. Pretty scary,” you said with a gesture to his hands. “But cool.”

As much as you were checking him out, Logan also examined you subtly, without you noticing. You looked young. Hell, a lot younger than him. But he could tell by the way you radiated comfort where you were that you were at least a couple years graduated. Most of the kids enrolled in classes were hesitant, not yet confident in their place at the mansion.

“Do they hurt?”

Your question brought him out of his thoughts. He nodded with his lips pressed to his glass again, setting it down as he finished it off. “Definitely took some getting used to.”

You were surprised at how casual he was. You didn’t really have an idea of how he was in person, but this wasn’t exactly what you expected. 

He caught you staring, noticing the slight look of confusion etched on your face. “Kid?,” he prompted. There it was, that nickname again.

“Shit, sorry. You’re just different than how I pictured you.”

A look of amusement appeared on Logan’s face. “Pictured me, huh?”

His words almost sounded suggestive. Was that how he meant to come across? Whatever the intention, you continued. 

“Kinda got the idea you were mean and scary,” you said in a teasing manner. “But you’re actually not too bad.”

“Mean and scary,” he repeated your words with a chuckle. “I guess there’s a time and place for that.”

His reciprocated banter made your confidence grow. He watched you carefully as you stood up from the table, closing the distance between the two of you and settling beside him against the counter. You reached for his hand that was placed against the cool countertop behind him, brushing your fingers against his knuckles. The difference between the sizes of your hands made your stomach turn. “Can you show me?,” your question insinuating his sheathed claws.

Logan was aware of the game you were playing now. His heightened sense of smell picked up the soft, aroused heat that now radiated off of you. The smell wafted up his nose and his grip on the countertop tightened below your hand that now rested on his. Your touch on his hand, your advancement, it turned him on in a way that made him feel almost perverted. You were so young, your experience had to be almost nothing compared to his. He had years- no, centuries on you. This was wrong. It was his job to stop it before it escalated. If someone were to walk in on the two of you right now, he could only imagine what they would think. 

Coming into his senses, Logan shifted away from you, reestablishing distance between your bodies. His hand slid out from under yours. 

“Another time,” he said, focusing his attention on turning to the sink and rinsing out his whiskey glass.

His change in demeanor puzzled you. You stared at his back, his muscles flexing underneath the white tank he was wearing as he placed the clean glass back into the cupboard above him. You wondered why his tone changed so suddenly. You pushed. “C’mon, just-“

“It’s getting late,” he interrupted you, now moving towards the hall to exit before this could go further. Before he let this go further. There was a tinge of annoyance lacing his words. “I’m heading to bed, and you should too.” 

His exit was abrupt, leaving you standing alone in the kitchen, replaying the interaction. You tried to understand his switch. If Logan was hesitant to make a move on you because of the gap between your ages, you were determined to convince him otherwise, show him that you yearned for a man like him. Someone who could really take care of you.

◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆

The next day passed with no sign of Logan around the mansion. You had even repeated your camp out in the kitchen for a little while, but left only further disappointed when he never showed. At some point, you retreated to your room and took a nap out of pure boredom. This ‘nap’ turned into a 4 hour slumber that you awoke from feeling disoriented and groggy, surprised to see that the clock on your nightstand read 11:47 P.M. You forced yourself out of bed and into a change of comfier clothes than what you had fallen asleep in, and headed downstairs to the lounge for a change of scenery.

Expecting it to be empty because of the late hour, you were more than pleasantly surprised to see Logan sitting in one of the leather recliners, his arm draped lazily over the side with a half-smoked cigar dangling between his fingers. You paused in the doorway for a second as his attention was drawn to you.

“What’re you doing up?”

His question almost seemed accusatory. He narrowed his eyes at your shirt, some band he had never heard of. The collar was stretched and hung off one shoulder, revealing your prominent collarbone and bare neck. His eyes dragged slowly down your torso to your exposed legs. The shorts you were wearing were covered by the excessive length of the t-shirt. Were you even wearing shorts? Underwear? Wonder what color underwear. Logan’s mind clouded with questions that forced his gaze to the fireplace crackling in front of him, distracting himself with a long drag of his cigar.

You noticed the way he examined you. His prolonged stare, the way his eyes fell down, and then away in realization of his obvious staring. 

“Just woke up from a nap,” you admitted. 

His body tensed as you finally made your way in and sat on one of the couches next to him. “What are you doing up?”

He blew out one last trail of smoke and then put his cigar out on the ashtray that sat on the table in-between the couches you sat on. “Was just leaving.”

Logan’s rushed attempt at escape made you furrow your brow. You couldn’t let him slip away like he did the other night. 

“What’s with you?,” you confronted him. His face wrinkled, a look that portrayed his shock that you would question him like that. “Whad’ya mean ‘what’s with you’?,” he shot back. You rolled your eyes as you gestured to him, standing up and trying to make a break for the door. 

“You acted just fine yesterday, and now you’re being all stand-offish and weird.”

God, the nerve of this kid, he thought to himself. Logan was always astonished with the younger generation not having a problem speaking their mind. Instead of letting him answer, you pushed it yet again. “Can’t help but think I make you nervous.”

“Nervous? The fuck do you mean nervous?,” he spat, offended. His chest heaved underneath his snug black shirt. You stood up as a way to try and level with him. This was a silly move, because he still towered over your much smaller figure.

“I think,” you started, words insinuating, “that you don’t know what do with a girl, so much younger than you, hitting on you.”

Your blatant admittance of the situation made his eyes widen, momentarily stunned. He quickly regained his conscious and scoffed, still dancing around the accusation you just threw at him. “First off, you don’t make me nervous,” Logan said, staring down at you with his eyes slightly squinted in annoyance. “And second, kid, I know what I’m doing.”

His words were sharp, biting. His attempt to diminish you with youthful nicknames was mute. You took it as a challenge, and the insult went straight to your core, causing a wet pool to form between your legs.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” you snipped. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut and exhaled. “You’re too young.”

There it was. You had finally gotten him to voice his concern, the reason he had given you the cold shoulder.

“I’m an adult, Logan,” you said with a step forward, that gap between you getting smaller. His breath hitched in his throat at your new advancement. “You can argue with me all you want, but the bulge in you pants is very condescending.” Your eyes flicked down to his crotch and then back up to his, a playful ‘gotcha’ smirk now on your lips.

He was now fully aware of the growing hard-on against his thigh and choked on the breath he had just inhaled. You swear you could hear him mutter a ‘fuck’ under his breath. He wanted to give in, he wanted to throw you on the couch and take you right there, but he was still held back by some guilty conscious in his mind, convinced he was too old for a girl like you. “I’m too old for you, kid.” A final attempt at calling your bluff, seeing if you would suddenly realize your desire to get with him was just a silly fantasy. You could sense his guard coming down. 

“Am I gonna have to make a move on you first?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed in on yours and his lips pursed together. Your question was not answered with words, but with a tempting look, like he was daring you to act on your words. 

With one more step, you closed the gap between your bodies, a hand running up one of his muscular arms. You leaned up slightly on your tip-toes, your height difference still separating you from his lips. He didn’t move, expecting you to back out at any second, needing more reassurance that this is what you wanted.

Your hand found his shoulder, using it as leverage to lift yourself to meet his lips. They brushed softly and Logan struggled to maintain his self control. You felt a shaky breath escape his mouth and tickle yours. When he didn’t pull away, you pressed your lips firmly to his. This was the confirmation he needed and he gave in. 

His hands left their previous spot, frozen by his sides, and twisted around your back. He gripped your waist with his hands, pulling you tight against him. God, it felt so wrong, a woman as young as you wanting a man so far in age. His grip tightened and his tongue forced it’s way through your parted lips, running over your teeth and against your own tongue. When he felt a hand caress the bulge in his pants, he groaned into your mouth, the sound muffled by the fiery kiss. This felt so taboo. And maybe, that’s what he liked so much about it. 

Logan’s mouth left yours but quickly found your jaw, kissing it and licking a stripe all the way up to the spot just below your ear. He planted another sloppy kiss here before whispering, “my room?”

His invitation fueled the fire in your groin and you nodded desperately. “Yes, yes please,” you managed to gasp. 

The tall, burly man swooped you up in his arms with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist. He hoisted you up against him and you could feel his hard-on throbbing against your aching cunt. The contact made you grind your hips into him as he carried you to his room with urgent speed. You kissed his neck, his beard tickling your skin. The smell of whiskey and cigar smoke clouded your senses, paired with an underlying musk that was unique to only Logan.

One of Logan’s hands, still holding onto you, grabbed the door handle to his room and twisted it, kicking it all the way open with his boot. Once he spun the two of you inside, he rushed to kick it closed again. His room smelled even more like him. 

He found your lips again in desperation as he leaned down and placed you gently on his bed. He remained on the floor in front of you, kneeling slightly to trail kisses down your neck. One of his hands slid up your bare leg, creeping up your thigh until he was met with the hem of your way-too-short shorts.

“Wore these to get my attention, Bub?,” he muttered against your neck in-between wet kisses. He zoned in on one spot and sucked the soft skin between his teeth, a maroon bruise forming under his lips. You inhaled a sharp breath. “Walking around here in practically nothing, that’s how bad you wanted this?” His voice was carnal, a seductive growl.

“God, yes, so bad.” Your words were incoherent, your inability to form a complete sentence showing how much of a mess Logan had you already.

His curious hand continued it’s trek over your shorts, fingers curling under the waist band and tugging slightly. He waited for you to object, and when there was none, he pulled them down to where they pooled around your ankles. You hurriedly kicked them off to the floor next to him. Logan pulled back from your neck and took in the sight between your legs, the pair of lacy red panties that were damp with your arousal. You felt your face heat up as he drank you in. “Goddamn.”

He drew in a long breath through his nose to inhale your heated scent. He fell to his knees between your legs and began planting kisses against your thighs, inching up towards your center. “Logan, please,” you whimpered above him, entranced by the image of him between your legs. 

His eyes flicked up to meet yours as he placed a kiss against the fabric of your underwear. “You want this?”

“I want this so bad.”

Logan’s intense gaze never left yours as he pulled your panties to the side and let out a hot breath against your soaking wet core. “Holy shit doll,” he exclaimed at your arousal. Your bottom lip quivered with anticipation. 

When his lips made contact with your swollen clit, you threw your head back and moaned his name. Hearing his name on your lips sent waves of pleasure through his own body. Swiftly, he pulled your panties down and threw them to join your shorts on the floor. He reconnected with your clit quickly and sucked on it gently. You hissed through clenched teeth and your hand flew to the back of his head, gripping his hair in your fingers for support.

Logan’s hands found their way to your thighs and grabbed them, forcing them to stay apart for him despite your body’s instinct to close them due to the overwhelming feeling of pleasure between them. He licked a long, wet stripe up your folds back to your clit and lapped at it hungrily. Each flick of his tongue made your insides boil with arousal. His fingers dug into the soft, pillowy skin of your thighs and you were sure they were to leave bruises, a reminder of who was between them.

“Y’taste so good, sweetheart,” Logan mumbled against your pussy. The vibration of his words against you made goosebumps raise all over your body. 

“Wanted you so bad,” you rambled, “knew you could take care of me.”

“Is that right?”

His teasing remark made you clench around nothing. 

One of his calloused fingers traced intricate circles on the inside of your thigh, trailing down sensually before gliding back up. You felt his finger continue to dance softly around your upper thigh before you recognized the pattern. He was spelling out letters on your skin. 

‘M-I-N-E’

That act of claiming you, the writing it against your thigh, it made your stomach flip. “Oh my god,” you whispered.

Just when you thought you couldn’t take anymore, his fingers that were just marking claim on your thigh found their way to your dripping pussy. One finger circled slowly around your entrance, the natural lubricant you had produced letting it slip inside. You gasped and arched your back towards the ceiling. “Fuck, Logan!”

His lips still working at your clit, he began pumping his finger in and out of you. “Feel good?,” he asked in a hushed, gravelly voice. You answered an immediate yes, wanting more. He sensed your craving and slipped a second finger in, earning a content sigh from you. 

Logan’s long fingers curled inside of you and brushed against the soft, spongy spot that made you cry out his name, along with other incoherent profanities. When he felt you began to clench around him, your hips bucking up off of his bed, he pulled his fingers out slowly. The emptiness from where he once occupied made you ache. You sat up, disappointed. “Logan-“

“I wanna feel you cum around my cock,” he interrupted. You watched in awe as he stood up, biceps flexing as he unhooked the belt around his waist. He slipped it through the loops of his jeans and let it fall to the floor. Your jaw dropped when he grabbed at the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head. His body was even better than you could ever possibly imagine. The definition of each of his abdominal muscles, toned and glistening. Your eyes followed the trail of dark hair that lead down under his jeans. Logan caught your shocked look. 

“Wait, kid, have you never-“

“Fuck, Logan, I’m not a virgin!” You almost laughed in surprise at his accusation.

“Y’sure?,” he cocked an eyebrow at you. “Cause you look lost.”

Your lips tilted in a downward smile, cheeks growing red. “I’m not a virgin. Just never been with anyone like you.”

His gaze softened and he shot you a small smile. “Ah,” he proclaimed. It was like he was self-aware of how perfect he was, you thought. “You wanna do this?”

You couldn’t believe he was asking again. “Trust me Logan,” you said slowly as you leaned forward, hands finding the button of his jeans. “I really wanna do this.”

His head fell back with a groan as you began pulling the zipper of his pants down, revealing the top of his boxers. You pulled them down to his thighs as he stepped out of his boots with a sharp stomp on the heel of each one. Once they were off, he let his jeans fall to his ankles and kicked them off to the side with the rest of your clothes. You tried not to show your astonishment at the size of his bulge, now even more prominent, tight against his thin boxers. 

‘How is that ever gonna fit inside of me?’

Logan smirked slightly at the look on your face and pulled down the last article of clothing that was separating him and nudity. 

You bit your lip as his cock sprung free, taking in the sight of it. It was fully erect, a single vein running along the underside where it met his soft pink tip that was leaking with pre-cum. Realizing that he was now fully nude, you pulled your shirt off slowly and let it fall off the bed. His eyes immediately dropped to your tits and his cock throbbed with need. His gaze swept up and down your whole body. “Fucking beautiful, sweetheart.”

His praise made you realize again how empty you felt without him inside of you. “I want you inside of me, Logan.”

He took his hard cock in his hand and pumped it softly, more pre-cum beading at the tip. “Lay down for me.”

You did exactly as he said and scooted up to the top of his bed, laying down with your head resting against his pillows. You could smell him even stronger here, the spot he sleeps every night. His scent flooded your senses and your eyes fluttered shut for a second, basking in it. You barely even noticed he was crawling atop of you until his hands were planted on either side of your head and his lips were back on your neck. Being caged underneath his much larger figure like this made you melt, a rag doll lying beneath him.

Logan nipped softly under your jaw, his sharp canines sending shock through your body. “Ready, Bub?,” he drawled against your skin. You nodded against the top of his head, your chest rising and falling with his.

He propped himself up above you with one muscular arm, the other moving to grip his cock and fix it against your entrance. You were practically leaking just at that. Your legs spread apart even further subconsciously, giving him more access. Both of your eyes were fixated on his cock as he began pushing inside of you, painfully slow. You gasped as you felt your walls stretch to accommodate him. A low groan fell from his lips as he continued pushing himself in, until he was halfway disappeared within your cunt. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered in his scratchy voice. 

Your hand snaked around the back of his neck, fingers brushing the hair at the nape of his neck. “I want all of you Logan, please,” you begged. He brought his hand that was wrapped around his cock back up to it’s spot beside your head. “I wanna give it all to you.”

You grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled as you felt him pushing all the way inside of you, just what you had asked for. He bottomed out inside of you just as you felt the tip of his cock press against the spot that his fingers had just been curling into. “Oh my god, you’re so fucking big.”

His cock twitched at your words and he pulled out slowly before sheathing himself back inside you, warming you up to his thrusts. “So tight,” he grunted. You bucked your hips up into him, desperate for more. You knew how much he had to offer. As if reading your mind, Logan began building up to a steady pace, his thrusts making you rock against the bed frame. He watched as your breasts bounced softly with each thrust. His hands gripped the pillow next to your head and an animalistic sound built up in his throat- a growl.

“This what you wanted?,” he asked as his pace quickened. “Someone older who could fuck you right?”

His words went straight to your core where he was pounding into you. “Yes, fuck,” you gasped with a particularly deep thrust, “exactly what I wanted.” Your other hand flew to his back and you dug your nails in, leaving dark red marks that quickly healed over due to his regenerative cells. A guttural moan left him and he lifted one of your legs over his hip, pounding even deeper into your cunt. A sudden pressure on your clit made you realize his thumb was rubbing circles around it, increasing the pleasure. You were practically seeing stars at this point. 

The pressure in your stomach built up and you could feel that familiar knot begin to tighten, threatening to release at any moment. Logan felt you clench around his cock and sensed your nearing orgasm. “Finish for me baby, wanna feel you cum around my cock,” he coaxed. His pleading words made you squirm beneath him, now not even sure what words were leaving your mouth. 

With a deep, calculated thrust, you came undone around him. Your back arched up, tits pressing up against his firm chest. He continued his thrusts, praising you and brushing a thumb over your cheek. “Good girl, such a good fucking girl,” he said gingerly. “Look so pretty cumming around my cock.”

Your tightened grip around his cock as you came made him lose control of his steady pace, thrusts becoming quicker and more urgent. As you rode out your orgasm, he began to chase his. “Fuck, stay just like that,” he commanded while he worked towards his climax. Your body buzzed with overstimulation, but you took each thrust, eager to please. You thrust your hips up against his and he cursed, your compliancy sending him over the edge. “Where do you want-,” 

“Inside. Cum inside of me.”

Logan moaned, the sound bordering on a whine as he spilled himself inside of you, each last thrust forcing his cum deeper inside of your pussy. You pulled his body down against yours, craving the closeness as he finished. With one final thrust, his cum dripping outside of you and down onto the bed, he let out a long groan and let his head collapse against your chest. 

“That was the best anybody has ever fucked me.”

Your sudden, slurred words made Logan chuckle. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He placed a soft kiss in-between your breasts before pushing himself off the bed, going to grab a towel from his bathroom. He came back and parted your legs gently, cleaning you up with such care that made you wanna stay here, in his bed with him, forever. “Trust me, it can get better.” His eyes met yours from between your legs, still cleaning the mess the two of you had made. Your stomach fluttered. The insinuation that this was just the first time between you and him. That there would be more.

“I guess we’ll just have to see.”

Logan smiled at you before getting up once more to throw the towel into the bathroom and grab a shirt from his dresser. He crawled back into the bed next to you and lifted your arms up, sliding his shirt over your body. “Thanks,” you said softly, the fluttering feeling returning in your stomach.

“Course, Bub.” He pulled you into his arms as he laid down, nestling his head into the back of your neck.

[iluvloganhowlett]

Feel free to reject this request since it’s kinda heavy, but maybe Hugh kissing the reader’s sh scars but it’s like friends to lovers? Preferably f reader but gen is fine too

YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL ❀˖°

in which logan draws stars around your scars

warnings: HEAVY MENTIONS OF SH⚠️⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS IS A TOPIC YOU CANNOT HANDLE, angst, blood

i actually love this request as someone who struggles w sh themselves so pls don’t be afraid to ask smt like this!

i also switched it to logan instead of hugh bc i feel like he just fits the part better and this isn’t friends to lovers it’s just lovers😭 sorry

“you drew stars around my scars. but now im bleeding.”

you couldn’t help it, the burning sensation of the blood dripping down over your old scars was a feeling you couldn’t resist.

for 2 years now you’ve told yourself that you’d stop, thay you’d get better. especially since logan came around and made you want to get better. but you couldn’t, no matter how hard you tried.

more sooner than later did the tears of guilt and regret begin pooling your eyes, the hot liquid dripping down your face as you held the cold towel to your wrist harder.

you knew logan would be up here any minute; his class was coming to an end soon. the last thing you needed was him walking in on you cutting yourself after you told him you’d stop.

you took a deep breath, drying your wrist and slapping a few bandaids on it before looking at yourself in the mirror; you were a mess. your face was flushed, covered in streaks of dried tears as the new ones kept coming. your hair was a ruffled mess, you were drowning in your hoodie and fuck did your wrist burn.

“y/n/n?” you heard from afar, shit. surely logan was in your bedroom, waiting for you to come out of the bathroom.

you sighed, praying that your voice would be strong. “i’m in here, just a minute!” you called out, cursing yourself for your voice cracking at the last second.

immediately logan’s concern grew higher, slowly approaching the door and leaning his head against it. your nervous sobs were hard to miss, especially from right against the door.

“y/n,” logan called firmly, “open the door f’me please.”

your eyes widened, noticing how logan’s voice grew louder. it didn’t take you long to pick up on how close logan was to you.

“i can’t,” your voice cracked, you looked down at your hands that shook rapidly, afraid of what was to come.

logan’s brows furrowed, he’d had enough. you heard one of his claws retract as he picked the lock.

quickly, you took out your box, shoving your blade into it and throwing it god knows where into the drawer just before logan barged in.

“are you okay in here?” he asked, glancing down at your exposed wrist, covered in bandaids.

you followed his eyes, yours widening when you noticed you forgot to roll down your sleeve.

logan felt like he could physically feel the pit growing in his stomach, realizing what you had done. logan had never understood why you chose to hurt yourself like this. but he did understand what it was like to endure so much pressure and emotion that you don’t know how to contain it. and so he never screamed, or yelled, or frankly even asked ‘why?,’ because not everyone has a ‘why.’

your tears were flowing once more as you moved closer to logan, “i’m sorry,” you sobbed, burying yourself in his arms.

he immediately welcomed you, wrapping his strong

arms around your shoulders, rocking you back and forth in hopes to calm you down.

he looks down at you, his own eyes glossed over slightly, he hates seeing you like this, especially when he knows he can’t do anything about it.

soon logan loosens his grip, reaching gently for your left wrist and bringing it up to his lips, planting a soft and gentle kiss on one of your old scars.

“my baby,” he mutters, kissing another one while ensuring he leaves your fresh one alone, “my sweet baby.”

you can do nothing but sob harder. you’d expected numerous reactions out of logan but this definitely wasn’t one of them.

“i love you,” kiss. “i’ll always love you, doll.” kiss. “y’know that? i’ll never stop loving you.” kiss.

your eyes dart down as you feel a drop of water on your wrist as logan continues kissing up and down your arm.

he was crying.

his confidence wavers, “you’re beautiful,” kiss. “so, so beautiful,” his voice begins to crack as he leans a head down on your shoulder.

logan takes a deep breath before dropping your wrists and instead taking your face in his hands, forcing you to look him in the eyes. “you’re always gonna be beautiful t’me, alright? the most beautiful girl i’ve ever seen.”

it was the first time you’d ever seen logan cry this hard, the hot tears pouring down his face at an unbelievable pace. you’d be a monster to say this didn’t make you tear up in the slightest.

you place your hands on his wrists, his hands still holding onto your face. slowly he leans in, closing the space between you two. kissing you in such a gentle, loving way that it makes your legs feel weak.

“i love you, logan.”

“you’re beautiful, peach.”

this is so sad☹️

taglist!!

@velvrei @spazwayy @oatmilkriver @sseleniaa @mei-simp @wittyjasontodd @wolverinesangel @realsimpbitchshit @pickuptruck01 @keigohawks @thereallchristine @zeeader @pink-jello-fish @twinky-wink @malfoys-demigod @seamlessepiphany @withafoll @lulawantmula @gigachadcowboy

[missqhughes]

CAN HE GET YOU LIKE THIS? | Q. HUGHES43

-> quinn hughes x jacksgf!reader

-> contains: cheating, smut with plot , SLIGHT angst, and other sexual themes, oc’s created for tha plot, intended lowercase, use of y/n

-> IN WHICH: jack almost cant seem to control himself around another woman at the lake house; and to make it worse, in front of his girlfriend. when she cries her frustrations to her boyfriends older brother, he seems to have the perfect solution to her problems.

-> my first hockey fic! i spent so much time on it, and i’m pretty proud tbh. also, i’m so excited to post on this page, and as i always say on my other blog, hope you love it as much as i do!

*fic is not proofread

18+ CONTENT BELOW THE CUT

y/n was never the jealous type.

she never needed anyone’s approval.

but god, what jack was doing was pissing her off.

for the first time, luke had brought his girlfriend april, to the lake house for the summer, and this week, y/n had the unpleasant company of aprils friend stampeding around the house for the week.

about 100% of the time, she could handle girls throwing themselves at jack at this point. she was used to it; jack was always a good boyfriend to her, and could always control himself with his endless female attention.

until today.

the july sun delivered a scorching heat down on the group as they conversed somewhere on the middle of the lake in the hughes family boat.

the typical casual conversation that y/n, jack, and his brothers had on their boat days were greatly interrupted by the ear piercing voices of april’s friends.

“jack, wanna let me drive the boat?”

“jack, the sun is too bright! can i please wear your hat?”

jack let out low chuckles at the flattery delivered to him, and y/n was doing her usual job at ignoring them.

with her dark tinted sunglasses on and her head resting on the back seat of the boat, she saw her boyfriend place his white baseball cap on one of april’s god forsaken friend.

her eyebrows furrowed; jack never fed into anything like this. the pang of anxiety lowly rested in the pit of her stomach, but she chose to ignore it.

he knew better.

“jacky, how does it look on me?”

through her dark lenses, she witnessed the ratty girl in front of her spin in front of jack, pulling the sides of her bikini up while doing so.

he made no attempt to hide his gaze on the girl in front of him, or the comment that slipped from his lips afterwards;

“looks good,” he said lowly, probably thinking that his girlfriend mere feet away from him was fast asleep from the summer heat, unaware to his tease.

the anxiety in y/n’s stomach began to surface more, a jealousy and anger she hadn’t felt in a situation like this before arising. she thought whatever of it, that she was being crazy, that she could shove this feeling down.

y/n kept her gaze straight forward, blocking out any of the chatter coming from anyone in her vicinity; her eyes locked on luke’s slow speed on the boat, conversing casually with april, unaware of the drama brewing behind them.

god, can he not drive any faster? she thought to herself, the annoyance within growing deeper and deeper.

the boat rocked along with the motion of the water beneath it, but y/n did her best to sit completely still, feeling that if she moved, the her negative emotions would swirl harder.

after a grueling 4 minute ride back to the dock, luke had secured the boat,

“everyone’s good to get off now,” he told the group, grabbing april’s hand and towel, assisting her onto the dock.

the short haired girl, the one throwing herself all over jack, the one who’s name y/n didn’t even bother to remember in their introductions, was just about to take it too far.

she stood up first, jack and y/n following behind her.

the ratty girl “dropped” her towel, allowing the perfect opportunity to bend down in front of jack,

“woops! my bad,” her voice made an embarrassing attempt to be seductive to jack, turning her head to eye him up and down.

jack let out a deep inhale, just enough to set y/n off further on her silent rage.

“all good, let me help you out.”

the girl giggled as she took jacks hand, letting it linger on his skin longer than necessary.

he paid no mind to his girlfriend behind him.

the insatiable urge to strangle the two idiots in front of y/n was barely present on her face, as she decided to take back control of the situation, and remind both of them who his significant other was.

“babe, i’m tired, do you want to come up and take a nap?”

his conversation with the short haired girl was cut with y/n’s words, he looked back at the two, contemplation in his mind, before smiling at y/n.

see? nothing to worry about-

“i uh, i think i’m gonna stay down here for a bit, don’t want to go inside yet, it’s just a really nice day y’know?”

her ears began to ring with his words, cheeks growing red as she looked over at luke and april, who shifted uncomfortably, now aware of the drama upon the dock.

“uh, yeah… yeah that’s fine.”

“i’ll be up soon, promise,” jack said as he sat down with april, luke, and her stupid friend.

y/n ignored his words, turning on her heel to walk up to the house, pace growing as soon as she was out of sight from the dock.

now that she was alone, all the feelings the thought she was suppressing were now at the forefront of her body and mind. she ran her hands through her hair, almost ready to rip it out from frustration.

y/n stormed through the house, and as she passed the living room, she was met with quinn; who was quietly reading a book with his feet kicked up on the ottoman.

before he lifted his head, his eyes went up first, gaze met with y/n’s indignant expression,

“woah, you okay, something happen on the one boat day i miss?” he said light heartedly,

“quinn, not now,”

y/n snapped at him, before slamming her bedroom door, the action echoing through the otherwise quiet house.

——————————————————————————

dinner wasn’t any better.

y/n didn’t realize how much time had gone by as she was staring at the ceiling, recounting the events of the day. jack did not keep his promise about “coming up soon” which wasn’t to the shock of y/n, considering his behavior today. he did stop in her designated room, to give her a kiss on the forehead, and to tell that dinner was ready.

and that was it.

now, she was sitting next to jack at the table, his happy chatter with his brothers, april, and company sounding like mumbles in her ears. she felt a gaze on her, hoping it was jack, but when y/n turned her head softly to confirm, he was still smiling at his continued conversation.

like nothing was wrong.

there was only one other person who wasn’t talking, and her eyesight landed right on his.

quinn.

she shifted in her seat, quickly averting their eye contact, and picked at her quarter eaten meal with her fork.

“excuse me everyone, i’m gonna go lay down,”

jack looked at y/n, giving her a half smile and no thought to her abrupt departure, before returning to his seemingly endless conversation.

y/n began to pick her plate up to take it to the sink, when quinn’s voice spoke up,

“i’ll take care of it,” the tips of his fingers pushed down lightly on the edge of her plate.

“you sure? it’s fine i don’t-”

“just go lay down.”

y/n blinked at him a few times before nodding her head, setting her plate down and shuffling to her room.

she closed the door softly this time, letting out a shaky breath as she sat on the edge of the plush bed. her head was beginning to throb, not sure if it was from lack of food or just from the complete and total anxiety jack was giving her.

——————————————————————————

y/n scrolled mindlessly on her phone, again losing the track of time with the state she was in.

1:19am.

the dryness in her throat was becoming more present as she came down from her brain fog, deciding to clear herself with a glass of water.

y/n slipped into the kitchen, only the warm dim glow from the microwave light allowing her to see. the glass cups lightly clinked together as she pulled one out, then setting it down to fill up.

the refrigerator hummed softly, barely breaking the silence through the house. then, a raspy voice spoke behind her,

“what’re you doing up?”

y/n whipped her head around, almost dropping and shattering the glass of water in her hand,

“jesus christ quinn, you scared the shit out of me!”

she set down the glass to put a hand to her chest, an attempt to slow down the spike in her heart rate.

quinn let out a small, quiet laugh, “sorry, i thought you heard me.”

“no,” she let out a huff, “i didn’t,” y/n smiled back at him gently as the beating in her chest settled.

“so, what’s wrong?”

quinn was quick to change the conversation to put her on the spot, y/n’s lips parting as she thought of her next words.

“nothing, i don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“yes you do.”

y/n scoffed, “you really have a habit of interrupting me don’t you?”

“stop avoiding the question. what’s wrong? talk to me, y/n.”

the two stared at one another, having an unspoken battle with each other,

y/n broke first.

she swallowed, knowing the words about to spill out of her mouth were going to come shaky and scattered; she didn’t want quinn, or anyone for that matter, to know the state her mind was at. y/n hopped up to sit on the kitchen counter, retelling the day to quinn.

“it was… it was jack. today. he was just letting april’s stupid fucking friend flirt with him! and-”

“alana?”

she shot him a deep scowl, “don’t interrupt me to tell me what her stupid name is!”

quinn raised his hands in defeat, “sorry, sorry, keep going,”

“he let her wear his hat, she bent over in front of him and he said nothing, and as you could tell from earlier today, he didn’t even come up to the house with me when i asked…”

her words trailed off shakily, y/n felt hot, wet tears flow down her cheeks, slightly blurring her vision, she looked down, unable to meet quinn’s gaze she felt burning into her face.

“y/n… i’m sorry. he’s a shithead for that,”

he stepped closer to her, lessening the distance between them,

“y/n.”

she hummed in response, sniffles coming from her, still refusing to look up at him,

“y/n look at me.”

y/n knew how persistent quinn was, and he definitely was not going to let her get away with not looking at him. though it felt like lifting a ton of bricks, her glossy eyes looked up to meet his.

quinn’s eyes flickered all over her face, reading her sorrow expression. he brought his hand up to meet her face, gently using his thumb to brush away any fallen tears on her tinted cheeks.

“you know, i really hate it when you cry,” he cooed softly, still wiping away the spilling tears, paying more attention to her in these mere minutes than jack had been all day.

“i’m so mad at myself, i should’ve said something, i let it all happen in front of me,” y/n said, her quiet frustrations let out only for quinn’s ears to hear.

“hey, hey, no. you shouldn’t have even been put in that position, don’t blame yourself, okay?” he placed his hands on either sides of the counter, locking her in. his voice being stern but still soft, a tough love kind of talk.

y/n’s heart beated faster as she became hyper aware of how close their bodies were, feeling the warmth radiating off of him.

she wanted to knock herself in the head for feeling this way, but her heightened distaste for jack in the moment, quinn’s messy hair combined with his beard and tired eyes made him so sinfully appealing.

“you’re right, i shouldn’t have,”

y/n felt almost awkward in this moment, especially it being her boyfriends older brother. there was no way for her to move without being even closer to him.

“god, y/n… cant believe that… if i had you… i’d never let that happen,”

quinn’s tired eyes turned lustful by the second, going up and down y/n’s body before flickering between her own eyes and lips.

“quinn,” she let out with a breath, “you cant say things like that, you know you can’t,”

y/n couldn’t help herself from matching quinn’s motion, unable to tear away from looking at his full lips.

“after the shit he pulled today, i think i’m safe to do whatever the hell i want,”

the gentle demeanor in his voice was replaced with seduction, bringing his face closer to hers, close enough for their breaths to mingle.

“say the words y/n, i wont do anything you don’t want me to do. say the words and i’ll stop.”

she was between a rock and a hard place. it’s not like jack had outright cheated in front of her, and she would feel horrible doing something like that to him. however, his actions were inexcusable, and he saw not an inch of an issue with what he was doing. and at the exact same time, quinn was ready to be all over her. hell, he’s practically admitting to wanting his little brother’s girlfriend. in this moment, he could give her anything.

fuck it.

this is what he gets, she thought to herself. it’s not like he would find out anyway. no one would.

“i want you quinn.”

the words rolled off her tongue faster than her mind let her think about the consequences, and in no time, quinn captured y/n’s lips in his, securing his hands on to her waist.

the two kissed sloppily in the kitchen, out in the open, with too much opportunity to get caught. neither of them cared.

y/n’s hands found a home in his hair, quinn emitting a low groan as she gently tugged at his waves.

she felt a heat growing between her legs, and an attempt to close them for relief was blocked by quinn pushing them back open with his hips.

y/n gasped, allowing quinn’s tongue entry, and as he explored her mouth with his, she felt him growing harder against her core, making the wetness in her shorts more difficult to ignore.

quinn panted heavily as he pulled away, still gripping at her waist, fingers hugging the bottom hem of her shirt,

“can i take this off?”

she buzzed at his words, nodding vigorously. with her consent, he raised the shirt above her body, y/n lifting her arms in assistance.

quinn wasted no time to kiss down her neck to her now exposed upper chest, sitting perfectly pretty in her bra. he sucked and nipped at the bare skin, earning quiet moans from her soft lips.

“mm—fuck quinn,” y/n threw her head back in pleasure, giving more room for quinn to litter her chest with marks. she didn’t even care if they were going to bruise tomorrow or who was going to saw. everyone else was on the back burner of her mind.

her praise only made him rougher, sucking harder into her skin, feeling himself getting more and more rowdy by the second.

his lips went up to claim hers again, tapping her thigh as a signal to wrap her legs around his waist. she listened, hooking herself around him. quinn lifted her up effortlessly, their kiss not being broken as he peeked his eyes open in a tenth of a second to see their way to his room.

with one hand tucked under y/n’s ass, he turned the knob to his bedroom door, stepping into the room before closing the door behind him with a light kick.

quinn’s legs met the edge of the bed, and he threw her down before making himself pry his lips from her’s, plump and slick from his.

“you’re still okay with his?” he asked, his thumb drawing circles on her hips.

“more than okay, please quinn. i need more.”

he nodded, taking a step back to take all of her in with his eyes.

she looked at him confused for a moment, before he talked,

“strip.”

she swallowed heavily, ready to obey his words. y/n wiggled out of her shorts, leaving her skin only covered by a black bra and panties.

“i said strip. all the way.”

her heart was about to come out of her chest, all of it was beginning to feel real, and that she was about to be naked and on display for jack’s brother.

only hearing the beating in her chest, quinn watched as y/n unhooked her bra first, tits bouncing with the action, and he thought he could cum in his pants right then and there.

y/n sat down on the bed, staring deeply into quinn’s eyes, slipping her black panties down her half parted legs, pussy wet and glistening from the moonlight shining through the window.

“fuck,” he whispered, unable to control his hand from falling to his crotch, beginning to palm himself through his shorts.

with a single hand, quinn took his shirt off, dipping his head down to kiss her naked thighs. y/n shuddered at his action, his kisses being everywhere except where she desperately needed them to be.

he hovered just above her core, “can i?”

“quinn please stop fucking asking and just do it,” y/n begged, squirming under him, desperate for his touch.

he licked a long stripe down her wet folds, y/n unable to control the guttural moan that escaped from her lips. her back arched in pleasure at the feeling of quinn’s lips sucking on her puffy clit, aching for attention.

he couldn’t stop; he was devouring her like it was his death row and she was his last meal, already addicted to the taste of her pussy on his tongue.

quinn pushed her hips down, sticking his tongue in her and his nose bumping against her clit with each motion. y/n felt knots twisting and forming in her stomach, a strong release forming, one that jack had never even came close to making her feel.

“mmph, shit quinn— gonna fucking cum, oh— my fuck,”

profanities spilled out of y/n’s mouth, but her pleasure was cut short as his dripping lips pulled away from her aching core, craving his touch.

she whined at the loss of contact, only to be met with quinn peeling off his shorts and underwear, his throbbing dick aching with desire from his tip.

“when i make you cum, i want it to be on my dick, pretty girl.”

y/n felt like she could’ve exploded right then and there, but she bit her lip, moving closer to the edge of the bed, giving quinn better access to line up with her.

he ran his dick between her wet folds a few times before inserting himself in her, the two let out gracious moans at the mutual pleasure.

quinn started slow, hips rolling back and forth, before quickening his pace to a pornographic speed.

his lips hooked onto y/n’s once again, sloppy and wet, both groaning into each others mouths with delight. in the kiss he captured both her wrists, pinning them above her head.

quinn broke the kiss to look at her with his brows furrowed, concentrated on fucking y/n senseless. her bottom lip was between her teeth, tits bouncing with the speed of his thrusts.

“fuck y/n, you feel so good on my dick, can he ever get you like this? a moaning fucked out mess? hm?”

his words barely registered in her ears, body buzzing as his dick continued to destroy her pussy.

“no, no, mm— you fuck me so much better quinn,” y/n did her best not to scream it, still aware that the other people in the house had the potential to hear them.

“gonna— cum— y/n— shit,” quinn huffed out between thrusts. she also felt the now familiar knots forming in her stomach, her release about to come.

his movements became sloppy as his release coated her walls, and at the same time, she painted his dick with her own.

they felt euphoric, quinn pulled out of her slowly, groaning as his dick came out of her.

y/n laid out on the bed panting with closed eyes, hearing the light flicker on from quinn’s connected bathroom.

she felt a wet towel meet her sensitive core, hissing at the feeling.

“sorry, just wanna clean you up first,”

y/n looked at quinn while he cleaned her with concentration, his body glistening with sweat and his messy hair slightly sticking to his forehead.

“thank you, quinn,”

y/n was breathless watching quinn go back into the bathroom, her chest still rapidly rising and falling. she felt herself grow more tired with each passing minute.

quinn came back from the bathroom with a different pair of underwear on, holding out a pair of his boxers to put on. y/n gladly accepted, slipping them up her body. she grabbed her bra from the floor, hooking it back on.

after she was partly dressed, he delivered her a sweet, soft kiss to her lips. different than any kind of kiss they had so far, this one was deep and loving; his hands gently cupping her face.

“stay with me,”

quinn’s proposition took her by surprise, thinking he was going to send her back to her room after all this, but no.

“quinn, i really shouldn’t, it’s not a good ide-”

“you and jack can figure your shit out later. as of right now, you’re mine.”

he was right and she knew it. he claimed her, and there was definitely going to be some kind of consequence for this. either way y/n and jack were going to have to figure their shit out, but to her, that was an issue for the morning.

“okay, i’ll stay.”

quinn smiled at her, planting a kiss on her forehead. he peeled away at his thick blue comforter, leaving space for the both of them to crawl inside. y/n felt herself more comfortable falling asleep with quinn than she did with jack, whatever that meant. but she didn’t care. his body was tangled with hers, falling asleep to the soft beat of his heart.

pt. 2

——————————————————————————

© missqhughes

xoxo, kaia

[heavenbarnes]

okay hear me out— softness and gentle topics aside, how would older bf!simon go about discussing his mom & Tommy? would it ever occur? Would it be a vulnerable and gentle discussion with sins laid on the table or would it be like pulling teeth— panic attack arises and the words are spewing.

at first I’d have headcanoned it that maybe we innocently question the clinginess but I’m not so sure anymore; feels like that would just be second nature for the two.

i’ve never ventured into this topic because it’s literally so devastating that i almost considered writing it out of canon for him- but it’s time 🫶🏼 (massive tw for family loss)

the day older bf!simon tells you about his family, it’s at breakfast.

he’d made the food and you’d made the coffee, both expertly passing each other in your kitchen until you’d settled at the table.

when he told you, you had toast hanging out your mouth.

“pardon?”

“i had a family”

you weren’t really talking about anything in particular, so you made quick mental work of skimming over your conversation until you found where this was coming from.

sunny outside, nice day, should go to the farmers market, get groceries, it’ll be crowded, family day-

i had a family

had.

oh.

your heart had start to speed up in your chest and part of you was scared simon’s military precision hearing would be able to tell.

judging by the look on his face, distant, quiet- he couldn’t hear the thrumming against your sternum.

you were thankful, it meant he kept speaking.

“my mum and my brother, tommy- he had a missus too and a kid”

had.

oh god.

he wouldn’t look at you, his gaze drifted out the window and onto the birds that were floating over the fruit tree in the backyard.

you couldn’t say there was much of you to look at, a hardline of your mouth and eyes that were willing themselves not to water.

“they weren’t in a good way- but i helped them get better”

the corners of your lips quirked reflexively but it fell away just as quickly, unable to escape the voice in the back of your head that kept saying the same thing.

had.

why is every thing in the past tense?

probably for the same reason this is the first time you’re hearing this story. when is the right time to get to this part?

the moment he cuts the rope, lets you down from where he’s had you hanging- you wish you could react in any other way.

instead, your mouth hangs open while your hand does its best to cover it.

the toast goes cold, so does the coffee.

the tears break through of their own accord.

and he still won’t look at you.

“oh, simon”

your mind races in a way you’ve never felt before, thoughts you’d never had before rising to the surface.

first, you want to hurt someone, anyone- whoever you can blame for doing this to simon.

(you quickly realise he’s probably already done that)

second, you want to take him by the shoulders and tell him that this was never his fault.

that there was nothing he did or could’ve done to deserve this.

and you’re sure that there’s layers to his job and things he’s done and seen that’d make him think that cannot be true.

but you don’t care- there is no human alive that could ever deserve what you’ve just been told.

you don’t care.

you love him.

third, you start to make sense of some of simon’s behaviours.

the way he calls your name when you’re at the other end of the house, just to know where you are.

the way you can turn around at any given moment and find him closer than your shadow.

the way he calls you on deployment only to hear you tell him you love him and you’re still home waiting.

the way he cannot exist without a hand on you, without knowing where you are, without knowing you’re still his.

and there you go again, wanting to hurt whoever put him in this position.

grateful to be able to love him how he needs but angry- blind rage in knowing what he went through to get to this point.

it’s why you’re out of your seat and wrapping your arms around his shoulders the minute you hear even a sniff.

you let him ruin your shirt with tears as strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you so close into him you wouldn’t be at all surprised if the particles shifted just enough for you to become one.

as if you weren’t already.

you’d never, never ever, questioned simon’s ever present need to be close. you’d come to accept it, enjoy it, miss it when he was gone.

it was never overbearing, never out of line, always right when you needed it.

reminding you that he was there.

that he loved you.

that he needed you.

just as much as you needed him.

and god, did he need to be needed.

did he need you to pass him the pickle jar (even when you could open it just fine)

did he need you to make him take the rubbish out (when you could do it yourself)

did he need you to call him when the car was making a funny sound (when you knew it was the fan belt)

did you need him to pull you into his lap at the end of a long day and rest his lips against the crown of your head as he rubbed slow circles into your back.

like you were doing for him now.

“simon, i just need you to know- i’m not going anywhere”

you made it to the farmer’s market, eventually. it was crowded, meaning simon’s arm never let your waist.

not that you mind.

not that you ever mind.

[bagdaddyb]

Oh to Mate

Kinktober 🎃

Summary: ABO with little plot but a lot of smut cause sometimes we all need omega Nat in our lives.

Pairing: alpha g!pReader x omega! Nat

Warnings: NSFW NSFW NSFW. 18+ Minors DNI . Asshole Steve.

AN: First time posting my writing in a while but I miss it. Hopefully I've improved. Enjoy!

It started out as simple disbelief. Natasha was tired of all the female omegas around the compound raving about you, unmated fun and a few sympathy ruts left many of the females hoping you'd truly become their alpha. No one could be that good, Natasha's few experiences with unmated alphas were less than pleasurable an alpha never even having made her cum. So only to prove the rumors wrong when her next heat started to come around she stayed close to you every free moment she had. On the final day before she knew she'd have to isolate everytime you came around she let go small whimpers and pained noises. It was no surprise by that night that you approched her mentioning a sympathy rut and offering to help her through her heat. Now in her room a few hours later heat hitting her full force she squirmed not looking forward to another unsatisfied heat.

She was already bare her body temperature, threatening to overheat if she kept on clothing. Laying on her back head propped on her pillows surrounded by things she used to put together a make shift nest she watched as you slowly pulled off your shirt scars laced your abdomen and arms proof of past missions and a tramatic back story. You were thick with muscle and meat. A large alpha whose presence could be felt enter a room you would make any omega happy. You kept on your shorts and bra on not wanting to intimidate the omega. Approaching slowly, you stand at the end of the bed, eyeing the case of water and small snacks you'd stacked near the bed before meeting Natasha's eye.

"May I enter your nest?"

Natasha's brows raised in slight surprise, while a nest was meant to be an omegas safe space she hadn't met an alpha who'd respected it yet.

"Yes."

She whispered. You cut back your scent as much as possible, climbing lightly into the nest not wanting to disturb anything or overwhelm the omega.

"What do you need omega? How can I help you?"

Another surprise, since when did an alpha care about anyone other than themselves. A whimper left Natasha involuntarily, it'd been a long time since she's had an alpha this close during her heat and it was making the pain worse.

"It hurts."

Natasha whimpered slightly curling in on herself. Releasing a comforting noise you crawl towards Natasha hovering over her you lean and kiss her head before moving down her body, you run your hands down her side as you kiss her chest leaving fire in your wake. You left kisses everywhere you could reach softly sucking each of her nipples before continuing down. Lifting her legs you finally reach her apex slick leaking out of her. You dont waste another second there was nothing better than an omegas slick, eating her out desperately you lick up every ounce of juice you can get. Something was sweeter about Natasha, her slick like candy and you'd always had a sweet tooth. Natasha moaned loudly, no alpha has ever gone down on her before and the sensation running through her caused goosebumps to appear on her body.

"(Y/N)."

Your name slipped from her lips in a mixture of disbelief and pleasure. Her hands gripped the sheets, back arching off the bed, knots tying in her stomach. Oh my god. Natasha thought as she looked down at you meeting your predatory gaze. Oh my god. You slurped, sucked, and lightly nibbled at every piece of Natasha slowly building her up until finally penetrating her with your tongue. Natasha visibly jumped before rolling her hips roughly. Oh my god.

"I'm cumming, I'm cumming alpha."

Another second was all it took before her eyes rolled to the back of her head body spasming with pleasure she'd never felt before. For only a mere moment her heat tampered down, catching her breath as you climb back up her body.

"Mmmm there we go omega, that won't be the last time you cum for me."

Your voice is deep as you lean into her neck taking a deep breath of her scent gland and Natasha's arms wrap around you needing you closer.

"Alpha please, please, I need more."

You hum again your own sympathy rut making your erection painful. Pulling off your shorts and boxers you spring out slapping against Natasha's stomach. The feeling of your length is enough to make Natasha eyes dialate even more you were thick and long bigger than any alpha she's taken before. Whimpers escape her, you're taking to long, grinding up against you she feels your shuddering breath against her neck. Leaning back on your knees you pump your cock giving Natasha her first view of your member and she nerely drools. Pumping yourself a few times before rubbing against Natasha you look into the eyes of the omega below you.

"Do you want this omega?"

"Yes, YES! I need you alpha."

Loosing your focus you let your pheromones go your scent surrounding Natasha and overtaking her nest making her go feral. You slip in slowly, too slowly for Natasha the stretch was a wonderful burn and the full feeling she needed. She felt doused in her heats fire. You pumped into her gently giving her time to adjust another action unlike any other alpha who only cared about thier own pleasure. Bending back down over the omega you tuck your arms close to Natasha your right hand holding the back of Natasha's neck, sticking your nose back against Natasha's scent gland you shudder taking in the omegas intoxicating scent. Natasha'sm arms wrap back around you the hold you have on her highly intimate keepings your bodies impossibly close which you knew an omega craved. Pumping into her you penetrate her hard and deep. High pitched noises leaking from Natasha's mouth.

"So good alpha, you feel so good."

Releasing a light growl you open your mouth careful of your canines you bite Natasha's scent gland without breaking the skin. In an instant Natasha spasms beneath you an orgasm having been ripped out of her.

"Alpha.... alpha."

Natasha cried the pleasure she felt almost overwhelming. Letting go of her neck you lift to meet her in a sloppy passionate kiss. Your hips never faulter keeping their bruising pace pounding into her. Your hand on the back of her throat felt possessive your free hand grabbing her leg to raise it to your shoulder. Now wide open your thrust hit Natasha at a different angle and the red head releases high pitched whines into your mouth unable to maintain the kiss.

"Alpha, please alpha."

Natasha wasn't even sure what she was asking for anymore eyes rolling as another orgasm takes over her body.

"Just like that omega. You like that don't you, like how your alpha takes care of you."

Natasha can only whimper your words causing another wave of slick,  her head nodding in response. Bending towards her scent gland you lightly bite again. Another rapid orgasm taking over the red head. Growling into the bite your grip tightens on the woman pace becoming a bit faster and rougher. After a few thrust Natasha feels your knot begin to slam at her entrance and she almost cries.

"Yes alpha knot me, fill me up."

You growl again slamming against the red head faster, Natasha's eyes roll as she cums for what must be the sixth time but before she can be breached you pull out releasing your white ooze onto the omegs stomach. Natasha whimpers repeatedly, your knot wasted, having been the last thing she needed to feel whole. You let go of her neck releasing relaxing pheromones while you pepper her face is kisses.

"Relax omega, relax."

You hum into her skin until you feel the womans rapid heartbeat calmdown. As her adrenaline stops Natasha feels satisfied for the first time ever, her heat subsiding enough for her to relax. You lean away from her grabbing a water from the case and Natasha releases a distressed sound at the distance.

"Shhhh omega. Drink this, you need to stay hydrated."

The woman grabs the bottle downing it quickly if only to have you close again.

"Good omega now rest, you'll need it."

You return to your previous position pressed up against the omega listening to her heartbeat until you're sure she is asleep. Rolling next to the omega you take breaths of your own, your rut having been left unfulfilled since you hadn't knotted the woman. Even though your knot subsided your hard on continued to rage. Relaxing as much as you can you lay on your back closing your eyes, you needed rest as well. For the first time in her life she came out of her heat two days later feeling satisfied rather than her usual seven days of misery. Laying in her nest which still smelled strongly of your scent she couldn't stop the smile that rested on her face. You'd been a good alpha taking care of her every need keeping her fed and hydrated suddenly Natasha felt a longing. Wanting a bond, wanting to truly mate with you. It isn't till the next day that her happy bubble pops, whispers of other omega sheild agents making her remember why she went for you in the firzt place. Not only had you gone way past her expectations but now the way these woman spoke about you made her blood boil. Overwhelming her with the want to attack the woman talking about her alpha. Natasha once again sticks to you like glue after her heat bristling and sending glares at any omega who even thinks to look your way. At first you think nothing of it Natasha was your partner, you'd been working together for over a year now but a week later when you hear her little growl at Maria when she approaches you about paperwork you put together the signs of her overly possessive behavior. You aren't quite sure what you want to do, you don't want to possibly mess up the close bond you two share but at the same time you are an unmated alpha the after effects of her heat should of faded days ago. Thinking back to Natasha's heat your mouth begins to water, the omega was candy. The sweetest nectar you'd ever had and helping her through her heat you were more attentive than you've been with any omega thus far. You can see Natasha being a good omega not just a good omega but your omega, you want to care for her protect her claim her. But at the same time you aren't sure you're ready to mate aren't sure you'd be the alpha any omega deserved. You ponder on this for days but by the end of it, it seems you don't need to make a decision. Natasha seems to distance herself from you, her overly possessive behavior abandoned in favor of space. Space you assumed she needed so you didn't comment on it at first no matter how much your alpha yearned for the omega to be near. Now near a month later you know the red heads heat should be approaching any day now. Staring at her across the room during one of Tony's over the top parties you can't help the low growl that starts while you watch her closely hover around Steve. He was an alpha you disdained, having heard enough from omegas in the compound for a lifetime of disappointment. He believes himself somewhat a god, treating the omegas around him like objects rather than people and the thought of him rutting with Natasha during her heat made your Alpha flash with rage. All it takes is a second. Steve wraps his arm around Natasha's waist and you're on your feet quickly cutting across the crowd to get to their location. You try to reign in your growl but it seems futile the closer you get to the pair. Natasha looks your way first, her omega senses alert to the sound and smell of angry alphas. The look on your face says you're ready for a fight chest rising and falling rapidly and she hates the way her omega responds breaking from Steves tight grip to address your distress. She tried to distance herself from you, determined not to become a fangirl like the rest but she was to close to her heat, to intune with her primal instincts to be away. You stop when you see Natasha approach allowing her to enter your space eyes never leaving her form.

"(Y/N)? Are you alright?"

You hesitate not sure what to say, not sure if you should say anything. Then you smell her, early stages of heat making her scent even sweeter and lean into her space.

"Omega."

You whisper in her ear and fight back the smirk at the whimper you get in response. You wrap your arm around Natasha's waist taking the place Steve once held before guiding her towards the doors. Natasha allows herself to be guided, your touch burning her skin your scent igniting something inside her. Once outside the venue in the cold night air Natasha feels some relief your heat not all encompassing. You lead Natasha to your car opening the passenger door for her before climbing in the drivers side youself. Your leg bounces impatiently as you start the vehicle the mere ten minute drive to the compound seeming to long in your mind.

"Since your last heat I crave you omega."

You pause if only to gauge Natasha's reaction peaking at her out the side of your eye you catch her surprised expression and decide to continue.

"I crave your pressence, I crave your scent, I gave you the space I thought you needed. I thought I needed, but tonight seeing you with another alpha I almost lost it."

Your grip tightens on the steering wheel just thinking about the way Steve touched the omega, your omega. Natasha remains silent unsure of what to say or what to do and you respond in kind holding your tongue until you pull into the parking garage of the compound. You put the car in park sitting for a moment in the silence before speaking again softly.

"The truth is Natasha, I want to mark you make you mine if you'd have me. You don't have to respond today, don't have to respond at all. I'm still not sure I'm the alpha you want or the alpha any omega deserves but I know I want to be your alpha."

With that you open your door exiting the car. Walking to Natasha's side you open her door for her closing it behind her once she exits the car.

"Just think it over."

With that you walk away entering the compound without another word and the red head remains too stunned to speak. You, (Y/N), the infamous alpha just propositioned to mate Natasha. You asked to mate her, since when do alphas ask but thinking on it Natasha realizes you've always asked. Asked to help her with her heat, asked to enter her nest, even asked her repeatedly how she was doing during her heat. In three short days you'd cared for her more than any alpha ever had maybe thats why she felt so possessive over you after. Maybe thats why she got excited everytime she caught your scent or perked up everytime you showed her attention. But maybe it wasn't, maybe Natasha wanted you just like you wanted her. The red head never even considered mating, her experiences with alphas proving that it would only hurt her and hold her back but with you the possibilities were endless. Despite being the alpha you'd always given her control giving her the opportunity to say no at any point. The next morning telltale signs of Natasha's heat overwhelmed her senses she'd be fully succumbed by nightfal for sure and even after a good nights sleep her thoughts couldn't help but flood to you. Alpha. Hopping up Natasha dresses rapidly eager to be in your pressence. Exiting her room she moves quick before another alpha catches wind of her. Natasha surprises herself by how fast she arrives outside your door, knocking six times rapidly she cluches herself goosebumps running over her skin despite heating up.

"Mmmh well well well what do we have here."

Steve's voice cuts through Natasha like a knife.

"Where'd you go last night omega? I thought we'd have a little fun."

His eyes are predatory, evil and Natasha isn't sure if in her state she has the strength to fight the alpha off.

"No Steve."

The alphas nostrils flare taking the direct rejection as a challenge.

"Who are you to tell me no omega bitch?"

He growls and Natasha growls back. Steve grabs Natasha's wrist harshly tugging her into his space but before he could do more you appear pouncing on him like a feral animal. Your growl shakes Natasha with its intensity as you throw blow after blow at the man you tackled.

"You little alpha piece of shit, it's dumbasses like you that give alphas a bad name."

You hit him across the face repeatedly your pent up frustations taken out on him one by one. You loose yourself in your anger, he touched your omega how dare he. It isn't until Natasha is trying to pull you back screaming at you to stop that you see the true damage you've done to your fellow super soilder your knuckles covered in his blood. Standing you spit on him before kicking him one last time.

"Touch my omega again and I'll kill you."

You say deathly low before pulling the distressed omega through your door locking it securely behind you. You immediately begin to scan her, eyes and hands running over her body to confirm her safety and once you're satisfied you let out a verbal sigh of relief. You pull Natasha into you holding her close and breathing in her scent.

"I"m sorry. I stepped out to grab a snack I should of been here. Did he hurt you?"

Tears appear in Natasha's eyes, at the way you'd fiercely protected her. At the way you'd cared for her and Natasha knows with certainty she wants you.

"No."

Natasha whispers and it doesn't seems to be enough pulling back you scan her again double checking her for any signs of foul play.

"I'm sorry for verbally claiming you, my instincts took over and I had to protect you."

Natasha fights back her tears as she looks at your concerned face.

"Don't apologize alpha, I want you. Claim me. Make me yours."

Your eyes shoot to the green ones infornt of you. Her easily ignored heat due to your adrenaline now burning your nostrils.

"Are you sure? This isn't just the heat talking is it?"

Natasha laughs happy tears finally falling which she quickly wipes away.

"Yes alpha, I'm sure."

You surge foreward meeting her lips in a passionate kiss and lifting her in your arms. You take her to your bed never breaking the kiss overwhelmed with a need to be attached to the omega laying her lightly you break away from her lips only to travel down to her neck. Hesitating at her scent gland you take a deep breath before pulling back the omega below you whines but you ignore it urging her attention elsewhere.

"I wasn't sure you would come but just in case I stacked blankets, clothes, and pillows here so that you may nest."

Natasha's eye buldge before shooting to the pile you gestured at.

"I noticed you nesting at the beginning of your last heat and I want you to be comfortable. I tried to keep my scent to a bare minimum as not to overwhelm you."

You pull away completely allowing Natasha to turn over and crawl towards the pile, watching her take in all the fabrics and items.

"Nest omega, I want you to be comfortable."

Natasha turns to you again lifting on her knees before pulling you into a tight embrace that you return before she turns and gets to work you merely stand by and watch enjoying the attention Natasha gives to every little detail of her nest. Your eyes wonder to your hands and you quickly step towards the bathroom washing off the evidence of Steve beating. It only takes five minutes and you are surprised by the speed at which she works but don't deny her needy whines when she lays to stare at you.

"May I enter your nest?"

"Of course alpha."

You crawl back over the omega giving her a sweet kiss before pulling her shirt above her head glad yet unsurprised to find nothing underneath. Throwing the shirt towards the edge of the nest so it can have her scent you move your lips to her chest.

"My beautiful omega."

You whisper against her skin before you trail love bites down. Corrupting her perfect milky skin with your dark purple marks. You suck on both of her nipples getting them rock hard before continuing down. Your eyes get darker with every claiming mark you leave and as you get to her lower stomach your fingers hook her shorts swiftly pulling them down. Your mouth begins to water as her shorts are discarded elsewhere. Pushing her knees to her chest you come eye to eye with the feast of her slick.

"You smell so good omega."

Natasha whines in response hips wiggling in your hold. Without hesitation you begin your meal, lapping up her slick like a dehydrated dog. Her sweet nectar addicting and you can't get enough. You slurp and suck at her bud cause loud moans to fall from the red head.

"Feels so good alpha."

Natasha moans back arching of the bed. You growl against her center tongue entering her in search of more of her juices and Natasha releases a high pitch squeal. Hips bucking in time with your tongue before she spasms and you're rewarded with her orgasm straight in your mouth.

"You taste so good omega."

You growl against her, lips trailing to the back of her thighs leaving dark purple to match her abdomen.

"Mine."

You growl against her skin before moving up to meet her lips in a sloppy kiss. Natasha meets you with equal passion arms wrapping tightly around you holding you close.

"I need you alpha, it hurts."

You lift to your knees in response quickly pulling your shirt over your head and taking off your bra before removing your shorts and boxers. You spring out releasing a small sigh of relief as you being to pump yourself.

"Fill me up alpha, claim me."

Natasha whispers and you possessivly growl. Rubbing your cock through her slick you use her juices as lubricant before slowly slipping in. Natasha moans at your intrusion the wonderful strech making her feel whole. You enter her space pressing your chest against her you hold her tightly one arm tucking under her back the other tucking behind her neck hand holding the back of her neck your lips meet hers. Natasha holds you back tightly bodies molded together as you begin to pump into her roughly. High pitched whines enter your mouth as you kiss Natasha, devouring her mouth until its clear she needs air.

"My beautiful omega. Mine. Mine. Mine."

You whisper against her lips burying yourself as deeply as you can before pulling out again.

"Yours alpha, yours."

Natasha whines before spasming as she orgasms. You tuck your head into her scent gland taking deep breaths of the omegas scent. Natasha does the same your scent surrounding her, your body pressed against her, you planted deep inside her. The red head feels like she's going crazy. Her skin buzzes as her fingers run into your hair holding your head closer to her neck. She's on fire yet she needs more, she needs more of you.

"Mark me alpha. I'm yours, make me yours."

You open your mouth trailing your teeth against Natasha skin causing electricity to run through the omega.

"Mine."

You growl against her skin before sinking your canines into her scent gland. Natasha's eyes roll into the back of her head, an unbelievable orgasm washing over her body. The pleasure is intense orgasm stretching on for what feels like years. Her slick leaks out of her in waves as you pound her and her nails dig into your back. By the time Natasha comes down from the high she's drunk on you. A blabbering mess of noises.

"Alpha. Alpha."

Natasha whimpers over and over again and you finally release her neck licking at the mark.

"Omega, my omega."

You pump into her wildly riding on the high of your mating mark. Natasha clenches around you again another orgasm washing over her as your knot begins to slam at her entrance.

"My personal cum dump, you're gonna take it aren't you omega? Take my knot and get filled with my seed. Swollen with my pups only mine."

Moans escapse Natasha at your words nails digg8ng into your skin.

"Yes alpha, fill me up. I need it, I need your pups inside me."

You pump into her faster your own moans escaping at her words using her for your own pleasure.

"Fuck. Yeah take it omega. You feel so good I could pump into you all day. Fuck squeezing me for all I'm worth."

Your hips begin to stutter as your lips return to hers in a loving kiss, arms wrapping around her tighter your bodies are pressed together as closely as they can be. You continue to work your knot against her entrance feeling how her slick pours out to accommodate you. Breaking the kiss you return to her scent gland teeth sinking into her once more as you knot slips in. Natasha's eyes roll back at the combined feeling of your bite, your warm load seeping into her, and your knot the pleasure so good she nearly passes out. Releasing her neck you lick the wound again before placing light kisses on it.

"Mine."

"Yours."

You hum in satisfaction.

"Bite me omega, mark me as yours."

Tears threaten Natasha's eyes again at your words, rare was the alpha who wore an omegas mark. Many refusing to allow themselves to be publicly tied to one omega and with your words Natasha is once again reassured she chose the right alpha. The red head sinks her canines into your scent gland a light growl releasing from her as she does and is satisfied when she feels another hot spurt of your cum shoot into her.

"Mine."

Natasha whispers against your skin as she licks at the bite.

"Yours."

You whisper back allowing yourself to relax ontop of Natasha baring your whole body weight against her. Three days later by the end of Natasha's heat you feel maybe a bit overly possessive of the female. You haven't left your room since Steve threatened your omega and as the time to break your mating bubble nears you find yourself wanting to be near the omega at all times. Laying in her nest you snuggle into the omegas body, front pressed against her back arm wrapped around her waist. You nuzzle her neck enjoying the way her scent is now mixed with yours and can't help the light possessive growl that rumbles at the back of your throat.

"My beautiful omega."

The omega coos back at you and you release a relaxed sigh.

"We should get you cleaned up and fed."

You say as you begrudgingly sit up causing the omega below you to whine. She rolls over wrapping her arms around you.

"Do we have to?"

You laugh lightly running your fingers through red tresses.

"Yes, you haven't had a proper meal in three days." You shuffle around finding Natasha clothes and handing them to her. Throwing on your old clothes you grab some clean ones as well before walking to your door.

"Come on we'll shower in your room."

The omega nods and stretches before walking towards you. Opening the door you both quietly walk down the hallway enjoying the fresh air. The walk to the omegas room is quiet but peaceful, she stays close to your side the small distance between you two after such a passionate heat seeming like to much. In Natasha's room the two of you shower together, you make love to her one more time in the shower soft and slow before you truly have to return to the reality of the real world.

"I will always protect you omega, you're safe with me."

You hum into her neck as she rides the after shocks of her orgasm.

"My alpha."

The hums back fingers running softly against the back of your neck.

"My omega."

[daisybianca]

pairing: lando norris x femalereader

summary: ruining Lando's live stream is your favorite thing to do when in the mood.

warnings: female masturbation, mention of sexual actions, cursing words

(a/n): lando's recent stream look. I'm unwell.

YOUR HEADPHONES WERE filled with the sweet melody of Taylor Swift's "London Boy" and then you remembered that in the next room of the house you really did have a London Boy waiting for you.

Your boyfriend had one of his usual streams, and it was always your choice to step away from the place where he was doing them and not take part in it. You didn't like the idea of giving fans more content about your relationship than there already was.

By changing the song of the playlist, you settled on something more freaky, like the wreeknd.

Hearing Lando's voice and loud laugh echoing from the next room, you opened the app on your phone and joined his live stream.

Your username was a random name that only Lando recognized.

God, he was so hot.

Messy curly hair, an unbuttoned white t-shirt, and grey plaid pants.

He had heard your wish to let his beard grow long, and you loved every moment of it. Watching the screen intently, listening to his strong accent through the device and from the adjacent wall, you felt your heart flutter loudly. Your jaw nearly hit the floor when you saw from the screen Lando laughing at something and pulling back, spreading his legs widly while bending his head back.

Swallowing, you decided to write a message in the comments that only he would recognize "Turn off the Stream and come over here. Im in the mood."

A few seconds later, he read it. He didn't say anything. He just smiled.

Again, you chose to write the same comment in case he didn't pay much attention to it the first time.

"I'm not shutting down the live. If anyone wants to tell me something, they can come here and tell me themselves."

You smiled and turned off your phone.

Is that how he wanted it? With games?

He asked and shall receive.

You got out of bed, opening your closet and wearing the most revealing and slutty piece of clothing you owned. You also put on a pair of high heels and began to walk slowly towards the next room.

The door was closed so you touched the handle and began to open it gently.

Two beautiful eyes met yours. Then they scanned you from head to toes.

Whatever Lando was trying to tell his viewers was now forever gone.

His jaw closed and he licked his lips. His eyes were on the verge of popping out of their sockets.

Bringing a finger to your lips, you murmued "Shhh."

You felt his eyes follow you as you closed the door and sat comfortably on the couch across from him.

You weren't, of course, visible on the camera. And your boyfriend did his best not to show his viewers the uncomfortable situation he was in. He kept talking, but you were sure he didn't understand what he was saying either.

You stopped looking at him and tried to forget the fact that you had to be discreet because thousands of people were somehow in the room with you.

Spreading your legs, you pushed your warm hand where you wished Lando's was right now.

You immediately shuddered at the very first contact. Twisting your body a little, you gave your boyfriend a better angle of your wet--dripping actually--spot.

His eyes never abandoned you. At one point, you heard him hissing plaid from his breath. "Fuck." His voice made you shudder. "Thats it." He said and closed the live show without saying anything else to his audience.

You stopped the movements and touches on your body and looked at him throwing the headphones on the chair and walking briskly over to you.

That's my boy.

"You want to fucking make me come in front of thousands of people? Huh?" He walked towards you and started unbuttoning his pants. You just smirked and bit your bottom lip. "Acting like a little brat, getting treated like one, right?" He grabbed your neck and forced you to him. After taking one huge taste of your lips, he let you down and removed his white t-shirt. "Open your legs. You're lucky I didn't choose to fuck you live, baby."

[dwaekkilinos]

savior complex (pt. 2) | bang chan

summary: Your father had wielded you to become a machine; a weapon. And a machine you would become. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat. He taught you how to protect; specifically how to protect your family. But he never taught you how to survive with other groups, especially when their leader seems to have it out for you.

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | strangers/enemies to lovers + zombie apocalypse au, angst, fluff, smut word count: 35.4K? chapter summary: the female of the species are the most deadly. you see it in everything, including the mirror. warnings/notes: i hate this so bad, i'm so sorry, zombie apocalypse au so . . . blood, guts, gore, sad, sad, sad. beware. lots of inspo from every zombie thing i've literally ever seen (twd, tlou, train to busan, etc.), typos probably, parental death, actions of violence and murder, religious TRAUMA, religious undertones, reader does not believe in god but she's deeply influenced by it bc of her childhood and it haunts her, slight inspiration for the host, talk of cwd, animal death, fights, sexual tension, drinking, ever so small blood consumption, sleeping in the smae bed/one bed trope/stuck together trope, making out, dry humping, um chris and reader being actually stupid, i think that's it but let me know if i missed anything, and enjoy! <3

chapter one: the female of the species (are the most deadly) ( ← previous | series masterlist | next → )

Deer are meant to flee.

In the scenario of a predator in an open field, deer always choose to run zigzag to get away. Running straight puts a wanted sign on their heads. Running straight gets them killed. Running straight turns them into prey.

It’s simple. It’s fight or flight syndrome.

Deer will always choose to flee first to save themselves. They will only fight as a last alternative. That is what makes them prey. That is what distinguishes them from the predator.

That was the first thing your father taught you when he led you into those woods during Pestilence’s rise from the dead. But back then, he would ignore your questions of what would happen to the deer that would fight. You’d always wondered. And you remembered even now how you found out the truth. You’d snuck out of your bed in the middle of the night just like at the beginning of Pestilence’s reign, and tip-toed into your father’s study. Then . . . one search and you discovered the truth.

A deer that fights is a dead deer.

It made less sense then, or rather you hadn’t wanted it to make sense. You hadn’t wanted to believe that even nature could be so cruel. At the time, you could take being locked away from the rest of the world with that sickness out there. After all, the town had been tucked away from civilization for so long anyway. Isolation wasn’t anything new to you. But this . . . cruelty . . . that was something you couldn’t stomach all those years ago.

And now . . . now you found it easy to admit that a deer that fights is a dead deer. Now you found it easy to admit that it is better to be the hunter . . . to be the predator. Now it was easy to admit you were never a deer like the rest of your town. Now it was easy to admit, you hadn’t been running from the hunter, you had been running from yourself . . . from the predator ripping at your viscera.

Now it was easy to admit you were the wolf that your town kept in a cage . . . until you’d found a way to break the lock.

And the deer? They still ran.

Your mother had been trying to run from you since the moment the world fell away. Your sister used to walk with you, used to not fight nor run from you . . . until she realized she should’ve been the entire time. And Felix . . . he’d realize one day that it was the right decision to leave you behind in those woods. One day he’d be grateful he’d left the predator preying on his family. One day he would.

You knew he would, too. You knew because he’d witnessed what happened to the deer that fought back. You knew because he’d watched you rip open that man’s jugular like it was just the tough end of a piece of steak. You knew because he’d hesitated before he followed after you when you’d slaughtered one of the dead without a second thought. You knew because he’d listened to you in that warehouse . . . because he hadn’t followed after you.

That . . . that thought was the only thing that kept you going the past couple of days as you faded in and out of consciousness.

And when you did finally come to, your eyes fluttering open to meet the image of fluorescent overhead lights staring back at you, you knew your deer were finally safe from you. That was how you found yourself breathing a sigh of relief as a small smile touched your lips, surely making you appear out of your mind (and well . . . maybe you were).

The first night, with the fever still ruling your body, you realized what you’d gotten yourself into. You realized that no, this was not the afterlife. Your father would not walk through the door any time soon. You would not get to hug him once more. You wouldn’t be able to feel him, hear him, see him, or even smell him.

(You tried to ignore the ache swelling in your chest when you realized even if he was there by some chance, there was a good chance you wouldn’t be able to recognize him from feel, touch, sight, smell. It had become increasingly obvious to you as you laid bedridden that perhaps while trying to survive and keep your family alive, you’d been forgetting your father’s face little by little.)

And while those thoughts haunted you, the dull scenery of the room you’d been locked away in setting in more and more as the days passed, you almost accepted what had happened. You hadn’t gotten yourself killed in those woods. No, you’d stepped into something so much worse.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed since you’d found yourself there. People had come in and out while you were suffering the worst ends of the fever. You couldn’t quite tell who, or why they had come in and out, but you did know you’d put up a fight the few times they’d tried to feed you or shove medicine down your throat. Whether it was the fever taking hold of you or the deep mistrust that ran inside your bloodstream, it didn’t matter. You fought just as you always had.

Only now as you stared at the fluorescent lights above your bed did you have the time to actually think. The fever had subsided, but the pain in your ankle still remained. You weren’t sure if an infection had come about or if the sprain had actually been a break, but you did know you didn’t want to move from your spot. You wanted to stay right there and stare into the light until your eyes started to water and ache from not blinking for so long.

Perhaps if you pretended to be sicker, they’d let you go. Perhaps they’d give up on you, throw you out with the rest of the dead. Perhaps they’d let you rest like you had been begging them.

And perhaps they would. Perhaps they would when you finally let your guard down. Perhaps then they’d kill you like you’d been begging.

Was this all just a trick then?

Or another test?

However, deja vu set in as your mind wasn’t allowed much longer to ponder when the sound of a door opening brought you out of your questioning. Your body stiffened as you shot up in your bed, bringing your knees to your chest despite the pain in your ankle. Your eyes never left the door as you tightened your hand into a fist, making sure you were alert for anything just as you had been taught. Wearily, you watched with stern eyes as a man stepped in, expecting to meet the gaze of the man who had brought you here, but no, he wasn’t him but did he look ever so familiar. You watched as this new man let himself in, not looking up while he closed the door behind him, softly humming to himself as he scribbled down something onto the notepad in his hand.

Your eyes dragged over his figure, taking note of the tattered tee and cargo pants that looked a little too worn, but much less used than the clothes on your own back. His hair was dark and long, long enough to curl around his ears, and he wore glasses that had no smudges or fingerprints tainting the glass, almost as if he’d had the time to think of his appearance that day. And . . . his face and hands were clean. He was clean. There was no dirt or scrapes in sight. He . . . he’d washed himself recently. He had the time to wash himself.

Confusion struck your face for only a mere second before it dawned on you their bunker must have had access to a water supply. That only made your rage grow.

He was allowed to hold up underground, his skin clear of dirt and grime and . . . blood. And you could still smell the squirrel guts that had seeped into your shirt from your last meal.

He was clean, and you . . . you had lost count of how many days it had been since you had had the time to properly clean yourself. Hell, you hadn’t smelled a bar of soap in about a year or more. And yet . . . he probably washed every day.

Gritting your teeth together, your rage grew. Or perhaps this was . . . envy? Jealousy? No, no you were sure it was guilt now. Guilt because . . . here you were stuck in a bunker where they had running water and your family was still out there. You’d run into those woods to save them. It seemed you had only saved yourself in the end, or rather they had forced you to.

And that . . . that made you angry.

The man must have felt the flames of your scorching glare because the next second he was glancing up from his notebook, his eyes quickly meeting yours. His eyes widened slightly. “Oh,” he mumbled in shock before a toothy grin spread onto his face. He advanced toward you, approaching the bed with that smile still on his face. “She lives.”

But you remained silent, calculating.

Your hand remained in a fist.

His eyes flicked down to your hands, his smile faltering slightly, but he didn’t bring attention to it. He was meeting your glare once again in a second, but before he spoke, he took a step back, leaving space between the two of you. “You’ve been out for a few days. I did manage to get some medicine shoved down your throat,” he began again, his voice soft, almost as if he didn’t want to startle you. “Not without a fight—” he softly laughed as he turned his arm and showed a bite mark you had left on the meat of his forearm— “but . . . all’s forgiven.”

Still, you remained silent, eyes flicking from his arm back to his face without even breathing. Your glare remained.

And he faltered under your gaze, his smile dropping as he cleared his throat and went back to his notebook. He kept searching for . . . something as he continued humming, until his eyes landed and he hummed, “Ah, now—”

A knock at the door interrupted the man as his brows raised and he glanced over his shoulder. You followed his gaze just in time to see the door open once again as another man walked into the room. But this time, confusion didn’t strike you. This time you recognized the man as the one from the other night; as the one who had taken your hand and led you out of those woods when you had condemned yourself to your death; as the man you had mistaken as Death himself.

It was silent as he shut the door behind him and began to approach the bed with that same look in his eyes—stern, cold, and calculating just as he had been the other night. In response, you tucked yourself further to the top of the bed, trying to create as much space between you and the men. But . . . the man from the other night . . . Death . . . barely even spared you a glance.

He glanced toward the man with the glasses. “How’s she looking?” he asked, his voice stern and void of emotion as he crossed his arms over his broad chest.

“Well—” the other man began but quickly cut himself off as he turned his gaze to you, eyes casting over your demeanor. He sucked on his teeth in thought, then pointed to the bed sheet which covered your legs. “Can I?”

Clutching the sheets closer to your body, you furrowed your brows, a scowl deepening on your face. What did he want with your body? No one had ever asked to see it before. Why was he?

“Your ankle . . . ” he mumbled, almost apologetically.

And then it hit you, and for the first time in a long time, you felt embarrassed. You had been taught to always be on alert, to never trust, to fight and the others would flee. You had been taught to be a weapon. You’d been taught too well to the point you’d forgotten how the world used to be; how a simple question could just be exactly that and not come with an ulterior motive.

He wanted to check your ankle. That was why he’d come in here in the first place. He didn’t want your body. Perhaps he didn’t want anything from you. But . . .

You have to grow up. No more kid stuff.

Those had been the words your father left you with. You knew what they meant. And you knew what they entailed.

Trust no one. Children had trust. Children trusted blindly. And you were no child. You hadn’t been for a while. And you wouldn’t be today.

Sure, you recognized his motive, but you didn’t trust him, and you certainly didn’t trust letting him get anywhere near you. With your eyes boring into his you pulled back the sheet covering your legs and revealed your swollen ankle.

The man with the glasses took a step forward to inspect the injury, but you jerked back, smacking your back against the wall. Like a dog who had been beaten one too many times, your reflexes were fast, instinctive, and jarring. That was evident by the looks both of the men gave you, then gave each other.

It was only after a minute of thick silence that the same man cleared his throat, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he took a step back. “She can probably walk on it now but not for long,” he began as his eyes scanned his notebook. “As for the wounds . . . “ trailing off, he pointed to the gashing along your legs, across your arms, even the one just under your eye as he sighed heavily in thought. “They look to be healing pretty well, but we’ll keep checking in case a nasty infection decides to latch on.”

Death . . . No . . . the other man nodded in acknowledgement, then turned his attention to you. And you couldn’t look away. Those eyes. The same eyes that had dragged you out of those woods glared back at you, and yet they carried a certain softness that you couldn’t figure out. Those eyes seemed to haunt you. You didn’t know him, but . . . you felt as though you’d seen him before. In that dog as she ran after the stick you’d thrown moments before you snapped her neck; in Felix as you played with his hair so he’d sleep soundly at night; in the beginning when your family still smiled at you.

He continued to glare, and you glared right back, but you saw something deeper in there. You saw the things you wished you could forget. You saw the people you’d lost; the things you’d loved. You saw the decisions you had to commit to in order to keep your family alive.

That only made you glare harder.

“How do you feel?” he finally asked, but his stare only intensified.

You remained silent.

The man with the glasses cleared his throat. “Chris,” he muttered, and your brain took note of the name, remembering it from the other night. This Death . . . had a name. “I don’t think she talks.”

“Oh, she talks,” Chris replied instantly, not taking his eyes off yours. He tilted his head, brows furrowing in thought. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Still, you didn’t speak, your eyes watching him.

There was that quiet rage again. He held himself so elegantly, but his eyes always gave him away. There was no hiding with eyes like that.

It seemed your oath of silence had stirred an even greater anger within him.

Good, you couldn’t help but think. Maybe then he’d finally kill you.

(And yet . . . your hands were still firmly clenched into fists as if one wrong move and you’d attack like the wild dog you knew yourself to be. (It was a peculiar thing to realize: wishing to be killed but still so desperately willing to defend yourself.))

Chris cocked his head to the side. You mirrored his actions, causing him to scoff as he tongued his inner cheek and shook his head. “Ji,” he began, his voice low as he spoke to the other man while maintaining eye contact with you, “will you go get a bath ready?”

This Ji only nodded in response, glancing between you and Chris before he slowly began to back out of the room. He was gone a second later, the door shutting closed behind him. That left you and Death alone.

A visceral beat of silence pounded so loudly you felt it deep within your chest. Had that been your heartbeat or were you too far gone for even that?

The man . . . Death . . . Chris quietly walked to the other side of the room, grabbing the lone chair and placing it beside your bed just like he had the other night. You watched him the entire time, following closely so as to not miss even the slightest action, and only when he relaxed into the chair, his legs spread out, arms still crossed over his chest, as his gaze flicked over the wounds tattering your body, did you let yourself take in his appearance.

He was still handsome, yes, but a little more human now that your fever had broken. His dark hair was still curly, albeit messier than a few days prior, and it seemed the bags under his eyes had darkened even more. Yet, his lips were still pink, still smooth, still . . . pretty. (It made you think of the before; of the years in your childhood when you’d sneak into the living room while everyone else slept and turn on the TV late at night just to watch news reports of your favorite actors.)

You’d never seen a man like this so close before. You should’ve been used to it given the other night, but there was no mistaking the urge buried deep within yourself that wanted him to see worth in the body he was analyzing. You’d felt this thing before. You’d felt it in the way the boys in the pews would stare at you while you played the piano during church. But you had only been a girl then. The world hadn’t ended then.

A girl turned into a creature with sharp canines you had become. And a death valley the world had turned into.

At the realization, you shoved that eerie feeling down so far you were no longer hungry, as you tugged the bedsheet back over your body. You tugged the sheet so far until you tucked it under your chin, not allowing a sliver of skin to show. If your mind wanted to ponder over if someone found worth within it, then you’d bury it for even you to see.

Chris seemed to catch on, his eyes still trained on the bed sheet where your wounded leg once was, before his gaze snapped back up to meet yours. Your eyes hardened first, his followed suit.

“Feel like talking now?” he all but sighed.

A second passed.

You didn’t respond.

And he scoffed as if he had seen it coming. “Fine, suit yourself.”

Chris quickly pushed himself out of the chair, the legs screeching against the floor as he stood to his feet. His back was to you the next moment as you watched him walk to the other side of the room where a small storage cabinet resided right next to a makeshift desk. He opened the cabinet, sifting through its contents before he pulled out a woman’s black shirt and jeans that looked to be around your size. Each piece of clothing he haphazardly tossed onto the desk with a sigh, even pulling out socks and undergarments.

And when he was done, he slammed the cabinet shut and almost hesitantly glanced toward the clothes resting on the desk. His hand seemed to almost shake as he rested it on top of the clothes, rubbing his thumb against the fabric.

It made you wonder. Who had those clothes belonged to?

Your brows pulled together as you finally tore your eyes from his figure, and observed the rest of the room for the first time. At first glance, it was a small room, a little bigger than a closet but just enough to house the bed you were sitting on, along with a cabinet and a desk for . . . whatever you supposed. Your eyes snapped back to the bed you were on, and then it hit you.

This was no medical bed like you had once thought when you first awoke here. This was just a mattress on top of a metal bed frame that had been built into the metal walls surrounding you. And in the corner of the room, there was a pile of clothes which belonged to a man. The cabinet, the desk, the bed, the clothes on the floor . . . this wasn’t an infirmary . . . this was someone’s room.

Was it his?

Those clothes . . . did they belong to someone close to him? Is that why—

“These will probably fit you,” he interrupted your train of thought, throwing the clothes down beside you on the bed. “There’s towels and soap in the washrooms. Ready to wash, yeah?”

You eyed the clothes beside your feet, then peeked at him out of the corner of your eye. He wasn’t sitting anymore. He was just standing there and you could feel his dark gaze on the side of your head, but you didn’t glance up to meet his eyes. Not yet. Not until you figured out what was going on.

This was his room. It had to have been. He was giving you clothes and allowing you to bathe, yet his demeanor was still . . . off. Was this a ploy?

You blinked. Your gun.

Your gun . . . had they taken it to leave you defenseless?

“Did you take my gun?” you harshly bit out as you finally met his gaze.

His brows furrowed. “You didn’t have one on you.”

Your jaw clenched. “I had a gun.”

His brows raised. “Did you drop it?”

You shook your head. “I wouldn’t—”

But your words cut out quickly as a flash from a few nights ago hit you. The woods. He surprised you that night. You’d dropped your gun. You’d dropped your father’s gun. You’d left him his gun there.

In an instant, you sprung out of bed, barely feeling the pain in your body. “The woods,” you muttered out as you scanned the room for your shoes. “It must be—”

But Chris was quick. “Woah, woah, woah, hey,” he said, his hands finding your shoulders to stop you from moving on your ankle, “you’re not going anywhere.”

You halted, but your anger remained. “I don’t answer to you,” you spat out, tearing his hands from your body.

Again, you made another move for your shoes, but he blocked your path with his body. “You do when you’re under my roof,” he reiterated, his words sterner now. “It’s only been a few days. The horde will still be around . . . and you can barely walk. You go out there and you will bring the dead to my door. You force my hand and make me send my people out there, the horde will get them, too.” He took a step closer then, his voice quieter, darker. “I will not let you burden my people.”

“I won’t bring the dead to your door,” you muttered, searching his eyes for an understanding. “I won’t come back. I won’t bring them here. I won’t turn back. I’ll go through the horde if I have to . . . or die with my gun. I don’t care, but trust me . . . I won’t bring the dead to you or your people.” You jutted out your chin. “I won’t be your burden. I can promise you that.”

He didn’t even take a second to think before he shook his head once. “I’m a man of my word,” he spoke, standing taller now as he took a step away from you. “We will retrieve your gun when the horde has moved on.”

“You don’t get—”

“I will not send out my people to die with that horde still around,” he cut you off. “The bomb distracted them then, but more have crowded because of the sound. More will come and then they will pass. But I will not and cannot send out my people for a gun until they pass.”

You remained silent then, watching him carefully. He wasn’t listening. You were prepared to go back for the gun alone. You’d find it, you’d lay down beside it, and let yourself rest. You wouldn’t run. You wouldn’t lead them back to this place. You would barely move. You’d let the horde take you and your gun.

You wouldn’t come back. You wouldn’t. Couldn’t he see that?

“You have my word,” he said once again, his eyes no longer on you, but rather on the clothes still resting on the bed. “And when they pass, I will personally help you find your gun.” His eyes briefly met yours for only a moment, before he was turning around, and walking toward the door.

You took a step forward. You weren’t sure why, but you did. Was it to stop him? Follow? Run?

He noticed, too, stopping in his tracks. His eyes didn’t meet yours, but his profile was in your sights. He just stood there, his eyes on the ground but his profile angled toward you, as if he were waiting for your next moves as if he expected you to attack him from behind.

You wouldn’t. You knew you wouldn’t. A wild dog you may have seemed to him, but you didn’t bite so generously. He hadn’t done something yet. Yet . . .

But before either you or him could address the situation, he spoke, “Grab the clothes and follow me. You have a long day ahead of you.”

On the seventh day, God ended his work which he had done, and rested. The seventh day was meant for worship. Take pause and express gratitude toward your savior, you’d learned. The seventh day was meant for worship, and for years you’d knelt and knelt on those pews until the wood dug into your flesh and made wounds that would never heal.

For years, the seventh day had meant something to you. For years, you’d endured the scabs on your knees. For years, you’d almost worshiped them, too.

But . . .

On the seventh year of the end of days, you ended your vow to protect your family, except . . . you couldn’t seem to rest. The seventh year was meant to be your last. Take pause in those woods with your father’s gun in hand, and let the dead express their gratitude toward your flesh which would satiate their visceral hunger for only a few mere seconds. The seventh year was meant for your end, and for a few years, you had laid on the forest floor when it was night and everyone was asleep, and prayed that your day would come.

For years, the seventh year was just a sick wish. For years, you’d pick at the old scabs on your knees, creating new ones while you stared into the sky and prayed to a god you didn’t believe in. For years, you’d nearly promised to believe in him again if he’d just give you your damnation.

It was supposed to be that night in the woods. You were supposed to be eaten by them or become one. That was how it was supposed to end. That was your sentence for causing your father’s death.

Except . . . like all those years ago, it seemed not even these prayers were worthy enough to be granted. But maybe that was just it. Maybe this was your damnation. Maybe no matter what you did, death would always follow you but never seek you specifically out. Because maybe death was too kind for someone like you. Maybe the real damnation was for you to sit and watch as everyone around you died because of you.

Would Chris kick you out then? If he knew saving you meant bringing death to his doorstep?

Those thoughts in your mind, you continued to follow after this Chris, limping silently behind him as he took you through the bunker. It must have been the backway or something because you hadn’t seen another soul the entire few minutes you’d been passing through each room. Even as you reached the bottom floor, you still could not find another one of his people.

Had he told them to hide? Did he say why? Were there children? Were they scared of you? Were you akin to the monsters in those fairytales your father used to read you when you were younger?

On the seventh minute, the two of you stopped in front of a hatched metal door, and you almost felt fear. But you told yourself you didn’t get to feel that way as he unhatched the door and pulled it open, revealing a washing room akin to a basement bathroom except four showers were lining the wall, all of which were separated by thick slabs of metal dividers and covered by plastic shower curtains. Two toilets were out in the open on the wall opposite the showers, a sink in the middle of them; and a bathtub resting near the middle wall.

You blinked once. Then twice. Then nearly collapsed against the doorframe at the sight.

It had been so long since you’d seen a bathroom; since you’d seen showers and bathtubs and proper toilets. It had been so long since you’d been clean. Sometimes you could still feel your father’s blood on your skin, and no matter how many times you scrubbed your skin in streams or lakes or even puddles, you still felt dirty. You always felt tainted, like your skin was just as rotted as the deads’.

And yet here you were staring into a bathroom with all the things you missed about civilization and you couldn’t quite tell what to do with yourself. You didn’t move. You didn’t even speak. You barely breathed. You just stared, and tried to quiet your rapid heartbeat.

Chris didn’t seem to notice your pause or if he did, he didn’t pay it much mind. Instead, you watched him out of the corner of your eye as he left you by the door and walked toward the bathtub, stretching out his hand toward the water. He swished the water around a few times, checking the temperature before he shook the water from his hand and dried it off on his pants.

Then . . . he was looking at you again. “This should be hot enough,” he muttered before he stalked toward the metal shelves opposite the side of the room where the bathtub rested. He grabbed a washcloth, then dug into a plastic bin which held chunks of soap, all the while you watched him with careful eyes. You continued to watch him as he approached you, taking the clothes out of your hands and replacing them with the washing materials. “I’ll get you a towel once you’ve washed.”

And that was it. Chris tossed the clean clothes onto the top metal shelf, then, with a sign, he leaned his back against the wall next to the shelves, his arms crossed over his broad chest while his eyes lazily trailed from the bathtub to where you stood in the doorway. Your brows furrowed, your head tilting as you stared back at him, almost as if you were challenging him.

“What are you doing?” you asked, but your voice sounded harsh, bitter . . . lethal like the weapon you’d known yourself to be.

Chris sighed through his nose again. “I told you I don’t kill the living . . . and I won’t kill you,” he started off, maintaining eye contact with you. “But I do not trust you. I do not like you. And I won’t put my people at risk just because I let you live. So, wash, yeah? You have my word I want nothing with your body. Just wash so I can show you around and you can finally eat.” His brows raised as he jutted out his chin, gesturing toward the bathtub. “Hmm? Sound good?”

“Men aren’t supposed to—” but you quickly cut yourself off. Men aren’t supposed to see women naked without marriage. That was what you were going to say. That was what your mother had drilled into your head as you were growing up. That was what the town believed, because that was what they preached. And you’d almost slipped up. You’d almost spoken their words, not your own. And while you couldn’t have that, you didn’t address your previous argument, instead, you tore your eyes from his and bit your tongue. “Just . . . don’t touch me.”

“You have my word,” he mumbled, his voice almost softer now, but you ignored it. “I don’t do that. I wouldn’t.”

You swallowed hard.

A beat of silence.

And then another.

Until you couldn’t take it anymore and nearly charged toward the bathtub, but you didn’t touch it. Not yet. You paused abruptly before the tub, then carefully, you outstretched your hand, testing the water. Warm. Not hot, nearly scalding . . . just like the baths you’d used to have when you were a kid.

But you couldn’t let him know that. You couldn’t show that you were once human . . . not to him. Instead . . . you tore your hand from the water, your eyes immediately snapping in his direction, narrowing at his figure. He was staring back at you, almost analyzing you or trying to piece together the things he didn’t understand about you. And then: his brows twitched downward, his face falling slightly before he cleared his throat and that look was gone.

“Listen,” he began, and turned his head to the side so you could only see his profile. His eyes weren’t on you anymore. “I won’t look. Just . . . undress and get in quickly.” He wet his lips, sighing. “I won’t look.”

You didn’t respond. He wasn’t looking for a response anyway. You only nodded at his words before you got to work, throwing the washcloth and soap into the water before unbuttoning your tattered pants and wincing as the fabric snagged on cuts and wounds that you’d accumulated. Your eyes remained on his figure, making sure he didn’t turn his head to see you lift your shirt over your head, throwing it to the floor along with your sports bra. Finally, you nearly tore off your underwear and socks just before you stepped into the bathtub, letting the water envelope your body until you were sitting in the tub, your knees to your chest as the water lightly swished around your shoulders.

Once the swishing of the water ceased, you watched out of the corner of your eye as Chris turned his attention back to you. His eyes were on you once again, and you tried to ignore it. You tried to stop watching him. You tried to enjoy the water surrounding you, but his eyes were nearly burning holes into your skin.

He’d promised not to hurt you, but what good was a man’s word in this world? You couldn’t trust that. You couldn’t trust him.

You kept one eye open. The water surrounding your body was a glorious distraction, but even as you rubbed at your feet underneath the water, trying to ease the aches, you still watched him in your peripheral vision. And the entire time . . . he didn’t move.

The water had begun to turn red and dark due to your accumulation of blood, wounds, and dirt. Only then did you search the tub’s floor to find the bar of soap. Once it was in your hand, you brought it out of the water, rubbing the white bubbly film with your thumbs before you reached for the washcloth and began to rub the two together to create a paste. With the cloth covered in suds, you allowed yourself to feel bliss just for a mere second as you touched the cloth to your skin and . . . scrubbed.

If this were a few years ago or even a few months ago, you thought you might have cried at the sensation. You wanted to cry now. You wanted to scrub your skin until the blood was gone, until the dirt was gone, until your skin was gone, until you were just raw and clean and new, until you were nearly born again. You wanted to scrub it all way. All the years, all the pain, all the memories. You wanted it all to be washed away like the dirt and grim hiding beneath your fingernails.

But you didn’t cry and you didn’t scrub until your skin was raw. You kept your composure, scrubbing up and down your arms with the washcloth, getting your neck, behind your ears, your legs, feet, toes, fingers, your most intimate parts, even your nostrils. And god . . . did it feel good, almost too good, so good, you’d taken your eyes off the man on the other side of the room.

“The blood—” his voice sounded from across the room, nearly startling you but you nearly whipped yourself to maintain your composure— “Is it all yours?”

Your movements paused. You blinked. “No,” you muttered as your eyes went to the dirtied water.

It was never just yours.

“Whose is it?” he asked. You knew what he wanted. You knew what he was really asking.

Running the washcloth over your nails to clean the dirt, you swallowed hard. “Does it matter?”

“It could,” he merely said. “Why did you do it?”

You didn’t respond. He knew. You knew he did. There was no way someone like you stepped into a place like this how you did, without doing the things you’d done. It might as well have been written across your forehead. You’d done something. It haunted you. And he knew it.

“If you stay here you’re going to have to answer my questions,” he said again, reiterating that his questions were harmless.

A muscle in your jaw twitched. Lifting your head, your eyes flicked to his, harsh and hostile. “Kick me out then, sheriff,” you spat, a challenge within your gaze.

But it seemed he wasn’t the type to take the bait. At least that might have been what he wanted you to believe as he discarded your comment and pushed, “Why did you do it?”

Your glare darkened. “Same reason we all do,” you muttered. “I had to.” But you didn’t.

It wasn’t something you had to do. Killing someone was not something you had to do. And even then, even if you had to . . . you didn’t have to do it like . . . that. Yet . . . you did.

“Was it deserved?”

Was it deserved? he had asked.

Yes, you wanted to growl back. Because yes, yes, yes he fucking deserved it. That man had taken your sister. He’d held her in his harsh grasp and laughed as she kicked and screamed. He’d put a gun to her head, and threatened to pull it unless you gave up all your food. But you had seen the look in his eyes. Even if you’d followed his orders, he would’ve pulled that trigger. Maybe he would’ve pulled it on you first or maybe he’d really have killed your sister. Maybe he would have taken you all down before you could even breathe and run off with your food. Or maybe he would have done worse.

Because you’d seen the look in his eyes. You’d seen how he’d put his hands on your sister. You knew what men like that did to little girls in a world without rules, without hope. You knew what he would do.

Anyone would have defended their blood. Anyone would've protected. Some would kill, others would find a way to knock him out and run off before he could catch up. But you . . . you didn’t just kill that night. No, it was a slaughter . . . and it was fun.

That . . . that was what made you different from the rest. You’d taken a man’s death sentence and become death yourself. You’d become god that night, wielding your hand to end another’s life with just your teeth and a visceral thirst that could only be quenched by fresh, spilled blood.

So . . . was it deserved? Yes, but . . . no one person should have that much power. No one should just play god like . . . that. But you had . . . and you had enjoyed it.

If Chris knew . . . would he turn you away, too? He’d given you a bed to rest and heal, a bath, and soon food, but if he knew, would he send you out there against his word?

You could only hope.

“I ripped out a man’s throat with my teeth,” you abruptly bit out, ignoring all the voices in your head telling you to just keep quiet, because you knew you deserved the hell he should have brought to you for this. If God wouldn’t answer your prayers, maybe a man would. Maybe he’d condemn you for him. “Does anyone deserve that?”

His eyes were on you. You knew they were. And you knew he was looking at you as if he was just another deer off the highway. As if you were the howls he could hear in the distance. As if you were what was lurking in the shadows of a dark forest. As if your teeth had been sharpened for the hunt. And he was just prey.

You waited for him to run, too, because you knew what happened to those who didn’t. You could see it before your eyes, all around you, soaking your skin and underneath the dirt in your fingernails.

Because you’d seen this before. You knew who you were in this story, and you knew who he was. It was predator versus prey. It was instinct. It was nature.

You’d seen it before in life before, too. The summer before everything, you’d gone every day to shadow your local vet, and every day you’d seen animal after animal be put down again and again. Some from health issues. Others from abscesses caused in the wild. Few . . . from locking their jaws around a human hand.

It was always the latter that struck you deepest. No one knew the art of the veterinarian clinic. To them, it was just a waiting room with doors, but nothing behind. But you knew what was behind those doors. The stuff no one wants to deal with hid there. The dogs that acted out, barked too loud, became too . . . feral came to die there.

It was almost funny, nearly sickening that almost all of the dogs had two things in common: they weren’t spayed and they were female. Because, you see, everyone always said how neutering a male dog will fix its aggression. Everyone always told you that if not tamed, a male dog will always bite, but they didn’t realize most dogs that bite are female. It was instinct again. Protect the womb. Protect your young. It was nature. Biological. The female of the species were more deadly than the male . . . because they were always in a state of survival.

When you thought about it, you’d like to say that the raising of the dead was when your game of survival began, but you knew better. Your games began the day you were born . . . the day every woman was born.

And while some knew how to wield it well, you had been beaten into another narrative. Like animals, most female dogs can be tamed with trust, but the few that aren’t; the few that come into the world in the middle of the woods, forced into submission by their male counterparts and bred over and over again . . . those few could never be domesticated. They would always be wild.

You’d seen it once in the before. A pregnant feral dog brought in by an old woman with a heart for poor souls. The moment she was brought into the clinic, death followed her. It smelled of shit and piss and blood. And when you’d asked what could have possibly caused such a smell, they’d told you how animals worked in the wild, and it was so much worse than you’d thought. A female dog in a feral colony is but a womb. The males fight. The males become violent and possessive. To mark their territory they will urinate on her, and when another smells the mark of another male, they will become violent again. They will fight and try to claim their territory in the same way. And when they are through with the female, she will be left with wounds from fighting against their force. Yet . . . they still fight. Every time.

It was possible to tame a feral dog with time. But it was impossible to tame a feral dog if female because she would always be in a state of protecting her womb; protecting her young.

You knew what you were. When you’d see your reflection in pond water or shards of glass, it wouldn’t be your face staring back at you, no it would be that dog’s. Every time, you’d see her. You’d see her scared, teeth bared and growls echoing off the walls as your vet and his techs tried to sedate her for surgery. You’d see her lying on the operating table, finally, tame like she’d never been before. You’d see the vet cutting into her abdomen, cutting out the uterus filled with those babies she had been trying to protect. You’d see her as your vet explained to you how spaying her now would prevent her from being impregnated over and over again and causing the colony to grow. Because spaying a feral dog was more mercy than she would have ever been shown amongst her clan.

And you’d understood. You did. But it’d still made you sick to your stomach.

Until you finally did understand. Until you had to do things you’d never done in the before. Until your teeth had been sharpened. Until all you knew was survival. Until you were forced to protect your young. Until that man put a gun to your sister’s head and tried to use her like those male dogs would use the females. Until you charged at him. Until you fought him, fists bloody and knife ready. Until you sunk your canines into his neck and tore out his throat. Until you tasted his blood on your tongue and craved for more. Until his blood began to taste like honey. Until you stepped back, saw your bloodied hands, and realized that this was no longer just survival, but your nature. Until it was instinct. Until you were the female of your species that you had heard so much about.

So . . . you waited.

You waited for Chris to run out of the room and leave you to your bath of blood. Because you knew what happened to those who didn’t. Because you knew you were the female of your species. Because you knew a female dog could never be tamed if deemed feral. Because you could see it before your eyes, all around you, soaking your skin and underneath the dirt in your fingernails.

Because you’d seen this before. You knew who you were in this story, and you knew who he was. It was predator versus prey. It was instinct. It was nature. It was biological.

And yet . . .

“When’s the last time you bathed?” Chris asked, but his voice was different now. It wasn’t like before.

“Like you need to know,” you bit out almost immediately, almost as if it were a reflex.

But you still couldn’t help wonder . . . Why didn’t he leave?

Brows furrowed, you turned to face him, eyes going straight to his as if expecting a challenge, but no challenge was there. The man was just staring at you as if he was just . . . observing. And he was still . . . there.

Why didn’t he run? A deer that fights is a dead deer. Did he not know this? Did he not see what you were?

But he didn’t.

Your body stilled in the water, your hands wrapped tightly around the washcloth. And for some reason, you hadn’t known what possessed you, but you found yourself muttering out, “A few years give or take . . . minus the odd lake here and there.”

Chris shifted his weight to his other foot, but his arms stayed crossed and his expression remained stern, unreadable. “Is that how long you’ve been out there?”

Your brows twitched. You blinked and the past seven years flashed for just a second. “Longer,” you nearly whispered as your eyes sunk back to the water before you resumed dragging the washcloth down your arms. “Not all of us have the luxury of a bunker. Being out there—Fuck.” A hiss left your lips as you tried to bring the washcloth over your back, but the ache in your arms mixed with the evident wounds all over your body sent a sharp pain . . . everywhere.

Chris stepped forward, almost flinching as he did. “Let me—”

“Don’t,” you growled. This time you did bare your teeth like the wild animal you knew yourself to be. “Don’t touch me.”

But he wasn’t like the other deer. “Let me help you,” he said firmly.

And all you could do was stare at him, a skeptical look in your eyes while your heart pounded in your chest. He didn’t move, and you knew he wouldn’t unless you let him. That was the thing that perplexed you. He was fighting back, but waiting for your permission. He wouldn’t lay his hands on you unless you let him. You’d never seen a deer like this before.

Against all your best judgment, you all but threw the washcloth at him. You held out your arm, washcloth in hand, offering it to him and once he took it from you, you hesitantly leaned forward, pulling your knees to your chest to cover your intimate parts. But you still kept your eyes on him, trying to ignore how you flinched each time you felt the gentle scrape of the washcloth on your skin.

You remembered the feral dog at that moment. She’d fought for so long and yet . . . it was almost as if when she finally knew no one was going to hurt her, her growls lessened and her demeanor became more . . . cautious, eyes on everyone at all times, but she’d still bowed, letting your vet draw her blood and administer a rabies vaccine. It was almost as if she couldn’t let herself fully trust him, but she knew she was . . . safe.

You felt her within you as you sat in that now lukewarm water, letting a stranger gently wash your back. You remembered her eyes, and kept your own on him at all times, remembering the exit in case something truly did happen. You let him help you, but you kept in mind how hard the tub was, knowing if you had to, you could smash his head into the metal in a split second.

“What’s this from?” he asked after a minute of silence, his voice softer now as he paused his movement just near your shoulder, where you knew a bullet hole scar resided.

A flash of the man who’d taught you how to become a machine crossed your mind. The night you lost him, too. The way it felt. How it was . . . your fault.

You swallowed hard. “Happened a long time ago.”

“Mmm, wasn’t my question,” Chris hummed before he continued washing your back.

“It’s not from anything you have to be suspicious of, OK?” you spat, your muscles stiffening. “It’s not—” you wet your lips— “that’s not what makes me dangerous.”

“What does?”

“What?”

“You said the scar’s not what makes you dangerous,” He reiterated, dragging the washcloth over your shoulders and sending a shiver down your spine from the contact. “What does?”

You hugged your knees tighter. You remembered the feral dog. You remembered the deer. You remembered your father. But you remained silent.

“The other night . . . you begged me to kill you,” he stated. “What were you running from?”

“The dead.”

“Alright.” Chris tongued his inner cheek and laughed out a scoff, shaking his head at you. “Why were you running from them then?”

You lowered your head to your folded arms. “To survive.”

“Mmm, but then why beg for death?”

“I had a fever, you said.” You bit your arm like you should’ve bit your tongue. “I was out of my mind.”

It was then he sighed. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth.”

And it was then, that feral dog found you again. “I don’t want your help,” you quickly bit out, lifting your head to eye him.

He tilted his head slightly to the side, observing your features. “You need it.”

Your brows furrowed and your anger spread. “I don’t need anything,” you muttered out before you tried to snatch the washcloth out of his hand, but he tore it out of your way.

“Don’t be stupid,” he remarked. “You’re hurt.”

You tried again, but he dodged yet again.

“You are hurt,” he reiterated like he was scolding a small child.

You just stared at him, hesitantly.

And he stared back at you, calmly.

A beat of silence.

Then, your brows twitched almost in pain before you submitted again, lowering your arm. He picked up on this quickly but instead of washing the rest of your back, his other hand gently gripping your arm. You flinched, prepared to smash his head in, but you caught onto what he was doing before your instincts kicked in.

He had taken your arm to clean the large oozing gash on your forearm that would surely need more antibiotics as directed by his quiet remarks while he tried to clean the wound. And you let him. You weren’t sure why. Maybe you were still recovering. Maybe you were sick. Either way, something had possessed you as you let him work in silence while he cleaned the wounds that even you hadn’t realized were there.

Until, finally, he spoke the words that you never expected to hear from anyone. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice soft again.

Your breath hitched in shock before you covered it up by scoffing. “What are you sorry for?”

Beat.

Beat.

Beat.

“That you’re here and they are not,” he confessed.

Your brows pinched together. How did he know? “What are you—”

“Whoever you were trying to save . . . “ he cut you off, still speaking gently, “ . . . they will remember it.”

Your eyes snapped to his.

He was already looking at you. “Or,” he continued, “you will forgive yourself for it.”

In the before, everything always had rules. Not just life but . . . your own house, too. Even up until the age of fourteen, your mother would either dress you herself or lay out the clothes she wanted you to wear, never letting you choose. It was only when you turned fifteen and your father gave you his old Harley Davidson leather jacket that you were allowed to wear it whenever you wanted as long as it never left the house. But that . . . that was the first taste of freedom you’d ever had. (Now you thought perhaps it was the only bit of freedom that you’d been allowed.)

Other than that, you were designated to wear long skirts that reached your ankles and a dull sweater that was a little too big for you even during the warmer months. And always with those little black Mary Jane flats.

The first time you felt the stinging of a slap against your cheek, was the day you went to school and came back wearing the leather jacket your father had given you. As soon as you walked through the door, your mother slapped you right across the face, and you realized rules were rules and when they were broken, consequences followed.

Your mother had always been like that. She never slapped you again after that, until . . .

But it was the fact that you knew she would that stopped you from disobeying her. That was until the dead started rising from the dead and you traded short, polished nails for claws. That was before she became more afraid of you than you had ever been afraid of her.

But the fear still remained. Maybe it shouldn’t have, but maybe it was inevitable.

In the beginning, when you first began to learn how to kill the dead, you didn’t realize that the old world was just that. You didn’t realize it would never be normal again, and yet, being perfect, following the rules had been so ingrained into your mind, that you couldn’t abandon it entirely.

Every day, you’d try to manage your hair and keep it neat even in a world like this. Every day, some water was wasted to clean the dirt and blood from underneath your fingernails and staining your skin. Every day, your mother tried to make you live a life that was as close to normal as possible, and you followed that rule (even going as far as to leave that Harley Davidson jacket back at your house instead of bringing it along).

It wasn’t until your family had stumbled across a small shop for supplies and you found this pretty pink shirt, that you realized the old world was dead. Only ten minutes after trading your old, tattered top for the new one, did your father have to kill a few of the dead, their blood splattering and staining your shirt.

You stopped trying to be so . . . clean after that. No more struggling to manage your hair. No more wasting water to clean the blood and dirt and whatever else. No more choosing clothes that your mother would approve of. No more old world.

The new world was supposed to go on without you. The new world was supposed to end for you in the middle of those woods. And yet, here you still were, standing before a mirror, your hair washed and damp as you ran a brush through it for the first time since the beginning.

You almost didn’t recognize yourself either. This person staring back at you in the mirror didn’t look like the you you remembered. This was a stranger and yet so . . . familiar.

Was it your father that you saw?

The feral dog?

Or something else entirely?

Resting the hairbrush on the lip of the sink, you retracted your hand and before you could stop yourself, your fingertips grazed across your cheek. There under your eye was a cut. You didn’t know how it came to be. On your forehead was a scar that must have happened years ago, and another across the bridge of your nose.

You remembered a time when your face was clean of blemishes. You remembered a time when your cheeks were soft with peach fuzz, not raised and rough from the new world. You remembered a time when your appearance had been the only thing you cared about; the only thing you spent hours plaguing yourself with; when it was your only worry.

Swallowing hard, you dropped your hand and your eyes fell to the ground. You couldn’t stare at . . . her anymore.

Who even was she anymore?

A knock came at the bathroom door before your mind could spin further. “Decent yet?” Chris called from the other side of the door.

But you didn’t answer. You didn’t have it in you. Instead, with a sigh, you ignored the mirror once more and approached the door, swinging it open before he could get the chance.

Chris stepped back at your appearance, but his expression remained the same. That was until his eyes flicked down to your clothes, lingering for just a second but in that second you could have sworn you caught the slight twitch in his brows.

“Come on, you should eat,” he said without looking at you before he turned and headed for the stairs.

Tugging on the hem of your shirt, you followed after him without a word or a fight. This time, while the stairs were empty and there was no one lingering in the hallways, you could hear faint chatter from afar. And this time, you held yourself stiffer, on edge, calculating. You kept your eyes on the man before you as well as your surroundings, with your ears peeled, trying to decipher the conversations up ahead. Mostly you were trying to figure out how many voices there were which would tell you how many people were in this bunker, which could possibly mean how many people you would have to fight off.

The noise became louder the further you two walked. As you grew closer, you could mostly hear the voices of men with the odd woman, and you couldn’t stop yourself from winding into position—a stance you’d taken a million times before to protect your family.

Just as Chris turned the corner, you followed after him, knowing what you’d have to do. He wasn’t on your side. This was just a ploy. It had to be. Butter you up for fun, then leave you for the slaughter. That was how it had always been since the world died, and you were sure that was what was awaiting you.

Who knew you could still be scared even after all this time?

Swallowing hard, you readied yourself . . . but when Chris rounded another corner, and his group first came into sight, you almost couldn’t believe it. Right before you was a room, a dining room, or rather something that seemed awfully close to it with tables to eat on and kitchen appliances on the back wall. And in the room were the men you’d heard, but with them were women . . . elders . . . kids . . . The room was filled with people—people you’d never thought could survive a world like this, chatting and eating amongst each other as if . . . as if this was just some kind of picnic.

. . . And . . . in the corner of the room sat a little girl no older than ten, feeding a cracker to a . . . dog.

A dog. You’d thought all domesticated animals had perished during Famine’s reign.

There was no masking the shocked expression on your face. This wasn’t an ambush. But that would mean . . . Chris hadn’t lied to you.

Could this truly be a safe place? Was this really just a community of survivors?

No . . . No . . . it couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. Because if it was then that meant you’d ended up here . . . safe . . . and your family was still out there. That would mean you were the reason you were safe and they were not. And that would mean you’d failed him . . . again.

Chris tossed a lunch tray on the table before you, snapping you out of your own mind.

You blinked, but didn’t show your surprise. Blank. You remained blank.

He only stared at you with the same expression. Then, he raised his brow and nodded toward the tray as if telling you to eat.

And while you sat down, eyes locked on him, watching, you didn’t pick up the fork on your tray. Because this had to be a ploy. This seemed too good to be true. It had to be. And if it wasn’t, then one day it would be.

Chris scoffed when he realized you weren’t going to touch the food. “You think I’d poison you?” he asked, nearly laughing in disbelief. “I’ve given you medical help, a bed, shower, clean clothes and you think I poisoned the food? For what? What would be my game?”

You only shrugged, your body stiff as you kept your eyes narrowed in on him. (It was odd to realize you were still trying to survive. Wasn’t death what you wanted?)

He stared at you a little longer, searching your eyes as if you’d let an answer slip through. But you weren’t one to wear your emotions on your face; you weren’t one to give yourself away, not unless you wanted to . . . and there was nothing you wanted to give to him. You wouldn’t let him in your head. You knew what that did. So, you stared back, gaze harsh and expression stern.

Trust no one, even if they give you a reason to. That was what you had learned. That was what your father’s death had taught you. That was what the world had whispered to you that night. That was your lesson.

But it was almost as if even if you gave him nothing, he knew. His eyes flashed in acceptance (?) as he pursed his lips and nodded once. The next second he dipped his finger into what appeared to be mashed potatoes before he plopped it into his mouth . . . and swallowed. He took a swig of the glass of water by your hand as well, and you watched, blinking rapidly, taken aback.

“Happy?” he asked, placing the glass of water on the table with a clank.

Your brows twitched for nearly a second too long. You hoped he didn’t see. He wasn’t supposed to, but you couldn’t wrap your head around this place. You’d never seen people like this. Why did he want you to trust him? Why was he helping you? What did he want?

Swallowing hard, you averted your gaze from his face to the food placed in front of you. Oddly enough, it almost looked like a home-cooked meal. The mashed potatoes were still hot, still steaming, and the meat didn’t look too fresh, but fresher than you’d seen in a while, and cooked better than you ever could. There were even some freshly roasted walnuts on the side, that smelled like the winter holidays at your house during the before.

It was almost too good to ignore. It was almost too good to deny. Until it was. Until your stomach growled, and hunger sept back in. Until you realized this wasn’t the before and this was the first meal you’d had in a week, maybe longer. Until you realized it didn’t matter if you didn’t want to survive, you were just so fucking hungry and those mashed potatoes were still hot . . . and the meat was cooked thoroughly . . . and the walnuts smelled just like home. Until you realized just how hungry you were for it all.

And then you couldn’t stop yourself. For a few minutes, you forgot who you were. For a few minutes, you forgot how to survive. For a few minutes, you wanted not to be hungry.

Your hunger overcame you as you neglected the fork and knife, your greedy fingers digging into the mashed potatoes first, and shoveling it down your throat before you could even breathe. And when that was scraped clean, you dug into the meat, tearing piece by piece off with your teeth like the wild animal you knew he saw you as. And when that was gone, your hands reached for the glass of water, chugging as much as you could without choking.

The walnuts were left for last.

With your hands shaking from the influx of food, you grasped the first walnut, inhaling its smell as you popped it in your mouth and allowed yourself to savor its flavor. Only then when you took your time chewing walnut after walnut did you realize Chris was watching you again, except this time he was seated in front of you, his elbows resting on the table with his hands clasped in front of his mouth. He rubbed his lips against the rough skin of his hands, clearly lost in deep thought as he analyzed you.

When you'd finally caught on, your grip on the walnut in your hand loosened, your chewing slowing a second later. You dropped the walnut onto your tray and swallowed the rest of the food in your mouth before you cleared your throat and averted your gaze across the room. But you only saw something more unnerving. Everyone in the room seemed to be watching you. Maybe not so obviously, but you could tell their hushed whispers and quick glances in your direction meant only one thing: the topic of their conversations was you.

What did they want? Was it your presence? The way you looked? The way you’d eaten? Could they see who you really were? And . . . why did that . . . hurt you?

Chris interrupted your mind before you could torture yourself further. “You can be out there too long, you know?”

There was your answer. That was why they were staring at you.

While your family had been out there, scavenging for years, losing people after people . . . they had been safe in here. While you barely had any scraps to go around, they were eating mashed potatoes and gravy. While you hadn’t bathed in years, they hadn’t gone more than a day. While you’d lost your father, your mother, sister, Felix . . . children were allowed to grow here. While you had to put down the dog your sister had grown to love just so your family wouldn’t die of starvation . . . dogs were allowed to bark, play, eat here. While you had survived, they had lived.

And while they ate with forks and knives, you’d devoured everything with your hands as if you truly were one of the dead. To them, this was a meal. To you, this was survival.

There was your answer, and it wasn’t one you accepted kindly.

Your jaw locked, anger fueling you once again. “There’s no escaping it,” you muttered out.

Chris’s brows pinched together. “What?”

“What’s out there,” you reiterated, sucking on your teeth as your gaze dropped to the bandages wrapped tightly around your leg. “You can’t escape it. You can run, scavenge, fight . . . but the dead are always right there.” Glancing up, your eyes were blank again. “There’s no being out there too long. It is what it is. Out there is our world. Can’t get away from that even in here.”

There was no response to your words. Chris remained silent. He remained stern, stiff, calculated, but his eyes never left your face.

Was he deciding your fate?

Your eyes flicked back to the little girl and the dog, and you realized you wanted to decide for him. “We found a dog, too,” you began, recalling the bitter memory. “Smaller than that one, but sweet.” Your brows twitched. “And at first I thought it was a good thing. I thought it meant that the dead hadn’t taken everything . . . until the dead started to eat the deer and the squirrels . . . even the rats . . . until it got colder and the things that used to be alive died . . . until we didn’t have any food left.”

The scene before you of the little girl combing her fingers through the dog’s fur played out and you couldn’t help but see your sister and Berry in it. She’d loved that dog. She’d loved it like you loved her.

It broke your heart ripping that away from her. It broke hers, too.

She was too young to understand, but she’d loved you more back then. She’d loved you enough to force herself to ignore your lies. She’d loved you enough to believe that the meat you’d found was a deer and not her beloved dog. She’d loved you enough to pretend that her dog had been killed by the dead and not her sister. Although you supposed she never really had, she just pushed it away, and when your father died, that resentment all came back.

You’d killed her dog and her father. The dead suddenly wasn’t her biggest issue. It was you.

Forcefully tearing your eyes from the little girl, you met Chris’s gaze and held it. “Eighteen days we waited,” you began again, leaning forward this time to make sure he wouldn’t look away. You wanted him to be convinced. You wanted him to learn. “You know you can survive up to a month without food if you’re lucky? It’s funny because . . . you don’t realize just how much the days don’t matter when your only thought is food . . . food . . . food. Kinda makes you sympathize with the dead. Kinda also makes you envy them.”

Still, he remained silent, only squinting his eyes in thought but never tearing his gaze from your face. You mirrored him, but added in a grin.

“No one else wanted to do it,” you whispered with an hiss. “And they were right, right? Should’ve listened to them. Should’ve tested the limits a little longer, yeah?” You clicked your tongue. “But I was so damn hungry . . . “

You saw it then. It was gone in a flash, but you swore you saw it. He’d reacted. It was written on his face, he’d leaned back ever so slightly, but then it was gone. Then he was composed. Then he was this stranger again.

But you had seen it.

But it wasn’t enough.

You had to go further.

Swallowing hard you knew what you had to admit. “Her name was Berry . . . I snapped her neck and made everyone eat her,” you bitterly spat out. “The next morning we stumbled across a fuckin’ deer.”

There. Another flash. He knew. He knew what you were and you knew it, too.

“So I’ll ask you a question,” you quickly continued before he could compose himself. “Do you honestly think you’re safe? You think they won’t find their way in here? That you won’t lose people? Friends? Family? Those kids?” You felt yourself grin again. “They always find a way. Something will go wrong or someone will come along and ruin this place just like all the others. Or maybe it’ll be you.” With a shrug, you toyed with the walnuts, popping another one into your mouth. “Maybe you’ll bring the wrong person down here at the wrong time and you’ll have to kill more than just that dog to survive.”

A beat passed but he still didn’t divert his eyes from your face. And when there was only one walnut left, you sighed and rested your chin in the palm of your hand, meeting his eyes again.

“Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t. And I promise you . . . it will,” you muttered in an almost bored tone. “This place will burn one day and everyone you’ve ever loved will die. There is no difference between out there and in here. You’ll realize that. And when you do . . . you’ll know I was right.” Your hand reached your glass of water again, your finger tracing the rim. “You’ll realize you should’ve poisoned this food and you’ll regret not killing me when you—“

But you never finished. No, instead, Chris abruptly slammed his fist down onto the table. The tray clattered against the table, the glass fell and shattered on the ground, and the room fell silent.

You blinked, trying to mask your thoughts from crossing your face but you were taken aback by the lethal look he had. It was such a familiar look, too. A look that you felt you’d only seen in yourself before.

“Enough,” he bit out, his voice only loud enough for you to hear. “Get up. You’re done.”

There was no time to process his words. He didn’t even let you stand up by yourself. He was on his feet in an instant, moments before his hand wrapped around your arm and tugged you along with him. He seemed to have no care for your injured leg, dragging you behind him as he exited the dining area despite your limping.

And all of it told you one thing: you had him right he where you wanted him.

Grinning slightly, you scoffed out a laugh. “Did I hit a nerve?” you all but mocked. “It’s just logical. What if I betray you? If I open that hatch and lead the dead down here? If I let them—”

Before you could continue your threat, your back was slammed against a wall, and Chris was on you. His body cornered yours, his arms pinning you to the wall as he breathed heavily, his face not even an inch from yours.

“Listen to me—” he began, his voice low, quiet, but lethal. “I know what you’re doing. I know what it’s like to be out there too long. I know what it’s like to kill something you love. I know death and I know people like you. If I didn’t . . . I would have let the dead tear you apart and waited to steal your supplies.” His eyes searched yours. They were a lighter brown from this proximity, you noted. “Don't say that shit around here. My people don’t trust outsiders. You say that when I’m not around and I won’t be able to protect you from what they’ll do.”

You shook your head, but kept your eyes locked with his. “I don’t want your protection.”

“But you need it.”

“Fuck you.”

“You need it.”

You remained silent for only a second, questions swarming your head. “I thought you said your people didn’t kill the living?” you asked, voicing one of those questions aloud.

He swallowed before he answered, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “We don’t,” he reiterated, but . . . there was something in the way he said it. Something that wasn’t there before. “But they can and will hurt you if you bring harm to this place. And if you are a threat, I can’t guarantee that someone won’t be tempted.”

“That go for you, too, ‘man of your word’?”

Only then did his eyes flick from your eyes to your shoulders where his arm had pinned you to the wall before he met your gaze again. “Yes,” he whispered, his words sounding like a confession.

No other words were exchanged between the two of you. You knew what his words meant and he knew what the look on your face said. If you tried to kill him, he’d take you out. And you accepted that knowing if you were a different person with fewer morals, you’d take him up on that offer. But to die like that . . . it wasn’t enough. It was cheap. It was the death of a coward. And it was like he knew you’d never fall into that trap.

So, with a quiet understanding, he cautiously stepped back and waved you down the hall, claiming the tour wasn’t over. And you merely limped after him.

Nightfall came fast. Grounds were covered and this Chris had made sure to be thorough; so thorough your ankle had begun to pulse in pain. But even with your complaints, he carried on, and only stopped when you’d reached the medical room. The same guy before; the guy who’d bandaged you up in the first place had met you there, and quickly redid your dressings from when Chris had done them after your bath. And just when you thought that meant you’d be allowed to hobble back to the room they’d been keeping you in, Chris patted his friend’s back and mentioned something about getting to the dining room before the storyteller began.

Then you found yourself stuck at the same picnic table from this morning, chin resting on your hand as you listened to one of the older ladies share a story of made-up lands and characters to not only the children but the adults as well. It seemed everyone here looked forward to this exact moment and you wondered if this happened every day. (If it did, you’d need to fake a few injuries to get out of having to listen in.)

It felt like a dream. You couldn’t decide if it was a good one or like the kinds you’d had when you were growing up. It was odd to witness; odd to sit in; odd to realize that you were a part of this in some way or another. Sure, it was against your will to sit there and listen in, and yet when all you could think about was surviving in the world outside the bunker, and . . . your heart still raced like you were out there.

There was no without, you supposed. Maybe you’d always feel this way—on edge. Maybe you deserved it. But no matter how you thought of it, there was no erasing the fact that you were underground with food and people and shelter, and your family was out there.

Were they safe?

You shook your head, averting your gaze to the table. They were safer without you. People died around you. You brought death. It was better this way; safer. When a dog is violent, they’re meant to be muzzled before anything else. There’s a reason. It’s so they don’t bite. You discovered that the day your father died . . . perhaps a little sooner. A caged animal is there for a reason. And you, you’d stayed locked in your cage for years, your father’s hand being the only thing keeping you in there.

. . . Until your father died and his hand released you. You couldn’t go back. A caged animal doesn’t cage itself. A caged animal runs. That was why you left. That was why it wasn’t safe for your family to be around you. A freed animal ran, and you had to keep running.

With a sigh, you began to pick at the edges of the table, blocking out the voice of the storyteller. And that was when you felt it: the reason you had been uneasy. Your brows pinched together as you glanced up, your eyes immediately catching sight of the disturbance. Tilting your head to the side, you let your eyes go blank as you stared at him.

Because, there on the other side of the room, stood Chris, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the wall, his eyes focused solely on you. There was something in the way he looked at you; something that told you you didn’t belong here. And suddenly, it was like you were eleven years old again, being told you’d be condemned to Hell because of who your father was.

It seemed that was always the case. The only man in the whole town who didn’t go to Sunday morning mass was your father. The only man who sat silently during dinner prayers was your father. The only man who ignored his neighbors, stalked off early in the morning to hunt, and left the town for the farmers market was your father. He was the only man in the town who’d forsaken their God, and he just so happened to be your father. And you just so happened to look exactly like him.

You understood some of it back then, and from what you gathered, you hated the similarity. You hated that you couldn’t be like everyone else. You hated how it scared you.

When you were little, you were scared to die, because you knew where you'd end up. When you were little, you were scared to be like your father. When you were little, you were scared of everything. And when you’d get a little too in your head, you’d start to think about what Hell was like. You used to imagine Hell was a room covered in blood. A room with only one door that led to nowhere, but with no windows, like the kind you’d see in basements. And in the corner of the room was this chair. It was familiar, almost yours. And as you grew, you started to imagine that this chair was yours; that it did belong to you. It was easy to imagine the seat waiting for you in Hell was a chair you’d sat on many times before during breakfast, lunch, and dinner. A chair with marker stains in the wood. A chair with butterflies, flowers, and rainbows covering the seat, arms, and legs. A chair that was your own.

In this room, this chair would be the only thing left untouched. Bloodied handprints would litter the ground, and claw marks could be seen carved into the walls. The room would be white, too, so the red would just . . . pop.

This was Hell. No demons. No Satan. They were there, sure. They were somewhere, but not in your room, because you’d liked to imagine that everyone had their own room, otherwise how would that make any sense? Hell was different for everyone, and to you . . . to you Hell was a bloodied room with four walls, your childhood chair in the corner, and no one in sight. That was what scared you most—that even at the end, no one would be waiting for you.

When you were a kid, this was your greatest fear, but it was a fear because you thought it was something that might happen to you. Back then, it was only a threat. Now . . . if Hell and Heaven or whatever existed as the town had predicted, then you knew that was exactly where you’d end up. There were no ifs, ands, or buts. A lonely room with bloodied walls and your childhood chair awaited you at the end of the line. (You wouldn’t admit that the thought still scared you.)

The difference now was that it didn’t matter if it still scared you, you would’ve preferred it over this. A grotesque room with no exit was a far better Hell than the one plaguing the earth. Even then, you weren’t sure which you deserved for your sins and bloodied hands.

But it wasn’t until your father’s death that you realized it wasn’t just you who imagined this Hell. It wasn’t just you who had feared it. It wasn’t just you who recognized the dark inside you.

You remembered the night he died. You remembered what you’d done; how it had been your fault. You remembered his face and you remembered his screams. You remembered how he’d saved you from your own stupid decisions. You remembered the look of relief which crossed his face, and the confusion you felt wondering if he was relieved because you were safe . . . or because he knew this was the end. And you remembered the silence.

While your father had died because of a stupid decision you’d made, he’d saved you all, and everyone knew that. The walk of silence after running for hours was agony. The dryness of your throat and the wounds littering your body. The bullet hole leaking from your shoulder. All you had wanted to do was fall to the ground and let the roots and weeds grow over you.

But you were still younger then. You were still . . . open like the wounds on your body. You hadn’t scarred over yet. And, you remembered, what you wanted most in that moment was to rest your head in your mother’s lap and let her stroke your hair. You wanted her to tell you it wasn’t your fault; that you couldn’t have known that would happen; that all of you thought it was safe; that she’d be on your side whether you were right or wrong.

Only . . . you’d forgotten your mother’s love wasn’t all that different from her hatred, and sometimes it was hard to tell them apart. You’d forgotten that you could never really tell if she loved you or if her love was just resentment in the form of a prayer before bed.

You’d forgotten and you’d . . . cried out to her.

That day . . . it had been so hot. The night had died and the sun had come out and you were all so tired from running and running and . . . you’d given in to your temptation and fallen to the ground, crying out for your mother.

“Mom,” you remembered sobbing out, begging for her to slow down so you could all rest. You remembered Felix falling to his knees along with you, wiping the sweat from your forehead and holding on to your hand with his free one for dear life. “Mom.”

Then . . . you remembered how her steps halted, her back rigid as she put your sister on the floor and turned to face you. You remembered seeing it: resentment . . . or was it her love? And all you had wanted to do was cry and cry and tell her that you needed her; that you wanted her to love you; that you need it more than anything in that moment. And then: “Mommy, please, I’m sorry. Please, I didn’t know,” you’d whimpered out, trying to beg for her forgiveness.

For a second, you’d thought she might, too. For a second, you’d thought you’d seen it in her eyes: forgiveness. But just like her love, that, too, had always turned into resentment and rage so quickly. Still, you hoped. You wanted to believe it so much you nearly leaned into her as she kneeled before you, her eyes searching yours as she reached out and cupped your cheek with her shaking hand. And then, she’d wiped the tears from your eyes, and you choked out a sob.

But nothing had ever been certain with her, and just as you breathed a puff of relief, a sudden impact hit your cheek, sharp stinging following. You remembered the pain like no other, not because it’d hurt worse than the open wounds you’d received, but because it had been her. Your mother had slapped you across the face and all you could do was cry out, your hand quickly coming to soothe your cheek.

Her grip had remained; however. Her hand gripped your chin, forcing you to meet her angry gaze. And then: “God made sure to punish me with you,” she spat out, her jaw locked, nose flared, and eyes so similar to your own now.

That . . . was the last time you cried for her love.

God made sure to punish me with you.

You remembered that, too. You never let yourself forget it. You kept it as a reminder that no matter the outcome, you deserved whatever horrible things happened to you. This was only just the beginning of your Hell, and at the end, you were sure you’d see that chair from your childhood, marker stains and all.

The dining room of the bunker wasn’t much different. You still sat alone in the corner of a room far enough from everyone else to know you weren’t one of them; to know that they knew you were there and didn’t want to sit too . . . close.

God made sure to punish me with you.

Would he punish this group, too? Were you his own personal bad omen? Were you more dangerous than the dead? Were you the last harbinger of Hell? Were you the Death you had been so afraid of? Is that—

“Do you not like stories?” a little voice suddenly asked, tearing you from your mind.

You blinked, taken aback before your eyes fell on the little girl who had sat down in front of you. Silently, you glanced around for her parents, but no one seemed to be even looking at the two of you. Your eyes fell upon her again, furrowing your brows as you watched her mindlessly sip on the drink in her cup. Her hair was dark, and her eyes were even darker. Her glasses adorned her face, and there was a small freckle just under her eye. She was little, no younger than nine, but probably smaller than she should’ve been for her age. She had this brightness to her face that reminded you a little too much of the sister you’d said goodbye to a few nights ago.

She turned back to you and puffed up her cheeks, blowing out air. “The others said you don’t talk,” she mumbled, tilting her head to the side. “Is that true?”

Brows still furrowed, you shook your head. Still, however, you didn’t reply.

“So you do speak?” she asked, her voice more chipper as she leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Will you play a game with me then?” She didn’t wait for you to reply, instead, she turned her head and pointed in the direction of the group of kids surrounding the storyteller. “You see that boy over there with the green hat? That’s Jiung. He stole my favorite pen and won’t give it back. I planned to sneak into his room tonight and find it, but two is better than one. You—” she pointed at you, smiling wide, her two canines missing— “look like you want to keep watch for me.”

Your brows twitched, but you remained silent. This kid was bold. She spoke clearly and knew what she wanted. You never grew up with kids like her. Your sister was timid, and still young. You had been like that, too, until you grew into . . . this.

“I don’t play pranks,” was all you muttered.

The little girl rolled her eyes. “It’s not a prank,” she groaned, pausing to take a sip of her drink. “It’s just getting back what’s mine, but that is a good idea. I should pour water on his pillow so he can’t sleep.”

Shaking your head, you fought the small twitch in your lips. “I don’t hang out with children either.”

“I’m not a child,” she huffed. “I’m ten.”

That time the corners of your lips did curve up ever so slightly. And she seemed to notice.

“You smiled,” she exclaimed, pointing her tiny finger in your face. “Bess said you looked mean, but I knew it. I knew you couldn’t be. You like me, of course you do. How could you be mean?”

“I smiled because you’re ridiculous, toothless.”

She grinned wider. “Toothless,” she giggled. “That’s what my brother calls me, but he’s ugly so I don’t really care, and he took after Daddy, so he got all the bad genes. I look like my Mama, you see. Mama was pretty.” She looked down, tapping her fingers on the table. “You’re pretty like Mama. I like to think I’ll be pretty like Mama one day, too. My teeth will grow in, you’ll see, and I’ll get her hair. I’ll be pretty.”

You swallowed, hard, watching as the little girl as she peered over her shoulder at the storyteller. She took another sip of her drink, humming now, all the while, you could only stare at her. You didn’t want to feel this way, but you knew what her words meant. Her parents were gone. You could infer that, and yet . . . here she was smiling at you. Were children truly the strongest of you all? Was that all it took to be brave?

But, no, that was wrong. It wasn’t fair. Children weren’t meant to go without their parents. And yet, here she was, asking you to rob another kid blind with her. It almost made you laugh. It almost made you cry.

In silence, you watched as she turned back, opening her mouth to no doubt try to convince you to help her, but before she could, she knocked her arm on the table, causing her drink to spill. The red liquid splashed her chin and trickled down, staining her shirt. But you reacted quicker. It was almost instinct. It was almost your nature. It was almost a part of you. It was you who reached forward to clean her chin, forgetting yourself.

And then everything happened too quickly, and you were reminded of who you really were.

A glint of steel flashed in the corner of your eye, similar to the one you’d used on that man the night everything changed. You went for the little girl like you’d gone for your sister. An unfamiliar, desperate voice that sounded similar to your own that night you killed that man, yelled, “Don’t touch her!” The storyteller stopped, gasps spread throughout the room, and you turned your head just in time to catch a glimpse of a knife making its way to your skull, your brain to make sure you’d drop dead for good, and then—

It all just stopped. You could still feel it, the tip of the knife a hairbreadth away from piercing your skull and ending you right there, but it didn’t hurt. There was no blood like that night. There was no pain. You were still breathing, but you couldn’t feel her in your arms any longer. Your sister, the little girl, wasn't in your grasp. You didn’t remember closing your eyes, but when they snapped open, desperately trying to find the little girl, instead of your attacker, you realized what had happened.

There, before you, was a man, no younger than twenty, staring not at you but at something behind you with a certain fear in his eyes. He’d come at you with a knife. He’d tried to kill you, and he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t come back as one of them. You hadn’t noticed him. You hadn’t noticed anyone. You’d wanted to clean the dribble of juice from the little girl’s chin like you’d done for your sister many times before. It was a knee-jerk reaction, and it’d almost gotten you killed. So why were you still alive?

You hadn’t noticed him. The little girl hadn’t either. No one else had. Except, the man that saved you from the death you’d sought; the man you’d mistaken as Death; Chris . . .

Chris had wrapped his palm around the blade, his grip deathly. Blood trickled down his forearm, and you took note of how tightly he was holding it, his muscles twitching. You couldn’t see him, but you could feel him. He’d grabbed you at the same time he grabbed the knife, tugging you into his chest and away from death. Your back was against his chest as he held you so tightly, that you could feel him breathe with you. And his hand . . . his hand was secured around your middle, splaying out across your ribcage, holding you there against him to make sure you wouldn’t budge; to make sure the knife wouldn’t touch you; to make sure you were alive.

He’d saved you. Again.

“Chris,” the boy murmured, out of breath. “I’m sorry. I—“ His words were chopped and weak, like he wasn’t expecting the consequences. “The others heard what she told you at lunch. I—I thought she was going to hurt Misun.”

Chris ripped the knife out of the boy’s hand and threw it to the ground, causing more blood to trickle down his arm. “Get your sister to bed, Jeongin,” he said, his voice low as he pointed to the little girl and then the exit. “I will escort our guest to her room and then you and I will have a little chat about hospitality in the hall.”

The boy nodded as he sheepishly grabbed his sister’s hand and led her toward the stairs. But you caught her eyes. She was looking back at you, scratching at her brother’s hold with tears in her eyes. And for a second, you forgot who you were, until you caught a glimpse of the knife on the floor, and then you remembered. You forced yourself to look away from her, masking your emotions and making your face blank once again.

Only once the two were gone and the room was quiet again, did you realize you were still in Chris’s arms. Your back was still pressed against his chest and his hand was still embracing your body. Stiffening, you turned your head to eye him, but his eyes were staring at the exit. His wounded hand didn’t even seem to bother him, he just kept staring as if he were waiting for someone else to walk through. Only when you tried to tear yourself from his body did he snap out of it, blinking rapidly before his eyes landed on you. His brows furrowed before he averted his gaze and pursed his lips as he stepped back from you, his hand dropping to his side.

“Everything will be fine. Continue,” he barked at the rest of the inhabitants in the room, and they all immediately listened, turning from the scene. A few even had to turn their children’s heads from the two of you, but you barely noticed. You just kept staring at him.

He’d saved you again, but he knew you wanted to die. Was he some kind of savior or sadist? Did he want to protect or torture you? You couldn’t figure it out. You couldn’t figure him out, and it intrigued you one way or another.

But before you could ponder longer, he was touching you again. His hand wrapped around your arm, and he tugged, dragging you after him as he headed toward the exit. He was taking you back to that room. You knew it, too. But was he keeping you there for your own protection or for the protection of his group?

When you exited the room, out of earshot of the rest of the group, he turned around, face only an inch from yours. His eyes searched yours for only a moment before he muttered, “I think it’d be best if you stay away from the others until I have a proper talking with them.”

Your brows furrowed as you took in his words. He was confusing. He was different from anyone you’d ever met back home or on the road. You had no idea what his motives were or why he was going to these great lengths to either convince you he was to be trusted because he actually wanted your trust. You just didn’t get it. You didn’t get him.

Tilting your head, you swallowed these questions, masking it all with a scoff. “All these lengths to keep me alive,” you began, lazily shaking your head as your eyes trailed over his face. (He really was handsome, you noted. The teenage girl in you never really was allowed to dream of men like this. You didn’t really know if the race in your chest was because of his face or the questions you had about him.) “You’d think I was . . . important.”

You could tell by the brief look which crossed his face that he wasn’t expecting your words. An odd sense of accomplishment filled you at that. Until:

“All life is now,” he whispered, letting go of your arm immediately.

Then he was gone, stalking down the stairs.

And you followed after him, your jaw tight.

There was something inside you that was sick. Something rotten. Something small, but growing. Dark, grotesque, and ugly. It was akin to a wild animal—feral and unloved, clawing at your ribcage in a helpless attempt to break free. Sometimes you let it out. Sometimes you encouraged it, fed it, nourished it, nurtured it the way you never had been. It had become something of a pet to you.

The little dark seed inside you had laid dormant for years. Water didn’t allow the little seed to sprout. It seemed only blood could do the trick. First with the dog. Then your father. And now . . . the man. Even now, you could still feel the seed clinging onto the blood of his which you’d swallowed. And it was hungry for more; angry; impatient.

You were growing impatient, too.

It had been another two weeks. Your ankle was almost nearly healed; at least healed enough to walk on it. None of that mattered. It seemed Chris was adamant about not letting you go outside even with the results, and you were beginning to feel like the animal inside you: trapped.

The days were long without sunlight, and the people didn’t come near you. The only one brave enough to bother you was the same little girl you’d met on your first day. Yang Misun was something you’d only met once. In a lot of ways she reminded you of your sister, but in a lot of other ways, she was nothing like her. She had a habit of following you around even when you’d ignore her or shut the door in her face. She’d find a way to get to you, and eventually, you kind of just gave up, resorting to just sitting there in silence while she went on about whatever.

Through your silence, you’d learned she liked playing pranks on this Jiung. There weren’t many girls her age, so she mostly played with the group’s dog, Barney. She claimed that it was really her dog since he came to her first when they rescued him three years ago. She hated story time and loved dinner because her brother always gave her a little bit of his every time. (Speaking of which, she’d gone on to say that her brother was an idiot who acted before he thought and that was why he was so . . . “stupid” (He refused to come near you, except the one time he threatened to kill you if you tried to hurt his sister.).)

And that was pretty much all you’d done in the past two weeks: eat, sleep, be avoided and avoid, and glare at their leader.

But sometimes, if you woke up early enough, earlier than anyone else, and walked up the stairs to the highest part of the bunker, you could finally get some peace and quiet alone, and far away from everything. Every time you did, it always went the same way, too. You’d reach the top of the stairs, the bunker exit staring you down as you sighed before you sat down on the edge of the platform, feet hanging over the edge while you rested your arms on the railing. And every time, you wondered what would happen if you just slipped . . .

You were high enough. Something would happen. Maybe that would be best. Maybe that was what you wanted. No, you knew it was. You knew you had to. You knew you had to kill it. You knew one day it would happen, but . . . not before you retrieved your father’s gun. You couldn’t die without him it. You just couldn’t.

That day was no different. You’d figured out the schedule now. It was hard to tell when morning was, but you figured when you awoke out of habit that was when the sun rose. You listened to your body well, waking up when the pounding in your chest followed you even in your dreams. Promptly, you readied yourself and carefully walked the silent halls until you reached the highest point of the bunker. And now, you sat in the same spot you found yourself in every day and just waited. For what? You didn’t know. You just sat, legs dangling over the edge as you rested your forehead against the railing.

The bunker door was right there. You could leave. It would be so easy, and yet . . . you still waited. You weren’t sure why and you didn’t care to figure it out. You just let your body sag against the railing and listened to the noises of the sleeping bunker.

This was how you lived now. How utterly mundane. How selfish. How privileged. You couldn’t help but think if your family was starving. If they had shelter. If they were alive. Were they really safe without you? Could they survive?

Shaking your head, you stopped yourself. You couldn’t go back. Like a wild dog, your love was rotten. A violent dog. You bit. Your love was rotten. Your love was something no one would wish for; it was something that no one could love back; it was tainted; bloody; grotesque; ugly. Who could be safe with a love like that? A love like that would get them killed. They were safer with Felix; they were safer under his protection; under his love, not yours. You couldn’t return. Feral dogs didn’t have homes to crawl back to, anyway. Feral dogs got put down, and you needed to find a way to put yourself down before you brought any more harm to anyone else.

“This area’s off limits, you know?” a voice abruptly interrupted your silence.

Stiff, you glanced up. Chris.

You only stared blankly.

He stood still on the staircase, leaning on the railing as he stared up at you, taking in your demeanor. “I could report you for coming here every day,” he hummed, eyes flicking from your face to your beat-up shoes.

“This is my first time here,” you muttered, clenching your jaw tight.

His brows raised ever so slightly. “Mmm, I don’t think so,” he mused, tilting his head to the side as his eyes flicked back up to meet yours. “Every day, I see you come out of your room, walk up this staircase, and sit right there until the others start wakin’ up.”

How had he seen you? You were sure everyone else was asleep at this time.

Your brows furrowed further.

He’s said your room as if there was anything that belonged to you in this place. But it wasn’t true. The room wasn’t yours. You were pretty sure it belonged to him. Which led you to another question, where had he been sleeping? “Then why haven't you said anything?” you asked.

He shrugged and sighed, “Well . . . I suppose if you’re going to kill yourself, I’d rather you do it when no one’s around.”

You scoffed. Asshole. And that was it. You dragged yourself to your feet, and rounded the ledge toward the staircase. You’d tried to walk right past him like you thought he expected, but before you could, his hand reached for your arm. You glanced his way, remaining silent, but your eyes roared with questions. Almost hesitantly, he dropped his hand, eyes following as he stared at your shoes.

“You’ve healed,” he began, tonguing the inside of his cheek before his eyes flicked back up to meet your scrutinizing gaze. “We can get your gun.”

Your brows twitched. You hadn’t been expecting that.

“Really?” you heard yourself whisper before you could stop yourself. It was odd too. The way you sounded, it was almost as if it hadn’t been you. The voice wasn’t the you you knew, but rather the you from when you first inherited that gun.

Chris nodded. “I keep my word.”

Lips pursed, you nodded right back.

Hunger. You’d always been a hungry child. You’d come into the world hungry, oftentimes being left to cry in your crib alone. When you grew older, your mother used to joke that you were a greedy baby; one that always needed a bottle. It wasn’t until your sister was born, and you noticed not once was she left alone to cry, did you realize it had never been the bottles upon bottles that you were hungry for.

Instead, you grew up hungry. You grew up obedient, wondering if that would satiate your hunger. And when it didn’t, you’d act out, but one cue from the hand that feeds and you’d go back to that quiet, hungry, little girl.

Since the beginning of the end, hunger became something different. You were almost used to it; almost unbothered. Everyone else had a hard time adjusting to it. The food that was gorged, the drinks that were spilled. Everyone seemed to be so . . . so ravenous. But you remained the same—the same, familiar hunger deep inside you. It was almost too hard to differentiate.

And when your father passed, you were reminded of why hunger had never bothered you. You were reminded of the difference between this hunger and the one you’d been born with.

All you had wanted was to keep your family safe. That was your promise to your father. It was your job. That was your life now. But you had begun to think that . . . what you truly wanted was to be loved as much as you were hated. You thought your mother’s love would have been much easier to swallow then. Maybe you’d be able to get it down without choking. Or . . . maybe it’d kill you.

You knew that was what you were truly seeking for. You’d remain hungry until then, no matter how well fed they’d keep you in the bunker. It was a sick kind of hunger. That was it. And suddenly it all made sense: you’d been hungry for everyone you’ve ever loved.

The woods enveloped you and Chris like a living, breathing entity, no sign of the dead or their unnerving groans. It was still morning, only a few hours had passed since he approached you with the idea to retrieve your gun. You managed to convince him you were ready to go off on your own, meeting him back at the front entrance of the bunker an hour after your conversation, but he insisted on accompanying you. He claimed it was his last act of hospitality. You called bullshit but didn’t argue, figuring you’d be rid of him soon enough.

Your hunger only grew as you shoved the food Chris had forced you to pack for your travels. It grew larger and larger when you walked by the room you knew to belong to Misun Yang. It grew harder to ignore when you approached the bunker vault, watching as Chris climbed up the stairs and opened the hatch, climbing out. It consumed you as you joined him on the outside, the sunlight nearly blinding you. But you ignored this hunger; you ignored that a part of you wanted to belong in that bunker; you ignored how much you wished you could stay, and then you shoved it all down, claiming insanity, because that wasn’t you and you wouldn’t think that. You didn’t deserve to.

This was where you belonged—on the outside. Just another animal in the woods. That was who you were. You didn’t get to sleep in a bed or not go hungry. This . . . this was your life—constant hunger. You accepted that long ago. You accepted it once more as you trailed behind Chris, keeping a close eye on him and your surroundings.

The air was thick and heavy; fall was coming; you could see it in the trees. The disgusting decay of fallen leaves was only a reminder. Sunlight pierced through the dense canopy above, illuminating the path before you. Chris seemed to know where he was going, sure, but you couldn’t help but wonder if he was just following the trail the light had given him, trying to stall as long as he could. It didn’t make any sense to you. He should’ve sent you out on your own, and yet . . .

As your mind spiraled, you glanced up, eyes finding him. Chris moved ahead of you, his movements careful and deliberate. You watched his back, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his head swiveled at every snapped twig or rustling leaf. His posture spoke volumes. He was on edge. Always on edge. The slight hunch in his stance, as if he was ready to spring into action at any moment. His hand never strayed far from the knife in his right hand and the gun holstered over his left shoulder. But you . . . you remained relaxed. The dead would come or they wouldn’t. You had no one to live for now. You just wanted your father’s gun, and then . . . then you could lay it all to rest; then you could let yourself become one of the dead things buried deep in the woods.

Chris had barely spoken since you set out, probably sensing you weren’t in the mood for conversation. He knew when to leave you alone. That was one thing you liked noticed about him. Even now, he didn’t ask any more questions, didn’t push for details you weren’t willing to give.

“There,” he said after what felt like, and might have just been, hours, pointing to a small clearing up ahead. “It should be just past those trees.”

You didn’t respond, just nodded and followed. Chris moved ahead, his footsteps careful, almost reverent, as if he were crossing sacred ground. You followed closely, each step weighed down by the knowledge of what lay ahead. This wasn’t just a hunt for a weapon; it was a search for a piece of your father.

As you pushed deeper into the woods, the canopy above thickened, blocking out the muted light. Shadows danced at the edges of your vision, and the sounds of the forest—crickets chirping, leaves rustling—seemed to fade into an eerie silence. The only sound was the crunch of twigs beneath your feet.

Chris paused, scanning the area with a wary expression. “Stay close,” he said, glancing back at you, his eyes dark and serious. “There might be some stragglers from the horde.”

But you barely heard him. You barely cared.

Chris resumed moving, leading you toward a patch of exposed earth that came into view through the thicket. Your breath hitched as the anticipation mounted. The clearing looked different—an unnatural mound rising in the center, marked by an absence of vegetation that made it stand out like a beacon, but you recognized it. You remembered the sprint you’d made down that same mound, screaming for the dead to take you with them; to take you to him.

“This was the place,” he murmured, pushing aside some branches with careful deliberation, as if not wanting to disturb the stillness. You narrowed your eyes at his back as he searched the area, doing your own searching with your eyes and an unsteady heart. A part of you felt like you’d never see the gun again. Another part of you wanted to search the woods until the dead or time consumed you. It seemed Chris had the same mindset as he crouched down, brushing away moss and leaves, his movements urgent yet cautious. “It has to be here,” he insisted, more to himself than to you.

And then, with a sudden, reverent flourish, he unearthed the shotgun near a tree that looked oddly familiar. But . . . there it was. Your father's shotgun.

Time slowed as you stared at it, the world around you narrowing to that singular moment. The metal glinted dully in the subdued light, as if the forest itself had recognized the significance of the moment. You felt a rush of emotions—nostalgia, longing, and an overwhelming sense of urgency—but dread settled in your chest like a stone.

Chris handed it to you, the cold steel familiar but distant, like grasping at a ghost or holding your father’s hand for the last time. The moment hung heavy in the air, thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts. You wanted to feel relief, but instead, you felt an insistent pull of dread, a sinking feeling that this was more than just reclaiming a lost object. It was a harbinger of the path you had chosen; the person you’d become.

This was it. The last piece of him. The last thing you needed before you could leave.

You should’ve felt relief. That’s what you had been waiting for—relief. The plan had been simple: find the gun, then go. You didn’t want to stick around, didn’t want to keep pretending you had a place at the bunker with Chris and the others. You’d leave, disappear, and find some way to submit to the dead. End it all on your terms.

But as you held the shotgun, that sense of closure didn’t come. Instead, something else settled over you—a heavy, suffocating weight that clung to your skin, your chest tightening with an emotion you didn’t want to name. You clenched your jaw, trying to push it down, trying to force yourself to feel what you had expected: a clean break, the freedom to walk away and dig your own grave.

But you couldn’t.

Chris watched you, his expression unreadable, though you could feel the question hanging in the air between you. You avoided his eyes, focusing on the gun instead. It wasn’t relief that you felt. It wasn’t peace. It was something darker, something colder. Dread. Grief. Guilt.

You didn’t want to admit what those feelings meant. Couldn’t let yourself acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, a part of you didn’t want to leave. That part of you wanted to stay, despite everything you had told yourself. Despite the voice in your head telling you that you didn’t deserve it. That staying would only bring more pain, more loss—for you and for them.

But none of that mattered. You couldn’t stay. You didn’t deserve the chance to stay. After everything that had happened, it was better for everyone if you just left. Better if you disappeared.

“Well,” Chris’s voice cut through the tension, steady but unsure, “you found it.”

You nodded, still not looking at him. “Yeah,” you muttered, your voice low, hollow. You needed to get out of here. Now.

Hastily, you shrugged the holster over your shoulder and turned to leave, but Chris’s voice stopped you.

“Did you see that?” he abruptly gasped, not even acknowledging that you had tried to split on him a few seconds ago. It was like he couldn’t even comprehend it; like he thought you wouldn’t. And for a second, as you took in his question, you thought he was referring to the look of dread on your face that you’d tried to hide, but when you turned to meet his eyes, he was already staring at something else in the distance.

His body was rigid, his brows pinched together. At the look, you could only imagine what was behind you. The horde? Death? Your end? But . . . it was meant to be yours, not his. He couldn’t die for you, not when you’d forced everyone else to. You wouldn’t let that happen. Not again.

Swallowing hard, every muscle in your body tensed, adrenaline surging through your veins like liquid fire. Your heart pounded in your chest, its rhythm so loud in your ears that you feared it might give away your position. Your hand instinctively moved to the knife at your belt, fingers curling around the familiar handle, as your eyes followed Chris's fixed gaze, searching for whatever had caught his attention.

But what met your eyes wasn’t one of the dead, or even ten of them. No Death awaited you or impending end. No, instead, there, in a small clearing ahead, stood a deer. Only, as soon as you caught sight of it, you realized perhaps, in a way, this was a form of Death you’d been afraid to meet again.

“I haven’t seen one of those in a long time,” Chris murmured, but you barely heard him.

The deer’s once-proud form was a shadow of what it used to be, a grotesque parody of life that sent a chill down your spine. You’d only seen this once before . . . in the before. The animal's coat, which should’ve been sleek and glossy, hung in patchy clumps from its emaciated frame, revealing sickly pale skin beneath. Ribs protruded sharply beneath the skin, each one clearly visible, a testament to the ravages of disease. The deer's legs, usually strong and nimble, trembled slightly with the effort of standing, as if remaining upright was a monumental task.

But it was the eyes that truly betrayed the animal's condition, making your breath catch in your throat and your stomach churn with pity and revulsion. Once bright and alert, windows to a vital, vibrant spirit, now stared vacantly into the middle distance, glazed over with a milky film. There was no spark of life, no hint of the vital spirit that should animate this creature of the wild. It was as if the deer was already gone, its body simply a shell that hadn't yet realized it should fall. The sight was gut-wrenching. It was a miracle it was even still alive.

Chris raised his gun, his movements slow and deliberate. The metal of the barrel gleamed dully in the filtered sunlight, a cold, hard contrast to the soft greens and browns of the forest. Without conscious thought, your hand shot out, fingers wrapping firmly around his forearm. The touch seems to break the spell of silence that had fallen over the clearing, the contact between you electric, charged with unspoken urgency.

"Wait," you hissed, your voice barely above a whisper. The word hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. The lessons your father drilled into you came flooding back, a bittersweet tide of memory that threatened to overwhelm you. Each word he spoke echoed in your mind, as clear as if he were standing beside you now. "It’s sick. You can’t . . . you can’t eat sick things." And then you took a step forward.

Chris turned to you, his brows furrowed in confusion. The gun lowered slightly, but his finger remained close to the trigger. "Wait, you do that and it’s gone before you even get to it,” he said, his voice gravelly. His eyes searched yours, seeking understanding, but you knew better; you knew more.

"She won’t run," you explained, shaking your head. Your voice was tight, strained with the effort of keeping your emotions in check. “She won't run.”

Taking a deep breath, you stepped closer to the deer. The knife at your belt seemed to grow heavier with each step, its weight a grim reminder of what sin you were about to commit. As you drew it, the blade caught the sunlight, sending brief flashes across the clearing. The deer didn't react to your approach, didn't even twitch an ear. Its stillness was eerie and unnatural. Up close, the ravages of the disease were even more apparent, more horrifying. You could see the hollows in its cheeks, the way its bones seemed to push against its skin as if trying to escape the decaying flesh. A wave of pity washed over you. You’d always hated this part—the killing, even though it seemed to be the only thing you’d been good at in this new world.

You took a step forward, feeling the weight of the knife at your belt grow heavier with each movement. The sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the forest floor, illuminating the sickly form of the deer. Each shallow breath you took carried the earthy scent of the forest, mingling with a faint metallic tang that made your stomach churn.

“Hey, baby girl,” you murmured softly, your voice trembling as you approached. “It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.” Your hand found its way to the deer’s tattered fur, softly petting its back. Its breathing was shallow, and you could barely feel its heart beat. 

Gently, you did as you’d seen your father do once before. You continued brushing your fingers through its fur, quietly humming to it as you searched those glossed-over eyes for any sign of life. But deep down, you knew the truth. The deer stood motionless, its eyes dull and unseeing, reflecting a haunting emptiness that gripped your heart. It was a shell of its former self, a mere ghost wandering the world of the living. No amount of searching would ever bring back what it once was.

Is this how your mother had seen you? A dead girl walking? Or something much, much darker?

And just like when you’d glanced at your reflection in the mirror that morning, you couldn’t bear to see the deer suffer any longer. You shifted closer to the deer, laying its head on your chest as you rubbed its cheek with your thumb. This was the end, you thought. It knew you. You knew it, and you were sure, somewhere in there, the deer knew, too.

With a swift motion, you plunged the knife into the deer’s skull, feeling the resistance give way to the flesh and bone. A silent gasp escaped your lips, mingling with the sharp sound of the blade cutting through the skin. The warmth of blood spilled out, soaking into the forest floor and your clothes, a vivid contrast against the muted greens and browns surrounding you.

You slowly lay its body into the soft earth, resting your hand on its stomach as you watched its blood pool, soaking the dirt. For a brief moment, time seemed to stretch, the world around you holding its breath. You remained where you were, unmoving and unfeeling.

Deer were meant to flee. A deer that didn’t, was a dead deer. The predator would catch up to it sooner or later. You supposed you’d finally found the prey you’d been desperately waiting to sink your teeth into, and yet . . . it felt no different from leaving your father in that burning building, and you remained hungry. 

Was this a sign from him? A punishment? Did he want you to kill so you knew you were making the right decision to leave? Did he want you to know that you didn’t deserve to live? That you didn’t deserve to stay at the bunker? That you belonged out here—lost in the woods on the forest floor like a sick deer? 

Or was it God?

Or had it always been you? Is that why—

“It let you kill it,” Chris suddenly whispered, the words hanging heavy in the air. “Why didn’t it run?”

“Too sick,” you replied after a minute, your voice barely above a whisper. “CWD. Their own personal zombie virus. That’s why . . . that’s why you can’t take it back to them. You can’t . . . you eat a sick deer like that, and you get sick.” Swallowing hard, you could almost hear your father’s voice as you said, “That’s rule number one. Don’t eat sick things.”

Chris's eyebrows knitted together, deepening the furrow in his brow. His expression was a mixture of bewilderment and concern, his eyes darting between you and the deer, seeking understanding. "Then leave it,” he muttered, staring off into the woods, searching, analyzing. “It’ll be noon soon. We shouldn’t stay in one place for too long.”

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, you dropped your hand from the warmth of the deer’s belly, your fingers digging into the soft, loamy soil. The earth was cool and damp against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of emotion burning through you. Then . . . you began to dig, your movements frantic yet purposeful, driven by a visceral need. Clumps of dirt and decaying leaves collected under your fingernails as you scooped away handfuls of forest floor, the physical labor a welcome outlet for the tumult of emotions roiling within you. “My people bury the dead,” you explained, your voice thick with unshed tears that you refused to acknowledge. “We can’t just leave her out here. She deserves more respect than that. We all do. Right? That’s what you told me. All life is important, so why isn’t hers?” You glanced back at him then.

Chris hesitated for a moment, his gaze moving from you to the deer and back again. You could almost see the wheels turning in his brain, weighing the risks, the effort, against the intangible benefits of this act. Then, with a small nod of understanding, he joined you on the ground. His hands working alongside yours, scooping away earth and leaves.

As you dug, you kept your eyes fixed on the growing hole, fighting back the flood of memories threatening to overwhelm you. The rhythmic movement of your hands, the earthy scent rising from the disturbed soil, the quiet sounds of exertion—all of it blended together, creating a meditative state that allows your mind to wander, to remember.

Images of your lost family flashed through your mind like a cruel slideshow, each memory as vivid and painful as if it were happening anew. Your father. The burning building. The bullet. The whiskey. Your mother. Her love that felt like hatred. Your sister. Felix. You were a monster to them now. Just another dead thing. You didn’t want this. You wanted it all to stop. You wanted to be gone, gone, dead. Fuck, the ache of their absence was a constant, throbbing wound. And the worst of it all: you thought that it would have always ended this way, dead or not, end of the world or not. This was always how your life was going to go; how it was going to end. You’d always known it, too, and that perhaps was more terrifying than knowing you’d be dead soon.

You wondered if you’d find relief then. Would you deserve it then?

With your thoughts consuming you, the only sounds surrounding the two of you were the scraping of earth and your labored breathing. As the hole grew deeper, you stole a glance at Chris. His face was etched with concentration, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. His hands, now as dirt-stained as yours, moved with purpose, mirroring your own movements in a silent dance of shared effort. He might not have fully understood the significance of what you were doing, the weight of tradition and memory that drove your actions, but his willingness to help, tugged on something deep inside you. You turned back a second later, reminding yourself that you’d be dead by dusk.

And when minutes had passed and you’d lain the deer in the hole you’d dug, the two of you worked to cover the body with dirt. Another minute would pass before the deer was fully buried, the earth packed down, but the silence between you and Chris felt heavier than the soil itself. The weight of what you had just done. The deer. The wolf. The prey. The predator. You didn’t even know who you were anymore.

You straightened slowly, wiping dirt from your hands, your fingers still trembling. The forest around you was quiet, almost too quiet, as if even nature was holding its breath in the aftermath of this small, sacred act. And then, you tore yourself from the grave, hand reaching for your gun as you holsted it over your shoulder and stood to your feet, unsure of what came next. You could feel Chris’s presence beside you, solid but distant, like a tether you weren’t sure you wanted to hold onto. The quiet stretched, and you realized you had nothing else to say. It was over. The deer was buried. You had become the only predator to mourn its prey, and Chris had been witness to it all. There was only one thing left to do: pay for your sins.

Clearing your throat, you took a step away from the grave. “Well . . . don’t die,” you said softly, almost under your breath. The words felt inadequate, but they were all you had, and before he could respond, you turned to go, your steps already leading you back into the shadowy embrace of the woods.

Chris’s voice stopped you, his tone rough but filled with something you couldn’t quite name. “That’s it?”

You froze, your pulse quickening. Slowly, you turned back to face him, your face hardening, instinctively putting up your walls again. “Thank you, I guess, for, you know . . .” You gestured vaguely toward the mound of dirt, the words feeling clumsy in your mouth, like they didn’t belong to you.

Chris nodded, his expression unreadable. “Man of my word,” he said quietly, the words simple but carrying weight.

“Right.” You gave him a brief, curt nod, and turned away again, eager to leave the scene behind. You had made it just a few steps before his voice reached you once more, this time softer, hesitant.

“I think you should stay.”

The words made you stop in your tracks, confusion flickering across your face as you turned to look at him. His posture was different now—less guarded, more uncertain. “What?”

Chris shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. “I’d . . . I’d like it if you stayed,” he said, voice low, his eyes meeting yours with a sincerity that made your stomach twist. “You’re smart. You’ve been out here longer than any of us. You know things. You’re—”

“Useful?” you cut in sharply, the word laced with bitterness.

Chris’s brows knitted together, and he wet his lips, searching for the right response. “Yes . . . but—”

Before he could finish, a low, guttural growl cut through the air, sending a shiver of dread racing down your spine. Both of you turned toward the sound, eyes wide, as a lone dead one staggered out from the underbrush, its rotting flesh illuminated by the sunlight peeking through the trees.

Chris reached for his gun, but you were already moving. In one fluid motion, you pulled out your knife and surged forward. The blade cut through the air with deadly precision, sinking into the dead’s skull with a sickening crunch. The body crumpled to the ground at your feet, lifeless once more, as you yanked your knife free, wiping the blood on your pants without a second thought.

Chris stared at you, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and admiration, though he said nothing. He didn’t need to. You could feel the unspoken acknowledgment hanging between you—a silent respect, begrudging but undeniable.

But there was no time to dwell on it. The distant sound of more growling echoed through the trees, louder this time, closer. The horde hadn’t scattered like Chris had thought. They were closing in, drawn to the noise, to the scent of death that still lingered in the air.

“Shit,” Chris muttered, his voice tight with urgency. “They’re blocking the way back. Fuck.” Without another word, he grabbed your arm, pulling you with him as you both broke into a run. The forest became a blur around you, the sounds of the dead growing louder with each passing second.

You stumbled over roots and ducked under low branches, adrenaline pumping through your veins. The darkness of the forest closed in, thick and oppressive, but Chris seemed to know exactly where he was going. His hand gripped your arm like a lifeline, keeping you steady as the two of you sprinted through the underbrush.

Finally, he led you to a concealed hatch hidden beneath a layer of leaves and branches. He dropped to his knees, sweeping the debris aside and pulling it open with a creak. “In,” he urged, and you didn’t hesitate. You climbed down into the darkness, landing on cold metal as Chris followed close behind, slamming the hatch shut just as the first of the undead reached the clearing.

You stood in the dimly lit space, your breath coming in ragged gasps as your eyes adjusted to the gloom. The underground bunker was small, claustrophobic, the walls made from welded scrap metal. A single lantern cast a weak glow over the room, revealing a mattress with blankets, some crates, and a few scattered supplies. The air was cool and musty, the kind of place that felt forgotten by the world above.

“What the fuck is this?” you asked, glancing around, your voice still thick with adrenaline.

“Underground shelter,” Chris said, leaning against the wall as he caught his breath. His eyes flicked toward the meager supplies stacked in the corner. “We built it a couple years ago, after we lost some people on patrol. Thought it’d be good to have a place to fall back to if things went south.” He nodded toward the bed and the crates. “Overnight bed. Some food. Lanterns. Walkies if we need to reach home base. It’s not much, but it keeps us safe from the dead. Can’t live down here more than a week, but . . . it does the trick.”

You raised an eyebrow, letting out a dry laugh as you dropped your backpack on the ground. “Jesus Christ, you guys are like fuckin’ moles.”

He cracked a smile at that, just a small one, barely visible in the dim light, but there nonetheless. It was fleeting, like he wasn’t used to showing that part of himself.

“We’ll stay here tonight,” Chris said after a moment, his voice softer now, almost gentle in the quiet space.

You nodded, sinking down to the floor, your back against the cool metal wall. Your heart was still racing, but the immediate threat had passed. Above you, faint and muffled, you could hear the groans of the undead, but down here, in this small bunker, you were safe. At least for tonight.

Sometimes you thought there wasn’t much to say about the way you’d grown up. Other times, you wondered if there was perhaps too much to say. You wondered if some parts of your life growing up would forever be lost to time; forever forgotten because there just wasn’t enough room to remember. A lot of the time, you wondered if your family thought the same. You wondered if you were the part of their lives that would one day be forgotten to time. You wondered if it were better that way.

But other times you wished you could force yourself to forget.

Memories only consumed you as you sat on the edge of the mattress, wine glass in your hand that you’d yet to drink, and the reflection of the dead deer staring back at you in the red of the wine. You’d forgotten to pray.

You’d killed the thing, buried it, and left it without a prayer. Would it be forever stuck in limbo like your mother used to warn you? Dead things needed prayers to be put to rest. Had she been right?

Swallowing hard, your grip on the wine glass tightened. Had she been right? . . . Your knees began to itch.

“Not up to par with your standards?” a deep voice intruded on your thoughts, catching your gaze.

You ripped your eyes from the wine glass, glancing up in time to see Chris sit down in front of you, his back leaning up against the wooden chest he’d pulled the wine from. It had been hours since the two of you had found yourselves down there and he’d only pulled the wine from the chest about fifteen minutes ago, pouring you and himself a glass, claiming the two of you needed it after the day you’d had.

It was a simple thing. Adults drank. You; however, didn’t. Your mother . . . the town . . . it was never allowed unless in the name of Christ.

So your wine glass stayed full, and you empty. You wanted to drink it. You wanted to guzzle glass after glass down and forget about everything like your sister would one day forget about you, but you couldn’t. Memories haunted you, and you knew it wasn’t the town or even your mother that made you think twice about sipping from your temptation.

The last time you’d had alcohol, your father had just died. The last time you’d had alcohol, your world stopped. The last time you had alcohol, you could still taste your father’s blood in your mouth. The last time you’d had alcohol, it wasn’t enough to burn away the memories.

But you hadn’t told a soul that. Not even Felix, and you wouldn’t start with this man now.

“It’s fine,” was all you muttered but you didn’t dare to bring the glass to your lips.

Chris, now, was on his second glass you’d say, not that it seemed to have any affect on him. You had; however, taken note of that.

“You sure?” He cocked a brow, leaning toward you, his hand outstretched toward your glass. “I wouldn’t be opposed to drinking it for you.”

You only snarled, and pulled the glass in closer toward your chest. A second later, you forced yourself to tear your gaze from his smug face, and instead toward the glass in your hand. The reflection of the deer was gone now, but your memories remained.

It was all so familiar.

You’d been here before. You’d been here many times. You’d been here since you were a child, first learning the scriptures of your town. You’d never left.

You’d been here in the before. It was easy to be there then. It had been easy to kneel when you were just a girl; when you didn’t know any better; when wine was blood.

The Eucharist. The blood and body of Christ. You’d walked down that aisle, hands clasped in prayer a thousand times. You’d stopped before the priest and named your father, son, and holy spirit over and over again. You’d taken his body into your mouth and drank his blood. You’d done it for years and years, more than once a week, all the time, every time. You’d done it so long and so well you began to think wine was just blood and blood was never wine. You’d done it until you were sick; until War came and Famine followed. You’d done it until you’d seen your father kill a man before your eyes. You’d done it until you realized spilled blood tasted no different from wine. You’d done it until you’d tasted body and blood and rage; until you’d killed a man and left his body for the dead to consume three days later.

You’d done it until you realized wine was never blood, blood would always be blood, and wine would always be wine.

It was just wine.

It was just . . . wine. It was familiar, but different now. Your knees were still scabbed but there was no body and no blood before you, just wine.

You swallowed hard once more, wet your lips, then brought the glass to your lips and chugged it whole. You could have sworn you’d heard Chris click his tongue in response, but you didn’t care, because you had been wrong.

It was supposed to just be wine. Wine was wine and blood was blood. So then why could you only taste blood when it should’ve been wine?

Memories haunted you once more. The man your father killed. The dog. Your father. The man you’d killed. The deer. All of it. Every single thing you’d had to kill to survive this long. All of it.

And you realized it was too late. The taste of blood would never leave you.

You leaned forward, snatching the bottle of wine from Chris’s hands and pouring yourself another glass of wine. It was gone the next second, and you knew the violent dog inside of you had finally been fed.

“You don’t drink much, do you?” he questioned into the night as you downed another glass.

Glancing up, you wondered how he knew; how he always knew. However, the next second, your head felt funny, and you realized maybe it wasn’t too hard to tell. (You also realized that maybe you should’ve stopped, but you didn’t care and poured yourself another glass.)

Before you could lift the glass to your lips again, Chris’s hand got in the way. He blocked you from downing the drink, and you stopped right before his knuckles touched your lips. You couldn’t have that. You couldn’t let him touch you, so you listened to him despite wanting to down drink after drink after drink.

“You’re supposed to sip it,” he murmured as his eyes flicked from your eyes to your wine-stained lips. He slowly brought the glass away from your lips, and you let him in your haze. “Wine’s meant to be savored. You chugged it.”

“I was thirsty,” you muttered with a shrug, your grip still tight on the stem of the glass.

He shook his head. “No one’s ever that thirsty.”

A beat of silence. Your head felt funnier. It was odd. Odd but good. Too odd for you to care to keep up the charade. “Fine, you’re right,” you huffed as you plucked his hand from your glass. He leaned back again, but his eyes never left you, watching as you tried and failed to sip the drink. “This is—” you smacked your lips— “my third time drinking.”

“Ever?”

You nodded.

He raised a brow. “How old are you?”

Narrowing your eyes, you gave him a look before attempting to down the rest of your glass, but he stopped you. “Nah, nah, nah, hold on. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he muttered out with a laugh under his breath. Only a drop of red wine touched your tongue, and then the glass wasn’t in your hand anymore. “I just kinda assumed.”

With a scoff, you watched as he moved toward you, sitting down beside you on the bed. He swirled the wine in the glass he’d stolen from you before he downed it, leaving no more. You rolled your eyes at him and attempted to reach for the bottle, but he was faster, kicking it to the ground, allowing the last bit of wine to spill onto the floor. Your eyes snapped to his smug face, nearly growling at him.

Tonguing his cheek, he seemed to hold back a smile. “Oops.”

You snatched the glass out of his hand, trying to get the last drop before you sighed and slouched. Maybe it was for the best. You’d never been drunk before. Your mother always told you too many sips led to bad mistakes, and you already had enough of those.

And yet, you found yourself sighing out: “My mother. She always said alcohol was the devil’s drink, unless, of course, it was during mass.” Why were you telling him this? Why was your head so fuzzy? Why did you not care? “I was only eighteen when this whole thing started. There wasn’t much . . . time to drink after that.”

Chris sighed, leaning back onto the bed with his leg bent at the knee and his elbow supporting his weight against the mattress. “Then what were the other times?” he asked, lazily picking at his nails.

You glanced over your shoulder at him, brows scrunched. “What?”

His head dipped back with a soft groan. “Come on, you can tell me. I’m trustworthy,” he mused, gesturing to his chest.

“You’re . . . drunk,” you stated, almost asking.

“Mmm, not quite, but, close,” he hummed as he waved his finger at you. “I also don’t drink much.” Silence. A click of his tongue. His eyes on yours. “Not much time.” He winked, repeating your words from earlier.

Silence again. A clenching of your jaw. Your eyes on his. And then you did something odd. Keeping your eyes on him as if you were predator and prey, you leaned back onto the bed, propping yourself up on your elbow. You kept your eyes on him, and he did the same, like two animals scared to look away, wondering who was in danger of who.

“My dad,” you finally muttered out as you glanced from one eye to the other, taking in his features. “When I hit twenty-one, he snuck me a shot in the woods.”

He squinted his eyes and nodded. “Mmm, vodka?”

You shook your head. “Whiskey.”

“Odd.”

The corners of your lips twitched. “It was his favorite.”

“And the second?”

The second. You swallowed hard, tearing your eyes from his. There it was. The memories. The hunger. The taste of blood.

“Whiskey, again,” you forced yourself to say. And, yet, it was almost too easy to mutter: “After my dad died.”

Out of your peripheral vision, you saw him nod, but you didn’t dare look at him. You didn’t dare acknowledge the look on his face. You couldn’t, and you certainly couldn’t have him seeing the look on yours. You weren’t in the right headspace to hide the secrets you’d buried when you should’ve buried your father.

“Ah, well, you’re missing out,” was all Chris said instead. No talk of your father, no more questions. Nothing. Just . . . moving on, and somehow . . . somehow you felt grateful. “The best drink is plum-flavored soju and beer. Can’t get any better than that.” He leaned forward, whispering now. “But I’d say alcohol tastes the best when you’re bar hopping until two AM, surviving off shots of cheap vodka with friends.”

“Not much of that anymore.”

Chris hummed in agreement. “One day though,” he added. “We’ll all be different then, but . . . someday.”

Your brows furrowed and you scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re an optimist,” you mused as you traced the rim of the glass with your finger. “Thinkin’ like that gets you killed.”

“Mmm, maybe, but so far . . . it’s the reason I’m alive,” he replied almost as if it were fact; as if the reason he was alive didn’t have anything to do with luck and chance. “You’ll see. When we get you a shot of vodka, you’ll see I’m right. Or you can shoot me and leave me for dead. Either way, you win, yeah?”

You couldn’t help but look at him then, your face sunken in confusion. He only had this look on his face: a lazy smile and soft eyes. You swallowed hard in response, unsure of how to react. Why was he so . . . odd?

“So . . . “ he began again after a second of silence, tapping on your glass with his finger— “how do you know so much about deer?”

Why was he so interested? And why did you like it?

“My dad taught me how to hunt,” you heard yourself say before you knew what you were doing. It was odd how he could get this out of you. Maybe alcohol really was the devil’s drink. But . . . you didn’t care, you just . . . couldn’t stop yourself from responding; from talking to . . . him. “Where I come from . . . hunting season was the only celebration we ever had. My dad would come home with a truckload of deer. We’d get to keep one and the rest would be sold at this farmer’s market just outside of town.” You sucked your bottom lip under the grasp of your teeth at the memories. You’d been a dutiful child then. You didn’t know how to shove yourself back into that mold, and right now . . . you didn’t care. “That was the only time I’d ever been out of town before all this. I didn’t even know nothing about hunting back then. He only taught me when . . . when Pestilence rose.”

“Pestilence?”

Oh. You blinked. The hunger. The blood. The wine. The sick.

“I meant . . . “ you cleared your throat— “when everyone started getting . . . sick.”

Silence passed between the two of you once again, and you knew he could see something in you that you wouldn’t share. You knew he could sense it, perhaps even smell it. You couldn’t run away from the lives you’d lived. They were a part of you just as the wild animal you kept at bay had always lived within you. And somehow, it was like he just knew.

“How was that for you guys?” he asked, brushing over your slip-up.

And you let him. “It didn’t reach us.”

Chris stiffened then. “What?”

Your brows scrunched in confusion. “How bad did it reach you?”

“My city was the first to get it.”

Your confusion deepened. “War conquered you first?”

“If you can even call it that,” he muttered, eyes falling to the blanket as his thumb brushed over the loose threads. “It wasn’t a war. It—It—the government—it was genocide.”

“Genocide? But . . . “ you paused. You couldn’t wrap your head around it. This didn’t make sense. You never heard anything about genocide. It had always been the dead. The dead were to blame. “The dead. They rose. What did the government . . . ?”

Chris cocked his head in his own confusion. “You don’t know?”

You shook your head. “What . . . what did they do?”

“Bombed the major cities.”

“What?” you uttered, your face falling. No, but, your father checked the news with you every day. There was nothing like that. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t have lied to you. He wanted you to see the truth. It didn’t make any— “Sense. That doesn’t make any sense. I saw the news. The dead . . . they—”

It didn’t make any sense. Your father had promised to show you the truth, unlike the town. He promised. But the look on Chris’s face. It was as if he’d seen these bombings before his very eyes. You knew that look he held. It was the same one you wore every day. It was familiar and sick and . . . and that was when it hit you. Your father had hidden this from you. He’d shown you the news, but not all of it.

Was it to protect you?

Deceive you?

“I was away at college at the time,” Chris continued with a sigh while you tried to wrap your head around it all. “The travel ban had lifted and I hadn’t seen my family in so long but . . . I was waiting until break to return home. I wanted . . . I wanted to be able to bring good news with me when I returned. I didn’t want to come back without finishing the semester, empty-handed, especially all we had been through the past three years.” He swallowed hard. You’d heard it. “And then the dead started to come back, and they told us to stay inside; to stay indoors; to not leave for our safety, so I stayed. Not even a week later, the bombings happened, and I did everything I could to get back home, to find my family, to make sure they had made it out, that they were . . . that they were looking for me, too.”

You blinked.

He sighed. “I did find them eventually . . . Right where I left them.”

Right where I left them. You knew what that meant.

“You look afraid to ask,” he commented.

You shook your head once more. It wasn’t fear. It was understanding. “I’m not.”

“But you are.”

“They were dead,” you replied, proving him wrong.

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Four.”

You felt your brows twitch, and the memories were back again. Your father, mother, sister, Felix. You’d lost four, too. Four too many.

A second later, you met his eyes again, opening your mouth, but before you could tell him, you quickly stopped yourself. If you did that; if you told him you understood; if you told him you’d lost it all too, then he’d have this over you. You couldn’t have that. He could know only a few things about you, but not everything. Everything was too much. Everything would mean knowing you and knowing you was so similar to owning you. You wouldn’t let him have the ability to control you, not when you were already a gun waiting for your trigger to be pulled.

Instead, you forced your face into a blank slate and muttered out, “They’re lucky, then.”

But he only grinned, scoffing. “I know what you’re doing, but . . . you should know I agree with you,” he mused, brows raised as he studied your face. “It’s not the dead that suffer . . . and I know you know it, too. I can see it on your face. I know people like you . . . I know you think if you tell me these horrible stories, I’ll somehow be afraid of you, too, but this isn’t a storybook and you’re not some wild animal. We’ll always be who we were. Maybe we’ll distance ourselves from who we used to be, but . . . you can’t kill parts of yourself that have already lived.”

You clenched your jaw hard.

You can’t kill parts of yourself that have already lived, he’d said. **

Stop, you thought. He didn’t know that you’d spent your childhood tearing yourself down the middle, pulling stitches from the back of your legs, only to spend all night resewing them. He didn’t know there was a rotten seed that’d been planted inside you from birth, growing and growing the more you did. He didn’t know wine had never just been wine to you. He didn’t know that you had tried so hard to stuff yourself back into the shape of the dutiful child you used to pretend to be. He didn’t know that no matter how many stitches you sewed into your skin, it was never enough to keep the rot inside you from spilling out. He didn’t know that you would remain undone.

In silence, you watched as he locked his jaw, staring off at the wall. “I am all the things I have done and . . . all the things I will do,” he murmured as he picked at the blanket he laid upon. “Good and bad. They were all me at one point, and during those times, I never thought I’d ever change . . . but I did. Can’t take it back; can’t erase it. It’s just there. It just is . . . as am I . . . as are you.”

I am all the things I have done. But that was impossible. How could you still be the girl who’d pretend to be sick so that she could walk the outskirts of the woods? How could you be the girl who’d always imagined faraway lands existed beyond those woods, but was always too afraid to take a step further to find out? How could you be that girl who’d never held a gun before? Who’d been too scared to kill an animal? How could you still be that dutiful child when you’d killed a man not even a month ago? How could that part of you still exist when you could still taste his blood on your tongue every time you took a swig of wine?

You’d never tried to kill that part of yourself. You never wanted to. You wanted to hold onto her, stroke her hair, and let her dream of a better tomorrow, but she just . . . simply didn’t exist anymore.

Well . . . perhaps he was right in a sense. You couldn’t kill parts of yourself that had already lived, but they could die. Parts of you died as you aged. A part of you died in that house you grew up in. A part of you died the night you saw your father kill a man. A part of you died the day you had to put that dog down. A part of you died the night your father died. Another the night you killed a man. And one more tonight. All of which he was oblivious to.

He didn’t know you. He didn’t know you were a rotten seed.

And yet: “You can try to change my mind, but . . . it won’t work,” Chris went on, trying to catch your eye, but you didn’t dare look at him. “You’re a good person somewhere in there. You can’t hide from that.”

But he was wrong. He was so wrong. He was— “You’re wrong,” you blurted out, unable to filter yourself in this state. “I’m not . . . good.” You looked at him then. He was already staring at you. You didn’t mean to let it slip, but for a split second, there was a look on your face. For a split second, you were sure he could see the pain you’d carried for years. You tried to wipe it from your face, but you knew he’d seen it and you knew he’d understood it.

In shock, you held back a gasp and averted your eyes to the blanket. How could you be so foolish? How could you let him see that part of you? Shaking your head, you sat up, stiff and untouchable.

A beat of silence. Then, he sat up, too, nearly brushing arms with you but being careful enough not to touch you. “Bad people . . . “ he trailed off, picking at his fingers as you watched, taking him in cautiously. “Bad people don’t go screaming into the woods with a bunch of the dead after them. They also don’t risk their lives for a gun . . . or bury dead animals.”

Furrowing your brows, you took in his words. He’d caught onto all those things? But . . . that meant—

No, it meant nothing. Bad people kill animals for their own survival. Bad people cause their father’s deaths and still have the nerve to ask for forgiveness. Bad people kill others. Bad people taste blood when they sip wine, and wine when they taste blood.

He didn’t know you. You were still rotten at heart, diseased, and plagued with this darkness you’d been born with, and yet here was this stranger telling you you weren’t all the things you believed yourself to be. It didn’t make any sense. He was wrong. Either he wanted something from you or wanted you weak or—

And, then, something off happened. The next second, his hand hesitantly inched forward, and you watched stiff and silent as he rested it on your knee, giving it a soft comforting squeeze before he retracted, leaving you in shock.

What was that? Why did he squeeze your knee? The boys your mother talked about would’ve used that as their chance to take advantage of you, but he’d retracted so quickly. He didn’t linger. He didn’t try to . . . Then why? What for?

“Sorry,” he cleared his throat, taking note of your reaction. Awkwardly, he scratched the back of his neck. “Not very good at comforting people.”

Comfort?

Your eyes snapped to his profile. He wasn’t looking at you now, but you were staring straight at him, mouth slightly agape and brows furrowed in confusion. You were sure he felt your gaze, but he didn’t dare glance your way. Was he scared? Why would he try to . . . comfort you then? Why did he—

“In junior high . . . I cut Samantha Claken’s ponytail off because she got the lead choir part. I . . . I was just a part of the fucking chorus,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself. Why you mentioned such an old memory you didn’t know, but it just slipped out. You just . . . you wanted him to know he was wrong; that you’d been a rotten child no matter how long you worked each night to sew yourself together. “I’ve always been jealous. Jealous child, jealous adult. I’ve hurt people who’ve taken the things I wanted and I didn’t care. I’m not good. You shouldn’t comfort me. I’ve never once deserved it, not even as a child. I’m not good. I’m not your friend. I don’t like you. I don’t care about you. I won’t. I am not good. I will hurt you.” Your brows twitched. “I’m violent.”

Chris looked at you then, and it was almost as if you were staring into a mirror. The look on his face . . . no, he needed to stop. You wouldn’t let him in your head. You wouldn’t let him know you. You wouldn’t bring death to more doorsteps.

Wetting your lips, you breathed in sharply, and reiterated, “Sam got what I wanted and I cut all her hair off. The year before that she won the superlative for best hair. I knew it would hurt her, and that’s why I did it.” You leaned closer to him just a smidge, eyes blank. “I would’ve done worse if I could’ve. I would’ve cut her. I would’ve.”

But he just kept staring at you like he could see right through you. You’d never felt so exposed in your entire life than you did when you were with him.

And then . . . he smiled. No, grinned. “Well . . . maybe she deserved it.”

Your brows raised. All you could do was stare at him. It was obvious he didn’t believe you. It was obvious your suspicions were right: he could see right through you. Or maybe . . . maybe he didn’t care.

“All she did was tell Sister Agnes that I was the one who stole all the communion wafers before mass,” you replied. “Do you think I did the right thing?”

He laughed through his nose, shaking his head. And for a second you thought he’d agreed with you. For a second, you thought you’d proven your point, but instead: “So she did deserve it,” he mused with a soft sigh, leaning back onto the mattress.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered as you put your glass on the floor in an attempt to cover up the fact that you were fighting back the feeling of your lips twitching upward. “There’s always a clear distinction between right and wrong. I deserved the punishment.”

“Punishment?”

You glanced at him, taking note of his scrunched brows. Had you said too much? “They had to push mass back an hour just so they could make a whole new batch. It was a big deal, apparently,” you went on, going against every bone in your body telling you to keep your mouth shut. “Sister Agnes made me stay after bible study just so she could slap my hands with a fucking ruler. Went home with cuts all along my knuckles—” you offered him your hand, pointing out the old scars with your fingers— “and when my mom saw . . . “ Your brows furrowed at the memory. You’d almost forgotten. “There was this room in the attic . . . I—”

Stop! your brain screamed at you before the words left your lips. You didn’t even realize you were about to tell him anything about yourself. How could you be so foolish? Why had it been so easy to let those words spill? Why did you— Was it the wine or him?

Clearing your throat, you shook your head and sighed. “But you know . . . I think that was the best day of my life,” you said instead, ignoring your previous admission. “Word got back to my mom, and she made me give them all back, you know? But . . . I still got an extra twenty wafers than I would’ve on a Sunday.”

And what was even weirder . . . he let you move on without another question. Instead, all he asked was, “How do they taste anyway?”

But that seemed to shock you more than if he had tried to pry. “You’ve never had?”

He shook his head once. “I grew up believing in nothing.”

“Mmm, you missed out,” you hummed, glancing at him over your shoulder. They’re like the perfect amount of nothing and just a pinch of flavor. The aftertaste . . . I swear . . . is like this wine . . . better than it maybe.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, but that day . . . that day they tasted even better,” you went on, getting wrapped up in your memories again, forgetting yourself. “Like . . . like . . . “

“Payback,” Chris finished for you.

Shock weaved onto your face as you openly stared at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. You just . . . how did he always know? Quickly, you wiped the look off your face, trying to compose yourself. “Payback,” you confirmed, nodding your head, but this time you couldn’t stop from the corners of your lips twitching into the smallest, faintest of smiles as you stared at him. What was worse was the fact that you couldn’t stop yourself from leaning back onto the mattress, your eyes trained on the metal ceiling as you clasped your hands together, resting them on your stomach. “You know . . . I had to clean up after mass every day for a month and wash the windows every week, but it was so fuckin’ worth it to see the look on Sister’s face when she opened the cabinet and they were all gone.”

Chris nodded, then sighed before he laid down right beside you, your arms nearly brushing. “I can’t say I’ve ever done something like that before,” he murmured as he tucked an arm behind his head.

“Mmm, I know,” you hummed back. “I know your type.”

“My type?” he laughed through his nose. “Tell me more about my type.”

Wetting your lips, you knew what you were doing letting him know what you thought of him, but you blamed the alcohol. It didn’t mean you trusted him or anything like that. You were just not . . . yourself. “You’re too good,” you told him as you accepted your fate. “Anyone can see that. It’s so clear, almost too clear. It’s so clear I sometimes wonder if I should warn you.” The words left your lips and you knew you’d said too much, but you just couldn’t stop. “I had a friend. He was good, too. He still is. I know he is, but I’m scared that because of me, he won’t be for much longer. And you . . . you have the same kind of look in your eyes as him.” Felix’s eyes. Chris’s. It was like they both looked at you like you were still there; like the blood staining your teeth was just wine. “They’re kind . . . like you can tell you’ve smiled even in a world like this. You can’t fool anyone with eyes like that. They tell everything about what’s going on in here.” You pointed to your chest, repeatedly jabbing it like a knife into flesh. “I think . . . I think it’d kill you to do something bad . . . to hurt someone.”

A beat of silence. Then another. And by the third one, you were afraid to glance over at him.

So instead, you accepted your fate for a second time that night and went on, “And maybe that’s good. Maybe it’s people like you who’ll survive all of this. Maybe it’s people like me who got it all wrong. I don’t know.” Covering your face with your hands, you groaned. “I don’t know. I just . . . I just think that in this world to love . . . is to kill, and if you don’t get that; if you can’t do that, then the only way you can love is if you die.”

This time when a beat of silence pounded in your ears, you didn’t let him or time make the decision for you. Instead . . .

“I guess that’s the question of the century, yeah?” you scoffed, shaking your head as the memories from all those years came fading in and out, in and out, in and— “Is it better to kill . . . or to die?”

“And—” out of your peripheral vision, you watched as Chris turned his head to look at you, but you wouldn’t dare meet his gaze— “what would you choose?”

“I’ve killed.”

“I know,” he replied, calmly, “but . . . what would you choose?”

It was then you couldn’t help but meet his eyes. You glanced from one eye to the other, searching them in hopes he wouldn’t force you to answer. “Why ask questions you already know the answer to?” you questioned, still searching his eyes for . . . something. “Once you do something . . . you don’t get to choose anymore. You’ve already committed yourself. There’s no undoing the past . . . just like you said. So what I would choose now doesn’t matter. I’ve already chosen.”

Chris nodded at that, but you could tell . . . no you could see that he didn’t believe you. What was he thinking? Why was he always so—

“I think if I could go back to the beginning, I’d turn on the TV sooner,” Chris said before your mind could spiral, and then it hit you that he was giving you his answer on a silver platter, and for some reason, you wanted to know; for some reason, you listened. “I’d see the news and I’d get to my family in time. I’d . . . die with them or for them, it wouldn’t matter. I just wouldn’t want to survive without them if I had the choice.”

Furrowing your brows, you couldn’t help but ask, “Then . . . why did you keep going?”

He glanced away, accepting the silence as well. “If given the choice, every single one of them would’ve died for me. I would’ve done the same. But shit hit the fan and I was the only one who made it out alive,” he said, almost as if it were hard for him; almost if he, too, wasn’t telling you the full truth. “They’d already died waiting for me. I couldn’t let their deaths be in vain. And . . . “ he wet his lips— “I had other people to protect . . . ”

“So you went on surviving,” you whispered more to yourself than to him.

“They didn’t get a choice,” he muttered. “I did. I . . . do.”

Swallowing hard, you bit the inside of your cheek. “Is that why you saved me?”

He looked at you again then, and you swore you saw something different in his gaze. Grief? Regret? Pain? No . . . no . . . what was it? “I don’t know,” he answered your thoughts with a small shrug.

He didn’t know why he’d saved you . . . You nodded and muttered under your breath, “Well . . . you shouldn’t have. Would have saved you all this—” you gestured to the safe house bunker— “trouble.”

“Mmm, there it is again,” he mused, his voice lighter now or maybe . . . amused(?). “I’m not scared of you, you know?”

The beat of your heart could be felt in your throat. Why was he always so . . . like this? And yet . . . you wanted to know what he thought. You wanted to know what he thought of you.

“You’ve tried to scare me, but I see it. I’ve seen who you used to be,” he whispered almost as if he wanted you to know his words were only for you despite there not being anyone alive for meters upon meters. “That story about your dog. The man you killed. I know when someone’s not telling the full truth. I started to believe you weeks ago, but after what happened with Misun . . . I was watching you the entire night. You were only wiping her chin.” You blinked and he smiled, softly. “You had a sister before. I’m right, aren’t I? When Jeongin went for you, you were trying to protect her. You were willing to die for her . . . not kill. That tells me everything.” He brought a hand to his chin, rubbing it as he scoffed. “And today . . . seeing you today with that deer . . . I've never seen someone be so violent yet so . . . so . . . gentle.”

“There’s nothing gentle about me,” you quickly protested, but you could still feel your heart in your throat. Then . . . your knees began to itch, and you wanted to run. You wanted to run and yet . . . you stayed put, laying side by side next to a man who seemed to see all the things you tried to hide, and you just couldn’t look away.

You only became more enraptured by him when he grinned at your words, almost laughing it off; as if your words were the farthest thing from the truth; as if you weren’t a wild animal. “That’s why I want you to stay with us,” he confessed, his voice still soft, still inviting; still hypnotizing. “You’d do anything for any one of those kids. I know you would. It doesn’t matter what else you’ve done, it matters who you are, and I know you’re a good person.”

I know you’re a good person, he’d said. But how could he know? You could still taste the blood of a man on your tongue. You could still feel the hardness of his trachea hitting your teeth as you bit into his neck. You could still feel the arteries stuck between your teeth. You could still feel it all, and yet: I know you’re a good person.

“Something told me to save you that night,” he finally admitted, now searching your eyes. “I don’t know what it was. I don’t believe in God. I’m not religious. I don’t know what it was, but something told me to save you, and . . . “ he paused only for a second, and yet, you could see everything he hadn’t said already . . . “I’m glad I listened.”

But all you could do was shake your head because you knew. You knew he was wrong. You knew because . . . you remembered the whine Berry emitted when you snapped her neck. You remembered how you were gone for seven hours that day; how many times you threw up as you skinned her, gutted her, cooked her, and peeled the meat from her bones so no one would know what you’d killed. You remembered how long it took for you to scrub her blood from underneath your fingernails. You remembered going to the lake that day, and contemplating for hours on end what would happen if you found the heaviest rock you could and just . . . let yourself sink. And . . . you remembered the look on your mother’s face when it was you who came out of that burning building and not your father. You remembered the sting of her slap and the rage in her words. You remembered everything because you couldn’t forget; you wouldn’t let yourself.

“There will come a day where you won’t be,” was all you spat as the memories turned you sour and bitter.

Chris furrowed his brows, opening his mouth to say something, but this time you didn’t want to hear it. This time, you turned away from him and sat up, reaching for your wine glass so you could put it back where he’d gotten it from. But as you grabbed the glass, your hand slipped and the broken part of the rim sliced your finger. With a soft gasp, you dropped the glass and it shattered against the floor, but that wasn’t what caught your attention. No, as soon as blood came into your sight, you didn’t even have enough time to react before Chris sprung from the bed and reached for you.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, trying to tear yourself from him as you wiped the blood onto your shirt, but the cut was deeper than you thought. The blood just kept coming and coming and—

His hands were cradling yours the next second. Gently, he opened up your hand to himself, and you watched, stunned as he leaned forward and wrapped his mouth around your finger. It was quiet then, almost too quiet. Your heart was hammering in your throat, blood pumping through your ears as you felt his tongue softly touch your fingertip, while he gently sucked the wound. A man had never touched you like this, and you’d never touched a man like that either, and yet there he was . . .

Only a few minutes passed before he popped your finger out of his mouth, slowly backing away from you, but his hands never left yours. And all you could do was stare at him wide-eyed, mouth agape and chest rapidly moving up and down. Only then, it seemed, did he realize just how close the two of you had gotten and just how suggestive this position put him in, and only then . . . only then did he drop your hand, rapidly blinking as he cleared his throat.

“I’ll—I’m gonna clean this up,” he muttered, scratching the back of his head as he stood to his feet. “Enough, um, wine for the night, yeah?”

And then he wasn’t near anymore. You couldn’t feel the heat of his body radiating onto yours or smell his shampoo or even his skin. He was shuffling around the room, and you were stuck frozen in time as you processed everything. Then, slowly, you glanced down at your finger, finding it had stopped bleeding.

Swallowing hard, you wondered why he’d done it. Was he not afraid of the taste or was he used to it? Did blood taste like wine or was blood just blood to him? And was wine just blood to him, too?

Despite trying to call it a night and forget the awkward moment you’d shared, another wine bottle was consumed. The two of you hadn’t looked at each other since, but Chris popped open another bottle about an hour ago, quietly offering you another glass while he avoided eye contact, and you graciously accepted it. It was unusual. It was awkward. It was a bad idea.

The bunker felt too quiet, the kind of silence that made the air heavy, pressing against your skin. You lay on the bed, glaring at the ceiling with your arms tightly crossed over your chest as if trying to keep something inside from spilling out. The alcohol buzzed in your veins, dulling the edges of your mind, but not enough. Not enough to quiet the guilt that gnawed at you, whispering that you didn’t belong here—that you never would. You shouldn’t trust him. And yet, here you were. Drinking with him, sleeping beside him, letting yourself unravel. His lips had touched you. He’d tasted your blood and nothing bad had happened. He’d taken a part of you, graciously. And you’d had too many dark thoughts since then, because all you wanted to do was drink more and more and tell him to do it again and again.

How could he do that? How was he always doing that? It was like he’d found a way under your skin, and decided that would be his shelter. Why did he want to build a home inside you? Nobody had ever been hungry for you. You’d always been hungry for everyone else, and yet . . . he’d tasted your blood willingly. It made you wonder . . . everything about him.

Your mind was gone, and all you could taste was blood, no, wine, no, blood, no, no, no, you tasted something else entirely. God, what was it? "Back at the bunker," you felt yourself blurt out before you could stop yourself, wanting to talk more and wanting to know more about him. (Was it curiosity you tasted? You’d never felt this way before . . . ) You just . . . you didn’t want this night to end because when morning came and you were no longer intoxicated with rich rich wine, you’d regret it all. Tomorrow you’d leave, and tomorrow you’d die. You just wanted this one thing. So you let yourself continue. "Where do you sleep?"

Chris lay on the floor beside the bed with just a blanket covering him, his broad frame making the small room feel even smaller. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and something in his expression softened, his cheeks flush from the wine. "The hall," he said quietly, swinging one of his arms under his head. "Outside all the rooms."

The confession made something inside you twist. You frowned . . . because his voice seemed to satiate this hunger deep inside you. "Why?" The word slipped out harsher than intended. You just . . . you wanted more answers, and . . . you’d never been a very dutiful child.

His gaze didn’t falter. "I didn’t trust you enough to leave my people unguarded." There was a pause, a flash of something in his eyes. "And . . . I didn’t trust everyone enough to leave you unguarded."

You flinched inwardly. He should’ve kicked you out. Trust or no trust. It wasn’t worth it. You wouldn’t have been that naive. Letting a wild animal into your home was a bad decision. Just like the wine. Just like that night your father died. Just like the night you killed a man. Just like the pet you’d slaughtered to satiate this deep hunger inside you. Letting a wild animal into your home was a death sentence, so then why did he do it?

"So,” you began again, eyes on the ceiling, “the room I sleep in—it’s yours?"

Chris nodded. "Yes."

And then you knew you’d been right to assume, and remembered. The worn bedding, the lingering scent of him, the faint outline of something familiar and lived in. It felt wrong, like an intrusion. It was his room, and yet . . . he’d let you sleep in it for weeks now, while he slept outside like a dog with no home. And then . . . the clothes he’d given you. Your stomach clenched as your fingers tightly tugged at the bottom of your shirt. Where was she? "You have women’s clothes in your room?" you muttered out, letting your words linger, knowing he’d understood what your question truly meant.

Chris tensed, his jaw tightening for a brief moment. "She’s gone," he said, voice quieter now, almost fragile. "She’s been gone for a long time."

You took a breath, but it felt like you were swallowing shards of glass. You knew what that meant. You’d known what that meant since the day you were taught how to shoot a deer. You knew. "Dead,” you whispered.

His eyes dropped, a shadow passing over his face. "It’s like I said . . . being out here too long. It changes things."

You knew what he meant, but the weight of it sat heavy between you. You were no stranger to loss. Hell, you’d been the cause of it more times than you cared to count. The thought lingered like poison in your veins. You glanced at the floor where he’d been sleeping. He’d taken a wild animal into his home, he’d offered this thing food and water and a bed, and he’d slept on the floor, losing sleep just to watch this animal, and yet . . . he’d never caused it harm. How could he do that? How could he trust you, covered in blood and smelling of death? What kind of idiot trusts someone like that?

And what kind of idiot . . . likes that? You swallowed hard, the taste of wine still on your tongue as you tried to fight back your words. You tried to swallow it down just as easily as you’d swallowed the wine, but . . . you’d turned into one of those idiots, too. You realized that as you asked, "Is the floor . . comfortable?"

He let out a small laugh, one without much humor, rubbing his hand over his face. "Could be worse."

That familiar tightening in your chest came back, the one that was always there when you were too close to people, too close to places that felt safe. It was the kind of suffocation that came with the knowledge that safety didn’t last—that you didn’t deserve it. You’d felt it with Felix. You’d taught him how to fly and refused to let him soar on his own. You hungered for his love, his friendship, him . . . just as you’d been hungry for your mother’s. It felt all too similar to a bullet going through your shoulder. You knew how it felt to heal from a wound like that, but you didn’t know if you could ever do it again. And yet . . . You pulled the covers back, then turned your back to him as quickly as you could. "Sleep with me," you said, the words coming out sharp and impulsive. "Just . . . just sleep on the bed."

Chris stilled. You didn’t have to look at him to know he was surprised. "What?"

"This isn’t some movie," you said, trying to steady your voice, make it sound like you were in control, like this was nothing. "You can sleep on the bed with me, and it won’t be inappropriate."

There was a beat of silence. You could feel his eyes on you, and you were reminded of how painful it’d been to rip a bullet out of your shoulder. "I think you’re still drunk," he said softly, a quiet accusation as he nearly scoffed, humor in his voice.

You chewed on your inner cheek as you picked at the cracked skin of your lower lip. "Grow up," you muttered. "Sleep on the bed. Or don’t. I don’t care."

A beat of silence. You nearly lacerated your inner cheek with your canines. And then: the mattress shifted as he climbed in beside you, his presence warm and solid, too close but not close enough to touch. The space between you was charged, a tension that knotted your stomach. His breathing was steady, almost comforting, but it only made you feel more exposed.

"Has anyone ever told you you can be harsh?" he asked, voice soft but laced with amusement.

You felt the corners of your lips twitch, but you wouldn’t let yourself smile and you refused to let him see it. Another minute passed, and then you felt your stomach growl. Hunger persisted. You shifted uncomfortably, your hip digging into the mattress as you turned over, facing him now as you lay on your side. "My hip hurt," you muttered, too afraid he’d think you wanted to be closer to him. Or perhaps . . . you were afraid to admit that you wanted to be closer to him.

Chris chuckled, a low sound that rumbled through him. "OK."

It was such a simple response, and yet it felt like he was giving you more than you deserved. He always did. And that was the problem. You didn’t deserve this—the warmth, the laughter, the steadiness of him beside you. You shifted again, the words rising in your throat before you could stop them.

"I should leave tomorrow," you said, though the words feel hollow as they leave your mouth.

Chris glanced toward you, brows furrowed. His eyes traced your features, almost as if he were studying you. "You’re asking for my approval," he said after a minute, his voice calm and steady. "Why are you asking for my approval?"

You closed your eyes, a tightness forming in your throat. "You don’t get it," you whispered.

"Then explain it to me."

You exhaled, and before you could stop yourself, the words came spilling out. "When I was a kid . . . I used to pray something bad would happen to me." You didn’t look at him, didn’t let yourself see the expression on his face. "I was always too afraid to do it myself, so sometimes I’d skip class and go into the woods during hunting season. I never went in far . . . but I’d pray that they’d mistake me for a deer. That a stray bullet would hit me instead of one of the fawns." You paused, your chest tightening with the weight of memories you never wanted to share. "I think . . . I think I’ve lived longer now than I ever would’ve if none of this had happened." You swallowed hard, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Then the world died . . . and I’ve watched so many people die since then. And every time, I come out unscathed."

You glanced up, searching his eyes for something—anger, judgment, anything to make sense of the mess you just unloaded on him. "Don’t you see? You welcome me into that bunker, and everyone will die. That’s how it always goes. You should’ve let me die that night," you said quietly. To sleep in the same bed as a wild animal is to put a gun to your head and pull the trigger. Why didn’t he seem scared? And why were you hoping he wasn’t?

The silence that followed was heavy. You watched as his brows furrowed and his eyes left your face and darted across the ceiling as if he were truly thinking. And you wondered what he thought. You knew what he should’ve thought. You knew what you’d told him. You knew what he’d told you. But now . . . it seemed the alcohol in your system had you hoping that he’d prove you wrong. And then: "You’re not the reason people die," he said, his voice calm, as if his certainty could erase the years of guilt you carried. "The world is."

You shook your head, the familiar ache in your chest tightening. "You don’t know me."

He turned his head then, eyes falling upon yours. He searched them for a moment before his brows twitched and he whispered, "I want to."

That simple, direct response cut through you, leaving you raw. He wanted to know you. He wanted to see something good in you, something you were convinced didn’t exist. You had spent so long hiding, so long convinced you were beyond redemption, but Chris refused to see the darkness you clung to.

"You’ll regret your words one day," you murmured, bitterness lacing your tone as you shook your head.

He didn’t flinch. "Let’s make a deal then," he said quietly, his gaze never leaving yours. "If you agree to come back with me, and everything goes to shit, you can leave. No questions asked. But if not . . . if things work out, you get a roof over your head, food, a bed. You get people." His lips quirked into a small smile. "Deal?"

You stared at him, your heart pounding too hard. He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t know what would happen. You were meant to leave tomorrow. You were meant to die tomorrow. How could you go back to him and . . . live? "Doesn’t seem like a very good deal on your end," you muttered, but your words held truth to them.

"You’re a good asset.” He shrugged. “Seems like the best kind of deal to me."

You were about to scoff when he took your hand gently, and placed it against his chest, right over his heart. The gesture startled you, making you feel too close, too exposed, but you didn’t pull away. His heartbeat was steady beneath your palm, grounding you in a way that terrified you. His eyes held yours, unwavering. "Cross my heart and hope to die," he said, his tone soft, playful, but with a depth that lingered beneath the words.

You pulled your hand back slightly, but he didn’t let go. "That’s not funny,” you scoffed, shaking your head.

He grinned, and the sight of it made something in your chest tighten. "You’ll need to work on your sense of humor. So the deal’s fair, you know?"

This was too much. He was still grinning at you, and you felt like you might die. Was this how it felt to be drunk? Or was it him? The wine or him? The wine or him? God, you didn’t know. Your heart sped up at the questions clogging your mind, and you pushed his hand away to clear those thoughts, but the roughness of his skin against yours sent an unwanted shiver down your spine. "Your hands are too rough," you blurted out, more sharply than you intended.

"Strike one," he replied, still smiling. "That was rude."

"It’s the truth," you countered, swallowing hard as you tried to quietly steady your mind. You forced yourself to break eye contact, rolling onto your back to stare at the ceiling. You could still feel him, but . . . you couldn’t see him, and that . . . that seemed to help. Wetting your lips, you felt a pang of guilt tug on your heart. "Mine are too. Just the way it is." You lifted your hand up, showing your knuckles to him, where you knew the scars would still be.

“Liar.”

You were about to scoff when he took your hand again, this time more firmly, inspecting it with his. His touch was gentle just like hours before, his fingers tracing the lines of your palm, the warmth of his skin sending an unwanted shiver down your spine. He seemed lost in thought, studying you with a seriousness that made your heart race.

“Do you believe me now?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, almost as if you were afraid of his answer; as if for the first time in your life, you wanted a man to look at you.

“Soft.” He looked up, his gaze piercing yet soft, an intriguing mix of concern and something deeper. “You’re soft,” he said, and there was a gravity in his tone that caught you off guard. His eyes held so much—curiosity, determination, and an undeniable pull that made your breath hitch.

In that moment, the distance between you collapsed, the air thick with unspoken words and emotions swirling like a storm. You could feel it—a magnetic draw that pulled you closer. And then you realized something peculiar: for the first time in your life, you did want a man to look at you. And . . . and . . . he was.

Swallowing hard, you decided. Tomorrow you’d leave. Tomorrow you’d die. Tomorrow you’d kill yourself with your father’s gun in hand and finally find him again. You’d grown up in a town where there were whispers; where the name of God was the only thing you should’ve cared about; where you were taught if you even so much as looked at a man for too long, you’d gone against the almighty father; where you were the sacrificial lamb in a hollow of wolves. You’d turned into one of those wolves now. You were raw and ugly and grotesque. You didn’t deserve his hospitality, his kindness, him. You didn’t deserve to look at him like he was the apple and you were Eve. You didn’t deserve to taste him as he’d tasted you, but god did you want to. You supposed you finally got what it meant to sin.

But tonight . . . tonight you wanted all the things you’d never had. You’d set the world straight tomorrow. You’d give this God what he wanted, but tonight . . . tonight there was no God, there was no town, no mother, no dead father, no outside world. Tonight, all you could see, all you could smell, all you wanted to feel and taste was . . . him.

You’d never felt a man before. You’d never touched or held or kissed a man you wanted like this before. And for the first time, dying without having ever touching him scared you more than the scabs on your knees or the evil in your heart.

Tomorrow, you’d die, but tonight . . . tonight . . .

You wet your lips, your hunger consuming you while your hands hesitantly touched either side of his face, shaking as the tips of your fingers danced across his cheekbones. You lived in a world where the dead came back; where you had to kill them brutally and violently. You weren’t scared of the monsters under your bed anymore, not in a world like this. And yet, somehow, the man before you was the scariest thing you’d ever had to deal with. It wasn’t what you knew about him that scared you or even what you didn’t know, but rather his proximity.

Was it the wine or him?

You’d never been this close to a man like him before; you’d never touched one like this; you’d never wanted to touch one like this and . . . more; you’d been taught sex before marriage was a sin and never once really found interest in it; you’d never laid with a man or ever kissed, you never wanted to. Somehow; however, every time he was near you, you couldn’t help but stare at him a little longer.

Was it the wine or him?

At night . . . sometimes his face revisited you in your dreams. You thought you couldn’t dream anymore or rather the dreams you were allowed were tainted. Yet . . . the dreams you’d have of him . . . they were just dreams . . . they were just him. It made you curious. It made you go mad. It terrified you, and yet as you cradled his face in the palms of your hands . . . you couldn’t stop thinking about what his lips would feel like against yours.

Was it the wine or him?

Swallowing hard, you knew the answer. Him . . .

Why do you make me feel this way? you wanted to ask. Why is it you and not God? The end of the world was supposed to bring more faith, and yet you’d only lost it. This . . . this was the first feeling of salvation you’d yearned for since the day you first awoke. Why is it you? Why is it you? Why is it not him? Why is it not God? How could the man you’d once mistaken for Death make you feel like how the rapture was supposed to?

Those words never left your lips. Instead, you did something that shouldn’t have come as a surprise to you. You touched your thumb to his bottom lip, breathing out a heavy sigh, then . . . you crashed into him, slamming your lips onto his and nearly knocking out all the air in your lungs. The warmth of his lips obliterated your every thought, melting your mind as you melded into him. Chris, however, remained stunned, his hand frozen still on your arm while you pressed your chapped lips against his soft, plush ones.

But when your fingers gently grazed across his cheek, traveling up to curl his hair behind his ear, he gave in. He reacted quickly after that, and gripped onto your thighs, locking your leg over his hip the best he could to shift closer to you. And then he was wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you even closer to him until there was no space left between. His other hand found its way to the back of your neck and he deepened the kiss, causing you to release a soft gasp into his mouth.

You’d never touched a man. You’d never wanted to before. But in that moment, all you wanted was to feel more and more of him before you left the next morning and bid him goodbye. You’d never see him again, and maybe that was what scared you. You wanted to feel all of him. You wanted to know more about him and why you felt the way you did, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t let yourself, not when the next morning you’d be off and alone like you were supposed to be. Tomorrow, you’d end it all and never see him again . . .

But God . . . you wanted to see him again and again. You wanted him like this over and over. You wanted more and more, but you wouldn’t let yourself. Death would follow. He’d seen enough of it. Kissing him was not the worst you could do to him, but it was the only sin you’d allow yourself to commit. You wanted to remember this when you died.

The descent into madness only quickened as you realized you weren’t just kissing him, but kissing anyone for the first and only time. You wanted this. You wanted him. You wanted it to be memorable. And so it was.

It was sloppy and needy . . . like the two of you were trying to drink each other up; like you were thanking him and he was thanking you right back. And his touch. His touch lit a fire inside you as he sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, asking you for permission first. And you willingly gave it to him, parting your lips just enough to allow him access, and relishing in the way he nearly groaned at your neediness.

Every squeeze of your hips, every hurried touch he left along your sides, your legs, your arms, face, lips . . . you felt yourself sinking further and further into him. You just wanted more and more and more. No one had ever felt this good. Nothing had ever tasted this sweet, not even blood or wine. No one had ever made you want to kiss them until the sun rose, but him . . . He was nearly otherworldly, and you hated that. Why him and not God? Why him? Why now?

“I don’t like you,” you heard yourself gasp against his lips before you began to kiss his cheek, then his jaw, until you reached his neck.

Chris chuckled under his breath, tilting his head to the side to allow you more access and you eagerly took it. “You don’t like me?” he questioned, his voice deeper now as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when you leaned back and your finger replaced your lips as it lazily traced figures along the slope of his neck.

“You make me feel like I’m on fire,” you confessed, continuing to trail your finger across his beautiful, beautiful neck as he drew your body closer to his, your core now directly resting on top of his lower half. “I hate it. I hate . . . “ You swallowed hard. “I have this . . . hunger inside me. It’s incorrigible and disgusting and . . . and . . . I’ve always been like this even as a kid. I would do things and make trouble because I wanted to feel full; I wanted to feel normal . . . fulfilled . . . content . . . and then I would try to apologize for this hunger by pretending to be this perfect child and praying and repenting and swallowing it down, but right now—” you shook your head, in disbelief of yourself— “I just . . . I don’t . . . I don’t feel violent . . . I’m not. I don’t know why I am . . . and I don’t know why I’m not right now. I hate this. I hate you. I . . . don’t feel violent with you.”

Chris laced your fingers together, holding your hand close to his neck. “What do you feel?” he whispered, almost hesitant to hear the answer.

You could only shake your head, your words nothing but gibberish. “A different kind of hunger,” you spat out, scoffing at your own confession. “I want . . . “ You choked out a laugh, inching closer toward him. “I just want to kiss you.”

The corners of his lips twitched into a handsome half-grin as he softly brushed his nose against yours. “Kiss me then.”

That was all it took. You pressed your lips firmly against his, trailing your hand up to the back of his head, pulling him into you. He laughed into your mouth, but didn’t dare pull away. He only pulled himself closer, and the fire inside you burned brighter. He took the reins from you as he deepened the kiss, his tongue melding against your own, and then you felt yourself inhaling sharply just before you pushed yourself further into him, trying to taste as much of him as you could. His body moved with his lips, melding into your own body as his arm wrapped around your back once again, trying to get you as close as possible.

That was when you felt it—his hardness poking you where you needed it most. You’d never felt something like this before; something so hot and . . . there. You’d never been too curious about it. You’d never had the time, but now . . . it was all you could think about. For a second, you were just a woman and he was just a man, and that was all. You knew how it all worked, and now . . . now you wanted it. You couldn't tell if he was fully hard due to the material of his jeans, but you didn't care. The feeling alone was enough to set you off—your skin grew hot and your breath hitched in your throat as your core ached for even the simplest of touches. It was new. It was odd. It was everything.

Even just the slightest of pressure on your body had your head spinning. His hand squeezed your thigh and you nearly sighed into his mouth, wishing he’d just hold you against him and squeeze you into his broad chest. “You’re—” he began at the sound of your quiet gasp, but his words quickly died on his tongue when your body moved against his.

Grinning against his lips, you mumbled, taunting him, “I’m?”

But he only groaned, his deep voice doing unspeakable things to you as his grip on you tightened. His touch only spurred you on further. “You make me—You’re—” he cut himself off as dived back in, his mouth skillfully working against yours— “everything.” His words shocked you to the core, but not for long as one of his hands tightened around the hair at the back of your head, pulling you into him while his other hand tugged your body against his in a new position, the movements simultaneously brushing your core ever so slightly against the tent in his jeans.

If he knew how he was affecting you, he didn’t show it. It just seemed he wanted more and more of you, and that was it. Yet, still, his simple touches were making your underwear stick to your core, and you were becoming more and more lost in him as the seconds passed.

When your core began to ache all too much, you listened to your body, subconsciously grinding against his hardness. And oh . . . you’d never felt that. Your stomach flipped, your most intimate parts of yourself pulsing against his body. And instantly, he, too, curled into you, a deep moan sounding from the back of his throat as he buried his head into the crook of your neck.

But he didn’t dare touch you like . . . that . . . back. No . . . instead . . . his hands stilled, his touch light against you as he halted you from grinding against him again.

And you were left out of breath, dazed, and confused, with an odd ache in your chest.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He kissed your neck once, but it was gentle, almost innocent, and then he was pulling away.

A beat of silence.

Beat.

It was deafening.

Beat.

And for a second, you thought it was the second coming.

Beat.

For a second, you thought this was Hell, and then he looked at you and spoke, and you realized it was.

“I just . . . “ His eyes met yours, searching and you searched right back, practically begging him to tell you the truth. You knew you’d never been someone people . . . liked. You could take this. He just . . . he just had to tell you. But instead: “I just . . . I can’t be . . . intimate with you.”

Oh. Your brows furrowed, your face hot, and suddenly, you remembered who you were, and what had happened, and what that meant. Then . . . you hated him for a whole different reason. “Um . . . OK . . . “ scoffing, you tried to turn over to get as far away from him as possible, but he pulled you back.

“Please,” he begged, hand still on your arm as he searched your eyes with such earnestness. “I want to kiss you.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “But . . . I just . . . I can’t.”

You blinked once. Then twice. Then once more as you stared at him while confusion and something else twisted through your brain. He wanted to kiss you. He had, and yet . . .

“OK,” you said, voice flat, void of the emotions swirling inside you. You slipped out of his hold without looking back, grabbing the blanket from the floor, and made your way to the corner of the room. The cold, hard floor seemed like a fitting place for you now, far away from him, from everything you’d just felt. You dropped down onto the floor, wrapping the blanket around you like a shield.

“You don’t have to—” he began, but you cut him off before he could finish.

“Don’t console me.” Your words were sharp, a dagger thrown with precision. “You think you mean anything to me? You don’t. You touch me, I will not hesitate to kill you. I have my gun. I will slit your throat, steal your shit, and leave your body to rot down here.” Your voice was icy, harsh. You wanted him to believe it, to push him away before he could come any closer, before he could see through the walls you so carefully built. You turned to look at him, meeting his eyes with a glare that you hoped would drive the point home. “I’m not your friend. I don’t like you. I don’t care about you. I am not a good person. I will hurt you.”

The silence that followed felt heavy, oppressive, like the weight of your own words was crashing down on both of you. You stared at him, daring him to challenge you, to call you out as a liar. But all he did was nod, his face unreadable.

“Understood?” you added, your voice softer now but no less dangerous.

His eyes flickered with something—sadness, maybe, or something deeper, something you didn’t want to recognize. “Understood,” he replied quietly, his voice steady, though the tension between you crackled like a live wire.

You turned away again, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, trying to will your body to relax, to push away the hurt that had taken root deep inside. You closed your eyes, blocking him out, knowing that sleep wouldn’t come easy tonight.

You had built your walls higher than ever, but somehow, you'd never felt so exposed.

taglist:

@amaranth-writing @binchanluvrr @dreamingsmile @eternalrajin @palindrome969 @lixxpix @miin17

(if you want to be taken off, send me a lil message <3)

[rubistella]

{ wait people riot if one ships astarion with women? 😂 }

[rubistella]

SCREAMS AJKHSKJAHSKJAH MY MOTHER TONGUE IS BRAZILIAN PORTUGUESE!!! i know how to spell words, but god forbid you hear me during voice chat, i don't know how to say half of said words 🤣 tree??? three????? ask me to say the word "horror" nobody ever understands what i'm saying LMAO

@rubistella **KICKS DOWN UR DOOR* AHEM. I will accept NO SLANDER in this household!! If you hadn’t told me you weren’t a native English speak I NEVER would have considered otherwise. You do better in my language than I do, beautiful soul

[reds-writings]

jealousy, jealousy!

(pairing: rust cohle x fem!reader)

a/n: hello! welcome to my first bout of writing! feedback is greatly appreciated and i hope you enjoy! there isn't much rust content on here so i figured i'd create it myself lmao

warnings: cursing, steamy scenes but nothing too crazy, sorta sexism, marty hart being himself, rust being pigheaded, mentions of sex, etc etc let me know if i missed anything (minors just don't bother interacting regardless thank you!)

word count: around 5.8k

Never did you think that sitting in the passenger’s seat of Rustin Cohle’s red Ford pickup could have you seething as it did now. This wasn’t at all how your night was supposed to go and the culprit of said unsavory evening was sitting right next to you, cigarette pinched between tense fingers and eyes set hard on the dark highway ahead. The stubborn bastard had made no move to turn on the radio to save you both from the borderline unbearable silence. All you had was the humid Louisiana air from his rolled-down window flowing into the truck’s cabin and you couldn’t quite find it in you to be grateful for the fact he seemed to have kept in mind you detested the smell of that sour burning tobacco. 

Just who the hell does he think he is?

The question that repeated itself a mile a minute in your Coors-addled brain as it fought to catch up with all that just occurred not even a mere hour prior. Rust, as you already well knew, did not bother himself much when it came to others unless it strictly involved the endless trials of his work. That was the line he drew on a daily basis. Nothing could be clearer than the fact that Rust had little to no capacity for getting truly personal with most who existed in his orbit.

It was something you dealt with a bit better than the likes of your other partner Marty day in and day out at the CID. Though he may be one mystery wrapped in a more or less fucked up enigma, Rust’s way of functioning stayed relatively consistent. You didn’t dig often given that he wasn’t up and ready to offer much in the first place. He was sharp and strong-minded. Possessing most qualities that make well for a good investigative partner. Lines didn’t get muddled. It was how you preferred it. Up until recently, that is.

You didn’t have much nerve or will to go down that route right about now. 

Earlier in the day…

Your fingers were cramping at the end of typing the last dregs of the day’s reports. This recent case was starting to weigh heavier and heavier as an influx of countlessly cryptic details revealed themselves with each milestone of the investigative process. Something about this being darkly occultish as it was made it all the more daunting. There was a sense of underlying dread that this was something bigger than all of you. A sentiment you found yourself sharing with at least one of your partners: Rust. Marty on the other hand was still on the fence, not totally in the business of believing this was more than just some twisted piece of shit who had nothing better to do with his time. You wish you had half the mind to reduce it down to something so simple.

Strange things were not that of an irregular occurrence around these parts. Though said strange things didn’t have the habit of making it to the limelight as the Dora Lange case had. This wasn’t the type of case where one could be fine with just leaving it at work and picking it back up when they returned the next day as normal. Its disturbing details twisted themselves into every fiber of your daily life since that poor girl was found posed in Erath. It was better to eat, sleep, and breathe this case so that it may be solved all the more quickly. 

A world with one less monster like the one capable of committing a murder such as this is was a world where you could maybe sleep a little more soundly. 

Rolling your shoulders back, you twisted your aching neck side to side, resounding with an aching series of pops. God, I need a drink. You thought to yourself as you leaned back into the roller chair at your desk. The clock on your floor’s wall read 6:02. With all the work on your part done you figured you could slip out with much complaint. Stiffly rising from your spot, you started to pack away any necessary belongings into your well-loved messenger bag. Marty glanced up from his notes with a small quirk of his brow, “You headin’ out?”

Throwing your hair up to save yourself from the impending humidity from outside you replied, “Yeah. Need to wash the day off me and go grab a drink or somethin’. Bein’ out talkin’ to them church folk in the heat nearly all afternoon then witnessin’ Rust make that one boy shit himself was enough for the day.” 

Marty snorted to himself at that while Rust made no move to acknowledge your statement from his spot as he analyzed his comically large ledger. The blonde sipped his evening coffee as you finished gathering your things, “Don’t get too crazy tonight now. Lots to do in the days to follow I reckon the more this case stays befuddlin’ as is.”

You scoffed lightly, “I don’t doubt that. I’ll probably just head to that Blue Gator joint off the highway. Grab a few beers. Maybe a dance should one be willin’. Need’ta let loose is all.” 

“I’m sure any fella would be delighted to spin the night away with the likes of you, darlin’. Leave it at just dancin’ will ya?” Marty snickered a bit as you scowled and flipped him off idly. You notice in your peripheral Rust go still with a pen in hand but he didn’t make any move to look up or participate in the conversation. 

Continuing, you fix Marty with a half-hard look, “I’m sure you have your extracurricular activities beyond the job so it ain’t a sin to have my own. Anways, this is hardly an appropriate conversation to have betwixt coworkers, Martin. Keep your nose outta it.” 

Marty let out a surprised guffaw and placed an offended hand over his heart. Rust still hadn’t moved an inch from his position. When you let your gaze drift over towards the silent half of the duo you were met with that cold blue stare of his. The mere instance of contact left you feeling funnier than you’d prefer as of late. Things were starting to blossom into something a little different between you two after the few months of being in each other’s presence. He had been starting to open up in a manner he hadn’t bothered to when he first transferred to the CID here in Louisana. His presence had been quiet but no less intimidating, leaving you and Marty at a loss of what to do to prompt him out of his self-imposed shell.

Now, as this new case unfolded it seemed to trigger a sudden release of the deepest tidbits of his…intense opinions and values that went on within the inner workings of his mind. Marty often found himself wishing that Rust never bothered to open his mouth at all. Anything coming from the brooding Texan seemed to offend Hart on some deeper level one way or another.

For you, while it was not all that pleasant to constantly hear how fucked up we as a collective were and how life had little to no meaning, were intrigued nonetheless. You believed that Rust was just as human as everyone else despite him pushing himself as far away from that narrative as possible. He was just broken in a way that couldn’t ever be truly reversed. So while his infinitely dismal ramblings left you feeling more defeated about life than anything else at times, you couldn’t find it in you to really hold it against him. 

When it came to your dynamic, he seemed to have more of an unspoken respect for you than most of your colleagues did within the department. It wasn’t some radical declaration made by him that clued you in on the matter. He mostly just treated you the same as everyone else. Not inherently negative nor too positively outgoing where others could accuse him of giving you some form of special treatment. He listened to you and took your input into genuine consideration which was more than you could ask for when it came to working alongside any of your other male counterparts. However, there were these little instances within the recent weeks that had your mind (and heart) taking another route when it came to how Rust Cohle just might regard you. 

First, it started with fresh coffee materializing on your desk by the time you’d be strolling in at morning time. Two sugars with one cream and always in your favorite green mug ordained with hand-painted daisies. Very specific and not at all a detail that Marty ever bothered himself with remembering about you in the time you’d known each other. Not that you ever really cared. No one else here would ever think to offer you a damn thing unless it was maybe the lovely receptionist up at the front.

It wasn’t until one night you had forgotten your keys at your desk and made your way back inside the assumingly empty department only to find the Rust Cohle with sleeves pushed up to his elbows in the small office kitchen cleaning your daisy mug that you’d left haphazardly in the sink before leaving. You watched in silent awe as he had set it gently aside after drying it for what you assumed was for the next morning where he’d be the one who dutifully made your memorized coffee order in secret before your arrival. To him, the act was probably meaningless. 

To you, the simple scene made your heart squeeze in a way you didn’t think was possible. 

Next, it occurred when he started offering you rides to and fro after your car suffered a nasty rear-ending thus needing to have it sit in the shop for the time being. At first, it was a little nerve-wracking to be in close proximity without Marty present to break any drawn-out silences but after a while you’d found yourself in a rhythm you could call your own. Sometimes you’d talk, sometimes you’d sit and listen to whatever old country cassettes he had stowed away in his glove compartment. It was never dull to you. 

Each car ride had you piecing together factoids that unfurled into the evergrowing idea that was your new(ish) partner. You still found yourself sharing more about your own life than he did more often than not but you were okay with that. Even if he wasn’t the most reactive of men, you knew he held on to every word. Anything he decided to sparingly share had you doing the same with a reverence you weren’t sure you carried for anyone else.  

After getting your car back and no longer needing his chauffeur services a silent agreement had followed. Neither party was completely ready to let go of the pleasant thirty-three minutes permitted to be spent together outside of work. It was decided that he’d drive you home on nights you happened to leave late, deeming it too dangerous to be traveling home at odd hours in the night although you had already been doing so plenty before he manifested into your life.

Eventually, he even found himself at your house one day after having determined that your porch steps needed fixing…or that your gutters should be cleared…or that the lawn was looking a little too overgrown than what was acceptable. Small acts where you felt that maybe he wanted to be in your presence a bit longer than normally desired when it came to his usual limits of socialization.

Seeing him working around your property with that sweat-soiled wife beater of his and those lithe, god-given arms made that squeeze in your heart reach new heights and your tongue feel like lead. Who knew such pictures of domesticity could have this intense of a hold over you? You usually prided yourself in not being so easily affected by men. Though it wasn’t necessarily news that Rust was his own brand of a striking handsome that stood out against most men you’d come across. The sweet tea you’d supply for the dreadful heat when he’d carry out his projects ended up being more for your own benefit than his.

You caught yourself feeling greedy for more of his presence as he made himself an increasingly present fixture in your life. Which realistically…couldn’t lead to any sort of good. 

Bringing yourself back to now, his gaze held an emotion you couldn’t quite place. Hell, most times it was hard enough to know exactly what he was thinking unless he outright declared it. Maybe it was disapproval? Judgement? It wasn’t likely that he wanted to hear about your potential escapades. You probably wouldn’t want to hear of his either (not that he ever does speak of it if he even engages in that sort of activity) but you’d be coming from a different place on that matter. He returns to the pages of his ledger after deciding to break the staring spell, “I don’t see what sorta grand company could be found at an establishment such as the Green Gator.”

 His tone came out a bit too passive for your liking. Bordering the ugly lines of judgy which was something that rubbed you wrong entirely, “It’s the Blue Gator-”

“Oh hush up, Mr. High and Mighty. Not every man is as intellectually driven as you find yourself. Most men want fun and ain’t gonna pass it up when it’s in front of em’. They don’t need nearly as much as you do to get their rocks off.” Marty angles himself towards Rust in his chair, already willing to bat for you in his more than unhelpful way. 

Rust just scoffed and shook his head slightly, “Wouldn’t expect a thing from anyone in this vast shithole…buncha ignorant shitheels with no sense of fuckin’…” He muttered the rest of his ramblings detailing the severe lack of intelligence that the people of Louisiana seemed to hold while bringing his attention back to his ledger. 

His shoulders were set in a harder line than usual. Marty got a kick out of it all, reducing Rust’s distaste to not being able to participate in normalcy like anybody else in the world could.    

On your end, it struck a nerve that he clearly found your plans more than dissatisfactory. It left an unpleasant taste in your mouth to be on the potential receiving end of Rust’s ruthless judgments.

“You forget him, y/n. You have yourself a good ol’ time with whatever strappin’ young man of your choosing should he be lucky. Don’t let grumpy guss piss on your parade.” 

You find yourself grimacing at how much focus on you and the prospect of potentially getting laid has been put. You look back to Rust but he seemed to be no longer interested in your presence, back in his own world and on the case. Patting Marty on the shoulder you finally make your way to head out, “G’night. I’d love it if we never brought any of this up again. Page me if anythin’ comes up.” 

“Y’got it, darlin’. You stay safe.” Marty points at you a bit more seriously and you nod in slight exasperation with a soft ‘got it’ before officially leaving. Rust hadn’t said another word which left you feeling all sorts of confused. Relieved he didn’t further insult your plans for a night out? Disappointed he didn’t put up much of a fight when it came to you maybe trying to avoid any of your current problems with the company of another man? You don’t know what you expected but you did know that you needed to get it together and just let this shit go even for just one night. 

And what a night it would be indeed. 

Night at the Blue Gator…

The night was proving to be a bit more than uneventful. Perhaps uneventful was just about the only thing your mind could handle at the given moment with everything else going on. The lingering feeling of Rust’s disapproval had also left you more affected than desired. With a few Coors in your system, you find your gaze a little hazy as it passes around the kitschy establishment.

Some George Strait song filters through the bar on top of the active chatter of the patrons taking up a surprising amount of space for a Wednesday night. The cute little black dress you managed to find in your closet and squeeze into was becoming less than ideal as you found yourself hearing the siren call of just calling it quits and crawling into bed back home. Clean sheets and reruns of something like The Golden Girls…absolute fucking heaven right about now. 

Briefly pressing your perspiring bottle to your forehead, you soon enough were roped into a dance as some lively Brooks and Dunne tune came on. The fella who managed to drag you on the dancefloor was decent enough. A bit short and plenty bald… with maybe a tad too eager of hands for your tastes that left you feeling a bit removed from the experience as a few more songs went on. You weaseled yourself out of the crowd after ‘promising’ baldy (named Rex or Tex but who’s to really care) you’d make your return after grabbing a refreshment. 

Making your way to the bar your legs come to a sudden halt at the sight of a familiar figure slouched on a stool. After your brief shock shifted into a brewing irritation, your feet found themselves mobile again as you sidle next to Rust and order yourself another drink. He put out his cigarette as soon as you were near his side but made no motion to speak so you find yourself shooting first.

“For a place you couldn’t bother gettin’ the name right of you can color me surprised to see you here.”

“A man ain’t allowed to drink after work?” Is his flat reply. 

You put your hands up in mock defense, “No need for my permission. Just didn’t think you’d grace the simpletons ‘round here when you can have a drink for free and in peace in the comforts of your own home.” 

Rust didn’t have anything to say to that, instead lifting his own drink to his lips, “That man sure had a grip on ya. Doesn’t seem the type you’d to give the time of day to. Less’ you’re that compelled to blow off steam.” 

The thinly veiled nonchalance of his insult didn’t go past you. Instead, it caused you to bristle only in the way you could when you had a few drinks in you, a bit more sensitive and a helluva lot more confrontational. Who was he to judge how you spend your time? Let alone who the hell you spend it with? You set your new drink down with more force than necessary and felt your face starting to get hot. 

“I can dance with just about anybody.”

“That’s been made clear.”

“And why in god’s name do you care exactly just who it is I dance with?”

“Don't remember ever givin' the implication that I quite cared.” Calculated blue flitted over you as if bored. But you knew better.

“I’m sorry, did you just come here to make me out to be some desperate whore for drinkin’ and dancin’ when I’m a grown-” That got his expression to fall with something closely resembling alarm. 

“That ain’t-”

“Last I checked I can do whatever I so fuckin’ please. Do not go insertin’ yourself in the aspects of my life in which you are not fuckin’ concerned. Some of us are lonely and tired and can’t take comfort in stupid murder manuals or severe stretches of solitude. Call it my shitty programmin’ but that’s just how it is for most people. If I wanna drink and let a greaseball feel me up then that’s entirely up to me! Shit, it might be dumber than hell but it’s not like I’m gonna sit and wait around for you to make a move! That’s if you even feel a speck of the way I’m startin’ to towards you. Knowin’ you you’ve probably noticed and just like to see me embarrassed or somethin’.”

 Everything was coming out like one big bout of word vomit. There was an even deeper change in Rust’s demeanor but you were too tipsy and too angry to pay much notice. The burning behind your eyes grew stronger as you threw up a finger to jab at his shoulder,

“It is not up to you to judge people for the shit they do that you deem is beneath you every chance you get. You’re not perfect yourself and I know you know it. But thanks anyway for making me feel like a fuckin’  stupid loser-” Your heated rant was interrupted by a fat mitt of a hand making its way around your waist. 

“This fella botherin’ you, honey?” The hot whiskey-riddled breath of Tex or Lex or whoever the fuck immediately made your nose wrinkle in disgust. Your patience had run its due course for the night as you roughly shoved him off you,

“Oh come off it, Dex-”

“It’s Rex.”

“I don’t care no more I’m leavin’.” You threw a couple bills on the bar’s surface before making your move past both the offending men. Rex had different ideas and made the choice of gripping your arm tightly without much remorse despite your loud protest. 

“You still owe me a dance, bitch. Where d’ya think you’re goin-”

“You best get your hands off her, boy.” Rust’s glare was off-putting even to you. Rex was either too stupid or too drunk to really care as he attempted to yank you back towards him. With your heart racing, all you could think to do was take your heel-adorned food and stomp on his booted one hard. The short bastard yelped as he let you go, giving you the room to skirt past him far enough just in time for Rust to take him by the collar and send him reeling with a swift punch.   

Rex surprisingly regained momentum and took his chance to get a lick back at Rust but his opponent was already plenty steps ahead of him. Rust took Rex’s fist, twisting it behind the shithead’s back, and slammed his head into the bar countertop with a sick thud. A commotion had well enough formed by now and it was your obvious cue to start hustling your way out. Rust spit on the man who now had made a home on the sticky floorboards before turning to you. Your chest was heaving as you made way to open your mouth but he wouldn’t hear it as he grabbed your arm and started leading you out. 

The bar doors slammed open and the persistently thick air of the South drove you further into rage. You yanked your arm a few times until finally freeing yourself from his clutches. He didn’t stop to acknowledge you, instead making his way toward his truck as if expecting you to faithfully trail behind.

“Where exactly do you get off?!” You demanded, struggling to keep up in your heels which then had you electing to nearly fall over yourself trying to rip them off.

No answer.

“I’m talkin’ to you! What the hell is wrong with you?” Your feet were finally free on the warm pavement of the parking lot. You still received no reply.

“RUSTIN.” Your throat nearly felt raw at the volume of your hollering. He stopped at his truck’s passenger door and opened it. The blood in your veins thrummed while your head and heart felt like they were going to burst out of their respective places. 

“Get in the truck.”

“Absolutely not.” 

“You’re drunk-”

“You ain't one to talk. Don’t think I ain’t seen those bottles of cough syrup in your car or them pill bottles you got! I’ll make it just fine-"

“Y/n.” His low baritone left no room for argument, nor did his hard stare. You felt like a petulant child staring back at him with your arms crossed. 

Your will to break was unshakeable but you had the inclination that if you pushed him hard enough he’d have you in that passenger seat even if you came kicking and screaming. Huffing out a harsh breath you half stomped your way over and climbed in. Grabbing the handle for yourself you slammed the door before he had the chance to close it for you. You felt a lick of petty satisfaction when you saw his shoulders drop and a hand come up to squeeze the back of his neck. It wasn’t often you could catch Rust off-guard, let alone see him visibly exasperated.

After a moment or two, he rounded his way to the driver’s side and got inside with noticeably less ruckus than you did. He lit a cigarette as he pulled out of the parking lot, but not before rolling down the window in consideration of you. Bastard. 

“My car better find its way back into my damn driveway come morning.” 

He remained silent for the rest of the way.

Back to the present…

Pulling up to your house, the truck hadn’t even made a complete stop before you unbuckled and hastily hopped on out. You only stumbled a bit as the old Ford squeaked behind you in what was probably the harsh fashion in which Rust must’ve slammed on his brakes at your sudden escape. You heard the truck get thrown into park and a heavy slam of a door shutting as you quickened your pace up the pathway to your front porch. Your heaving breaths were drowned out by the frogs and nearby cicadas that created their own little symphony on your property. You knew Rust was following you but you naively hoped you’d make it up to shut the door in his face just in time. 

'Fuck, I forgot my shoes.’ Was your narrow thought as you fumbled for your key ring in the endless depths of your purse. Rust’s footsteps grew closer causing you to whip around and shove him back with a clumsy force much to his surprise. 

“Don’t you come followin’ me! I’ve had just about enough of you!”

“Listen-”

“No you listen! Never have I been more embarrassed than you’ve made me tonight. Never have I felt more stupid and small all because you decided today was the day I’d be on the shit end of your scathing criticisms! You can fuck right off with that mess. I’m goin’ to bed.” You turned to start your trek before he spoke up again,

“My intentions were not to come by and make you feel stupid.”

A near-jarring laugh clawed its way from your system, “Oh, so that’s your twisted way of makin’ a girl feel cared for. Is that it?” 

He let out a frustrated sound, “What’d you mean by startin’ to feel a certain way towards me. Back at the bar.”

Your heart nearly dropped out of your ass just then. Did you really blab on about that somewhere in the middle of your tirade? God, you could just about go feed yourself to the gators right now. Work would no doubt be complete hell after this nightmare of an outing.

“Take it how you want it. I know with you being as perceptive as you are it shouldn’t come as a mystery what I might feel. You do plenty towards me that’s had me foolishly thinkin’ there could be a one in a million chance of somethin’ but no dice. So what I want to know is why did you follow me out. Why did you come all this way to ruin my night.” 

The silence was biting as he offered up no explanation. He seemed to be trying to figure out that answer himself. Instead of the petty satisfaction you felt from seeing him at a loss earlier, he seemed well and truly bothered now which left a sinking feeling in your gut. The thought of the immovable force in front of you being this bothered when it came to matters involving you just made you all the more disoriented. There was only one other plausible explanation as to why he went through all this trouble to insert himself into the mix. 

You could almost fall to your knees laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of your creeping realization. It couldn’t be. There was just no way. But given the miserable look of Rust’s obvious inner battle on what he should decide to say to you had you gawking. 

The man was jealous. Rustin Cohle, feeler of nothing and believer of none, was jealous. A fit of giggles made their way out of you before you could help it. It might’ve been in poor taste during the seriousness of the moment between you both but you couldn’t stop. Rust seemed all the more distressed as if he’d been caught red-handed. Stripped bare in front of you despite no real accusation of his behavior being made quite yet. 

“If I knew any better I’d say you were plain jealous, Rust. Can’t say I see you bein’ capable of actin’ so irrationally. I thought entertainin’ such primal notions was too beneath you. Especially should it involve lil ol’ me.”

But he was indeed more than susceptible to all the irrational factors of his so-called programming when it came to you. You were beautiful. Mind, body, and soul. Your presence brought things to the surface he didn’t believe he could ever have the experience of feeling again. It scared him shitless. Having to face what was making his old tired heart beat into a lively rhythm again after convincing himself things of that nature were abysmally futile. Even as you stood in front of him now, with eyes and hair looking something fiercely wild, feet bare and dirtied from your lack of shoes in that high-cut black ensemble you had on. He absolutely knew that he couldn’t bring himself to deny what his programming was demanding of him when it came to the unknowing hold you had over him. Flexing his shaking fingers as if to render them steady he took a slow approach to you. 

This was a moment where you had neither the sense nor the imagination to anticipate what he’d do next. It was as if your heart had forgotten how to keep itself beating. This was the closest you had found yourself in his proximity. Being able to see every fine detail of the tragically beautiful man in front of you could have left you speechless for the rest of your days.

A large, calloused hand came to cup your jaw then the other followed. Both nearly took up the entire sides of your face, and their warmth made you feel as if you were on fire. His grip was firm… more so intenful if you were to put a name to it. Eyes searched each other in the most tortuously bated moment you’d ever found yourself being victim to. If you were to move an inch or look away the spell might be broken forever and you think you might just collapse if that were to happen. When had you gotten this dramatic?

Kiss me. God, kiss me. Just kiss me. You thought over and over as if willing it into his mind. Then, as if he heard you through some unspoken link, he did. 

It was like being let in on one big universal secret that couldn’t be fathomed by most. Never had you thought a kiss could wield as much power as Rust’s did. For being such a hard and withdrawn individual, the feeling of his slightly chapped lips on your plush ones felt nothing short of soul-bearing and endlessly warm. Trailing your hands up his broad chest, the quick pitter-pattering of his heart didn’t go past you. Drawing your palms up further you reach to lace deft fingers into the sandy waves that you’d secretly been aching to touch for a while now. His breath faltered as you pulled back for a brief moment. It wasn’t long before the invisible magnet between you both had you returning for more. 

The kiss turned more intense, bodies pressing and molding into each other as if you could become one entity. His tongue traced the seams of your lips and you had no qualms with letting him invade your senses further. The need for air was becoming harder to ignore but no force on earth could rip you away. The desire for him was something you’d not felt for another person in you’re not sure how long. If not ever. His breath held traces of the Lonestar he’d been cradling and the cigarette he’d deeply pulled on the way here and it had you absolutely hooked as it curled into your mouth. You didn’t know how long the pair of you stood on your porch necking like a bunch of desperate teenagers but by the time he pulled away you felt dizzy at the sight of his flushed complexion and swollen lips. Possessiveness gripped your being at the thought of being able to have such an effect on him. You. No one else. 

Rust’s grip loosened on your heated face as he planted one last sweet kiss on you before stepping away entirely. It was a shock that you had any remaining strength to keep yourself upright. His expression seemed a bit more relaxed, a bit too casual for what just transpired. There was a brief pause. 

“Don’t go out dancin’ anymore.” 

With that, he turned and made his slow descent back to his truck. Snapping out of your daze once the words sunk into the crevices of your Rust-drunk brain you quirked a brow, 

 “If that’s your odd way of layin’ claim on me I think I’m gonna need to ask for a more straightforward redo, mister.” 

You saw his shoulders shake slightly in amusement as the night found itself ending on a more playful albeit confusing note, “G’night, y/n.”

“I’m bein’ serious, Rust. You can’t just kiss a girl like that then waltz on out. I have questions.” You pointed.    

 “I’ll see ya tomorrow.” The cowboy gave a slight wave and then got into his truck. Oh, you could wipe that subtly growing smirk right off his stupid face. His dry sense of humor made its presence known at what you thought was the most inopportune of times. You stood there watching his truck disappear into the night, the ghost of him sticking to you like molasses. Your fingertips graced your buzzing lips and you could’ve started giggling again like some schoolgirl. How ridiculous indeed. 

You were so not letting any of this go when you got into work tomorrow.

[cyberpunkhwx]

please make a san version of the Average Stamina? Pretty please but a little longer and After her first squirt San makes her squirt over and over?

Fuck you empty

Pairing: bf!San x fem!reader

Word count: 1k

Warnings: pure smut, mdni, dom!San, sub!reader, fingering, oral(fem recieves), praises‌, pet names(love, babe, baby, darling), multiple cumming, multiple squirting, overstimulation, pretty quick ending and after care |let me know if i forgot anything|

Average stamina

A/n: atinys are hella kinky tbh. lowkey proofreaded~ pls ignore all the typos etc and let yourself enjoy the filth

You could say you knew your boyfriend of three years almost better than anyone else. From all he was passionate about, to dancing, singing his heart out and to being the best boyfriend the world has ever seen.

But some stuff takes three years to learn about

......

"Cmon baby give me one more, I know you can do it" He exhaled the words, barely audible. Only aving you coming down from your high wasn't enough for him, like he could even have enough of your pretty little flushed orgasm face.

"Sannie- please! Ahhm" you struggle again his bruising grip holding onto your waist, pinning tou on the mattress of your shared bed. Your hands move down to his bigger ones, not sure if you were holding into him for support or trying to escape the unwanted pleasure he was giving you regardless.

He rubbed his thumb across your soft tummy to comfort, while his other arms was busy mercilessly thrusting three fingers in your already soaking hole.

"Oh? Yes my baby, you can give me more, I know you do. Cmon, make your Sannie proud" He loosened the grip on your waist to let you hold his hand, before holding it tightly again. Not trusting your hips to stay put on its own.

Instead he moved his hand toward your lower belly, low enough for his thumb to now be resting on your puffy clit, rubbing circles on it to help you get closer, as if you werent already bursting wirh the pleasure.

"Feels good nah darling? You feel it too? The burning feeling right here in your little belly?" He pressed the same thumb onto your lower belly making you scream in pain, lifting your legs up uncontrollably, arching your back as far as you could.

Fuck his and his stupid thumb.

That's what you thought. But not exactly what you whimpered.

"Sannie- so close please- more-ah"

"Oh? Thought you wanted me to stop? Make your mind love" he said not hiding the smirk in his voice as moved his hands even faster if it even was possible. You could feel your legs shaking around his body as you kept on arching your back toward him, you body moving itself towards him, as if it knows your desires better.

"Sannie- cumming cumming, it's-cumming-" He moved his hands to a new angle, hitting were you thought he should've have, because the moment he did, you felt the wave of euphoria wash over your soul as if you could feel anything no more. As if your body went numb, you let go of everything except for your lifely grip of his hand.

"God damn my baby, you made a mess" you said taking his fingers out of your now freaking dripoing cunt. After not hearing any answers, he pulled his hand holding you, towards him, making your head face him, looking at his now wet lower body, mixed with his own pre cum, on his now angey red cock.

"You see this love? You did this, all this with thay pretty cunt of yours" he let go of your head, letting you crawl in a corner.

"We are you going babe? Are you gonna be so cruel to this pretty pussy? Look at it, it's yearning for more" He let his index and middle finger wrap themselves around sensetive clit, squizing it the slightest just to get your attention back to him.

"Hmm love? I can feel like beating for more, it starts to drip again, is it because of my words? Or because of my fingers working on you?" He kept his movement, frustratingly slowly.

"Sannie- can't do more-tired" you muttered, hips already shaking at his movement, trying to fine a way to escape.

"Oh baby, that's why I take charge here, yo can't make the right decisions after a few orgasm, tsk" He chuckled before continuing-

"You still have alot to give me my darling, I'm just trying to help you" He re-angled his hands, now having all fingers on your bare pussy, moving harshly to the sides, caging you legs with his much stronger ones.

You cried out his name multiple times before feeling the liquid dripping harshly out of your hole.

"Hmm, not quite there now are we love?" It was a theoretical question. No answer needed. He gave your over sensetive clit and few more rubs, as if he was enjoying this more than he's supposed to be. Maybe he does.

He moved his fingers, lower towards you hole, pushing in two fingers scissors you open, only for more than your cum to drip out.

"oh baby, your body if calling for me, gonna fuck you empty" he muttered to himself. He lifted your hips higher, placing it on a pillow nearby. Having fully acces to your little cunt. He moved his mouth to your clit, sucking in it with his whole mouth, while his fingers begun to play with your walls.

"Cmon baby, squirt it all on my face, let ir go and you'll feel better. I know best" He voice was muffled and so were your ears with the sound of your heart beating louder than ever. Everything felt so great and painful at the same time. You wanted it to stop and never end. Your brain told you that you couldn't take more while your body went limb in san's hold, trusting with your whole being.

"sannie, cumming" that was all you could say before abutting your mouth again, rubbing your cunt towards his handsome face.

"Cum baby, be a good girl" you let you eye lids close as you felt ridiculously empty, as if you were even lighter.

Suddenly you whined in pain as you saw your boyfriend slowly and so gently letting your sore legs now on the soft bit drenched mattress.

"Now that felt better, didn't it? He said winking right after. Running a hand on your body, giving a fast massage before he grabbing his t-shirt from the ground to clean both you and him.

" I think we'll need abit more wash clothes than this one" He joked, still having enough energy to move around with his naked butt.

"But no worries, I got us both"! He said showing you his dimples as if he didn't take the soul out of you.

Ateez masterlist

[acowardinmordor]

You Left Me, You Miss Me - Five

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five

Continuing immediately from part Four. And I hear your screaming, and enjoy it, but I am pretty sure that I'm not going the direction you expect me to.

------

“Huh?”

“I asked them to,” Eddie repeated, quieter.

It didn’t make more sense the second time.  His kids were stubborn. They were obnoxious, and someone asking them to do, or not do something had never once changed anything. Steve spent the last few years asking them not to leave crumbs in his car, and to call before coming over, and to please, just once, let him choose the movie on a movie night. Plus the part where everyone asked them not to put themselves in danger when monsters crawled out of the ground. 

Threats didn’t work on them, law enforcement didn’t work on them, like hell was something as delicate as asking going to do a damn thing. 

“Yeah, no, I heard you, but I don’t get it. So you, what? You sat them down and asked them to ice me out? And they said ‘sure why not!’ Man, even if you asked them to, they’re still the ones that did it. Shit, you’ve never liked me. There’s no way that you didn’t tell the boys to stop hanging out with me last year during your game meetings before everything happened.” Eddie shrank further into the seat, so Steve added, “So, it’s not your fault, but I guess I forgive you if that makes you feel better.”

Eddie gnawed on the inside of his cheek, wincing at what felt like every other word.

“Shit, Steve, it’s -- Shit,” he cursed as he sloshed some of his coffee over the brim. His eyes were clenched shut, and he was curled in on himself. “I didn’t sit them down and tell them to stop talking to you. That -- no way that would work. You’re right. They wouldn’t just -- Like I said, they’re crazy about you. It’s more, it’s all of the, I told them about how ever since -- shit. Look, it doesn’t matter why or how I did it, just trust me, I’m the reason. It’s my fault, and I fucked up, and I didn’t mean it to make -- but you left, and it’s killing them, and so you gotta forgive them, at least talk to them, cause its not their fault.”

“Yeah,” Steve stalled, “still don’t get why you think this is on you, dude.”

“At the beginning it -- shit, no. Doesn’t matter. Jesus Christ, Munson, don’t make this about that. Okay. I asked them not to invite you if I was around, cause I wasn’t -- I didn’t want to see you, and then I made sure they were always around me because -- because I wanted them to. And then I, you know, kept poking at them about it when they’d bring it up, reminding them that you don’t like D&D and that you wouldn’t want to watch the new Star Trek movie, and when they said anything I just kept telling them that -- Shit, just believe me. I’m the one that made them do this, it’s my fault, it’s not them.”

Okay, so Eddie was pushier since Spring Break than he was before it. Or the kids listened to him more. Or they were trying to take care of him. So Eddie was the prompt for them cutting him out of everything. Fine.

Still didn’t make it the guy’s fault. 

Steve got close with Robin after she found out about the Upside Down. But he didn’t get close to Jonathan. Dustin became, for a while at least, his brother. Steve would die for Mike, but they didn’t hang out if it wasn’t a group thing. All of them were tied together, and any one of them could make a call, and everyone would come to help, but that didn’t make them all automatically into friends. 

God, Eddie looked like he was on the edge of a breakdown in a booth in a diner. 

“Look, it’s,” Steve spun his coffee cup, “you’re real close with the guys in your club right? The ones in your band?”

Eddie went tense, then nodded awkwardly.

“You’re close because of that stuff, though. Not just cause you had some classes together or were next to each other on a bus. You got pushed together for some random reason, but  that happened with a lot of people. But you had shared interests, right? You like that game, and you got bullied at school and you like the same loud screaming music. So you got to know each other, and you had a bunch in common, and so you guys are friends. You’re close, so even though you graduated, and you don’t have class and lunch together anymore, you’re still friends.

“Christ, Steve, no,” he protested. 

Steve ignored that and kept going.

“I never had that with the kids, or any of them. Shit. Never had that with Nance either, but I didn’t know it back then.” His inner Robin glared, and he stayed on topic. “It wasn’t as simple as sharing some classes, there were monsters and all that, but that’s what kept me and them around each other. No more monsters now, so.”

His stomach twisted, like it always did if he got too close to thinking about this. 

He only barely managed to talk about this with Robin, because when it was Robin he was honest, and when he was honest, really honest, he ended the night quiet and hurting and picking apart the past year trying to find what he could have done differently. Shoving all of that back into the dark of his mind, he conjured up a casual shrug and a smile. 

“I get that they’re probably freaking out right now, but they’ll get over it. Give it another month or two and it’ll be fine. Start one of your campaign -- your big story things and distract them if they’re bugging you about it.” 

He wiped up the coffee Eddie spilled on instinct, and shoved the napkin in his now empty cup. 

Time to get home and get a nap before he went to the stockroom that night. He wouldn’t see Robin until he picked her up for work, but they were scheduled alone, so he could talk all of this through then. Trying to pretend this day didn’t happen would last all of eight seconds of contact with his best friend. Maybe she could make sense of how he was feeling. 

“Wait, stop, you can’t leave yet.”

“Munson, I’ve been here since before dawn, I wanna leave.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, but you have to talk to them. They miss you.”

“They didn’t six weeks ago, did they? Or for the holidays? Or for the months before that, huh?” Steve finally snapped, then took a breath. “Sorry. Answer’s still no.”

He bussed their cups and the creamer to the pass through and grabbed his coat and gloves. Steam rose off Hopper’s truck where he had the engine running to keep warm. They exchanged a single nod before Steve turned towards the road to walk home. 

“Steve!” 

It wasn’t a shock to hear, but Steve had hoped that Eddie wouldn’t follow. 

“Okay, I get that you’re not going to just forgive them, and that you don’t want to talk to them, but--”

“No. I don’t. And I know you think this is your fault, and I’m telling you it’s not, and I told you, I’m not mad at you about this. We weren’t friends. I’m not mad at you for not wanting me around or whatever. That’s fine. And? They’ll get over it, and everyone can just move on with their lives with the people they actually like.”

Steve’s stupid voice betrayed him, cracking, and he cut off the rest of what he might have said. Anger was the fastest way to shut down weakness, and it was easy for him to sink into it.  

Eddie had his hands in his hair, clutching at it near his temples, looking borderline hysterical. 

“Would you at least listen if they talked?”

“They don’t have my phone number, and if you tell them where I live, I’ll send Mrs Buckley after you. And Hopper.”

“You could call them.”

“No.”

It wasn’t about who placed the call. If he heard them, if they said a fraction of what he wanted to hear, he’d cave, immediately and entirely, and then both the real life Robin, and the mini Robin in his brain would give him hell. 

“Steve come on, something, anything. Letters? If they write letters?”

“I’m not giving them my address, and Hopper already asked about mailing stuff through him instead. No.”

It was cold and he was tired. Just about the only person in the party that he didn’t care had abandoned him was trying to pull Steve back into the vat of slow simmering pain he was still climbing out of. 

“Look, Eddie --”

“I’ll drive them. The letters. You don’t even have to answer, or read them. Let me tell them that I can bring you letters, and I’ll drive them up here. If you do want to answer I’ll wait and then drive whatever it is back. As many times as you want.”

“Come on, man.”

“I won’t even -- I don’t have to know where you live, or your number, anything. I can come here. To the diner. Won’t even come inside, just drop them off and wait. You won’t have to talk to me, or see me. Just, come on. Even if you never forgive them, or answer them, let them have this. Even if you don’t read what they say, let them think they got to apologize.”

The wind shifted, and Steve tucked his chin into his coat to wait it out. 

Eddie was shivering two steps away, gloveless hands shoved under his arms, hair tangling into more of a mess than usual. 

“That’s a stupid idea, Munson,” he said when the gust stopped, “If they know that you know where I am, and you don’t tell them, they’re going to hate you. They’d drive you insane trying to get you to tell them, and they’d be horrible the whole time. They already ditched me for you, so, don’t make them hate you too.”

“They already hate me.” The response was immediate and defeated.

“Dude, they don’t.”

“They do. They figured it out a few weeks ago. That I was the reason. Just cause you don’t get it doesn’t mean they don’t. This is my fault. They already hate me. They won’t even talk to me long enough to yell. They act like I don’t exist.”

“Christ, Munson, is that why you’re up here, freezing your ass off in a parking lot and bitching at me? So you can get them to like you by getting me to talk to them?”

Eddie flinched. Didn’t say anything for a minute as he shivered with wide eyes. Then, without any of the dramatics the guy was known for, “Please, Steve. Even if you throw them out right after. Let them write to you, and let me tell them the truth when I say you got them. I think they can survive if they don’t hear back. They’ll blame me, but that’s fine, they should. The silence is what’s killing them. They need to say how -- they need to believe that you heard how sorry they are.”

It was so fucking cold it was making Steve’s eyes water. That was the only reason for it. The cold front that came in overnight.

“I’m not gonna promise to read them,” he caved.

The tension collapsed out of Eddie, and he slumped forward, hiding his face in his hands. 

“I work here in the mornings Monday through Wednesday every week. You should drop them off then. M’not saying I’ll read them, or write anything back, but if they want to write, fine.” 

Eddie nodded over and over, hiding behind his hands, and whisper-mumbling something that Steve couldn’t catch. He was shaking again. The kind of full body wracking that meant the cold was sinking deep.

“Christ, go get in Hop’s truck before your fingers freeze off or something.” 

Without waiting for a response, or checking that he listened, Steve turned and kept walking. Another gust of wind tore through him, loud enough that he wouldn’t have heard another call of his name. It was a good thing that John messed up the big combo that morning, and Steve had eaten it during the lull after breakfast. He wasn’t going to manage anything else until tomorrow at the earliest. 

That was assuming Robin didn’t kill him on the spot for his stupid, stupid decision. 

Ten steps down the road, and he already regretted it. Even if he didn’t read anything, even if they never sent anything, the choice would sit like a rock in his gut; a new ache, a new bruise, and Steve was dumb enough that he’d keep poking at it. 

---

I'm sad that this is two chapters without Robin. That's some kind of a crime. Can guarantee that Robin has Strong Opinions about this when she talks to Steve that night.

I don't do tag lists or regular updates, and I have no shame about that.

>>>>>Part Six