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autisticlee · 9 hours ago

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working through autisitc traumas with my therapist. she wanted me to figure out why I have such a trauma response to doing art collabs with people.

after some poking at my brain, a repressed memory revealed itself and started unfolding. i remembered i was bullied by other artists during a collab, but not the details. then i remembered i saved some screenshots and went through them which unfolded more. it was the time I did my first and so far only art collab. it was meant to be a happy and fun experience, but turned so bad so fast. it was on twitter some years back and i was very much bullied by the mod of it and my collab partner who was his best friend. i truly, genuinely didn't understand why or what was happening??? and couldn't get answers. never got answers. trying to get answers was a big bad no-no. any attempts to ask clarification or explain things made me the "bad guy with behavior problems" but of course this was never explained or talked about with me at all. apparently because if it was, i would be "butthurt" or something. i was never given the opportunity to even discuss it, which i would have preferred, because i like to work through things and have honest and open communication at all times until any conflict is resolved! so this supposed "behavior" i didn't know about was only used later to insult me behind my back, instead of talking it out.

because of course being autistic and trying to ask clarification, understand a problem, wanting to make things better, or explain a misunderstanding means you just have bad behavior, are attention seeking, are trying to start drama and be offensive, have a bad attitude, and are a horrible person 🙄 we all hear this all the time right? many allistics are incredibly offended by us trying to understand what their problem is, not being able to read their minds, and trying get them to have clear and honest communication with us. they rather "drop it" and not discuss it and then blame us when the problem doesn't magically go away! they perceive any attempt at communication as an attack on them. and since we don't play their games how they want or expect, we are the bad person who is doing it "on purpose" apparently!

i've debated back when this happened if I should post these screenshots I have. especially since I didn't get screenshots for all the stuff that was happening. like when the group chat disappeared, I was unable to get anything from before that. if they deleted stuff too quick and i only got the popup notif on my phone but it was gone on twitter, i didn't get it. also i only did screenshots to share with my friend chat and ask them if they understood what was happening because i was so confused. and didn't know there was a problem until it was too late. so i didn't record everything.

I, for the life of me, cannot figure out what was happening. to this day. i'm SO CONFUSED. truly, genuinely, swear on my entire existence, agreeing to accept being cursed and cast to hell if i'm lying at all, i do not understand and was not trying to cause any harm on purpose.

they either genuinely thought I was doing something wrong on purpose and it was all a huge misunderstanding, because i struggle with words due to my disability, and they misread the tone of my texts or something else. i gave them the benefit of the doubt and tried to work it out. but they refused to work out with me.

OR they were just being bullies on purpose and trying to gaslight and accuse me instead for fun? i don't know! if they misunderstood me and decided to take it out on me instead of talking it out, how am i supposed to know what i supposedly did wrong? BECAUSE I DID NOT KNOW. i can only make guesses.

I can't figure it out. there was no talking with these people because they decided I was a bad, horrible person for trying to talk it out and understand/explain what (i thought) was happening, so they wouldn't have honest communication with me no matter what I did. I would just get shut down and told i'm trying to make drama. I hate drama. but I love clear communication and understanding and fixing problems! sorry if you don't value clear communication and rather take offense to it and call it "drama/bad behavior" lmao.

i do admit i avoided directly talking out problems with my collab partner, mainly because i didn't know there was a problem or how or approach it??? because it wasn't ME having the problem with them. it was me perceiving they had a problem with me but were silent on it and i was punished for not reading their mind. things started bad with the mod, so i didn't want to "cause more drama" by asking why my collab partner didn't want to talk to me and was ignoring me in the gc. but they also never tried to communicate with me about the problem they may have had, so how is that on me? why is it my job to figure out thir issue and bring it up first? if they don't say anything, i can only assume it's not that big of a deal for them?? right? more on that later with a screenshot

so, I don't even feel like blocking out usernames anymore. i started to but meh i give up. if that's wrong, i apologize. i've decided that if they have the same usernames still and someone decides to take this to them, then whatever. they can either act like an adult, listen to me, and have clear and honest communication in order to work out the misunderstanding, and apologize for THEIR behavior, or they can leave me alone. you cannot claim someone was purposely doing bad things when they are completely clueless about it.

if they think I WAS THE PROBLEM and i don't know what the hell i did wrong, it's THEIR responsibility to tell me. but they did not. the only "problem" they told me about was my art apparently being shit after i definitely NEVER asked for their "advice"

anyway here's some of the screenshots i got along with the story. maybe if someone reads all this you can help explain what the fuck was even happening and help me understand?????????? did i make an honest mistake and not realize, or were they just being bullies like my old friend gc told me? but i'm using this post to try to work it out now that my therapist made this repressed memory come back and encouraged me to work through it....

it started when an artist on bts kpop twitter posted about an art collab their friend was hosting that needed more people. i replied and said i'd join! i love collabing and working together with people and would love more art friends! so they added me to the group chat.

when we got enough people, the mod announced that we will choose what member of bts we want to draw and be partnered with one person doing the same member to draw opposite theme arts. i said i'd take yoongi if no one else does. i literally gave an opportunity to let someone else take him because i wanted to be nice! no one else did. only my future collab partner did. i waited and no one said anything. i didn't get a response from the mod but everyone else did for theirs, as he marked them all down and shared the doc screenshot. yoongi still unmarked. i was 110% planning on giving him to someone else IF THEY JUST SAID THEY WANTED HIIM. but literally no one did. yet i kept getting told someone called him already so i have to wait for them to respond?????

so of course i kept trying to ask, because every other member was filling up and only like 2 others + yoongi were left

WHO WERE THESE PEOPLE. WHERE WERE THEY. WHY WERENT THEY TALKING. why was it my responsibility to talk to them if yo u won't tell me who they are! pretty sure i asked who they were so i can talk to them but didn't get a response. i was never told once who these people were???? so as far as i'm concerned, they never existed!

even others in the gc stuck up for me saying i called yoongi first! a few of them even dm'd me saying they're trying and also don't know why i'm being ignored. i asked if they saw anyone else call yoongi first before i was added to the gc so i can message the person, because YOU CANNOT SEE MESSAGES FROM BEFORE YOU WERE ADDED TO A GC. and i was among the last 3 or so to be added. so if someone said it, i literally cannot find proof myself, yet the mod refused to send me proof of the claim. the people who dm'd me said they didn't see anyone else either. i even asked one of them to scroll back and look and send me a screenshot of who claimed him and they said there was no one before me! (i didn't think to screenshot those dms unfortunately. but i got a few where they said it on the gc itself)

"it's about getting here first" while people were saying i WAS first??? according to literally everyone EXCEPT YOU i was first. you refused to tell me who this "real" first was. how am i supposed to talk to them then??? and i have to wait for them to speak up themselves because you refuse to tell me. if i remember correctly, he even said he's not going to call them out and i have to wait for them to reveal themselves. no one did lmao. so WHAT IS FAIR ABOUT ANY OF THIS. it's not fair to me that's for sure.

this is where i didn't get many screenshots because i was suddenly kicked from the chat soon after this. i only have these few because i was asking my friend gc what this meant and what i'm supposed to do since most of my messages are being ignored. there were more of me asking, being ignored, other people trying to speak up for me, and being told yoongi is taken, despite it not being marked off on the doc....all i did here was ask if i can do yoongi if no one else is, and since it looked like no one else was, then asked a few more times because i never got a response until other people started speaking up for me.

it was part of the lost chat, so i didn't get screenshots, but my future collab partner was practically begging everyone to work with them on yoongi. but they all refused and said they already chose a different member and that i chose yoongi first. they weren't asking someone who said they wanted yoongi. they were asking people that chose a different member! so if someone chose him already, why weren't they @'ing that person to ask them??? they even discussed their whole idea which was angel and demon and they were doing the angel side. i said i like that idea and since the others don't want to do yoongi, i'd be happy to do that idea with them! i was ignored. and perhaps i was metaphorically attacked

while i was typing in the text box to send another message, the chat box froze, then the group chat suddenly went blank, and nothing was there anymore, with a popup thing saying there was an error or something, and it wouldn't let me send the message. i thought maybe my internet went out so checked it. it was fine. i thought twitter broke. i restarted the app and the gc was completely gone from my messages??? i thought the mod decided to end it and i didn't see the message because i was typing. so i went to his twitter to see if he posted an update. nothing. then he sends me a message

i was incredibly confused. i figured there was a mistake, but tried to investigate to figure out how twitter broke that bad when i was the only person that had that issue. i said if i figure out what happened, i'd let him know. all i know is i didn't, COULDNT have left the chat by myself. you can't just click leave when you're in the middle of typing a message 😭

so when i joined the gc, i followed everyone in it once we finalized who was part of the collab. but i noticed once i was added back in, there was ONE person i was suddenly no longer following. i asked my friend gc, and they confirmed that if you block (or soft block, aka blocking and unlocking immediately) it makes the person unfollow you, but also kicks you out from any gc you share with them. they know because they blocked each other as a joke sometimes and had to keep adding each other back in the gc after that.

so logically, if i'm suddenly not following one single person in the gc, but i'm still following everyone else. that means they soft blocked me and no one else could have (i didn't know the term soft block at the time, so i didn't use it. so there is a chance they took "block" rather than soft block as a offense? and maybe that was my mistake? but also it could have very well went the same way regardless) but like i said, i let him know that i figured it out! i stated it very matter of factly, as in i wasn't upset but just stating what i thought was facts. what i thought had happened based on my investigation and discussing with my friends. i didn't care at all about the soft block. you do you. if you don't want me to follow and we aren't friends, i don't give a fuck. i was just stating the reason i was suddenly gone from the chat! but if the reason was because we were about to become collab partners and you didn't want that to happen, you owe me words and an explanation. it's not up to me to read your mind and try to figure it out!!!! so i tried to explain my thought process to the mod.

i assume sam here was annoyed at me asking to be partners since all their friends were turning them down and this supposed "first" yoongi-claimer wasn't speaking up. so they decided to "get back at me" by soft blocking because they don't want me following. sure. whatever. but what i don't think they realized was it KICKS ME FROM THE GROUP CHAT.

this is where things get muddy and confusing......and also everything is stacked against me because surprise, my collab partner and the mod are best friends! i don't think alex realized how soft blocking works / wouldn't accept it. wouldn't accept that their best friend was the cause and i didn't "choose" to leave on by myself. i tried to explain how twitter works and he refused to listen

alex was not listening to reason or logic AT ALL. he let his "i must protect best friend" emotions cloud his judgement. he took it as me accusing his best friend of i-don't-know-what offense to purposely try starting drama. well I PERSONALLY didn't see how this was a bad thing??? and i wasn't sharing this info to make it out to be a bad thing at all. i was sharing that i figured out how i was kicked because i said i would if i figured it out! i accepted the soft block and would let that go. a soft block kicking me from the gc was probably a small mistake sam didn't anticipate. maybe they didn't tell alex about it, so maybe alex had no idea. no harm in sam admitting to it and apologizing or even moving on! but it seems sam kept it to themself. it may have all been a misunderstanding. yet when i tried to talk it out but was only shut down.

alex never even acknowledged the fact that sam was begging everyone else to do yoongi with them. why didn't alex tell sam to ask the mysterious "first yoongi asker" i kept getting told existed???? why didn't alex tell sam to talk tot me about about it? why didn't alex tell me who that supposed person was to tell them to dm me? why did they never get yoongi in the end if they existed? why was i by default given yoongi when he was inevitably left over? why was everything my responsibility, my fault, and my problem? why was trying to get clarification and not getting any a bad and horrible thing? why could no one speak clearly, honestly, and straightforward with me? i can only assume these people who claimed yoongi didn't exist and were made up since they never spoke up and alex refused to tell me their name. so obviously they had a problem with me choosing yoongi and refused to speak about it to me! they just hoped someone else would claim him, but turned out everyone was on my side sticking up for me

so i tried to talk about it since no one else would come to me first. i tried to explain that i thought it was because sam wanted to work with their friends they asked who kept turning them down, and especially since the last message i was able to send was saying i'd do it with them since their friends won't. then suddenly poof, i was kicked. but yeah alex won't listen. sam probably lied to him saying they didn't soft block me so they can make me look like the bad guy. despite twitter literally having this mechanic that all pointed to sam doing exactly what i had said. alex had no way of refuting it except deciding i'm a liar. either that, or they were in on it together. but part of me wants to think sam lied and alex truly didn't understand. but try explaining as a stranger to someone their best friend is lying to them.....instead IM the liar i guess LOL

I WAS GENUINELY CONFISED AS FUCK AND TRYING TO FIGURE IT OUT AND YOU WERE NOT HELPING AT ALL ALEX. WHY WOULD A LIAR BE CONFUSED???? I DIDNT ACCUSE SAM OF ANYTHING BAD EITHER. I WASN'T DOING DRAMA. I WAS BEING TRUTHFUL AND SERIOUS. I WAS TRYING MY BEST TO FIGURE OUT WHAT WAS HAPPENING AND UNDERSTAND SO I COULD TRY TO HELP FIX IT. IF YOU USED YOUR BRAIN AND COMMUNICATED PROPERLY WITH ME INSTEAD OF RUNNING YOUR EMOTIONS MAYBE YOU'D SEE THE LOGIC BEHIND MY WORDS. MAYBE IF YOU COMMUNICATED PROPERLY TO BEGIN WITH THIS WOULDNT HAVE HAPPENED

but of course someone will only believe their best friend...but why is soft blocking a bad thing that you need to defend so hard? sure, it's rude, but everyone does it so it was so normalized, i thought it was fine to point out, like genuinely. AND I WAS OK WITH IT I ACCEPTED IT????? they coud have asked me to unfollow and i would have asked why but did it in the end. but if sam had an issue with working with me to the point they wanted me to not follow anymore, they should use their words and speak to me!!!!!!!!! not soft block me away and start this whole nonsense.

i assume i was kicked upon soft block and sam didn't know that's what happens when you soft block and that's why they "didnt know until alex told them" so they panicked and lied to alex about not blocking me (OR they hard blocked and noticed i was out and panicked and unblocked? but soft block sounds more believable to me for some reason) and alex of course took their side and believed them, typical best friend behavior. but still doesn't excuse alex's behavior and deciding i'm the bad person. i tried so hard to fix the issue and come to an understanding but he made up his mind and refused to give me the benefit of the doubt like i'm STILL giving him for some reason! when he doesn't deserve it at this point!

anyway, i'm added back to the gc and i'm FINALLY given yoongi since i'm the only one without an assignment and he's the only one left over. i wasn't even told. the final doc was just posted. so everyone starts discussing their ideas. i said i'm going with what my partner suggested earlier, unless they want to do something else. they didn't respond and tell me they disagreed? they just posted this:

all i had to go off of was what i remembered them saying before i was kicked from the gc. so i started on that. i assumed they didn't want to discuss further when they said this? i also assumed they didn't want to talk to me because i was still sure they soft blocked me because how else would all that happen.....

they ended sending me their art that was not at all the concept they said they were doing in the gc. it didn't match mine so i told them i was doing what they said they were doing and they're like oh fine i guess i have to redo my art. so they redid it. but that's on you for deciding to not discuss it and not doing your original concept.

i think it was while waiting for sam to finish their art, some other weird things were happening???? can't remember if it was only sam or if alex did it too, but they started liking a bunch of my old tweets, so it felt like they were stalking my account (trying to dig up dirt to prove i'm a bad person perhaps?) don't know but it made me feel uncomfy. didn't mention it though. just felt weird so idk what the purpose was

one of the old tweets they found was where i posted a dtiys post ("draw this in your style") which was a twitter trend where artists posted an art that they let other artists redraw, but in their style. basically you copy the art, but in your style. you don't change the general art concept. you are supposed to keep all the main details, not change them to make it look completely different. it's supposed to be recognizable as a redraw, not like a whole different art. at least that's how all the ones i saw were done. unless i misunderstood. also, you're supposed to quote retweet the original art with your art or add the link in your replies to credit the original. here's an example i just found, you can see how you're supposed to do it, how everyone does it:

so these two suddenly posted a dtiys of my art! i was surprised, and at first wasn't suspicious at all, my brain just jumped into grateful mode, so i went to thank them. before i could see it, they were deleted. i clicked the notification popup on my phone and it said no longer exists. a bit later they were reposted and stayed up longer. i waited before i responded this time and they stayed up for a while. this is when i started to get sus since i could look at the posts now. they didn't quote my original art. just posted it and @'d me.

and.....it wasn't the best art. they even both said so themselves in their posts. but mainly it wasn't good because they failed to do the prompt correctly at all. they didn't draw my art in their style. they posted an art not even slightly related to my art! i wasn't going to point this out, but thank them and move on. alex was like "hope you don't mind i changed some details" but there were no detail at all that matched mine so ??????????? it looked like they posted a random unrelated art, maybe slightly edited pretending it was a dtiys. if they did draw whole new arts,,,,,looking like they used an unrelated art they already had done explains how badly they did the whole prompt. but it's not your job to judge if they don't ask you to. so i didn't say anything about that. maybe explains why they didn't quote/link my art like everyone else who did the dtiys did. maybe they didn't want anyone to call out the fact they didn't do the dtiys it right. (but it could have also been them not wanting to give me "clout" by sharing my art with their followers?)

i didn't screenshot alex's full art since i didn't think to do it, but you can see enough of it to see it's nothing close to mine. alex and sam posted at exactly the same time as you can see from the timestamps. so they were obviously planning it together. seemed super sus. and here's my art to compare and see how they didn't do MY art in their style at all. they did a completely different art (the main focus of the art was supposed to be the big hat and the little bird on it, as well as the colors. they didn't do any of those things! it's also meant to be a messy sketch with water color where i was playing with colors. not perfect or realistic! i did this as a way to try to convince myself to NOT be a perfectionist about my art! which makes the things i was told after this so much worse....)

but ok cool. i liked/rt'd both arts. i was able to comment on one, which was alex's, but as i was trying to reply to sam's they deleted

then alex responded to my response. i didn't get a screenshot of the first reply because he deleted it soon after, but i paraphrased the best i could remember to my friends who i asked to help me figure out what was happening, so this was basically the first reply, followed by the second (and my reply to the art that was deleted as well) ((also this was before i went by "Lee" so i crossed out my old name for myself. he/him was also used and i used they/them fulltime now))

after i shared this with my friend gc to ask what they think, one friend got super defensive and said she was going to respond. i told her multiple times not to. she didn't listen because i got a notif that she responded to the thread. so i muted that thread because i said i don't want to be part of that since i told her not to. i even defended alex's pronouns because that friend kept calling him "she" and i told her to stop shitting on his art. we aren't friends anymore, but when we were, i still wasn't defending her decisions there lol so i'm not going to defend her at all now either since some of the replies were her just being mean lmao. her words are her own responsibility, it had nothing to do with me. so i won't share those.

since i muted the thread and didn't look at what they were saying to each other, i got curious and just now went back and looked up my old friend's replies so maybe i can gain some kind of clarity to the situation and make sense of it now. i can't believe what i read from alex, but also i'm not surprised. the thread was broken so might be missing stuff. so this is all that was found. but alex was showing his true colors. tori replied to the above tattoo comment:

i won't include it because it's kinda irrelevant, but alex says he's just giving advice because he apparently ~knows better~ they argued a lot with tori saying alex did the challenge wrong, alex saying he can do what he wants. and alex saying he and sam didn't like the art they did so both deleted it. tori saying there's no reason to delete and they should keep it up out of respect. and why even post it if you don't like it lmao, especially after you insulted my art. then, for no reason, alex was just being super nasty towards me/my art for no reason when i had nothing to do with what tori was saying! basically he seems to have revealed his true colors!

what does alex EVEN MEAN here. i don't understand it lmao. is he trying to say he sees why i don't have art friends because i had a protective friend group???? how's that make sense LOL and oh standing up for your friend is "disrespectful and uncalled for"?? i guess you're also disrespectful then alex. you defending sam and calling me a liar was uncalled for! hypocrite. who do you think YOU are????

ANYWAY if you hate my art so much, why the fuck did you choose that art for dtiys challenge???? why even do a dtiys of my art at all????? i had many other arts to choose from!!!! if your whole reason was just so you would be able to insult my art, then what the fuck. why bother? but alex clearly hated my art SO MUCH. so i can't understand why he chose to do it unless it was for the purpose of bullying????? especially when he and sam both admitted to not putting effort into it! even though he had to ~spend so much time fixing my mistakes~ 🙄 i'm going to puke on him. what. you can't "fix other people's mistakes" in art. it doesn't work that way.

the thread got split so i will try to put them together in order. apologies if it's confusing!

to use your own words against you alex, i don't know who you think you are but. no one made you king of art and gave you the right to judge others' LMAO "as a tattoo artist i have the right to judge--" NO YOU DONT YOU ELITIST FOOL. that's hilarious. and you called the whole thing "utterly awful" so this wasn't just about tattoos. and the contradicting himself? first saying he had to "spend hours fixing" then turns around to say "have better things to do than fix other ppl mistakes" make up your mind. did you spend hours on it or rush to finish? and you don't get to call other people's art a "mistake" lmao

next, "it's not bad to seek advice" THATS THE PROBLEM ALEX. I DID NOT ASK FOR YOUR ADVICE. did you not know it's extremely rude to give "advice" when not asked? it's rude and looked down on to criticize someone's art to their face when they didn't ask. you don't try to help if they didn't want help. (especially when it was one art i posted about being very proud of! it was like this was on purpose!) i don't think alex wanted to help at all, especially when his "advice" was about being destructive and not constructive at all. i can't learn from insults. there was no real advice. only telling someone they did wrong or bad isn't advice lmao. IF YOU ARE GOING TO CRITISIZE do NOT give DESTRUCTIVE advice by pointing out what is "bad/wrong" instead be constructive and actually say how to improve. but only if asked!!!!! alex was WAY more destructive than constructive! all he did was point out what he didn't like. the only thing i "realized" is alex thinks he's king shit, has some kind of complex where he thinks he's the best at art, thinks he has the right to judge when he does not, and sucks at giving advice lmao

also, he claims to be a tattoo artist, but i doubt that was true. i can believe a wannabe who was studying or something, but i doubt he was even a trainee who did a single tattoo before. maybe he started after, but there's no way this person was an actual tattoo artist at this time. (he better work on his attitude AND art first to be honest) i bet i've been doing art longer than he's been alive so if anyone is allowed to judge, uh i mean, give advice, it's me. but i'll be nice and not insult, um i mean, give unwanted advice about his art :)

i should go to you because you're the mod, alex? tori was wrong here. because I TRIED AND ALEX CALLED ME A LIAR WHO WAS TRYING TO START DRAMA. why would i trust you and try to talk it out again when you shut me down the first time!!!!! and ignored me in the gc until everyone else spoke up for me asking why you're ignoring me!!!!!! and he still held onto me "leaving the group chat" which is completely false. i really wish i had screenshot the gc when it suddenly cleared all messages and told me there's an error, but i did not because i genuinely thought it was a real error!

and.............*autistic facepalm* we all heard this a lot haven't we? my "BeHaViOr" lmao. put that on the autism bingo card! "scared away because of (their) behavior and ended up leaving the chat" WHAT DOES THIS MEAN. my "behavior" scared me and made me leave the gc? what????? please make sense!!!

"immature behavior that made people want to leave" who the fuck wanted to leave? most everyone was standing up for me when you and sam were ignoring me???? no one said they had a problem with me! if they did, they could come to me about it, or you could tell me. but no, no one told me ANYTHING AT ALL.

"made me uncomfortable" you and sam made ME uncomfortable lmao. so i guess we are even!

"(their) behavior meant (they were) clearly seeking attention" i don't understand how???? who was i "seeking attention" from???? IF I WANTED TO SEEK ATTENTION i would have posted my screenshots on main on twitter, making a long thread, to expose your rotten asses to all your friends!!!!!!! not keep them for nearly 5 years and dissociate the memories away, only to unlock them in therapy and post them quietly here where i doubt anyone will see it, just so i can work out the trauma you left me with. maybe i should have been "attention seeking" and exposed you to everyone!!!!!

anyway, so me asking things in the gc and getting ignored with no clarification at all, then suddenly being kicked form the gc and telling you what happened when i figured it out, all while trying to fix your poor communication problems for you is apparently seeking attention now LOL. don't make me laugh. if you got to know me at all, i am the last person to "seek attention" and rather not be perceived. but i don't take kindly to being ignored, so of course i kept asking when you refused to respond??? how is that "immature behavior" unless me explaining that i DID NOT LEAVE THE GC MYSELF is "immature behavior" to you because your bestie lied to your face. but you'll never believe me over them so that means i'm wrong i guess 🙄

"under the impression that some other person also wanted to do yoongi" alex, my guy. my bro. buddy. this is exactly where all the problems started. you can't put this all on this imaginary person who supposedly wanted to do yoongi that you had no proof even existed in the first place! the person you refused to tell me the name of when i asked, who you told me to discuss this with. but instead insisted that i wait for them to speak up first, which they did not! just TELL ME WHO THEY ARE SO WE CAN TALK IT OUT. WHY IS THAT SO HARD TO DO???? this was all while sam begged everyone else in the gc to do yoongi with them, ignoring me too. and not asking the imaginary person who claimed him "first" which can only mean no one else actually called him but me, and sam just didn't want to work with me. IF THATS THE ISSUE JUST TELL ME AND I WILL TRADE WITH SOMEONE WHAT THE FUCK. WHY WERE YOU MAKING THIS SO HARD. USE YOUR WORDS. NO ONE CAN READ YOUR MINDS. you both hoped someone else would step in to claim yoongi from me, but no one did. they all ended up being on my side instead and not helping you. cry about it.

also, if this person existed you should have put their name down on the doc but you did not, instead you said yoongi was still open to be picked for anyone, except for me apparently. i said "if no one else is doing it" the first time and no one else jumped in. i was clearly willing to give it away! if only you just talked about it with me honestly instead of playing these weird mind games..... you cannot put the blame on me here when you have worse communication skills than me, the autistic person lmao (i sear i have better communication skills than most allistics despite how much i struggle with it!)

but yeah of course, alex doesn't care if i'm autistic. he "couldn't care less and ain't gonna judge someone because of that" but this whole problem is him judging me for being autistic tbh. you don't understand autism CLEARLY since you were extremely unwilling to accommodate my communication needs (clear, straightforward, honest) and decided to play mind games instead

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS "BEHAVIOR" I SUPPOSEDLY HAD?!?!?!? you "never pointed it out because you didn't want me to be butthurt" (your calling ME immature and you're using "butthurt" lmao ok that's hilarious) you judge me for my "behavior" but refuse to "point out" what this behavior even is, when i NEED TO BE TOLD THINGS IN ORDER TO NOW ABOUT THEM. autism 101, try learning about it! me thinks it's an excuse because he can't actually tell me what i did wrong since there was nothing lmao

i don't like how tori worded this with the "doesn't know any better" part though. sounds like she's trying to excuse ACTUAL bad behavior, sinxe that happens all the time and i don't agree with that. it makes me angry. but she is right in that i don't know a lot of the time. IF NO ONE TELLS ME. you have to mention it to me and not expect me to read your mind! if i get no indication of how you feel based on my "behavior" then, how am i supposed to know i apparently did something wrong? (tbh i'm trying so hard to figure out what could have led to this, like what i did "wrong," because i'm the type to admit to my mistakes and try to learn fom them, and cna't even come up with anything at all. so it just sounds like pure victim blaming to me and trying to pretend he was the true victim)

but how am i supposed to know that asking why i wasn't marked down for yoongi and who this supposed other person was is "bad/immature behavior" LOL I CANNOT READ YOUR MINDS. the only other thing i said in the group chat was telling sam i loved their idea so i'd love to work with them since it looks like no one else is calling yoongi and he's the only one left. real immature of me 🙄

i know there was more, because tori was sharing some screenshots in the group chat and i remember her pointing out that sam joined in too and i think one of their other friends. they started shit talking her AND me in spanish, thinking we wouldn't understand. funny that my spanish speaking friend was reading all their replies and translating in the group chat LOL. i don't have those. i didn't screenshot the translation chats and didn't see them appear in the thread i just looked at.

after that, everything stopped i think. i don't remember anything else, so i think my crazy friends scared them off. we aren't friends anymore but i'm grateful for the help that i didn't ask for since in the end it made them leave me alone. i begrudgingly finished my art and turned it in. i decided to finish it because once i decide a thing, i stick to it, even if i'm super stressed and unhappy. but i also figured i'd be petty and not let sam have fun by getting a new partner since i didn't like whatever was happening. you're suffering with me buddy. didn't interact with them again after the collab ended. the end. alex sometimes sent messages pretending to be nice and stuff but i know it was all fake, especially after seeing the things he said to tori about me.

so.............WHAT THE FUCK. is there any explanation lmao. what was their reason? what was the purpose? i'm so confused. i want to understand them and why they did what they did (i know i will never. wanting to understand and struggling to accept i never will is a huge flaw of mine that i need to figure out how to stop, but don't know how)

i wish i had all the screenshots for better context, but at least there's a few. if someone reads this, do you have an explanation? is this a case of my autistic flaws caused a misunderstanding and i "did something wrong" in their eyes because they misunderstood, is it allistics suck at communicating even more than me and autistic person who is supposed to be the one "bad at communicating", or are they just bullies?

my conclusion is that they are bad at communication, sam threw a fit and made a mistake which they lied about, alex misunderstood and then blamed me for everything and decided i'm a bad person, so they did weird things to bully me, leading to alex saying really rude and insensitive things about me to tori when called out, playing the victim in it all when it's obvious he was in the wrong. sound about right?

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deathsmallcaps · 6 months ago

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Beware of the Joys

#please add on #this came from a typo when I was searching for #beware of the boys by panjabi mc

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sleepvines · 10 months ago

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i love that character design. ythe creature

Thanks! I don't know which one of them you mean but hell yeah for creatures 👉👉

#ask #the typo really adds to the energy here #beware! I got creatures aplenty!

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disasterghaster-moved · 2 years ago

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Oscar Meyer has a first name.

I don’t bother to use the bench press anymore. The ghaster matter can move whatever weight it pleases–any weight I please. It’s not made of muscle fiber, tendons, and bone. It’s made of will and whatever it manages–what ever I manage–to put together.

I try not to think about it.

Instead, I focus on other parts of me. The parts still made of meat. Curls and squats and lunges and whatever else I can pressure myself into doing before the whole matter seems overwhelming when I feel constantly empty.

I manage a full set of excercises today. Something of an achievement. Usually I miss one or two sets. Or all of them.

I make it this time, though. Closing out on the specially designed treadmill. I don’t go as fast as I can. I’m not qualifying for the supernatural track and sprint or anything. I’m merely confident that I’m good at a full sustained run of 110 for twenty minutes before I start to sweat too much. Breathing too hard, too. An improper dismount jars my knees when I hop off to the side and come to such a sudden stop.

I end up sititng on the ground as the muscles in my legs burn. Maybe I really pushed it just then. Or I haven’t been drinking enough water. I rub my thumbs and palms along hamstring and calfs until they’re intermittently barking about the strain I put them through and my lungs no longer burn.

I take my time standing up and getting a towerl off the rail of the mil and due a little swipe of my face and back of my neck. Since I’m in the privacy of my gym in the expanded basement, I give the girls a quick dry off under my A-shirt.

Towel goes into a hamper when I pass it on my way back up the stairs to the main level of the house. By then, the juice the work-out soaks my brain with during fades out. The world goes back to feeling slightly sideways. Like everything is one of those crooked photo frames that never seems quite straight or level with the rest of the wall. Every day feels like that anymore.

I ignore the bit of jello feeling in my legs as I travel up the next flight to the second floor. Getting to my bedroom and ajoining bath before long. Something in my neck and shoulders droops as I pass into the sanctity of that space. It’s quiet there. Black out curtains are a bit ajar so the room is brighter than usual, but that’s alright. Cool fresh air breezes in through the open window and makes it feel less like a self-imposed tomb.

I leave the bathroom door open and flick the light on in there. It’s harsh in comparison to the rest of the lightning I keep in the house. I don’t always use it, usually just go by a nightlight plug into the socket next to the mirror and sink. But I need the light today. I want to cut my hair.

I got caught up looking at my reflection instead. I’m reminded of days where metal chafes at my throat and my wrists. I was thin then, too. With piano wire muscles strung tight along bones. I didn’t have so many lines on my face back then. Or much hair. Inky fingers, off black and almost gray, scratch through the couple inches growth on much of my damp scalp until they wander higher into much longer and darker hair at the top. Pulling tie out and tossing it into nearby basket that held the others I used.

That hair is long and reaches an inch or two past my shoulders. Tying it all the time makes it crimped in some places. I know it’s wavey even if it weren’t. I notice there’s more streaks of white there than there used to be, too. I already knew about the thick banded streaks above my ears in the shorter hair. I think the color seeps into other places due to stress more than age. Could be age. I don’t know how long someone like me is supposed to live if they make it to a ripe age.

About then, I remember to pull off the eye-patch. It doesn’t hide a dulled eye. They're the same anymore. Same matter my hands are with dots of ambiently glowing purple. It’s a comfort to wear the patch. Like a reminder of who I am. It helps me mentally control how much I see or don’t see. The world is so many layers of information if I don’t. Much of the time, it’s too much. I don’t need to see every little creature peaking through the mirror or what type of rock the nickle backing was refined out of. Takes a few seconds to tune it back out without the patch helping my psyche retain a muscle memory for it.

I pick comb out of a seperate basket and take to working knots out to one side of my head. Then the other. Then back so I can tie it up neatly again. A thick bristled boar brush and a bit of water, and touch of comb, helps me seperate the long and the short with great accuracy.

Then it’s time for clippers. I debate a few comb length attachments before, as usual, I decide to do it with a naked blade. It would grow back. Would also leave a fine centimeter of fuzz until it did. After fetching a black plastic trash bag I use for just such an ocassion from under the sink and lay it over the sink, I set to work. The buzz of the clippers is medatitave after a few moments of hair falling onto the plastic under my head. The buzz is comforting in my hand and against scalp. I have to switch hands at times and can feel the vibration in my fingers still.

I work it around the sides and back quickly with a few reruns to make sure it ends up all the same length. Feeling with fingers to ensure what I couldn’t see.

The fine work of lining the sides and back of the longer patch take the most time. Don’t want to fuck it up. I have some practice, though. It doesn’t take too long.

When it’s done, I keep over the plastic filmed sink and take boar brush to it just to work out as much of the smaller clippings as I can. Off my scalp and shoulders and back of my neck. Satisfied, clean the blade and oil it, then return it under the sink. Clippings are wrapped up and put in the nearby bin. It’s a bit wasteful, but it makes it so I don’t have to clean the sink. I can sweep the floor later.

Off peels my shirt and the sweatpants. Those go flying out into my room for now.

On comes the hot water in my shower. I wisely sit out the first cold minutes on the closed, chilled, lip of the toilet. Head in hand.

All of these things are a practice of not thinking too hard as I watch the water patter on the shower wall in silence. A practice in functioning when it’s the last thing I want to do with myself. There is nothing else I can do. Semi-retirment allows me much more idle time than I allowed myself before.

Into the shower I go. Closing curtain and taking a spin under water to rinse off loose hairs before having a seat on shower stool with back to the water. The heat soothes out my back nicely. It’s a while before I pull over toothbrush and paste.

Taking a shower is a whole ordeal when I’m not in a rush. Starts with teeth.

Takes a tough and big brush to handle my teeth the further back you go. Doesn’t hurt to be resilient against the roughtness of my tongue, either. I realize, with some dismay, that I’m out of orange toothpaste. Might have to suffer mint if I can’t find another supply. Bleck.

I don’t know if it helps to do this, but I leave the suds in my mouth while I wash my face with vigour and some good cleansing face wash. I do this with everything that suds. Just leave it for a bit while I do the rest. Hair, next with shampoo and one of those scalp massagers. Same with the soap, I use a loofah to suds up from neck to toe. Just feels like it does more if it’s not on for two seconds and gone the next.

Rinsing is the same pattern as sudsing.

And, yes, before anyone asks, I get the bits. I like to do that last and seperate. Those parts require getting up and spreading things out, alright. It’s work. I save it for last.

At some point, I remember my tail. After everything else. Almost bleatedly. It’s attached to me. I don’t know why I forget sometimes. Bit of shampoo for that does the trick.

Then the water comes off and I let water dip off me for a bit. While I squeeze the fur on the tail out several times. The fur there is dense and likes to hold onto water. Drying it takes time. I imagine my head would too if I had more than that little bit of hair. Of which I still take a moment to squeeze and ring, too.

By then I can step out without dripping everywhere onto a bath mat. And grap towel to dry off with. Special attention, again, to hair and tail. Then privates. No one likes to smell funky there. Towel is hung up and I leave the bathroom with a small bottle of oil for my hair and a comb.

Deaftly working light bit of pleasent lavander smelling oil into my hair with fingers and comb before it has a chance to dry. Both are discarded onto dresser afterward.

Then I flip face first into my bed. Naked and slightly damp. Energy gone. I’ve done abosolutely all the self-care I can. I don’t care that my stomach is growling or my throat is dry despite all that time, and maybe even more so, due to the shower.

Thoughts threaten to filter in. I refuse their entry as I pull a pillow to myself and tuck it under my head, shifting onto my side where I can curl with it. It doesn’t stop a few tears burning across my nose onto the pillow. I can’t stop them as skillfully as I used to. They often come too fast and hard for me to stop. Out of the blue or over some sappy ending to a movie I wasn’t even closely paying attention to or just emotional comercials. It’s very stupid and very annoying.

I’m so tired. Always.

Even when I wake up after the sun’s no longer falling through the bedroom window. Mn. Time lost.

I sit up and rub crust off my eyelashes for a while. Coughing a few times as I make it up to my feet and over to the window. Closing the curtains. Not worried about getting peeped my neighbors so much as just wanting to be alone.

I left a half-finished bottle of water by the absurdly large beanbag under the same window that I now pick up and finish in a couple of chugs. A brief crush and tightning of cap compacts it one empty. Making it easy to pitch into trash can near the door.

I don’t feel any better. The water tasted stale.

Somehow, I still drag on some clothing. Cotton sleep pants and loose fitted gray t-shirt that said ‘show me your kitties’ with a gray tabby peering over a flat horizontal line on it. I feel a pang of guilt as I think of Tiggs. They were with someone else, I knew I couldn’t take care of Tiggs like they needed right now. Still, I missed them.

Finally, I leave my room and go downstairs to the kitchen. None of the floorboards creak. I don’t need physical strength to remember how to walk like a ghost. Or open a cabinent silently. I stare at the box of cheerio’s for a while. I know I am hungry. I feel a bit sick and my lower stomach hurts. But it doens’t look appealing. The memory of it on my tongue recalls like grit and sawdust.

My shoulders slump with a huffed sigh. Leaning forhead into the cabinent door’s edge that I still hold open.

Maybe I should hire a chef. Trick my brain into just eating things put in front of me. I weakly ponder this for a moment until it’s dashed away. I can’t trust anyone to feed me that isn’t explicitly trustworthy to me. Hire a chef? Sure. Let an assassin right in. Great idea. If they don’t filet your throat, they’ll slip some sort of poison into a chicken dinner.

The corners of my eyes prick with fustration. I just want to eat.

I close the door with more of a thud than I normally would and go to the firdge. My eyes immediately end their scan by lingeirng on the bottle of whiskey down low on the door. I take it out and set it on the counter, then look back into the firdge.

God, fuck. Everything has to be cooked in some way. Same for shit in the fridge. Even hotpockets got to go in a mircowave. Back to looking in the fridge. There’s a package of balogne and a bottle of ketchup.

I take both out and get a paper plate and a red solo cup. All get tucked into hands and arms including the whiskey bottle before I make the walk out the back door.

It’s dark out, but I can see fine in the enclosed and screened off back patio. I tick the light on anyway and sit at the table there. Nudge a couple of electronics out of the way to the otherside of the small table. A pile of sleeping things, that is. Tablet, phone, bluetooth keyboard, and a e-reader. Space is replaced with plate and accouterments in short order.

Oscar Meyer bologna gets peeled out of packet and red wax ring. Sorted out in a four-by-two formation on plate and then their centers get a squirt of ketchup. I leave that a moment to pour half a cup of whiskey. There’s a plan here. A bad one, but it’s a plan.

I roll up a slice of ketchup filled bologna and take a bite. It’s fucking disgusting in that way in which desperate and depressive food is–but ultimately tastey enough to get addicted to. It’s salty and a bit sweet. And, anyway, there’s whiskey to mask the taste with when I swish down a mouthful.

This pattern quickly leads me to being able to eat the following slices in peace. Being drunk takes away most of my taste and leaves just the salty and the sweet. Two things alcoholic brains love. It’s less of a slog then. I eat slower due to groginess is all.

I don’t stop until the package of quesitonably labeled deli meat is empty. It’s better than nothing.

By then I’ve had three half cups of alcohol and my face feels close to numb. I’m sweaty and too warm. Thankful for the chilly breeze that comes through the screens from the outside.

I’m struck with the dreaded curse of actual thoughts. Thankfully, the ones that make it are sloshy and breakup on rocks before they fully form.

Still, every so often, they linger. None of them are good. My next breath is deep, but it shudders due to my lungs having shifted down into very shallow breaths to then. I toss plate ontop of the pile of devices and lay my head down on the cool glass of the table top.

The thoughts keep looping back on a common thread and theme which forms one repeating coheasive concept; I’m not good enough.

It’s not always that sentance. Today it is.

I admit that it’s a frequent one. One that rides off the back of my lack of self-worth. One that points out that I can’t think right or talk right or love right or cry right or–well, there’s so many things. All the things that matter when every bit of your worth is tied into keeping people ‘safe’ and ‘happy’.

All I know is gaurding something that I imagine is black and ashy in my chest and lashing out in feeble attempts to protect other people.

Often, I admit while gulping down the fourth half a glass, missing the mark and lashing out at the same people that I love so deeply it hurts just to look at them

There’s other things. But it comes down to that. All roads lead to Rome.

Heh, so why can’t I get off them? I want to go somewhere else.

I don’t notice that eventually my vision blacks out along with my thoughts and my memories. I wouldn’t come to until late in the morning from the depth of my beanbag with an urgency to get to the bathroom for a good wake-up vomit.

No wonder I’m alone.

#ic #mobile )) (( work #drabble #(( beware typoes #not much for spellcheck here at work ))#(( been a long time since ive been able to crank something out like this so please lemme know if it's any good aaaaaaa ))

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flock-of-cassowaries · 8 months ago

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Horrible misunderstanding in the senatorial group chat.

Both. Both are true.

#beware the group chat typo #ides of march #julius caesar #et tu brute #get stabbed idiot

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distractedrighter · 3 months ago

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I've given up posting on Wednesdays but here's my WIP anyways... this dialogue is so. far. off. from being in any sort of final draft, but i love writing villain dialogue..

#im posting this without my glasses on too #so beware typos #fallout #fallout 3 #writing #wip wednesday #mine: salt and vinegar

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venus111 · 5 months ago

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Astrology observations

༒ Gemini placements get evil eyes from people because of their intelligence

༒ Aries placements aren’t afraid of expressing their feelings they want to be loved and admired

༒ Air signs gravitate towards water signs, they get along well together

༒ I’ve seen many Libra moons and Taurus moons still talk to people that did them wrong, if they have air Mars they are quick to cut off/block someone but will start to regret and feel bad

༒ Aries risings and Pluto in the 7th house native have so many hidden enemies they attract argumentative people/partners

༒ cancer natives attract friends and lovers easily

༒ Libra Mars natives love to smack peoples buttocks

༒ natives who have moon-Pluto aspects get bullied at some point in their lives

༒ Sagittarius placements listen to foreign music, they may hesitate to get married

༒ Jupiter represents your husband and the qualities they’ll have , my Jupiter is in Aquarius my current boyfriend is an Aquarius and all my ex-boyfriends had Aquarius placements

༒ Aquarius and Pisces placements will spare your feelings and won’t be distant if they care about you

༒ fire signs are generally action-oriented and intense

༒ most people who make typos have mercury retrograde in their natal chart

༒ Pisces placements have a baby face

༒ natives with a Venus-Pluto aspect need to learn to let go Beware of the tendency to obsess over your former romantic interests

༒ Capricorns like to be in control. They get very stressed when life surprises them or when things don’t go according to their plan or are beyond their control

༒ Many people see Leos as lucky, but it is partly because of their natural charisma that attracts others and boosts their image

༒ Libras have a refined and elegant style that makes them stand out

༒ Moon in Capricorn/moon-saturn tend to have a cool and controlled reaction to situations

༒ your Venus sign can influence the type of music you listen to, water sign Venus natives listen to slow music

༒ Moon in Pisces should be cautious with substances

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oddinary4bts · 2 months ago

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To Give a Helping Hand | ch 3 (jjk)

☆summary: when you finally come over to his place, Jungkook realizes he'll need more of you.

☆pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI)

☆genre: smut, idol!au

☆warnings: unedited, curses, alcohol, an NDA (brief mention), explicit content: grinding, fingering, oral sex (female receiving), edging, begging/praise kink, spitting, jerking off, unprotected sex (don't be stupid), creampie

☆word count: 3.7k

☆a/n: i was horny i guess lmao hope you enjoy! this is unedited so beware for typos and stuff that doesn't make sense haha love y'all <3

☆☆☆☆☆

There’s something about you that Jungkook can’t quite figure out.

Maybe it’s the way you signed the NDA when you got to his place, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling with playfulness. Maybe it’s the way you teased him, threatening to spill his secrets with a wink that went straight to his dick. Or maybe it’s the way you told him he can’t tell anyone about you either.

It can be our secret, mmh?

Your words have been resonating through him since he made you dinner And he only did so because he wants to spend some time with you, to get to know a little before he actually fucks you, and all that shit. He’s just trying to be decent. But ever since you walked into his apartment with that skirt of yours - showing your indecent, strong legs, and thighs he wants to be crushed by - Jungkook has known he’ll get his dick wet tonight.

Hell, he knew it even before that, but the sight of you has been making him feel feral. It’s nothing new - he’s been feral for you ever since the first time he saw you at the gym, with that stupid Cooky keychain he hated then.

He doesn’t hate it anymore. In truth, he doesn’t even give a shit anymore. Maybe it’s because you have him wrapped around a finger, and he’s ready to make you see stars.

“Thank you for the food,” you say as you sit back in your chair, toying with the glass of the wine you brought.

He tilts his head to the side, offers a small smirk and says, “Anytime.”

Your eyes glint. They glint like jewels in the sun, and it strikes him deep. “Does that mean it’s time for me to repay you?”

Fuck. His blood shoots down to his dick, and Jungkook stirs in his chair.

“I think we’re on uneven grounds, mmh?” he lets out.

You cock an eyebrow. “How so?”

“I haven’t seen you come yet.”

You smile a small, secretive smile, looking at your wine. “Does that bother you?”

“It does.” He shifts in his chair, leaning closer to you. He suddenly hates that you’re sitting on the other side of the table, but he’ll be patient tonight.

He wants to savour you until the sun comes up.

“So tonight is all about me?” you tease.

He can’t help the small laugh he lets out. “Oh, I think we’ll both find our pleasure.”

It doesn’t take you long after that to get up, walking around the table. Jungkook pushes his chair away from the table, and you straddle his lap with the quiet confidence he likes about you, lowering yourself on him until he’s sure you can feel his dick on you.

And he feels you, feels the warmth radiating off of you, and he already knows his climax will hit harder than it ever has.

“So,” you purr, circling your hips. “What do you want to start with?”

His hands find your waist, and he gently rubs you with his thumbs. “Why don’t you take your shirt off?”

You’re a brat. You’re a fucking brat, because you pout, saying, “Can’t do it for me?”

He’ll go insane tonight. Thoroughly, completely insane.

What will be left of him in the morning?

“You want to play this game?” he says, voice low.

You blink innocently. “What game?”

Jungkook gets up, carrying you with him. Your eyes widen in surprise, but you recover quickly, wrapping your legs around him. And he meant to carry you to his room, but your lips find the side of his neck, and you suck hard.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and he immediately directs himself towards the wall, pinning you against it. “You’re impatient.”

You lean your head back against the wall, looking at him through your lashes. “Maybe a little.”

It spurs him into action - Jungkook captures your mouth in a languid kiss, parting your lips with his tongue to taste you. He can taste the food and the wine on you, but also a taste that is so distinctly you that he sighs in relief.

He’s a man starved when it comes to you, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Jungkook grinds his hips, rubbing his length on you. You whimper in his mouth, your hands pulling on handfuls of his hair, and he hisses in pain, though it only turns him on more. Still, he kisses you, sucking on your lower lip and teasing it with his teeth. He doesn’t bite down too hard, doesn’t want to hurt you, but when your tongue toys with his piercings, he knows he needs to have you now. So he makes sure he’s holding you up with one hand, and then slides the other one between your bodies.

He makes quick work of pulling your skirt up, and then his fingers deftly push your underwear aside. One digit parts your folds, tests your wetness, and his dick twitches in his pants at just how slick you already are.

“Who’s impatient now?” you purr.

He feels an inherent need to shut you up, and so he dips his finger inside of you up to the first knuckle, swallowing the needy moan you let out. And then he’s pulling his hand away, bringing it up to your face, and he pulls away from the kiss to push his finger in your mouth.

Your lips wrap around the digit, your eyes blazing bright, and you suck on it, your tongue teasing the pad. It reminds him of how your mouth felt on his dick the last time he saw you, and he grinds into you again, loving the way your eyebrows bunch together with pleasure.

He can’t wait to hear you moan his name. That, more than anything, pushes him to pull his finger out of your mouth, and to then carry you to his room. You busy yourself on the skin of his neck as he does so, and he grunts when your tongue teases the earring he’s wearing.

“No hickey,” he reminds you when you go back to sucking on his neck.

You stop, pulling away just enough to meet his gaze. “Don’t worry, I’ll be nice.”

He’s reached the bedroom by then, and Jungkook puts you down on his bed. He takes his shirt off while you make yourself comfortable on the bed, and he throws the piece of clothing on the floor before climbing on the mattress. You immediately spread your legs for him, and he pushes your skirt up to reveal the black lacy thong you’re wearing.

It barely even hides anything, and he can already tell that you’re slowly soaking the fabric.

Jungkook doesn’t miss the way you’re eyeing his chest, lust and desire swirling in the depths of your gaze. Your eyes, glistening earlier, have turned darker, and he can’t help but admire you for it.

You’re beautiful. Beautiful in a savage, strong way that he can’t even describe. Maybe it’s your muscles, or that quiet confidence you carry yourself around with. Or maybe it’s just the way his body reacts to you - his lust for you is wild, feral, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jungkook bends down to kiss you, hand sliding to your wrist when you run your hand through his hair. He pulls your hand over your head, pressing it into the mattress right as you wrap your legs around his waist again.

“Be nice and don’t touch me, mmh?” he tells you.

He doesn’t wait for your answer. He’s already sliding down between your legs, readying himself to finally get the taste of you that he’s been craving. And there’s something sinful about your skirt, about your black lacy thong, so he decides to keep your clothes on, hooking one finger in your thong to pull it aside.

You’re gleaming with your slick juices, your pussy flushed red with arousal. Jungkook just knows you’ll feel divine on his dick, but first he wants to lap you up.

And so he does, leaning forward to push his tongue between your folds. Your taste is heady, inebriating, and he grunts as one of your hands shoots to his head as if you’re trying to push him closer.

“Nu-uh,” he tuts, kneeling between your legs. He grabs your hands, puts them over your head, and then says, “Don’t move.”

He doesn’t break eye contact as he slowly unbuckles his belt, and then takes it off. Doesn’t break eye contact as he ties you up with it, making sure to not make it tight enough to hurt, but still tight enough to restrain your motions.

Your breath is ragged when he sits back on his heels, tilting his head to the side as he smirks. “Now, if you move again, I’ll tie you up to the bed too, m’kay?”

You flash a lustful smile. “Maybe I’d like that.”

It turns him on far too much, his dick rock hard in his pants. He rubs himself, watches with manly contentment as you look down at him and bite at your bottom lip.

“Careful, baby,” he says. “If you’re too much of a brat, you’re not getting anything tonight.”

“As if you can resist me.”

He can’t. He knows he can’t, so he abstains from replying, instead choosing to make you regret your words. Indeed, he goes back to your pussy, pushing your underwear aside once more to blow a breath on your clit that makes you squirm slightly. He loves it, loves everything about how your body responds to his. Even more so as he dives in, circling your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking on it lightly. You moan, somehow shy, and he looks up at you to see your jaw as your head is thrown back.

But you’re obeying, hands gripping at the pillow over your head, and Jungkook knows he’s got you right where he wants you to be. So he unleashes himself, feasts on you until your moans grow louder, his name intertwined with your pleasure. His dick hurts in his pants from lack of stimulation, and he starts palming himself as he eats you out, as your juices cover his chin.

Circles after circles around your clit lead to it growing sensitive, flushed with so much arousal he knows you’re teetering close to your orgasm. But he won’t give in yet, won’t let you come even though he thinks the sight will entrance him, will make him worship you like a goddess.

So instead, Jungkook pulls away, blowing another breath on your clit as you whine.

“Fuck, why’d you stop?” you complain.

He smirks, waiting for you to look down at him.

“You think I’m just going to let you come like this?”

You clench your jaw, chest going up and down rapidly as if you’ve just sprinted down the street. “You’re a little shit, aren’t you?”

He bends down, bites at your clit lightly yet it makes you cry out in pleasure, and your hands shoot to his head.

“What did I say about touching me?” he warns.

“Jungkook…”

“Hands up, baby,” he tells you, kneeling between your legs. “I think we have to tie you to the bed.”

You obey, yet Jungkook resists from restraining your movements further. Hell, he might want to edge you, but he also wants you to be a brat, to tell him how much you want it.

So he kisses you wild instead, lets you taste yourself on his lips as his hand lets go of your wrists where he’s pinned them over your head again. He trails his way down your side, lifting your shirt so that he can graze the skin of your stomach lightly, and you let out a breathy sound that he thinks might have been his name.

“What?” he asks.

“Touch me,” you say, eyes fluttering open to meet his.

Your gaze is sex-crazed, a clear indication that he indeed denied you an orgasm, and Jungkook sits back on his heels.

“Where?”

“Are you always like this?” you ask.

He nods. “Only with pretty girls like you.”

He doesn’t think you like the mention of other girls - he’s been with plenty of them, but evidently that’s not something you’d want to hear. So he decides to stop teasing, to finally let you ride the wave of your climax.

If only so that you stop looking disappointed. And so Jungkook brings his hand between your thighs, collecting your juices on two fingers before slipping them inside of you.

You’re tight. Or maybe your walls just fight against him for a moment, relaxing the second he starts rubbing on your velvety spot. Your hips raise from the bed, your back arching as you moan loudly.

“Fuck, Jungkook,” you cry out.

“Feels good?”

“Yes.” You wet your lips, gaze meeting his. “Eat me out at the same time?”

He tilts his head to the side, the predator and you its prey. “Why should I?”

“I’ll suck your dick after.”

His dick twitches in his pants at your crude words, but Jungkook ignores it. “What makes you think I want that?”

“The fact that -” Your words are interrupted by a loud moan, your walls momentarily clenching around his fingers as he pushes them in and out of you quickly, his thumb rubbing on your clit. “That you came down my throat last time.”

He bends down to whisper against your lips. “Open your mouth, baby.”

You look like you want to fight him, but he knows you’re nearing your high. Indeed, your gaze has lost its focus, your cheeks are flushed red, and your breathing is ragged, so much so that he wonders if he should give you a break before fucking you.

When your lips part, Jungkook doesn’t hesitate before he spits in your mouth. You moan in answer, your walls fluttering on his digits.

“Fuck,” you curse. “I’m so close.”

He knows it. He knows it, because you’re growing impossibly tighter, and your eyes are screwed shut now, your eyebrows almost touching. So he gives in to your earlier desire, going back between your legs to wrap his lips around your clit.

He only has to suck on it once, teasing it with his tongue, for you to crash into your high, and you moan as you come, your walls pulsing on his fingers. You taste divine, like the ambrosia of the gods, and Jungkook laps you up, guides you through your orgasm. And it lasts a while, wave after wave after wave crashing into you until your thighs are shaking, instinctively closing around his head.

Only then does Jungkook pull away, looking down at your ruined panties as he slips his fingers out of you.

“Holy shit,” you let out, and the breathy laugh that follows makes Jungkook pause, eyes widening as he looks at you.

“Yeah?”

You nod. “Fuck. Yeah. That was…”

He toys on his piercing, everything in him waiting for the praise. But it doesn’t come, and his dick hurts in his pants, and all he wants is to bury himself deep in your hot wetness. So he moves away enough to remove his pants, and then he fists his cock, stroking himself as he waits for you to look at him. When you do so, he slowly takes off your underwear, never breaking eye contact, before kneeling between your legs again.

“You think you can take me now?” he asks.

You look down at him, and your hands reach for him. As much as he wants you to touch him, he thinks he’s already close - if you were to suck him or jerk him off right now, he reckons he might come on the spot. So, once again, Jungkook pushes your hands over your head, but this time, he holds them in place before gently nudging your clit with the tip of his cock.

“Can you?” he asks.

“Can I?”

You sound confused, which he assumes might be because you’re fucked out from coming hard. So he kisses you once, pushing his tongue in your mouth lightly before he pulls away.

“Can I fuck you?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” you purr, and he loves that the brat is back.

Even more so as he rubs his dick between your folds, collecting your juices.

“You’re dripping wet, baby,” he says. “You always get this wet?”

You meet his gaze, biting at your lower lip. “What if I do?”

He starts pushing in, and you surprisingly hold onto the defiance, your smirk never fading. His, on the other hand, melts as he feels you for the first time, and you’re even better than anything he could have imagined.

“Then,” he lets out, pushing in inch by inch. He pulls back out for a second, and then pushes in again. “I better fuck you good until all you want is my dick, mmh?”

“Please.”

It’s the begging. It unravels the last of his restraint, and Jungkook pushes all the way in, grunting as he hits your cervix. He pulls out slightly as he surveys your features, aware that he might have hurt you, but you don’t look like you care.

No, your hips lift from the bed, trying to meet his, and so he starts pushing in and out, slowly at first if only to make sure you’re adjusted to his size. And when you moan his name for what might be the hundredth time but feels like the first, Jungkook increases his pace, increases the strength of his thrust until his headboard is banging into the wall.

He takes you in, takes the sight of you as you mewl from your pleasure, your walls sucking him in so good he thinks he sees stars. You’re heaven personified, his own nirvana, at least for the time that he’s fucking you.

Everything else fades away - his life, his fame, the NDA you signed that’s still on the counter. All there is is you and him, and the way that your bodies move like one. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this way while having sex. Hell, he reckons twenty years from now, he’ll still be thinking about this moment while he’s fisting his cock.

But for now, Jungkook tries to focus on the present. Tries to focus on the way you respond to his every motion, your walls clenching around him. His balls grow tight, a knot forming in his lower back as he tries not to come. It’s hard, but he manages to refrain from coming by slowing down, establishing a deeper rhythm that makes your eyes flutter open.

“I really want to touch you a bit,” you whisper.

It’s not said out of lust. There’s something else in your eyes, and Jungkook wonders if you feel like he does.

If you, too, will be thinking back on this moment twenty years down the line.

“Let me…” he trails off as he stops moving, and then he unties your wrists.

Your arms immediately wrap around him, holding him close, and Jungkook likes it. Likes the way you lightly trace his back with your nails, and he winces as you slightly dig into his shoulders as he starts fucking you again.

“No marks,” he reminds you.

You whine, yet it morphs into a moan as he starts pounding into you again. His balls are tight, heavy, and he knows he’ll have to let himself go soon, yet he wants the moment to last just a little longer. Maybe that’s why he pulls out, flipping you on your belly. Why he takes a moment to massage your ass cheeks as you glance at him over your shoulder. Your hair is a mess, but it’s beautiful, in such a simple, feminine way that it stabs Jungkook in the chest.

Or that might be the way you’re looking at him - it’s hard to tell, and Jungkook decides to chase the vulnerability away by pushing inside of you, up until he feels your ass against him. And then he’s fucking you again, relentlessly, sweat dripping from his forehead. It falls on you, but you don’t look like you mind, and though it’s burning his eyes, he doesn’t care either.

All he cares about is the way is dick grows infinitely hard, and soon his motions grow sloppy. He focuses for a time, tries to hold it in, but then you say, “You’re so good, Jungkook”, and the praise sends him over the edge.

Jungkook slams all the way in, holding your waist tightly, and he comes deep inside of you, painting your insides white as your pussy clenches around him. He sees stars - galaxies and nebulas - and his body folds on itself until he’s got his forehead pressed to the side of your face. He thinks he might have moaned your name, moaned a silent prayer to your beauty, and the orgasm washes through him, erasing everything until he’s just a blank canvas.

It takes a long time for him to come down from his high. For his breathing to return to normal, for his blood to stop singing the song of you. Meanwhile, you’re just breathing in sync with him, your hand on his cheek - when did it get there? - as your thumb strokes idle lines on the side of his face. It’s intimate, and oh too vulnerable considering that you’re a fan, so Jungkook straightens, finally pulling out.

He watches his cum dripping out of you, the sight nearly enough to make him go feral again, but he takes a deep breath, reminding himself that, as much as he wants you, you’re still just a fan.

He’s never going to date you, is he?

But he can’t deny the attraction, or the way your body answers to his perfectly. So when you get ready to leave, later, Jungkook pulls you into a short embrace, kissing you slow as your hands rest flat on his chest. And then he pulls away so that he can meet your gaze as you look up at him.

His heart feels warm - he thinks his whole chest might slowly be catching fire. So, even though you’re just a fan, even though you probably shouldn’t, he whispers, “Can I see you again next week?”

☆☆☆☆☆

hope you guys enjoyed this... horny chapter haha jungkook finally got what he wanted with her... but he already wants more hehe let me know what you think of this chapter!

Taglist:

@pamzn | @chimchimmarie | @llallaaa | @backseatana | @xmspurple7x

@jadestonedaeho7

#to give a helping hand ch 3 #jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fic #jjk smut #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk fic #jjk #jeon jungkook smut #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you #jeon jungkook fic #jeon jungkook #btswritersclub #to give a helping hand #to give a helping hand series

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lynati · 1 year ago

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But profreading is so important! As is the Frong cover of your book! HOW ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT FRONG TO USE?!1!

...Um, maybe not.

(Via Harry Turtledove on Twitter)

#ripoffs #Author Beware #I'm going to write up a 'How To Pick a Frong' panel out of spite and see how many people think it's a typo about fonts and not cover design

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dwaekkilinos · 8 months ago

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savior complex (pt. 1) | 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: 19.9K chapter summary: you'd always known the end, and it had always known you. you just didn't know the beginning would be waiting for you when your time finally came. warnings/notes: 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 influence by it bc of her childhood and it haunts her, reader comes from a small toen and it's not explicitly stated where she's from but hollows are mentioned, hunting, reader wishes for death multiple times, chan goes by chris, no smut in this chapter but there will be in every chapter after, i think that's it but let me know if i missed anything, and enjoy! <3

chapter one: i know the end (and it knows me) ( series masterlist | next → )

Sometimes you felt like a ghost. It happened when the world was so silent that you could almost hear the beat of your unsteady heart pounding in your chest; when everyone else was asleep and you stayed up, eyes watchful and searching for threats. That was when you felt like the lost faces that haunted you.

It hadn't always been this way, at least not until the world ended. Most of the time you tried not to think about it. You tried not to think about much except survival these days.

Because that was smart. Surviving was smart. Anything else was stupid; anything else would get you killed.

Ironic, how you used to fear that very thing. Death. Now it was all you knew.

The apocalypse had come.

You knew how it sounded. Honestly, you didn't believe it when it first happened. You had been too afraid to admit it; too scared that if you did, you could never go back. There was no going back anyway. That was something you wished you had known back then. And as you sat on a log in the middle of those dark woods, overlooking your group who all slept silently while you stayed up, bloody knife in hand, and eyes watching for threats, it was hard to ignore the fact that this was your cruel reality.

Because the reality of it all was: you were living on borrowed time, trying your best to do right by your father and keep your family alive. You'd faltered that night, dotting the line between protection and predation.

And now . . . now you couldn't help but think about the beginning. How you would've never ended up like this if things had been different. But things hadn't been different. Things had happened exactly the way they had, and it'd left you with rot in your bloodstream and hate in your heart.

That was what made you clutch the knife closer, nearly cutting your own flesh. Because things hadn’t been different, but they also hadn’t always been this way. You hadn’t always been like . . . this.

You supposed it was because it was easy to kneel when you were just a girl. It was easy to ignore the ever-present scabs on your knees when you didn’t know any better. It was easy to tear yourself down the middle, pulling stitches from the back of your legs when you knew it’d all be re-sewn by morning. It was easy back then when the world hadn’t died.

From the moment you were brought into the world, barely kicking and silently screaming like it was a sin to voice your pain, you had been taught to be that girl; that easy, complacent girl with not so much as a rotten thought. From the moment you were born, you had been taught the foundation of the Church and its vocation, and it had carved its way into your rotten flesh even when the world was no more.

At age four, you were in the pews, listening to the words of God while creating imaginary friends in the statues. At age seven, communion. Then at age eight, you had begun to become an altar girl, fetching and carrying, ringing the altar bell, bringing up the gifts and the book, among other things—essentially being a servant to God. At age fourteen, confirmation. At fifteen, your mother doused you in holy water before your first date with a boy from school. Sixteen, heartbreak, praying to God and begging for him to help ease it all, only to be left with no response . . . even after all you had done for him.

Seventeen and the stitches down your legs remained undone, the scriptures now more of a question than a statement. Then . . . eighteen, the timer clicked into place, and you felt yourself begin to rot along with the world, forcing you to realize your entire life was just a cycle of kneeling before God, praying, and asking for forgiveness for your sins.

It had been easy to kneel when you were just a girl; when you didn’t know any better. And then it happened.

It.

Armageddon.

The Rapture.

The fucking apocalypse.

It didn’t matter what you called it. Doomsday was still doomsday even dressed up with fancy scriptures and sacred wine.

The apocalypse had come. Humans were deemed horrible creatures by some almighty who you didn't give a fuck to acknowledge. It didn't matter. Someone or something had deemed the human race unworthy.

The apocalypse had come, and you were deemed worthless. You were made to die. It was inevitable.

The apocalypse had come. There was talk that it had begun in the North. But much wasn’t known in your town. Now you realized they tried to keep it a secret. It was a way of controlling everyone, you supposed, but not like it mattered much now.

That was just how things were. Your mother refused to let you and your younger sister watch the news, refused to let you search anything about what was going on in the world, adamant that everything was lies and those lies would cloud your mind. A religious town bordering on a commune that resembled a cult perhaps just a tad too much. You realized all this now, of course, but back then your knees were still covered in scabs from kneeling before a God who would never come. Back then your mother kept you kneeling until the final bell tolled, her hand firmly clutching your shoulder to keep you in place.

You were only eighteen then. And while the outside world was torn apart month by month, its people haunted by death piled upon death, your town continued on as it always had. The whispers of a war that would end the world were just whispers, covered up by scriptures that the local preacher would sight every Sunday morning just after you’d collected the eggs from the chicken coop and put on your best dress like your mother had always taught you.

But it was different for you, even back then. Because while it had been easy to kneel when you were a girl, you had begun to grow. Eighteen then, but you had begun to see the flaws within the Church when you were sixteen. And by eighteen, you knew better.

By eighteen, you could see the sweat beading along the preacher’s forehead. By eighteen, you could hear wavering in your mother’s voice when she proclaimed that this was just a test. That this was meant to happen. That the Bible had always predicted this, and if you remained faithful, then you would be saved . . . spared.

But by eighteen, you knew better.

It took one quiet night and a hammering heart for you to sneak into your father’s study and head straight for this desktop. It took even less time to discover what had become of the world. One. Two. Three clicks and then . . .

You remembered the choking feeling bubbling up your chest as your eyes scanned the news articles. A virus. One so horrible and unforgiving that it could take a healthy vessel, and within twenty-four hours, the body would succumb to death. But, you’d seen stuff like this before, right? You knew there had been plenty of diseases and viruses and they all had cures. They all had to have cures. They had to.

That was just the thing: no matter how hard you looked, you couldn’t find any article that explained how this virus came about. It was unknown, deadly, spreading rapidly, and there was no way of telling when it’d reach your town. It was just . . . just . . . (It was the first time you truly felt helpless.)

You remembered staying up with the sun, looking for answers, only to come out empty-handed. And when your father discovered you in his study that morning, you nearly confessed right away, sobbing into his arms. But no shame was brought upon you that day.

Your father had been a good man. He had loved you so. He had loved his family, no matter the consequences or conditions.

This town, your town, was small. It consisted of around only three thousand people give or take, all of which were either Christian, secluded, or . . . your father. In all the years you had been alive, not once had your father stepped into the Church. You never asked. You never worried. Your mother just always told you your father was busy every single time, and you believed her because back then, you’d trusted her with all of you.

As you grew, your suspicions of him did, too, but you remained silent as you always had in life. And it was only until that morning when he wrapped you in his arms and let you cry into his shoulder, did you realize why he never entered the Church, why he never spoke the prayers your mother praised, why neighbors would talk of his name only in hushed conversations.

He didn’t believe.

No, he believed in something just not . . . this sacred word your town so desperately worshipped. And that morning, he told you the truth. From his childhood to how he ended up in a town like this. He told you it all, and then he told you the truth. He told you how your mother was scared (how she always had been) and how one day he hoped with enough trying, she’d see the world for what it was ( . . . she never did). And then he told you about the virus, and everything was so much clearer.

The town had everyone convinced this was some kind of test. There was no virus to them. This was the reaping. The scriptures were true to them. And so every Sunday, you were forced to acknowledge that Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death—the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse had come to earth with the power to destroy humanity.

That was how it had been explained to your town, and all its people believed. A sickness had struck the world, yes, they told that much truth, but they chalked it all up to being some kind of plot point in God’s plan. To top it off, it was said that if the townspeople all repented and did right by his name, then salvation would be given.

That was what was told, and that was what was believed.

You remembered the preacher’s voice even now.

Then I saw when the Lamb broke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, "Come." I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer.

— Revelation 6:1–2

That scripture haunted you just as your father’s face did, but back then you hadn’t realized the detriment it would have on you. Back then, you played your part. Back then, you dressed as your mother advised, went to church, and listened, and then, when all was said and done and your mother had gone to her room, you snuck off to accompany your father on his hunts. And during those times, you’d learn the truth.

While the two of you hunkered down, waiting for deer to pass through your side of the woods, he told you about what was going on with the rest of the world. He explained how the CDC had claimed this thing; Pestilence (as your town believed) was some kind of virus, yes, only they wouldn't release the survival rate except for a few things that stated it was deadly, spread rapidly, and anyone could have it, but by the time symptoms had started to kick in, it would be too late.

As the weeks went by, as the more hunting extravaganzas you went on with your father piled up, his news became more worrisome. At first, the virus was contained in the North of the world, but as it took more lives and less information about it was being provided to the public . . . people began to panic. Hysteria spread throughout the world. Cases of this unknown virus peaked, and the government released statement after statement informing the public that face masks would be required to prevent the virus from spreading and travel restrictions would soon be put into place.

Only by that time, it was too late.

Carriers of this unknown virus had already traveled far and near, spreading the disease throughout the world. This so-called Pestilence might have only been given reign to a quarter of the world, but his disease had spread farther than his radius.

And while you had been young, you realized that this virus had only one purpose: to kill. There was no survival rate. No hope.

The world shut down soon after more and more people started dropping like flies, succumbing to the miserable disease that left them with boils and blisters covering their skin. Hospitals became overrun. Schools were wiped out with kids coming home with this deadly virus. Workplaces were abandoned, the people wishing to stay at home with their families, too afraid to step outside without any real knowledge of how this virus worked.

Your town remained oblivious, too, as the region shut down, gates being made so no one could enter or leave. It was safer that way they claimed. All of those who could be saved would be saved and helping those seeking a refuge was against the rules. It all felt like some kind of sick plan if you had anything to say about it.

By the time your father had taught you how to shoot your first deer without you sniffling in fear, Vaccines were finally attempted, but nothing worked; the disease only spread, and more people died.

Then . . . it all just stopped.

But your town continued to spread its lies.

The story remained the same even all these years later. You remembered how while you had learned the virus was supposedly coming to an end, your town still painted the picture of the Horsemen. Tales of Pestilence’s reign still remained.

They went on and on about how he rose from the depths of Hell. Pestilence had come. He, who sat on his white steed, had a bow, a crown that had been gifted to him by his gods had come, and when he had, he went out conquering. And so he did.

Until he was put to rest; until his conquering had come to an end. You listened with half a heart as the preacher went on and on about how his time had ended, yes, but this was not the end. All you had to do was keep praying, keep repenting, keep . . . kneeling, and you’d be saved.

But you knew better.

While others would attend midnight mass in addition to morning, you claimed you had to pray on your own, and when your mother had left with your sister on her hip, you snuck off with your father to learn of the world. You snuck off to better your shooting arm, to seek comfort in the only person who seemed to have their head screwed on right, to shoot ducks and geese and deer and everything in order to keep your town fed while everyone else prayed to a God that wasn’t doing half your work. And yet, every time, every kill, your father knelt beside the animal and prayed, until you had begun to do the same.

You weren’t sure why he did it. You had never asked. You never thought you needed to. (Now you would’ve done anything to know the answer.)

And so . . . life went on like that. Completely cut off from the world without the help of the internet your father provided for the two of you, life went on.

The virus no longer spread further, and many believed it was all just some hoax. News stations came to life again, but not much else was restored. That was how everyone found out the virus had concluded. Hell, even you remember being twenty-one years old, having your first legal shot with your father in the middle of the woods while the two of you watched news reporter after news reporter claim the virus had mutated and mutated so much to the point our bodies had accumulated a natural resistance to it.

But you couldn't believe it.

Three whole years of this deadly disease taking out population upon population, and then it all ceased. It felt almost too good to be true.

Of course, the town believed this too. Pestilence had conquered, and that was just the problem.

Every day, day in and day out, words spread throughout the hollow, the word in the Church mutated each week, even your mother who had spent the last three years praying to Jesus, Joseph, and Mary; your mother who had gone through rosary after rosary begging for God to have mercy on your family; your mother who had always forced you to attend those days at church on Sunday went around the house, boarding up the windows and hiding the special silverware in the basement, claiming that he would come next.

He has conquered, she had hissed over your shoulder when you and your father came back from one of your hunts.

Pestilence's reign had ended (according to your mother, who you were almost certain had a few screws loose). You didn’t believe it for a second, ignoring your mother's desperate ramblings.

War will come, she warned.

War will come.

But . . . you knew if something did come, it wouldn’t be this War.

And then . . . then he did.

The first sighting of the dead coming back was spotted just months after the virus that had plagued millions had ceased. And this time . . . the town allowed its folk to see the reports. Even your mother had brought the television from the basement to witness the dead rise . . . or rather . . . War. The news stations had captured a recording of these . . . people; people who had suffered from the virus coming back, and then with only their teeth, tearing any live thing apart. The recording was aired all across the world, fear, and hysteria spreading like wildfire.

The government was still up and running at this point with only one mission: to shoot down these seemingly reanimated corpses before they could cause more harm. People believed this to be a fluke, but your mother's words had stuck with you.

War will come.

It was all a little hazy now, but you remembered bits and pieces of the world back then. War had been quick, ruthless, and determined.

This was no man. This was War.

And it all became clear soon after.

While Pestilence had been silent, War had wanted an audience.

The things he could do; the people he could hurt . . . it was all so gutting. Those lost to the virus kept coming back, all with one purpose: destruction. With one bite, their victims would soon fall ill to that same virus, and then once it had taken their body, they’d come back, reanimated with the same gruesome purpose.

The government finally fell when the dead could no longer be stopped. Quarantines dropped, people ran, and everything just . . . stopped. These creatures tore through cities, sinking their teeth into civilians. And you watched it all on the television, until that, too fell, leaving the rest of the world in the dark.

That was when you realized just how real all of this was. That was when you realized the past three years of hunting with your father was not just something the two of you would look back on and laugh about one day when this virus was over. No . . . it seemed . . . it seemed you couldn’t quite see the end or maybe . . . maybe you could and that was the problem all along.

Your father, the man he was, tried to remind you that this was not War; that this was not the supposed God’s plan everyone was convinced of in your godforsaken hollow. And you tried to hear him, but for a while, you wished to be like everyone else in the town. You wished you could believe this was some greater plan. You wished you could believe that this was all because of some Horseman . . . but you knew better, and your father seemed to know this as well.

(And yet, when you thought back on it now, the stages in which the world ended still presented themselves as the Horsemen in your troubled mind.)

Because, well, you supposed that was truly when the world had ended—the day War came.

War will come, your mother had warned, and you knew that to be true the day the electricity stopped working. War had come, and he'd taken civilization with him. And while he reigned over the quarter of the world he'd been gifted, the rest of the world lay in the dark, trying to navigate throughout this new world.

From time to time you had heard talk of distant wars. You, however, had never seen one.

But War's ruthless hand still reached your town.

There was no news or contact with the outside world other than the people you could see with your own eyes. No transportation, no government, no nothing. It was said that cars had even been abandoned on highways as people tried to leave town to find their families. But they never got far; not with this newfound order bestowed upon the earth.

Because truly . . . War did not need to come to earth to corrupt it.

The government had fallen, the world had ended, the apocalypse had begun and that was all it took for chaos to ensue. People became their worst selves at the end of the world, you'd been told all your life through media upon media. But you had to disagree. You thought, perhaps, the end of the world brought out who people truly were deep inside. It allowed people to let go of civility.

And you discovered people really were perhaps even worse than this supposed War himself. Or rather a product of War and his righteous hand.

(Although, how righteous could he truly be?)

While War reigned, the rest of the world scavenged. Your family stood stagnant in your childhood home, holding up there for as long as you could. It was still warm when the second wave hit. You knew you'd need to find a different shelter when the time came.

The cold wasn't your only problem either. People were at their worst. When the news broke out in your town, the scriptures they held so dear began to fall apart. A lot left, some stayed, and others turned on each other, leaving houses with bloodstained splatters and a fear of thy neighbor. Your family stayed, however. Your mother read scriptures every day. Your father recited the truth. And they argued, while you sat by the window, terrified out of your mind as you watched the empty streets.

That was when you realized another truth about yourself. You were just about to turn twenty-two, the world had gone to shit, and you had never been so scared. Pestilence. War. Famine. Death. Their names raged on inside your head and it was as if you were still just a young girl, kneeling in church despite the scabs. Except now, you were a girl who could no longer kneel in church, and yet you were still so scared.

It felt cruel. Perhaps even unreal.

The scriptures had predicted this—the four harbingers coming down to scorn the earth. But you hadn't believed it. You were forced to now.

It was War’s reign back then. But Death would come one day. He had come to kill you all; to finish off everything his brothers hadn't touched, and one day he would.

It had been predicted. The words stuck in your head even now.

When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, "Come." I looked, and behold, a pale horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.

— Revelation 6:7–8

Your mother told you long ago of these scriptures. When you were a child, you'd cover your head with your blankets, hiding from the mysteries of the night. Somewhere in your innocent mind, you'd convinced yourself the devil himself would find his way into your room, wrap his bony hand around your ankle, and drag you to the pits of Hell.

Back then you'd feared death. You'd done everything to steer far from its clutches.

She’s afraid of the world, your peers would hiss under their breath, not knowing you'd heard every word. And you knew they were right. You knew you had always been a scared kid, trying your hardest to keep the monsters at bay.

You wished you'd realized there had been no real monsters . . . yet. You would've lived more. Now you knew the consequences.

Now there was no more living, just surviving.

Still, sometimes you found yourself missing it; missing life. It was a bitter thought—what could've been had the world not ended all those years ago.

Back then—before the end—you'd feared death.

How far will this go? you remembered thinking back then when it was still War’s reign. How long until things are normal?

You didn't have the stomach back then to come to terms with the truth. You barely remembered it now.

But you did remember the day everything truly changed for you.

Up until that day, you'd been following your father's orders, huddling up in your home with your mother and little sister as the four of you survived day by day. Then . . . your house had been broken into, the intruder coming in through your window.

Back then you had feared death. You had thought you were going to die.

You'd thought this up until the very last scream ripped through your throat just as your father emerged from the shadows, a look on his face you’d never seen, moments before everything went red. You remembered that to this day. While everything else was blurry, that moment was clear. You could still feel the blood splatter on your face as you watched your father—the man who used to tie your shoes for you before you hopped on the school bus—kill a man before your very eyes, ripping out his jugular with his bare teeth.

Once a girl who could no longer kneel in church, became one painted with the blood from another. And you remembered a small part of you—the part that had once knelt so much her knees had turned to scabs—that this was all War’s fault.

You thought it until you watched the man pale, falling to your childhood bedroom floor with a thud. You remembered how his eyes stayed wide open, locked on you as he gurgled and choked on his blood, bleeding out onto your pink carpet. He didn't blink. Not once. Not even at all. They stayed cold and empty as your father breathed heavily above him.

And then you looked at him.

Your father was a good man. He was kind and just, despite the town. He believed in science and facts. He wanted the truth. But none of that mattered if his family was at stake.

Your father was a good man. He loved you, and he would’ve done anything for you.

Your father was a good man.

Your father had ripped out another man’s jugular in front of you.

Your father was a good man.

Your father had killed someone.

This was the end. You knew it, and it knew you, too.

(It wasn’t talked about, and you never brought it up again. He simply embraced you in a tight hug and kissed your forehead, leaving a smudge of blood from the man in doing so, and whispered apologies that would never sink deeper than your skin.

(Now you wished you would’ve told him you understood. Now you would’ve looked at him and seen an image of yourself staring right back. Now you would’ve hugged him back.))

That was all it took before your father took it upon himself to gather your mother and little sister, put all necessities in the car, and collect enough portable gasoline as he could before the four of you set off down the road. Where you were going was undetermined. There was no knowing . . . because there was nowhere to go.

The world had ended. There was nothing left. You just had to go.

You have to grow up. No more kid stuff, your father said to you that night on the road while your mother and little sister were fast asleep in the back of the car. One day I might not be here to protect you. You have to learn to protect yourself.

And you'd promised him you would. Because you had to. You had been old enough then, after all. You had been twenty-one . . . technically an adult.

(Now, however, you realized you had still been too young. Twenty-one wasn't old enough to face the end of the world.)

But . . . what happens when a scared young girl is forced to grow up too soon? She turns into a machine.

Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat.

Your father had borne that burden back then, when you first set off on the road. The car hadn't lasted long. Not that it mattered. The world was a wasteland anyway. Walking from town to town on the vacant streets and highways was nothing new now.

You just have to survive, he kept telling you. Survive long enough to keep them alive.

And you always knew what he meant. He was training you for the day when he would be no more. Because when that day came, you would be the one left in charge. He'd turned you into a machine because that was the world you lived in. You were the oldest. Your sister was barely five years old back then. And your mother . . . your mother who once believed this was all some greater plan, was now convinced that if she prayed hard enough it'd stop Famine from following after his ruthless brother.

It was your job to remember what your father had taught you when Pestilence first came to reign—how to hunt, how to shoot a shotgun, and now . . . how to survive.

And when Famine came; when you caught sight of the words Famine has risen spray painted on a billboard on the side of a highway, reminding you of your sick home. It was then you finally learned how to survive. You didn't realize how hard it would be until a year after Famine's birth, your father had passed because of you (because of a stupid decision that you had made which you still couldn't bring yourself to acknowledge).

Survival became all that you knew after that.

Your father was gone. It was just like he had warned. You were in charge now, and you had one purpose: keep your family alive.

The burden became yours to bear.

This was your purgatory and you'd do well to repent for what you'd done; for the man you'd sent out to die; for the father you'd lost.

Survive, survive, survive. It was all you knew.

And when the final Horseman rose, you knew what you had to do. It didn’t matter if it killed you, you couldn’t let your family die at the hands of one of those . . . creatures.

Death had risen. The entire world was a wasteland filled with undead and wars made by man.

If you crossed paths with one of those creatures and let them lay a finger on your family, your oath to your father would be broken. Death would kill you all.

So you kept going, trying to outrun the inevitable.

Because you had to. For him. For your father. For the ghosts that haunted you.

Your father had wielded you to become a machine. And a machine you would become.

Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat.

The routine was ingrained in your brain, going on and on like a mantra. You couldn't escape that. Not that it mattered. Survival mattered. Keeping your group, your sister, your mother, and your family alive mattered. They were all that mattered. You would skip as many meals as your body would let you if it meant they'd stay fed.

Sometimes you found yourself laughing at how naive you had been in the past. At twenty-five now, you were equal parts machine and woman, still oozing blood when wounded despite your protests. You didn't tremble at the sight of blood now. You didn't fear death.

When you were a kid, death was your greatest fear. Now, you envied it. Envied the fact you had to walk the earth; the same earth the dead destroyed. Because you couldn't die. That was the harsh truth: you couldn't die.

You'd feared death for so long and now as you sat awake, keeping watch while your group slept, you yearned for the clutches of death to drag you into nothingness. It was almost laughable.

In a world where people now fought for their lives, trying to outrun the dead, you wished to succumb to death. You knew it was wrong, and you'd never speak it aloud, but you yearned for it. This world was shit. Complete and utter shit, and you wanted to give up. Everything in you wanted to just wait like some brainless sitting duck and let Death or disease or even those wretched beasts you heard groaning in the dead of night have their way with your hollow body.

But you couldn't . . . not when you promised your father you'd protect them. He'd died for you, and it was your duty to keep your family safe. Your duty.

You couldn't die, not when you had to keep them alive.

So you let yourself turn into a machine.

And a ruthless machine you had watched yourself become.

That night had been enough evidence of this. Because that night as you sat on a log, slowly dragging yourself out of the past and into the present, you realized one thing. A bloody knife sat in your hand while you watched over your sleeping group, eyes searching for any sign of the dead, and that was when it dawned on you that you had been right all those years ago—the end of the world brought out who people truly were.

You were a machine. You didn't feel. You couldn't.

Glancing down at the bloody knife in your hand, you realized you hadn't felt anything that night.

That night you'd done something you never thought you would. That night your group was attacked by a man with a gun; a man who wanted to harm; a man who had put his hands on your little sister. She was only eight going on nine, and she was your responsibility, and as soon as his hand clamped down over her shoulder while he held a gun to her head, threatening to pull the trigger unless you gave up all your food, you lost it.

Everything went black. You couldn't see. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't even think. You just felt this pure blinding rage.

When you finally regained your sight, you realized what you'd done—you'd killed the man.

No, killed was too vague.

Like the true machine you had become, you had slaughtered him; the bloody knife in your hand was evidence enough of that.

The man was dead, a chunk of his jugular ripped out while he clutched the many stab wounds piercing his stomach. And you . . . you stood above him, eyes wide, bloody knife in hand, and the bitter taste of blood on your tongue.

You'd never killed anyone before. You'd put people out of their misery, but you'd never taken another life like this. You'd never had to.

But you had that night.

And now you paid the consequences.

It had been hours since then. No one had spoken a word since. And your sister . . . your little sister had only looked at you once since then, and you could see the utter terror her round eyes held. Normally she would sleep by your side, but she'd curled up next to your mother that night.

She was afraid of you, and you couldn't blame her. You had once given your father the same look.

So you sat alone on that damned log, bloody knife in hand as you thought back on how you managed to end up in this Hell. Sometimes you felt like a ghost, and now you knew why.

Your brows pinched together. You couldn't help but think: is this what your father had intended?

How much of a machine had he meant for you to become? Were you supposed to clutch onto the part of yourself that was still human? Or had becoming a monster been part of the deal when you'd signed off your soul for machine parts?

You weren't sure. You weren't really sure of anything anymore.

Your sister had looked at you like you were one of the monsters that plagued your earth, slowly destroying it region by region.

Were you no better than the dead to her?

You swallowed hard.

Had you become a monster?

“You did what you had to do,” you heard a deep voice from behind you, perhaps answering your thoughts.

But you didn't jump as you turned to see Felix sit down on the log beside you, exhaustion weaving through his delicate features. You didn't speak a word, just stared at the side of his face for a second before you glanced back down at the bloody knife in your hand.

You did what you had to do.

You nearly laughed. It was just like him to say such things.

You see: Lee Felix had joined your group around the same time Famine took his reign, and ever since then he'd been following you around like your own personal shadow. That was three years ago now. Your father had saved him, offering him to join your family on the road. Perhaps your father had seen something in him. Or maybe he had just saved him simply because that was just who your father was: a hero.

Not that it mattered. You'd taken a liking to Felix, too. He was kind.

Kind had been rare back then. It still was.

And Felix stayed kind.

When your father passed, Felix stuck by you. Your mother had begun to look at you as if you were a stranger, and your little sister still had been too young to understand much. Felix had made life easier.

You'd taught him everything you knew partly because you needed to and partly because you liked being around him as if he were the younger brother you’d never had. Little bird, you called him . . . because you'd taught him everything. You'd taught him how to survive. And sometimes you thought maybe you would've been friends outside of this. If things were different, if you'd met in a world where the apocalypse hadn't happened . . . then you'd like to think you could have met; that your paths would've crossed.

But things weren't different. You weren't even sure if you could let him in entirely. Your friendship would surely put him in some sort of jeopardy. Because, really, it all came down to survival, and you needed him to live. You didn't care what happened to yourself. You just needed to stay alive long enough to make sure they'd all make it.

That still didn't stop the feeling of relief that washed over you as soon as you felt him lean into you, arm touching yours. He was trying to comfort you in the way that he knew, and you couldn't help but lean against him further.

He was still just as kind as the day you'd crossed paths.

But you?

Well . . .

“I ripped his throat out . . . " you heard yourself roughly mutter before you felt the words tumble from your tongue. You lifted a hand to your blood-stained lips and swallowed. “I ripped . . . throat . . . his . . . with my teeth.” You swallowed once again, harder this time as your eyes drifted to your little sister's sleeping figure. She had been so scared. You had done that. You had scared her. “She looks at me like I’m a monster.”

”You’re not."

“Lix."

“You’re not,” he reiterated, his voice as harsh as he could manage (which was not harsh at all) while he clutched your blood-stained hand and took it into his. “You did what you had to do.”

Your eyes flicked down to your hands. But you didn't look at him. You couldn't. You just kept thinking and thinking and seeing that look on your sister's face. And then . . . then you felt yourself say. ”She says all life is precious. She cries when we have to put down a squirrel for Christ’s sake. I should’ve known. I should’ve—”

”She’s just a kid."

“I didn’t have to kill him,” you continued. “There was a point where I could’ve knocked him out. I thought about it. And I still killed him.” Your eyes finally snapped to his then. “I wanted to kill him, Lix.”

A muscle in Felix’s jaw twitched. ”It’s people like him that make me wonder if this world got it all right,” he admitted after a second. “I’m glad he’s dead. I just wish I could’ve been the one to do it.”

Your breath hitched at his words, not because they'd shocked you . . . but rather because you found yourself agreeing. But that wasn't . . . right. Felix was kind. You were not. He was good, and you . . .

”You don’t mean that,” you mumbled, squeezing his hand. “You’re not . . . “

”Not what?” Felix countered, eyes searching yours. “Hmm? Not what?”

You blinked, your throat constricting. ”Too far gone,” you choked out.

His brows twitched, his expression softening. ”Neither are you."

His hand touched your face a second later, his thumb wiping the dried blood from your chin. You weren't a monster in his eyes. You were just his friend. He didn't fear you, but you knew he should've.

But for a second, you let yourself forget this. Instead, you closed your eyes, allowing him to clean your face of the man's spilled blood. And when he was done, your eyes fluttered open just in time to see him try to reach for the knife in your hand, probably to release it from your tight hold.

However, you shifted it out of his grasp. His eyes snapped to yours then, questioning.

You offered a weak smile—something you didn't do often, but would for him. ”Sleep,” you hummed, patting his shoulder. “We need your brute strength in the morning.”

”We need your brain more,” he countered, tapping a finger to your forehead.

”Sleep, little bird."

He rolled those round brown eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that."

Nevertheless, Felix listened to you. He shifted down onto the ground, resting his head on the log, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes closed. And you watched him until you were sure he was resting soundly. Then, your eyes went back to watching, making sure to keep your promise to your father.

But just as you were sure it was just you and the silence of the night again, you heard Felix’s voice filter through your ears, ”You’re not too far gone."

You swallowed hard but said nothing.

You're not too far gone.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

As if like some sort of phantom, your knees had begun to itch like they used to after mass all those years ago. For the first few days, you tried to ignore it, writing it off as poison ivy or not bathing for a few weeks, but even when you’d scratch, the itch would remain. You came to realize that this wasn’t something you could write off; this wasn’t something that hadn’t been caused by anything other than . . . you.

A few nights ago, you’d killed a man. You’d ripped out his throat with his teeth, and for a second too long, you’d enjoyed it. Now . . . now you wondered just how deep your guilt ran. Now you wondered if given the chance, would you do it again?

But you already knew the answer.

Your knees had begun to itch once again . . .

And you tried to ignore it. Honest, you did, but his screams; how easy it was to bite into his flesh; the bitter taste of metallic blood on your tongue which oddly tasted too similar to honey; the life in his eyes quickly dissipating as you towered over him like a predator to its prey; all of it kept playing in your head over and over again. You couldn’t escape it, not even when night came and you were forced to close your eyes.

His face was always there.

Sometimes you wondered if any of it had actually happened. Sometimes you wondered if none of this was real or if you even were. Sometimes you wondered if this man had been Death; if the tales your town preached had been real and this was your test.

Sometimes you wondered if you had failed.

And you knew you had.

At night, you could hear your mother whispering prayers under her breath, pleading to the heavens that she and her daughter would be spared. And every time, you knew which daughter she meant. Every time you knew she was praying to be spared from you. Every time you knew it was you who she feared the most in this world. And every time you wondered if one day he’d finally answer her prayers.

You couldn’t even blame her, because a few nights ago you’d done the one thing you’d never thought you’d have to do—kill a man. You knew you were some kind of fucked for that alone.

Then, last night, you began to wonder if this was how your father had felt. You began to wonder if this was why he was dead and not you. You wondered if he’d done it to save you, and to put himself out of his own misery.

And then you began to pray, too. You’d stopped believing in God years ago, but it was an old habit that you sometimes indulged in for some sick kind of comfort. And this time, in the dead of night, you’d shut your eyes and beg for your father’s ghost to return to you. You begged for just one more minute. One more minute and he could tell you how to deal with this; how to survive this, too, just as he had taught you how to endure everything else.

But no ghost ever came, only the perpetual darkness galloped in, consuming you whole.

Your father was gone, and it was all your fault. Guilt was your ghost, not him.

He would still be here if you hadn't—

"Mom thinks you've been possessed by the devil," your little sister's voice brought you out of your mind.

You blinked once. Then, you glanced down at her, taking note of her skeptical eyes and furrowed brows. It was almost as if she were inspecting your face, trying to decipher if you, her older sister, really were possessed as your mother had claimed.

It had been the first time your sister had spoken to you in the past week. The four of you had been walking through the woods, steering clear of the main roads ever since you’d come into contact with that man—the man whose blood you could still taste on your tongue.

She’d taken to walking hand-in-hand with your mother, just a few feet behind you and Felix as the two of you led the way into the unknown. You didn’t know where you were going. You never did. That was the thing about the end of the world—the only thing that mattered was surviving day by day. There was no end-point.

But today while you led the group through the woods, eyes searching for any rodents or small animals to capture for food, your head stuck in the past, your sister had taken the chance to walk into step with you. And those . . . those had been her choice of words.

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

And now with the world a ghost of itself, you thought perhaps maybe your mother could be right. You’d changed. The world had changed you. The old taste of blood on your tongue was evidence enough of that.

You’d killed a man. You’d ripped out a chunk of his jugular with your teeth and plunged the very knife in your belt into his flesh over and over again until you were sure he couldn’t do more harm.

Kill or be killed, sure, but . . .

. . . You’d still killed a man.

You’d actually taken a life.

(You weren’t expecting it to haunt you this much. But it had. You could still see his face, hear his voice, smell him, feel him. He was still very much alive in your mind, haunting you like a ghost.

It didn’t matter if he was more monster than man . . . you had still killed him. You had still taken a life without a second thought. His evils didn’t matter . . . guilt still seeped in.)

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

And maybe you had been.

That would’ve been easier to fathom.

But instead of voicing these thoughts aloud, you adjusted your backpack on your shoulders, touched a finger to the knife tucked into your belt to make sure it was still there and tightened your grip on your father’s shotgun in your hand before you finally spoke.

"Mom's off her meds," was all you offered. It was all you could say. And it hadn’t been what your sister was searching for.

Your sister stepped back, allowing you to walk alone. You knew you were losing her. You knew she barely trusted you now just as your mother stopped considering you a daughter.

And you couldn’t blame them.

The end of the world brought out who people truly were, and you were someone not worth saving.

The sun had begun to set when you finally declared you’d be stopping for the night. It wasn’t a solid resting place, which meant another night of no sleep on your part, but that didn’t bother you much anymore. All that mattered was there were no signs of the dead, no low groans in the distance, no immediate danger, and the small creek running just a few meters from your camp would provide just enough for you to wet your face and clean any dried blood from your skin. That was what mattered—a temporary sanctuary.

Felix had taken to accompanying your little sister to the creek, while your mother gathered small twigs and broken branches to add to the fire you had just started. But your eyes never stopped watching your little sister, keeping an eye on her to ensure no danger would reach her or Felix while you were occupied.

That was your only concern. Your second was food. There had to be some crawfish lingering in the creek that you could fry up. That was your second concern right after the fire was steady enough to last until nightfall.

With a soft sigh, you forced yourself to tear your eyes from your sister’s smiling face. You tried to ignore how she smiled at Felix while he splashed water at her. You tried to ignore the soft laughter you could still hear as you stabbed at the fire with a branch. You tried to ignore the thought that she’d never look at you like that; never laugh like that with you; never trust you like that again.

You tried to ignore how you had become more of a loose end your family needed to tie off, than a daughter or an older sister.

But you couldn’t. The thought was always there. There it would remain, you were sure of it.

Clenching your jaw, you added the branch in your hand to the fire, watching it crackle under the embers. And for a moment, you wondered what it would feel like if you were to reach forward and let the flames lick your fingertips.

Had he felt like this, too?

Had your father had these thoughts before he died for you?

Did he ever wonder if—

“You’re just like him, you know?” your mother nearly whispered, tearing you from your mind as she set down the pile of branches she had collected.

You glanced at her once, then glared into the fire. “Is that supposed to hurt me?”

She shook her head only once. “It should scare you,” she clarified, standing to her feet so she could tower over you once again. “God’s plan—”

“God’s plan?” you immediately spat out with a humorous scoff, now standing to your feet as well. You were taller than her now, unlike when you were a kid; unlike when you used to do everything she told you; unlike when she still considered you her daughter. “What does God’s plan have to do with my father?”

A muscle in her jaw twitched. “He has protected us this far. He couldn’t save your father. I’m worried if you continue down this path, he won’t be able to save you either,” she muttered back as she clutched the cross around her neck as if she thought it would ward you off like you had become one of the evils she’d warn you about when you were just a girl.

But you were no longer small; you were no longer moldable by her hand, and now, you were only made of anger. “You think God’s the reason we’re alive?” you questioned her, eyes narrowing into slits.

Your mother remained silent but clutched her cross harder. And you knew what that meant.

Your eyes flicked from her hand to her face. Then, you took a step forward, chin jutted out. “Is it God who kills so we can eat? Is it God who got us here, to this point? Is it God who holds dad’s gun?” you bit out as you touched a hand to your chest. “God doesn’t have a fucking plan.” You drilled a finger into your chest, your angry eyes never leaving hers. “I do. And God couldn’t save dad because it was supposed to be—”

But your words halted in your throat. You couldn’t admit it to her. You couldn’t tell her you were the reason behind your father’s death. It didn’t matter if she already knew. You just . . . you just couldn’t admit it to her face.

“God doesn't fucking exist,” you muttered out instead, turning away from her. “And if he did, he’s sure as hell dead now.”

“Your father filled your head with lies.”

You turned back to her, eyes glaring into hers. “Bullshit,” you scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. “He was the only one who ever told me the truth.”

Ignoring your words, she took a step away from you, her hand remaining on the cross around her neck. "Your father . . . I knew he was deeply flawed when I married him, but I just figured he’d change. I figured he’d see the way, instead he only got worse, but he knew when to control it. He knew right from wrong,” she went on, her voice steady, but her eyes had begun to water. And you knew tears would come, and when they did, you’d leave to kill the crawfish. "But, you, honey . . . I don't know where we went wrong with you. It's like you came out of the womb defective. You got all the bad traits of your father and nothing else. I look at you and I see this angry little girl. And, you know, sometimes I ask myself how in the world we managed to raise a daughter who is even more deeply flawed than her bastard father, but I never seem to know the answer."

There were the tears now.

But along with it came a knife in your chest that kept twisting and twisting the more she spoke.

Twist the knife, and she did.

"There's something wrong with you,” she whispered again after a moment’s silence, the tears starting to roll down her cheeks. “You frighten me.”

Twist the knife, and you refused to pull it out.

This was what you deserved.

Still, you didn’t cry, not for yourself. Never for yourself. Instead, you continued to stare at her with no emotion in your eyes as you muttered, “Talking ill of the dead is a sin, remember?” And then you began to turn.

But your mother’s hand landed firmly around your arm. “Don’t you turn your back on me, girl,” she warned, her words sharper than the knife she’d twisted into your chest.

Swallowing hard, you sucked on your teeth. “What else do you want me to say?” you questioned, but didn’t bother to turn and face her. “I have nothing else to give you, mom.”

She released your arm as if you’d burned her and hissed, “Don’t call me that.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion for a mere second before you realized what she meant; before you realized what you’d said; what you’d done. It was an honest mistake, as well. You hadn’t called her that in so long, and yet it still came out. You hadn’t meant to say it, but it still came out as if you were still small and thought the whole world was in her arms.

“Then what do you want me to call you?” you asked, your voice quieter now as you took a step back. “If not mom, then what should your daughter call you? Hmm? Or is the answer nothing? Is that what we are to each other now? Will that make God come down from the heavens and give us salvation? . . . If you abandon me?”

Your mother remained silent.

And you knew her answer.

Sucking on your teeth, you nodded in acceptance. “What?” you spoke in a whisper as you took another step back. “Am I not being loud enough for him?” You outstretched your hands at your sides, gesturing to the heavens. “Should I scream it? Will he finally fucking answer then?”

“Stupid girl—” your mother quickly scolded, grabbing you firmly by the arm— “don’t you dare put this family in danger,”

But you only tilted your head in question. “Does that include me?”

Her eyes fluttered, taken back. “What?”

“This family,” you reiterated. “Am I a part of this family?”

Once again, she remained silent.

But you knew the truth.

“God’s plan as long as I’m out of the picture, right?” you muttered under your breath, swallowing hard once again. “At least we finally agree.”

Then, you were tearing your arm out of her grasp, but you didn’t move, you didn’t even look away from her. Instead, you kept still. You kept your eyes locked with hers as if breaking that eye contact would sever the final string holding the two of you together. She didn’t speak either, and she refused to move. She wouldn’t move first. You knew that. She’d always been that way. So had you . . .

And when you were sure the world had begun to rot around you, you could have sworn her bottom lip quivered as if she were on the verge of saying something . . . anything. Only, when her lips parted a mere sliver, a shrill scream sounded from behind, and the perpetual darkness of your world crept back in through your peripheral vision.

Beat. Your heart shot to your throat.

It happened too quickly for you to think.

Beat. Beat.

You heard the scream and you knew your sister was in trouble.

Beat.

Without a second thought, you dropped everything and ran toward the scream; toward the creek; toward your sister. It wasn’t far, but it was far enough for you to catch sight of two of the dead. One Felix fought off, while trying to grab his knife from his belt. The other had found its way to your sister, pinning her to the forest floor as she thrashed and screamed, her weak limbs desperately trying to keep the thing from sinking its teeth into her flesh.

And you knew what to do.

For a brief second longer, there was screaming. Then the squelch of a knife being plunged through a skull. Then nothing.

The world faded away. No noise. No people. No nothing.

One. Two. Three seconds, then the world started to return.

Breathing heavily, you watched carefully as your mother rushed past you, tearing the dead corpse off your sister and holding her closer . . . closer than she’d ever held you. Your nose twitched for a mere second as your gaze shifted from your mother and sister staring at you in shock ((?) no, maybe it was horror) to the stilled corpse, and finally to the bloodied knife gripped tightly in your hand.

You’d killed that thing, yes. But you hadn’t even thought about it. You hadn’t stopped to think that this thing was once a person. You hadn’t even seen it as such, unlike your mother; unlike what the town had tried to drill into your head during Pestilence’s reign. And . . . you could see that realization in your mother’s eyes.

. . . You were getting worse.

Your legs had begun to weaken at the thought, but you quickly stabled yourself, afraid they’d see it as another sign to put you down like the violent dog you knew they saw you to be. Instead, you tore your gaze from the knife in your hand and met your mother’s eyes once again (but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet your sister’s tearful stare). “Tell me, mo—” you quickly stopped the word from tumbling from your tongue, then went on— “is this still what God’s plan looks like to you?”

But your mother didn’t reply, and you didn’t wait for her to. You could barely stand to hold her gaze for a second longer. Instead, you wiped the blood from your knife on your pants, shoved it back into your belt, and turned, walking back to the fire you had begun to make minutes before.

And as you walked, you took note of the silence which followed you. You took note of how even Felix hesitated slightly before he followed after you. You took note of how your mother and sister sat near that creek for a few minutes longer and didn’t bother to wander after you as if you were no longer their blood.

The final string tying your family together had begun to wear thinner. You wondered when it would finally snap. You wondered how long it would take for a violent dog to succumb to its instincts; how long it would take you to become the lost cause you knew you were destined to be.

Would they make the decision to put you down then?

Four days. Two sleepless nights. And one squirrel shared between the four of you. You felt a fever coming on a couple days ago. You saw the infected cuts from the fight with that man. You knew your body was weakening day by day.

If you didn’t stop soon, you’d sure become one of the dead.

But you tried your best to ignore it. You had to.

Your mother; however, remained hopeful (of course). You could hear her chattering on to your sister throughout the day while you watched the world.

According to her, no one really knew why the Horsemen came to earth. She claimed the world needed saving from certain people (what you were sure she was leaving out was the fact that she was convinced you were one of these people). So, she went on and on and on, and you quietly listened, too, because you were still a girl who used to kneel in church, after all; because you could still feel the bruises on your knees; because you could still see the scars left behind from the scabs.

So, you listened, but you did not believe.

The world was fucked and needed cleansing. People were inherently bad and God saw no other way for salvation (apparently) than to send his four loyal Horsemen to destroy Earth and its people. . . . Well . . . supposedly. You knew the truth; however. There were no Horsemen. There was just death. Something had gone wrong and no one really knew what, so they blamed it on some higher power.

Whatever.

(Supposedly) Pestilence had been a shadow. War had wanted an audience. The world fell before you could get a proper grasp on Famine. And now Death was here. He’d been walking the earth for two years now, and still no one knew why.

Just like the town, your mother had her theories. And while she believed this God was still on your side, still searching for the good in humanity, you thought him fucked up. The human race was just his playthings.

He’d made sure there was nothing left.

Hell, you knew there wasn’t even a god. The world was just fucked. The end.

Point blank: it didn’t matter. Nothing did anymore.

Survival was all that mattered.

Everything else was fucked.

And as you continued to lead the way into nothingness, listening to your mother’s ramblings about the Bible, all you could do was ignore how your knees had begun to itch once again, while you focused on one thought: survive, survive, survive. But . . . not for yourself . . . for them.

Survive long enough for them.

For your father.

For your sister.

For your mother.

For Felix.

For them.

By sundown, Felix managed to find an abandoned warehouse for the night. It wasn’t much, but it was better than sleeping out in the wild. Perhaps all of you could get some shuteye that night. Sure, luckily it was around Fall or maybe just before where it was still warm, but sleeping on logs wasn’t ideal. (Not that you could be picky. Not that you were.)

But, just your luck, sleep never found you.

Beside you, Felix softly snored, laying on his back with his arms crossed over his chest and his head resting in your lap. Your hand found its way to his dark waves, gently scratching his scalp as he slept. It brought you peace where you normally had none.

Sometimes you wondered when Felix would finally realize the monster you’d become. You wondered what it would take. How many more people would you kill for them in order for him to look at you as if you were a stranger?

You didn’t want to see that day come.

It’d already come for your mother the day your father died. Then for your sister when you’d butchered that man. You couldn’t bear living through Felix’s realization.

With a sigh, you glanced over your shoulder, eyes landing on your mother’s sleeping figure as your little sister curled up into her side, miles away in her dreams. You hoped it was better there; that her dreams were still pure and innocent despite the world.

You tore your eyes from them a second later, instead opting to glance out the large opening in the warehouse where a window used to be. The world was so bleak now. Even the sight of the empty lands before your eyes stirred nothing within you. It was just so . . . distant.

Nothing was left.

Truly.

Reluctantly, you shut your eyes, trying your hardest to drift off into sleep, but the pounding in your head and the scratch in your throat kept you up. You were getting worse. You squeezed your eyes tighter, hoping this fever would subside soon. The world was darker now, the nothingness intensifying. You weren’t even sure if you could sleep anymore. Had you been? You couldn’t remember.

But just when you were sure sleep wouldn’t greet you that night, forcing you to keep watch, you could’ve sworn you heard an inhuman howl echo throughout the darkness beyond.

Your eyes snapped open, heart hammering.

No.

It couldn’t be.

Another howl echoed throughout the air. But this was no howl from a wolf or even a beast.

You’d heard stories from survivors in the towns you’d passed through in the two years Death had taken his reign over your lands. You’d heard the stories of Death and his steed. His steed, pale in color similar to a corpse, was rumored to have this cry.

The cry was no ordinary cry. Death’s steed cried similar to a wolf or rather a beast, hungry for blood. It was a war cry—a warning sign.

Of course, Death was not real and there was no horse with their cry. No, you knew what this was. You’d heard these cries in smaller amounts. You’d heard these cries as you plunged your knife into each undead’s brain, killing the parasite living within. And a howl like this only meant one thing—a horde.

You swallowed hard.

Death was near.

You’d thought the undead didn’t horde unless . . .

The man.

Your eyes widened.

The night the man had attacked your group, you had managed to hotwire a car. That had been your plan. You were going to use that car to get your group farther and safer. But because of that man . . . because of what you’d done to him, you’d accidentally popped one of the tires in the process, forcing your group to stay the night in those woods when you should’ve been on the road.

And his screams . . .

You’d slowed down and made yourself known, and now they were following the noise.

And . . . it was all your fault.

You exhaled a shaky breath.

Death was coming.

Immediately, you swung into action, quietly waking Felix up. His eyes questioned yours before he, too, heard the war cry.

Death was coming. Felix knew this now, too.

The two of you silently awoke your mother and sister, Felix informing them of the matter they had on your hands, while you gathered your father’s shotgun, crouching near the window for a better look. If they were near . . . how near?

You swallowed hard.

Maybe you could still run. You could still get everyone out if you ran. It could work—

But then you saw it.

In the distance, you caught sight of the undead as they cried, following each other.

You checked the gun’s chamber, removing and reloading the cartridges just to make sure they were in place in case you were forced to fire. Your grip tightened and loosened, and you could hear Felix whispering your name, but your eyes were transfixed on the horde up ahead.

Death was here. So close. Too close.

They couldn’t see you now, couldn’t hear you, but . . . if you ran, they’d catch sight of you. They’d kill your family. They’d kill Felix. They’d kill you all.

There was no way you could outrun the horde. Not when they were this close; not when they could smell you; hear your every breath.

Fuck.

You wanted to scream.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Your father had trusted you. They all had. And now you were going to let another person down all because you’d been stupid one night. You’d fucked all of you.

“Snap out of it,” Felix whispered, his hand on your shoulder. “Ideas?”

You could only shake your head.

Felix swore, running his hands through his hair. "There's no way," he nearly gasped at his words. "Fuck."

You swore you felt your heart drop as you slumped against the wall. They were going to die. Because of you.

There was no way out; no way any of you would make it past the horde without them noticing. The moment they saw any of you, they’d follow you until they could get their teeth into your flesh. And while you had no care for your own life, you still had care for theirs—the people you'd sworn to protect.

Your father had died for all of you. He knew it wasn't safe, and he still went out. He'd traded his life for yours. He'd made you swear to protect your mother and your little sister, and along the way, you'd sworn to not only keep them safe but to keep Felix from harm. You'd sworn that, and you were not one to fall back on your word.

There was no way out together. But . . . there was one way out.

You knew what that meant.

This was what your father would've wanted. This was what he would've done; what he had done.

It was always going to turn out this way. You'd known that.

And in that moment, you accepted that. After all, you'd always been told you were your father's daughter.

This was how you made things right.

You nodded at your thoughts.

Then, you felt your eyes burn, your brows scrunching in confusion. Wetness slipped down your cheek and you briefly touched a finger to the tear, finding you were crying. You hadn’t cried in so long.

Angrily, you wiped the tears away. You didn’t get to cry.

This had been your fault in the first place. This was how you made it right. You didn’t get to cry. You didn’t.

So you sent one last glare at the horde up ahead, then turned to Felix. Fuck. He would be the one in charge now. You trusted him, yes, but you knew how heavy that burden was. That was what you would regret the most—putting Felix through this agony, too.

Still: "Little bird," you whispered.

Fearful tears were already in his eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that."

"Can't help it. I taught you how to fly," you hummed, voice soft and unlike you.

You both knew what you meant. You'd taught Felix how to fire a gun, taught him how to gut a fish, you taught him how to survive—you taught him how to fly. But he didn't need any more teachings. Like a baby bird, he'd flown from the nest ages ago. He could fly without you. The thought brought a melancholic smile to your chapped lips as you fought back the burning in your eyes when they met his worried gaze once again.

"Makes me feel important." You touched a hand to his cheek. He felt soft under your calloused skin. "But . . . you don't need me anymore."

Felix exhaled with a strained choke, his eyes widening in realization. "No," he rushed out, shaking his head as his soft brown eyes searched yours. "No." His hand enclosed around the one you'd touched to his cheek. "Don't. Don't."

You knew what he meant. Don't be the hero.

But that wasn't his decision to make. You had debts to pay; people to protect.

Living had never been something you wanted in a world like this. Sometimes you felt like a ghost; when the world was quiet and your heart beat a little slower—you felt like one of the many corpses you'd passed by on the daily.

Years ago, you promised your father you'd take over his job and protect. You'd never wanted to live, but you had forced yourself. Back then, you made a promise to yourself—you had to stay alive, not for yourself, but for them; you had to stay alive for the one you had lost. And you'd upheld that promise, but now . . . in order to save them, you had to break it.

You knew this.

Felix did, too.

He rested his forehead against yours. "Please. Don't. It's supposed to be you and me."

Your eyes squeezed shut. "I'm the reason he's dead."

The two of you knew what you meant. This was how you repaid him; how you repaid your father.

"Then let me do it," Felix muttered, hand dropping from yours to grasp the shotgun in your other hand.

You were quick to rip it from his hold. "It was always going to turn out this way," was all you said, and he knew what you meant.

The sound of the cries coming closer made you spring back from him. Your head swiveled, taking in your surroundings as your hands found their rightful place on the shotgun. Your eyes briefly found your little sister's—her round eyes wide with fright, only furthering your decision. You knew doing this for them, for her.

"Fine," you heard Felix hiss in a quiet whisper. "But I'm coming with you."

Your head snapped to him. "Like hell you are."

"You don't get to die."

"Neither do you."

"Then I guess we have a predicament."

Your eyes softened. "Lix."

His brows pinched together. "You don't get to die."

And you almost felt yourself smile. "Little birds are meant to fly," you hummed. Little birds are meant to fly; they aren't meant to die.

He shook his head.

You swallowed hard.

The cries grew closer, and your heart raced. You were out of time. This was your last goodbye.

You gripped his hand. "Protect them."

He latched onto your shoulders. “No. No. I’m not ready. Don’t make me say goodbye to you.”

Against your will, your bottom lip trembled. “It’s not.”

But it was. You both knew that.

Felix could only shake his head. “Please.”

“See you later, little bird,” you hummed, weakly, kissing his forehead before you tore yourself from him. And he reached for you, begging you to stay.

But . . . no amount of pleas could change your mind. You were already moving before Felix could stop you. You didn’t have the heart to glance back at your sister or your mother. You never wanted to live in a world like this, but if you looked back, you feared you might’ve found salvation in their eyes. You couldn’t put them through that. You’d put them through enough.

You worked quickly. You had to. For them.

The quiet cries of the horde approached, moving slowly. You kept your eyes on their figures, stealthily stepping down the creaky stairs to the bottom floor. From there, you moved to the woods surrounding the area. You quickly crouched down in the dark forest, clutching the shotgun even tighter. This was your father’s, now it was yours, and you were going to use it to save your family.

You weren’t naive enough to think that you could actually kill all of them. But that didn’t matter. You were solely supposed to be a distraction. You would fire that damned shotgun at those things over and over again, not caring if it even did any damage. You just needed to keep their attention long enough to get them to follow you in the opposite direction. That would allow your family to escape. That was all you intended to do.

You knew there was no surviving this. And you were fine with that.

Death didn’t scare you. Not yours, anyway.

So you hunkered down, hands clutched on the shotgun as you waited for the horde to get near enough to strike.

You heard them before you saw them. The cries echoed throughout the dark night, making your heart pound faster. It became louder and louder, so loud you felt yourself start to tense, and then the first came into view.

It came to a gentle halt, almost as if it had been expecting you. But that couldn’t be. It hadn’t seen you. You were still in the clear.

Still, you watched, remembering the lessons on hunting that your father had taught you. This was how you hunted—quiet, hidden, and alert.

The creature tilted its head back, eyes closed as the moonlight cascaded across its pale face. Your brows scrunched in confusion as you watched it, tilting your head to the side. It was almost as if it were basking in the moonlight, soaking up the feeling of the satellite shining down on it. And then you realized what it was doing: sniffing you out.

Behind it, the world was bleak as the rest of those damned creatures sauntered forward. The trees seemed to sag, the grass stale, and it was quiet, so very quiet. Every step they took, decay followed.

And then they began to move . . . toward the warehouse where your family still resided.

Your jaw ticked as you raised the shotgun. Your father’s instructions rang through your ears and you lined up the barrel, aiming at one of the creature’s chests as it was perhaps the only part of it you had direct access to. You were certain the impact wouldn’t kill it, you were almost certain it wouldn’t even hurt it, but . . . it would distract it, and that was all you needed.

Last week, you killed a man. You ripped out his jugular with your teeth. You’d slaughtered him. So this, killing this entity shouldn’t have made your stomach churn, but it did.

Your world was gone. Death remained. And it was all his doing.

Still . . . still, your finger hesitated on the trigger.

You would die tonight . . . by its hand, no doubt. And perhaps that scared you. Perhaps a part of you truly didn’t want to die. But you dumbed down this hesitation to just pure fear.

Fear that those things would find your family after disposing of your body; fear they’d kill them; fear all of this would be for nothing.

You swallowed hard and adjusted your grip on the gun. You had to try. Your life for theirs. It was that or you all died tonight, and you wouldn’t have that, not after all you had done; all you had put them through.

All you had to do was pull the trigger. And yet . . . you still hesitated.

Fuck. You closed your eyes, clenching your jaw as your heart hammered in your chest. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And as your eyes remained closed, you heard their voices then.

You're not too far gone.

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

There’s something wrong with you. You frighten me.

You have to grow up. No more kid stuff.

Your breath hitched. You have to grow up. And you had. Too quickly you now realized. It was always going to end up this way.

This was the only way to save them. The only way.

Your eyes snapped open, catching sight of the creatures still sniffing the air like they could just smell your terror. You sucked in a breath, then pulled the trigger. Exhale.

The ringing in your ears was almost immediate and the explosive sound echoed throughout the silent night. You barely even noticed the shotgun’s kickback, too focused on the creatures before you, watching with wide eyes as the pellets hit one of the things, knocking it entirely to the ground.

The others cried out, their noses no longer needing to be depended on as their eyes searched for the origin of the noise. And then you caught the eye of one, and you knew it was the end.

You faltered at the sight, stumbling backward as you tripped on a root, causing your body to hit the ground. A low groan escaped you before you could stop yourself.

Fuck.

Had that been too loud?

Heart pounding in your chest, you slowly glanced up, eyes landing on the creatures. More eyes stared back at you, hungry with . . . something as a few had begun to make their way toward you.

You swallowed hard.

Death itself had seen you.

Acting fast, you hastily grabbed the shotgun. You weren’t sure how long you could keep this up, but you needed to buy your family more time. You needed to end this.

And end it you would.

You clutched the shotgun tightly in your hand and sat up, groaning slightly when you felt a sharp pain in your ankle. But still, you went on.

Remembering your father’s teachings, you knew what a machine was good for at the end of its reign: making a lot of fucking noise.

And so with a heavy heart and angry tears pricking your eyes . . . you belted out a loud yell.

There was no hiding now. They had all heard you. And that was all that mattered to them.

“Come on, you fuckers!” you took it a step further as you yelled at them, clanking the butt of your gun on a tree to make as much noise as you could. And then, when you heard their cries echo with yours; when you saw one turn to two turn to ten following you into the woods, you knew it was time.

With a fleeting look at the warehouse where your family still resided, you fought back the urge to crawl into yourself and let that anger you’d been holding inside yourself for years now finally just . . . snap. You didn’t know if you fired the shotgun at one of the creature’s heads first or ran off further into the woods, still screaming. You didn’t know the present from the past, but you did know you couldn’t look back.

And so, you let yourself be loud, screaming for yourself, for the people you’d lost, for the people you’d never see again, for your father. You yelled and yelled, racing through the woods as they all quickly followed after you, releasing cries of their own.

The world fell behind you in those moments, time moving in slow motion as you weaved through the dark woods, your feet bounding off the ground as if you were in zero gravity. Sound evaded your senses, only the muffled noises of your rapid breathing could be heard echoing in your ears.

But you just kept running, letting the world escape you. Even when you’d trip over hidden roots, your knees buckling as you fell to the ground, surely bruising and cutting up your skin, you persisted each time. Like your father’s daughter, you pulled yourself to your feet each time, sparing a glance over your shoulder only to be met with the sight of the horde getting nearer and nearer. And every time, you’d force yourself to swallow the bile crawling up your throat before you cocked your shotgun and fired into the horde, taking off screaming for them to follow after you.

This was the end, and you planned to gather as much of them away from the warehouse and closer to you. You knew it would hurt, but you didn’t care. Their teeth ripping into your flesh would never be a match for the sins you’d committed in this lifetime. That was why you met every dead that got in your path with a lethal hit from the butt of your shotgun and a silent prayer that your damned soul could be traded for the safety of your family.

You were sure you would have continued running had your foot not slammed into a divot in the ground, twisting your ankle with such force that you hit the ground instantly, crying out in pain. And this time when you tried to stand to your feet, you realized the pain was too much to stand.

It hit you then.

Beat.

This really was the end.

You couldn’t run.

Beat.

The horde was gaining on you.

This was the end.

Beat.

Swallowing hard, you clenched your jaw, shutting your eyes as you realized what you needed to do. Clutching your father’s shotgun close to your chest, so close it nearly touched your heart, your lips parted, and a scream bubbled up your throat, ripping through your vocal cords as it echoed throughout the dead of night.

But before you could inhale and breathe out another war cry of your own to match theirs, a hand slapped over your mouth, muffling your screams. Another hand was gripping your arm the next second, pulling you off the ground and shoving your back against the nearest tree.

Your eyes shot open, dropping your shotgun as your hands instinctively clasped around the wrist of the hand covering your mouth. Deep dark eyes stared back at you, a sense of urgency in them as you realized what was going on.

It happened so fast, too fast for you to process. But you quickly realized the eyes belonged to a man not much older than you. Dark eyes. Full lips. Sculpted nose. It was your first time seeing a man other than Felix . . . other than the one you’d gutted . . . in a long time.

What was he doing?

But you couldn’t ponder long as his eyes twisted to the scene behind you, and you could’ve sworn you felt his heart beat faster against your lips where his hand still lay. And at that sight, he kicked into action.

“You listen to me. We have a few seconds before those fuckers are at our throats,” he spoke in a hushed tone, his voice deep and controlled, but you could sense the fear on him. It was different from yours. “When I tell you, you run as fast as you fucking can in that direction and you don’t stop. You follow me and you don’t get lost or you’re dead.” His hand fell from your mouth as he began hastily digging through the pack over his shoulder. “Got it?”

You skipped a beat, not answering.

His eyes were on you instantly, expectantly.

But you only blinked.

You didn’t want to be saved.

No, he couldn’t do this. It was your time. This was your punishment. He couldn’t—

Your thoughts were cut short as he pulled something out of his pack, and you quickly realized a grenade now sat in his hand. Your eyes widened. He was going to—

“Run,” he bit out, an order.

And it all happened so fast.

You stayed put.

He turned from you, quickly pulling the pin and chucking the grenade as fast and hard as he could from your location. You watched the weapon soar, your heartbeat stilling in your throat as the seconds of anticipation crept upon you.

Beat.

Be—

A loud explosion sounded in the distance, the ground shaking beneath your feet as ringing in your ears commenced. Only then did you realize your feet had been moving on their own, carrying you farther and farther away from the scene as you caught a glimpse of the horde following after the explosion. But you wouldn’t do this. You had accepted your death. You wouldn’t—

Your feet weren’t moving of your own volition. The world had fallen away from you, you realized, but as you turned your head away from the horde you realized it was the man who was dragging you away from the scene. You realized in your daze, that he must have locked his grip onto your arm and took off running, dragging you along with him despite your injured ankle and dormant mind.

And for some reason, despite the urge to fall to the ground and let yourself fade away, you allowed him to drag you further and further into the woods. You didn’t realize just how much land you had covered until the sound of the horde was so far, that he’d begun to slow down ever so slightly. You didn’t realize until the woods turned into sparse grassland, until the sight of what appeared to be a latched roof to an underground bunker of some sort. You’d heard of shelters like these, but you’d never seen one. You always just assumed the military had covered it all up, leaving people to die while they sat safely under the barren earth.

Your mind raced with a million thoughts, but you could barely see straight let alone think right as you allowed this man to drag you to the entrance. Hell, you allowed him to shove you inside, as you crawled down the ladder in the tunnel. It was a subconscious action, honest. Otherwise, you would’ve begged him to leave you outside to die. But there was no breath for begging as he followed in after you, shutting the hatch and twisting it closed to ensure it was tightly locked.

And when your feet finally met the metal flooring of the inside, you stepped back in shock.

As you had predicted, this was a government bunker. A rather large one at that. You swallowed hard. Fuck.

And when you turned around, your eyes searching the area, you were met with the scene of a group of survivors staring back at you in confusion. People. And they were alive. You hadn’t seen so many people since before Famine.

What the fuck?

But before you could react, something hard cracked over the back of your head, throbbing pain followed. The darkness seeped in instantly, your mind losing control of your body as you smacked the ground, eyes fluttering as you faded in and out of consciousness.

There it was, you realized.

Your punishment.

You were going to die.

And you couldn’t help but allow yourself one last selfish look because maybe there was still a small part of you that wanted to be alive. But that part could only live if things were normal again, if things were the way they had been before the world died. Still, that part of you took over and you watched silently, your vision fading in and out as you caught a glimpse of those dark eyes that had saved you, just moments before the world faded into darkness.

The next time your eyes fluttered open, a metal ceiling stared back at you.

There was a throbbing in your head, searing through your thoughts, and your shotgun was nowhere to be found. You released a soft groan, trying to shift in your spot, but you were met with resistance. You tugged and tugged, but your body didn’t budge.

In confusion, you glanced around, finding yourself on a medical bed, your hands tied together with rope, attaching you to the bed. This didn’t make sense. You hadn’t seen a bed in months maybe a year now. This didn’t make sense. Where were you? How did you—

And then . . . then the memories all faded in.

The warehouse. The man. The shots. The horde.

This was Death’s doing.

The town had warned you of this and you’d denied it. You still didn’t believe. You couldn’t. God was dead and the Horsemen were just a figment of fearmongering. But for a second, you wanted to believe. For that second you were strapped to that bed, you wanted to believe that this was your purgatory and Death was punishing you. That would be easier: if you believed.

Death was an entity; one you had no idea about. There was no knowing what exactly he could and couldn’t do. And this . . . being bound to a medical bed with not even a soul to be heard felt utterly ordinary if he did exist, considering what you did know about this dark being.

But . . . why were you still alive?

Slowly, you lifted your head, groaning at the pain that followed as you assessed the rest of your body. You were alive. Cuts and bruises everywhere, but you could still inhale, exhale, breathe. You could still hear the beat of your heart if you closed your eyes and focused. You were alive.

You were alive.

Your jaw twitched. “I’m alive,” you whispered to yourself, a bitter taste left on your tongue. “I”m . . . alive.”

And for a second, you truly allowed yourself to believe Death existed. You allowed yourself that he had done this to you; that the two years he’d reigned all led up to this very moment. You allowed yourself to believe that he had kept you alive because suffering was for the living.

Was this his way of being kind? Sparing you?

Swallowing hard, you glared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. If you prayed, would he give in? Would he end this suffering? Would he finally give you your punishment?

Your mind wasn’t allowed much longer to ponder as the sound of a door opening brought you out of your repenting. Wearily, you watched with stern eyes as a man stepped in, carrying a bowl in one hand and a washcloth in the other. You watched as he let himself in, still not looking up while he closed the door behind him with a heavy sigh and finally . . . glanced up, meeting your gaze.

Him.

The man.

Slowly, your face softened as confusion consumed you. Him. He had done this to you. He had been the one to lead you here. (He’d also been the one to save you . . . ) He had knocked you out cold. And now . . . now here he was.

You clenched your jaw hard.

The man just stared a minute longer at you, his gaze stern, cold, calculating. Then, he was walking toward you, resting the bowl on the bedside table beside your head before he reached forward and tapped a finger to your chin, tilting your head so he could analyze the wounds on your face.

And you let him, analyzing his actions, preparing for his next.

“You’re awake,” was all he simply said as he dropped your chin and diverted his attention to the bowl on the bedside table. “Sorry about the blow and the rope . . . it’s . . . protocol.”

But you remained silent, watching.

"Your stunt back there . . . could’ve cost us this entire place," he muttered, his voice calm and controlled but you knew he was seething inside. He remained quiet as he dipped the washcloth into the bowl of what seemed to be warm water before he turned to you once again, his eyes lethal. "Screaming only attracts more of them, don’t you know? If you wanted to die, you should’ve just stayed put.”

You swallowed thickly.

There was something terrifying about a quiet rage.

"There's always someone like you," he continued, his eyes racking up and down your body in a menacing glare before the warm touch of a washcloth to your cheek startled a quiet gasp out of your lips. "Someone who ends up surviving longer than they should have." A scoff left him. "Someone who doesn’t care who dies for them as long as they get out unscathed. Did you even think there might be other survivors around before you took off attracting all of those things? If there were children? Families? People who survive together and want to stay alive without running into someone like you?”

And you hadn’t.

You never thought yourself to be stupid or any of the sort. You hadn’t been thinking. There hadn’t been enough time. You just needed to do something so your family could make it out alive. You hadn’t thought that there could be others. You hadn’t thought that saving your family could damn another.

Had your mother been right about you?

Were you really just a stupid girl? A stupid girl playing hero?

The man pulled a chair from the corner of the room, and placed it beside your bed, sitting on it as he dragged the washcloth down your arms now. His touch was somehow gentle despite his glare. Perhaps it was because no one had touched you so gently in so long. Perhaps it was because you had given up, but you let him clean the wounds on your body as you rested your head back onto the pillow, your muscles relaxing ever-so-slightly.

"No?" he questioned, reiterating his accusation. “In my experience, people like you don’t find themselves in trouble like that unless they’re planning something.”

You remained expressionless as you watched him, taking in his words. He thought you’d lured the dead here, and for what? Looting? Or just plain insanity?

Had you really become that corrupt even a stranger could sense it on you?

Slowly, you blinked, wondering if your father had ever felt this way before his death. And as you wondered, the man beside you continued cleaning your wounds, but this time, remained silent. Maybe he realized you wouldn’t answer. Or maybe he already knew the truth about you and your damned soul.

And as the minutes of silence ticked on, you did your own inspection.

Now, under the light, the man sat beside you, his eyes fixed on meticulously cleaning each wound with care despite his lethal words. It had been so long since you’d seen another man like this; a man that had to be around your age; a man so young yet so riddled with age. His dark hair was slightly curly, more tangled and messy than anything as if he hadn’t slept in days. The dark circles under his equally dark eyes were enough to show his evident sleep deprivation. And yet, he seemed almost too alert: his full lips were hidden as his teeth worried his bottom lip while he continued to clean the blood from your skin.

(You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t beautiful; so beautiful it almost made you believe in God once more.)

And for a second, you let yourself wonder what else your mother had been right about. You let yourself believe once again. You let yourself be a girl who could finally kneel in church without bruises being left behind. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she and the town had been right; that this whole thing was God’s plan; that the Horsemen had come; that they could be saved, but you would be condemned.

Then . . . you began to wonder if you had already been. Maybe it was the blow to the head you’d taken or the fever raging through your body or maybe it was the truth, but you began to believe that perhaps this was your purgatory; perhaps you had died in that horde and you’d been sent here; perhaps the beautiful man beside you was Death himself.

Was this it then? Were you always meant to see him at the end?

Oddly enough, he reminded you of this small dog your sister had found near one of the abandoned houses your family had stayed in over the years. This was during Famine’s rule—when food became sparse, when lands became stale and yellowed; when the dead had only just begun to migrate south. This tiny dog found your younger sister then, and she’d brought it home, leaving you no choice but to care for the little thing.

Your sister had named her Berry. (A few months later you had to put her down; it was what we had to do to survive, you’d told your sister back then. You were sure it was then she first started to hate you.)

And as you stared at Death, taking note of how his eyes were a particular shade of brown, you realized they were the same shade that the silly dog had.

You tilted your head. Death somehow had eyes that were kind; eyes that were warm; eyes that reminded you of Felix. Was that how they planned to transfix you? Was Death meant to be this beautiful; this familiar so you’d go willingly? Had God forgotten you’d already condemned yourself? Had he forgotten you didn’t need to be tricked? Had he forgotten where your prayers resided?

Only a moment later, when you felt his hands running over your torso, did you snap out of your exhaust-ridden daze. You realized quickly he was cleaning the last of your wounds which resided on your ribs. And when he was done, he tossed the washcloth into the bowl without another care before he slowly leaned back, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched you with scrutinizing eyes.

Death narrowed his gaze, but it wasn’t menacing this time. Rather, he seemed almost perplexed. "Why aren’t you fighting?" he questioned. "You didn’t stop to run before. Why calm your fire now?"

Why aren’t you fighting?

The thing was: it was over. Your fight was over.

Sure, you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that Death was painfully beautiful . . . but it went beyond that.

It was surely daylight by now.

Daylight had come, hours had passed, and Death had you in his hold.

By now, Felix had probably taken your mother and sister onto the road again. They’d escaped, and they were miles and miles away from you and Death. They were safe.

So . . . where was your fight?

You didn’t have one anymore. This was the end. Death would either kill you or make you suffer again and again and again, and your family would live. You’d once told yourself that you never wanted to live in a world like this, but you’d kept yourself alive to protect your family. Only now . . . you didn’t need to fight because there wasn’t anyone left for you to protect.

Your fight was over. Maybe you could rest now. Maybe he’d let you.

Death seemed to catch onto the shift in your demeanor as he narrowed his eyes. "Do you not speak?"

For a moment, you considered not replying. Until: "There's no point," you heard yourself say, voice dry and hoarse.

The look on Death’s face was unreadable as his eyes shifted across your face, his mouth slightly parted. "You smell of death," he muttered, gaze still searching your being.

And you almost laughed.

Because this was your end, and Death himself just told you that you smelled like shit or well . . . like him, you supposed . . . apparently.

It all felt a little unreal.

Death must not have liked your silence as he shot you one last glance before he pulled away and walked toward a table on the other side of the room. As he walked, you caught sight of the blood painting his body, his skin, him.

You swallowed hard. You’d brought that horde to him. He’d fought his way out. You’d caused those wounds, and now he was more than likely going to do worse to you. He’d probably take that scythe you were told he carried and cut your head clean off.

But unlike what you thought, Death sifted through the miscellaneous items on the table before pausing and grabbing a small knife. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you watched him approach you, knife in hand.

There it was.

This was the end you were promised.

Was he going to slit your throat and leave you to bleed out? Or cut you open so you could see just how dark your heart had become? You wouldn’t put it past him. Hell, you might have even welcomed it. But as he approached you, your eyes closing in anticipation, he did not bring that knife down upon your body. No, instead, with a few quick motions and the sound of the rope being cut, you slowly opened your eyes just as your hands were released from the rope’s grip.

On instinct, you brought your hands close to your chest, rubbing your raw wrists. You couldn’t even speak, you just watched as he kept the knife in his hand but returned back to his position of leaning back against the chair with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes on you.

"You're human," you found yourself uttering as you watched him watch you.

His brows twitched in confusion. "Of course I am.”

But Death couldn’t bleed. . . . Could he?

"You bleed,” you spoke your thoughts, dumbly.

His eyes met yours, but only briefly. "Am I not meant to?" he bit out before his gaze fell back on your hand rubbing your wrist. "Even the dead bleed."

Your confusion only spiraled. This was your end; your purgatory. This was Death, was he not? Your mother had been right. She had to have been right otherwise you were still alive; otherwise, you had managed to escape death once again without so much as a punishment. That wouldn’t be fair. That wouldn’t be right. That wouldn’t be just.

This had to be Death. You had to be dead or somewhere in between. It didn’t matter, this just had to be your end.

So, why hadn’t he condemned you yet?

Why—

"Why—” Death interrupted your thoughts, once you finally dropped your hand from your wrist— “did you think I couldn’t bleed?"

You glanced his way, finding his eyes already on you.

His stare only unnerved you more.

Why couldn’t he just kill you? You deserved it.

Your brows furrowed. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to play with your food?" you found yourself spitting out, finally finding your voice despite his devasting beauty capturing your words. "I put your lives in danger. I lead them here like you said. I could be with anyone. Having me here could kill you all, so take your revenge. Kill me."

The crease between his brows deepened further. "I'm not letting you die," he simply said, his anger quiet and calm . . . still. “You put my group in harm's way. I won’t pardon you for that . . . but . . . we don’t kill the living.”

That only unnerved you further.

Was this truly Death?

Surely he had killed before.

Although . . . you supposed perhaps he’d only just ever waited. Was that his fault? Waiting for the dead to find him? Is that how he found you in those woods? Is that how he’d taken your arm and helped you crossover to the other side? But . . . if that were true . . . where was your father now? Surely, he would’ve come to see you. Surely, he would’ve been the first one knocking at your door. Surely, he’d be here.

As you briefly wet your lips, your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Where’s my dad?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

A look of deep confusion twisted onto Death’s face, and then he was leaning forward to feel your forehead with the back of his hand. “Fever,” he mumbled more to himself before he pushed himself to his feet, the chair screeching against the floor. “Get some rest. Someone will be in to bandage you up and . . . I’ll be back in a couple hours with medication.” His gaze dropped to the large gash on your arm from just a few nights ago. “When you’re healed, we’ll give you some supplies and then you’ll be on your way, understood?”

But you just stared at him, silently pleading. Pleading for what? You didn’t know. All you knew was if your father wasn’t here, you couldn’t be dead. And if you weren’t, you wanted to be. You’d be able to find him then, because although you were no longer a girl who could kneel in church, you could still feel the scabs on your knees from years ago; you could still remember what it was to believe so blindly; you could still feel that insistent desire for there to be something beyond this world . . . something after this world.

There just had to be. You had to see him again. You had to find him.

You could die now. You could find him now. You would find him.

“Great,” Death muttered under his breath, breaking you out of your own mind. And with one final glance at your exhausted body, he began to turn and head for the door.

Fear struck you then. You had to find your father. “Wait, please—” you hastily grabbed onto his arm, only being able to reach his hand enough to dig your nails into his skin to halt him— “I beg of you.”

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and cautious as if at any moment, one wrong move and he’d grant your wishes. And all you could do was hope.

“Kill me,” you weakly whispered, hopelessly searching his eyes.

His brows twitched, taken back.

“Death,” you begged in a whisper, your bottom lip trembling, “please.”

But Death only stared back at you with a perplexing look written across his face. It was as if he couldn’t believe your request. Had no one ever begged him to die?

A heavy beat of silence pounded in your ears.

Death only continued to stare, a world raging on behind his eyes as he took you in. His demeanor was still calm, still collected, but he seemed . . . perturbed by your request, by your presence, by you. And you watched as his eyes trickled across your face, searching for something until finally . . . his gaze zeroed in on your cheek, his brows furrowing.

Then . . . you felt it.

A tear had slowly begun to slip down your cheek as if your body knew it was a sin to cry. But you were . . . crying that was.

You nearly gasped.

Another tear trickled down your cheek. Guilt followed.

But just as you were about to angrily wipe it away, there was a sharp knock at the door, breaking both you and Death out of your spell. The door opened a second later, a man peaking his head in with a solemn look on his face.

The man didn’t spare you a glance, he only cleared his throat and said, “Chris?” His brows raised, a silent message passing between the two. “A minute.”

Death only nodded, and then the man was gone, the door shutting behind him. Silence followed, but Death stayed unmoving, his arm still in your tight grasp.

“You won’t run,” he slowly spoke, his words a statement, not an order, but he didn’t turn to look at you. He kept his eyes on the door. “I don’t kill the living. I won’t kill you.” He paused, audibly swallowing, and then his eyes were on you. “And I know you won’t kill us.”

And then he was gone before you could blink, quickly tearing his arm out of your grasp before he reached the door and closed it behind him. You were alone with yourself once again, your thoughts running wild as your hand remained outstretched, almost frozen in place.

I know you won’t kill us, he’d told you.

But how could you kill Death? How did he know you wouldn’t if he didn’t give you what you wanted? How could he be so sure that you weren’t a killer, when you so clearly were?

You had killed before, and if he didn’t take you to the other side, you’d surely kill again. That was who you had become. That was who you were. He should’ve known that.

And then as you slowly laid your head back onto the pillow and allowed the minutes to tick by, the throbbing in your head began to subside, and the world became a little clearer. You were no longer a girl who could kneel in church. You did not believe anymore. The world had gone to shit, and it wasn’t because of God’s plan. There were no Horsemen. Your family was gone. And that . . . that man had not been Death.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you swallowed thickly. What was happening to you?

It all hit you then.

These were a group of survivors. That man surely was their leader, and you had just led hundreds of the dead to their doorstep. They should’ve killed you for that alone. You would’ve. You wouldn’t even hesitate if this had been your family. You would’ve done everything to keep them safe, even if it meant killing others, and yet . . .

I won’t kill you.

But why? You deserved it. You could see it in his eyes that he knew.

These were good people. And you were their bad omen.

It wouldn’t be long before your presence brought misery upon them, too, just as it had to your family. And it’d be all your fault.

You’d live, only to see many die. You’d make it out unscathed just as you always had, while they’d suffer, just as he had said.

It was then you realized this was not your purgatory, it was your Hell.

taglist:

@amaranth-writing @binchanluvrr @dreamingsmile @eternalrajin

(i did post the teaser like a year ago, so if you want to be taken off, send me a lil message <3)

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writeonwhiskey · 28 days ago

Text

the skz house: ch 30 (18+)

a/n: the word count for this chapter is 6090. and my editor is enjoying the trip of a lifetime, so please forgive any typos! also, at certain parts it may feel a little choppy, but i wanted to provide brief glimpses into what each day of y/n's last week is like.

[ read chapter 29 here ]

Chapter Thirty: Of Rainy Days and Goodbyes

TUESDAY – Five Days Left

The following morning you wake up surprised to hear the rain still coming down with a vengeance outside. Chan has one arm wrapped around your shoulder, holding you against him. With your head resting on his chest, you take the moment to appreciate the view from your vantage point—his chiseled abdomen. From the steady rise and fall of his chest, you can tell he’s asleep.

You both needed last night to happen.

As damaging as his behavior has been, you at least now have a better understanding of what he was trying to do. Protect himself. Seeing it from his perspective, the one time he’s allowed himself to feel this way about anyone, it ends up like this. The pain and hurt he must have felt is different from what you experienced. You’re not denying that it was cruel and hurtful to you in other ways, but you don’t want to hold it against him too harshly. He was acting, unironically, as a wounded wolf.

You bring your hand up and lightly run it down his chest, then trace the lines of his abs causing him to flinch. His hand shoots up from beneath the blanket covering your lower halves and grabs hold of yours.

“Stop. That tickles,” he warns, still half asleep.

You pull your hand away and resume running your fingers along his exposed skin.

“You’re just all around disobedient now, aren’t you?” he asks with a touch of playfulness.

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it a few hours ago,” you reply.

“That’s fair…I didn’t mind it as much as I thought I would.”

“Ah. Progress,” you muse, to which he lowers his hand from your shoulder and lightly smacks your ass. “We should probably get up.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“You want to stay in bed all day?”

“Why not? We can skip class,” he shrugs.

You try to sit up, but he puts his hand on your waist to keep you from moving.

“Stay here with me.”

“What time is it?” you ask.

He lets out a yawn and grabs his phone from the nightstand. He holds it directly in front of you so you can see the time—8:30am. There’s a weather alert and a few missed text messages displayed on the screen; he punches in his passcode, either oblivious or not caring if you see. You realize you’ve never seen his phone like this before and catch a quick glimpse of Berry as his background before he opens his messages. Among the list of texts, you spot your name with a doctor emoji next to it and can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face.

The text he opens is an alert from the school.

Due to inclement weather, classes are

canceled today. Please stay safe and

beware of flash flood areas.

“Well, would you look at that,” he releases his hand from your waist, allowing you to sit up. “Looks like we can’t go anywhere, anyways.”

You smile down at him wistfully—you are happy for the excuse to spend more time with him, but also strikingly sad that you finally have this Chan back now that you’re leaving.

“Should I go make us some breakfast?” you ask, feeling a sudden need for a little space to shed a tear in private.

“No. I don’t want you to leave my side today.”

“Chan,” you shake your head as the tears swell in your eyes.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, y/n,” he says immediately. “What did I do? What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” you shrug helplessly.

He sits up, too, and moves you around until you’re sitting directly in front of him. He hooks each of your legs over his thighs before pulling you to him. He then cups your face in his hands and uses the pads of his thumbs to wipe your fallen tears away.

“I know what you’re thinking, because I’m thinking it too,” he tells you. “I know this could have all been so different. You have no idea how much I regret it.”

“This fucking sucks,” you say, resting your forehead on his shoulder as he rubs your bare back.

“I know, I know,” he tries to soothe you. “I don’t have enough time to properly make it up to you, either, but I want to try. No pretend fiancé bullshit, I just want to genuinely spend the time we have left being happy with you.”

“Will that be enough?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I had my heart set on forever with you, y/n. Even if you stayed the last two months, it wouldn’t have been enough.”

He has an incredible way of causing your heart to soar while simultaneously making you want to ram your head against a brick wall. All you can do at this point is hope he has learned a valuable lesson that may be of use in his future.

“You’re capable of saying some really romantic shit when you want to, you know,” you say, lifting your head from his shoulder.

He leans forward and places a quick peck on your lips without responding. He picks up his phone, unlocks it again and opens an app before handing it over to you.

“Let’s order breakfast for the house.”

You awkwardly take the phone in your hand—it feels like some sort of newly appointed privilege—and navigate through the food delivery app until you find the place everyone routinely orders from. Thankfully it’s not too far from the house, so the driver shouldn’t have any trouble delivering it in this weather. Chan leans back against the pillows, resting his hands on your thighs as he watches you. By now, you know what to order for every single person. The total comes out to a whopping $250, plus a generous tip for the driver. You hand his phone back when you’re done, he grabs it and tosses it aside on the bed.

“Shower?” he asks.

You hardly start to nod before he’s already cupping your ass and sliding you both off the bed. You hook your legs around his waist and hold on to his neck as he carries you to the bathroom. You didn’t think you’d get to have a moment like this with him again.

For all the drama leading up to this, and the impending devastation in a few days, you can’t shake the thought that this still feels right.

In the kitchen, you’re seated between Hyunjin and Chan while everyone eats breakfast. Beneath the table, Chan has draped your leg closest to him across his lap—he eats with one hand and caresses your leg with the other. He really hasn’t let you leave his side all morning, you haven’t been further than his arm’s reach.

Hyunjin seems to notice the change between you and Chan, too. He offers you a wink and kisses your cheek, leaving sticky syrup residue behind to which you feign annoyance. You’re far from annoyed right now. You’re incredibly content.

After breakfast, when everyone disperses throughout the house, you spend a while hopping around to where clusters of people are hanging out. This rainy day could not have come at a better time. You were worried you wouldn’t have enough free time to spend with everyone.

That’s the reasoning you give to Chan when he tries to pull you back upstairs. He begrudgingly nods in understanding, saying he’ll come find you in a bit.

You make your way down to the basement and join Felix, Seungmin and Allie in playing video games. Seungmin teases Felix mercilessly each time he loses—and even when he wins, saying he took it easy on him. Allie tries to mediate to no avail. You’re going to miss frustrated gaming Felix. As kindhearted and delicate as he is, that’s the only time you’ve seen him anything close to angry. When you leave back upstairs, Seungmin is laying on the floor, cackling while Felix straddles his waist, pretending to strangle him.

In the workout room, you bother Jeongin and Changbin. You talk casually for a bit before resorting to playfully mocking them as they lift weights, staring at themselves in the mirror.

“I could have sworn your arms were bigger last week,” you tease Jeongin. “Maybe my eyes are deceiving me.”

“You should get them checked out—nothing but gains over here,” he flexes and brings his bicep to his mouth to kiss.

Truthfully, you’ve seen how much he’s grown physically from the start of the year. He seemed so quiet and reserved, all those months ago when he helped you out with your fashion aversion. You’ll always be thankful to him for that.

“No teasing my protégé,” Changbin defends him. “Either hop on a machine or get out.”

“Okay, okay,” you hold your hands up, slowly backing out of the room.

As you interact with everyone it starts to set in, little by little, how alone you’ll be when you move out. Going from living with eleven others to being completely on your own? It will certainly be an adjustment. The reality of that hasn’t truly sunken in yet.

Next, you head to the den to find Charlotte but immediately regret your decision when you walk in on her riding the fuck out of Han in her computer chair while moaning, “It’s so big, Hannie.”

They both pause for a moment, seeing you there at the door.

“S-sorry,” you squeak out.

Han hides his face behind her long, curly hair and she just giggles as you promptly exit and shut the door behind you. You can’t run away fast enough, stopping only when you reach the safety of the living room. You plop yourself down on the couch to watch Hyunjin get his ass beat in chess by Lee Know.

“Have you heard the word ‘pabo’, y/n?” Lee Know asks, taking another one of Hyunjin’s pieces as you shake your head.

Hyunjin rolls his eyes.

“It means fool…or stupid.”

Those aren’t the words you would choose to describe Hyunjin. You’d have to disagree. He’s simply wise in his own way.

“Don’t listen to him—he has an unfair advantage. He’s basically a grand wizard or whatever.”

“Grandmaster,” Lee Know corrects. “See? Pabo. And that’s checkmate.”

You laugh as Hyunjin lets out an annoyed sigh before coming to join you on the couch.

“I was waiting for you to come back here,” Lee Know says, “How about that announcement now?”

You feel yourself shrinking into the couch at the thought, but slowly nod your head. Lee Know loudly calls out for everyone to come to the living room, and you don’t feel prepared for what is about to come. Outside of you, Hyunjin and Chan, everyone else seems confused about what’s going on.

Hyunjin has one arm slung around your shoulder, holding you to him for comfort, and Han takes the empty spot on your other side. You can’t help but notice how heavily he’s breathing and you know exactly what caused it.

“Is this going to take long?” Jeongin quips, looking in desperate need of a shower after his workout.

“If I want it to,” Lee Know replies smugly, lifting one shoulder in a half shrug.

Jeongin rolls his eyes and Lee Know clears his throat, waiting for the chatter to die down. In the moment of silence, all you can hear is the sound of the rain pouring outside.

“I have an announcement to make,” he says. “This doesn’t happen often here, and not typically with such short notice.”

You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker to you when he says that.

“One of our assignees will be leaving the SKZ house earlier than planned.”

The others all look around at each other, confused expressions on their faces.

“Y/n,” Lee Know continues, “has given us her notice, and will be moving out on Sunday.”

A chorus of “What?”, “Why?”, and “Are you serious?” echo throughout the room as everyone turns to stare at you. You force a small smile and nod, wanting to appear strong and confident.

“It’s not required of her to tell us why—she has the freedom to make this choice. All of you do. None of you are hostages here,” Lee Know attempts to quiet their hushed whispers. “We’ve enjoyed having you, y/n, some more than others, I’m sure.”

He gives a pointed look to Hyunjin and Chan and you feel the blood rush to your cheek. You, and everyone in this house, knows exactly how much sex takes place within it’s walls. And yet, after all this time you still feel shy to have it broadcast so openly.

“But we will all miss you,” he concludes with a curt bow in your direction.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

Silence fills the room again—you hadn’t anticipated how awkward this would be. It feels like you’ve put a damper on the overall vibe of the day.

“It’s Changbin’s fault, isn’t it?” Seungmin jokes, pointing at the accused culprit.

Changbin scrunches up his face in confusion as everyone laughs, including you. You spare a glance over at Chan and see even he’s smiling, too. You’re thankful for Seungmin’s uncanny ability to ease the tension of any situation with his impeccable comedic timing.

As quickly as they were surprised about the news, they move on just as fast. Ironically, that’s probably how they must approach this whole situation. They’re probably sad when the year ends and they have to say their goodbyes…but ultimately, it’s what’s expected of them. There’s no reason for them to linger in the murkiness of it all.

“That was all—you’re dismissed,” Lee Know flicks his hands, shooing everyone away.

You feel a hand grab hold of yours and look up to see Rhiannon standing in front of you.

“To the den?”

You nod and stand, leaving Hyunjin’s side to follow her with the other girls trailing close behind. The four of you enter the den and sit in your papasans. You notice the ceiling fan is now spinning, more than likely a result of Han and Charlotte’s attempt to air out the room after their tryst.

“Are you okay?” Allie asks when you’re all situated.

“Yeah…I’ll be alright,” you reply. “I’m just finding the responsibilities of staying here to be a lot and need to focus on my studies. I’m going into a vet program that starts right after the semester ends and need to prepare for it.”

It’s not a total lie—you do have to prepare for vet school, but it’s not the real reason you’re leaving.

Allie eyes you carefully, after that explanation. She’d already picked up on what was happening between you and Chan. Rhiannon and Charlotte seem to believe it, though, from the understanding looks on their faces.

“Should we have a going away party?” Charlotte asks.

“Dear God, no,” you shake your head vigorously. “That moment in the living room was more than enough.”

“I wonder what happens next,” Rhiannon muses aloud. “It would be weird having someone else here.”

Your stomach starts to knot up at the thought. Chan did mention, at the beginning of the school year, that someone else would take your place if you ever left. That hadn’t been at the forefront of your mind throughout this but the queasy feeling it gives you isn’t enough to make you regret your decision. Whether you stay or go, both Chan and Hyunjin will eventually move on to someone else. And you will, too.

You remain in the den with the girls for a little while longer. The subject eventually changes from you leaving to some of the memories you’ve all shared with the members. You never thought you’d become so close to these three women and were admittedly concerned there would be drama. But there never was. You all managed to get along and take care of these boisterous men with no issues.

You spend the evening upstairs with Chan, cuddled together in his bed. He mocks being hurt that you spent so much time away from him during the day. You push him on his back and straddle his waist, removing your shirt as you tell him you’re his for the rest of the night. He stops complaining after that.

WEDNESDAY

Outside of going to class, you and Chan spend the entire day together. You start packing your belongings and putting them into suitcases, gym bags, and a couple of boxes. He takes you out to dinner, and afterwards the two of you drive aimlessly around the city. Neither of you mention anything about it being your last night together but the reality of it lingers in the air. He holds your hand as he drives and asks you for a kiss at damn near every red light.

When you’re back at the house and in his room, his mouth is on yours before the door fully closes.

It's a perfect night.

THURSDAY

The fact that you’re leaving Sunday really starts to sink in. This is the final mid-week switch, now that you’re back with Hyunjin. The conversation at dinner is lively, but you find yourself remaining quiet most of the time, just sitting back, smiling and observing. Chan lays his hand down on the table, palm up, and looks at you pointedly. You bare a sheepish grin as you place your hand on top of his and he laces your fingers together. Hyunjin claims a spot on your thigh, palming it as he eats.

You have to keep reminding yourself to enjoy these moments, in the present. You can’t focus too much on what’s to come, or you’ll spend all the time you have left bawling.

After dinner, you and Hyunjin cuddle up in his bed and watch a movie on his laptop for old times’ sake. You don’t even make it halfway through before he starts kissing you. He takes his time undressing you—there’s no rush, so he draws everything out for as long as he can. He’s slow and methodical. He’s loving and gentle. He’s everything you ever needed him to be.

FRIDAY

In the evening, Hyunjin helps you start to pack your things in his room. Your vision is blurred as you zip up a gym bag stuffed full of shoes. Hyunjin comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, sensing your sadness.

“It’ll all be okay,” he reassures you.

“Did I make the right choice?” you ask, turning around to face him.

“I can’t answer that,” he replies. “But depending how you choose to take on each day moving forward, you can make it the right choice for you.”

You look up at him with a slight pout, tugging on his shirt.

“What am I gonna do without your words of encouragement?”

He takes a deep breath and lets out a long sigh. He doesn’t answer that question. There isn’t much he can say. He will never be around to comfort you again. You both know this.

He cups your face and leans down to place a delicate kiss to your forehead, then square on the lips. You wrap your arms around his neck and deepen the kiss, seeking more from him, and he happily obliges.

You don’t want to leave Hyunjin’s arms or his bed, but he convinces you to go down to the basement. He tells you you’ll regret not spending more time with everyone else if you don’t. And he’s right.

He holds your hand as you walk down the steps and as soon as the basement room comes into view, a loud chorus of “SURPRISE!” fills the room. You shoot daggers at a grinning Charlotte. She’s obviously proud of her handiwork.

Though you specifically did not want this to happen, you start smiling, too. There’s a ‘WE’LL MISS YOU’ banner hanging across from the pool table, balloons, streamers, and every single member and assignee in this house that you’ve been dreading having to say goodbye to.

The atmosphere of this going away party makes it a little easier. At some point, you find yourself on the couch, seated in Chan’s lap. He doesn’t hold back, touching and kissing you in front of the others. You embrace his rare public display of affection. You realize this is the closest you’ll get with him again, since you’re with Hyunjin tomorrow night as well.

The thought starts to sadden you, but when Jeongin pulls out the karaoke machine it’s a welcome distraction. You keep up your brave face and smile, willing yourself to enjoy the night and make a few final memories with this group you’ve come to cherish for all its unorthodox, familial chaos.

SATURDAY – One Day Left

You finish packing everything in Hyunjin’s room and the den. You spend the afternoon with the girls, and everyone eventually convenes in the backyard for dinner. It’s the first semi-warm day of the season. You can’t help reminiscing about your first time back here, your first time in the pool…the hot tub with Chan and Hyunjin. You’ve experienced so much in the past seven months. If the version of yourself that arrived at this house could see you know…she wouldn’t even recognize you.

When you make it back to Hyunjin’s room, you find him waiting on the edge of his bed. He beckons you to him and you stand between his legs.

“This is it, huh?” he says.

“Unfortunately,” you reply with a frown.

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay, all things considered.”

“Good,” he stands from the bed and wraps his arms around your shoulders, pulling you in for a hug.

He typically holds you from your waist, so this hug allows you to burrow yourself into him. He holds on to you for what feels like forever, and you’re in no rush to break the embrace either.

“I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

“What?” you ask, leaning back to look up at him.

“You should spend your last night with Chan,” he tells you. “I mean, I’d gladly have you here, don’t get me wrong. But I think you should go to him.”

He’s literally the most selfless person on the planet.

“Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

You stand on your tiptoes and kiss him on the lips.

“Thank you,” you tell him.

“Go,” he urges, pecking you on the lips once more.

You let out a deep breath and step away from him. He nods his head in encouragement as you back away towards the door. You exit his room and make your way up to the third floor at the speed of light. You don’t even bother knocking on Chan’s door, you just burst right in.

You hear the shower water running and see his empty bed. You close the door softly behind you and tiptoe across the room. You sit on the bed, on top of the covers, upright with your back against the pillows. As you wait, you contemplate hiding somewhere to scare him, but then a better idea crosses your mind.

You lean over to open his nightstand drawer and quietly fish around for the pair of handcuffs you bought. You leave them on the bed and then go to your packed bags to retrieve the collar he gifted you. You hook it around your neck before removing your shirt, then bottoms and underwear. You grab the handcuffs from the bed, lock it around your left hand, then place your arms behind your back to lock in your right hand.

You lower yourself to the ground in the middle of the archway separating the bedroom and bathroom. The shower water turns off just as you’re situating yourself—seated with your legs beneath you. You straighten your back, eyes on the shower door as you wait for him to exit.

You’ll remember the sight of him stepping out of the shower for as long as you live. Droplets of water still falling down every part of his body; dark, black curls drenched and sticking to his forehead. As soon as he steps onto the mat, he catches sight of you and freezes.

His eyes look you up and down and you can see his cock visibly react.

“What are you doing here?” he inquires.

“Spending my last night with you.”

He fully steps out of the shower and closes the door behind him. He reaches for his towel, but then reconsiders. He leaves it hanging on the rack and walks slowly towards you. You’re torn on where to look—every exposed inch of him is delectable. You involuntarily start to squirm as he comes to a stop in front of you.

“Be still,” he instructs, and you immediately stop moving.

He stands above you, hands at his side, still just staring. The water dripping down from his hair lands on you, hitting your face, your breasts, your thighs. Each drop makes you anxious for his touch.

“Hyunjin?” he asks.

“It was his idea—well, not all of it,” you look down at your naked body, then back up at him. “But he wanted me to be with you tonight.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and you can only imagine he’s feeling any equal amount of love and adoration for Hyunjin right now, too.

Chan grabs a hold of the messy bun in your hair, pulling back on it and forcing you to look up at him. He takes his cock in his other hand, guiding it towards your mouth and you lick your lips in anticipation.

“You’re all mine, then?”

He was the first to have you in this house and now he’ll be the last.

“Yes,” you nod.

You open your mouth to take his cock inside when he presses it against your lips.

He shoves it in, gripping your hair tightly as you relax your jaw to take in as much of him as you can—until you’re literally gagged. When he feels your resistance, he eases up, withdrawing with a groan, seeing your saliva coating his cock.

“You look so good like this, y/n,” he tells you, slowly withdrawing again. “Sucking my cock.”

He repeats the process several times, and you keep your eyes trained on his face. He’s torn between staring back at you and watching himself fuck your face. Like he can’t choose which is more desirable.

He reaches down with his hand and loops a finger through the heart of the collar. He tugs on it and you slowly get to your feet. He releases your hair and without any direction, you turn towards the counter and bend at the hips over it. The marble is cold against your torso and your face is dangerously close to the mirror, each exhale fogging it up a little. You lock eyes with him and wiggle your ass.

He stands at your side, one hand palming your ass as the other pulls at the collar.

“This right here,” he smacks your ass, “is what drives me crazy the most.”

He caresses the spot he just hit, then slips his fingers between your legs.

“You’re such a good girl. No one could ever guess by just looking at you—but I know,” he rubs his fingers along your slit. “I know this side of you—wet, dripping, needing my cock.”

You moan as he slides two fingers inside. He leans onto the counter as he fucks you with his fingers, putting his head directly next to yours. You turn to face him. His lust filled eyes cool off ever so slightly with his next words.

“Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“Chan—” his lips crash against yours and cut you off.

As soon as his tongue invades your mouth, you can’t even recall what you were even going to say. You kiss him back, rocking your hips against his hand. Suddenly, he removes his fingers and smacks you on the ass again, leaving it wet from your own juices.

He continues smacking your ass, taking a turn on each cheek. He turns your chin to make you face the mirror before grabbing hold of your bun again. He pulls back on it, and you arch your back, lifting up from the counter slightly, your hard nipples just barely grazing the countertop.

“You love this, don’t you?” he coaxes, slipping his fingers back inside of you.

You try to nod your head but can’t move it too much.

“Don’t you?” he repeats.

“Yes,” you whimper.

“With me?” he takes his fingers out to rub your clit, causing you to squirm against his hand.

“Yes.”

“Only me?”

You’ve certainly never been like this with anyone before and you simply don’t know what the future holds. You don’t know if anyone else can bring it out of you. You don’t know if you want anyone else to. You lock eyes with him through the mirror again before replying with an unwavering—

“Yes.”

He lets go of your hair and positions himself behind you, you remain hovering over the counter. He grips your hip with one hand, and your cuffed hands with the other as he lines himself up at your opening. As soon as the tip is inside, you can’t help yourself. You moan as you push back against him, taking him fully inside and catching him off guard.

“Fuuuuck,” he moans.

And then he’s off, thrusting into your pussy, quite literally, like it’s the last time.

And it feels so good.

He takes a tiny step to the side to adjust the angle of his thrusts and you let out a loud moan as his cock continually pushes against the most sensitive part of your body. His hand leaves the cuffs to grab a handful of your breast, pinching the nipple between his thumb and pointer finger.

“Chan, wait—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he urges you.

You don’t need to hear anything besides that. You close your eyes and focus on the way he’s making your body feel. Your orgasm crashes through you as you cry out in pleasure, pushing your hips back against him with fervor.

When your legs start to tremble, he slows down his pace to a stop. He takes a step back, pulling on the handcuffs so that you do, too. He walks you towards his bed and gives you a light push onto it. He grabs your legs, pulling you down to the edge before dropping to his knees behind you.

Both of his hands palm your ass, pulling your cheeks apart before his mouth latches on to your pussy.

“Fuck, Chan—the cuffs,” you plead, wanting nothing more than to touch him now.

He pays no attention to your words, instead continuing to focus on the feast in front of him. He laps, licks, and fucks you with his tongue until you come again, right on his face. You force your head into the mattress to muffle your screams as your entire body shakes.

You feel him move away from you; your face still buried in the mattress as you embrace the moment of calm. You hear him open the nightstand drawer then he returns to stand behind you.

“I should leave you like this…” he trails off.

“You’re going to hold me captive forever?”

“I would, if you’d let me.”

He unlocks the cuffs and removes them. You turn around to face him and rub your freed wrists.

“But I’ll settle for the next twelve hours.”

You arch an eyebrow at him as he advances towards you, crawling on top of you until you’re forced to lay down on the bed. You hook your legs around his waist, arms around his neck, and pull him down for another kiss.

You feel his cock hardening again between your legs and rock your hips up against it.

“You planning to keep me awake that long?” you ask teasingly.

He chuckles, lining himself up at your entrance.

“Absolutely.”

He thrusts inside of you, and his lips land on yours again.

This time it’s slow and soft and quiet.

This time it’s love.

SUNDAY

True to his word, Chan keeps you up for most of the night. At times you lay there, cuddled together and talking about whatever comes to mind. Other times, either of you start touching and teasing the other, then you’re right back to fucking.

As the sun begins to rise, you reason with him that you need at least a few hours of sleep to get through what will be a long, tenuous day of moving and unpacking. He agrees, and you fall asleep in his arms until your alarm goes off at 9:30am.

You quietly slip out of the bed and take a quick shower. It feels surreal. Your last shower in Chan’s room. Halfway through, the door opens, and he steps in to join you. You hold each other in silence, for the most part, standing under the spout.

After your shower, you make sure everything you own is packed up. You join the others for a solemn feeling breakfast and by 12:00pm, a large, black SUV arrives to pick you up. All the boys help put your bags and boxes inside while you stay in the house, hugging the other assignees goodbye. You then hug six of the eight members, telling them you’ll miss them as you hold back your tears.

Your stomach is in knots as Hyunjin and Chan walk you to the car. Your mind, your heart, your everything is spinning. Hyunjin holds your hand, keeping your grounded, as Chan walks a few paces behind the two of you.

Once you reach the car, Hyunjin pulls you in for a hug while Chan walks around to the driver’s window to speak to him, but you’re not sure what he says. Hyunjin kisses you firmly on the cheek before opening the rear passenger door for you.

“I left something for you, it’s under my bed,” you tell him.

He arches an eyebrow.

“You thought I’d forget your birthday?”

He shrugs, “I figured you had more important things on your mind.”

“More important than you?” you scoff playfully, “Don’t insult me, Hyunjin.”

He laughs and embraces you once more.

“Be good. Be happy,” he says, stepping out of the way to make room for Chan.

You and Chan just stare at each other for a moment before he comes to you and embraces you. He wraps his arms around you, squeezing so tightly you can hardly breathe. You have a fleeting thought that you don’t want to anymore—every breath you take from here on out will be without him in your life. Without any of them.

You lean back and tilt your head up towards him, eyes brimming with tears. He places a hand on the back of your head and kisses you on the forehead before stepping back. You push aside the fear and alarm bells ringing in your head as you climb into the car and roll down the window, waving to Hyunjin and the others standing at the front door. Chan is still right next to the car, a soft reassuring smile on his lips but his eyes reflect the havoc you’re feeling inside, too.

“You ready, miss?” the driver asks.

“Yes,” you nod, sitting back in the seat.

“Wait,” Chan calls out, stepping forward again.

He comes to the open window, and you lean forward to speak to him.

“Take care of yourself for me, ok?” he says.

You silently nod in response.

He grabs a hold of your head with both hands and smashes his mouth against yours. You forget about the driver being less than two feet away and kiss him back. It’s passionate, it’s sad, it somehow feels promising and that just makes it all hurt worse. You’re both left breathless when he finally breaks the kiss.

He’s still holding your head as he leans towards your ear and whispers three words that send you reeling. He pulls away, taps on the car door and gives a nod to the driver. As he puts the car into drive, you give one last look to Chan before rolling up the window. As soon as the car takes off you dissolve into a puddle of tears.

You don’t know what he means by what he said, and you know even less what would possess him to say it. And so, his last words will haunt you for quite some time.

“This isn’t over.”

[ read chapter 31 here ]

a/n: i feel at a loss for words, myself. how are we feeling? i'm here for you! two more chapters left. the next one is lengthy as well, so be prepared haha

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