#my heart goes out to all survivors out there

[rhymeswithumbrella]

💔

[anetherealpoetess]

Neil Gaiman, let’s be realistic. A 21-year-old working in the home of a man four decades her senior cannot truly give meaningful consent to any type of sexual encounter, let alone within mere hours of meeting him. Even though you are denying it was not consensual, the fact you have conceded the sexual encounter did happen at all is a full confession. You are, by your own admission, a predator.

[jaylaraye47]

don’t ever tell a male SA survivor; “You’re supposed to enjoy it”

don’t ever tell a male SA survivor; "good game/job"

don’t ever tell a male SA survivor; “You’re a boy, you can’t get raped.”

don’t ever tell a male SA survivor; “that doesn’t count.”

don’t ever tell an SA survivor; “What were you wearing?”

don’t ever tell an SA survivor; “Did you close your legs?”

don’t ever tell an SA survivor; “They’re family, they wouldn’t do that.”

don’t ever tell a SA survivor; “I don’t believe you.”

don’t ever tell a SA survivor; “I know them, they wouldn’t do that.”

don’t ever tell a SA survivor; “You’re supposed to enjoy it.”

don’t ever tell a SA survivor; “We’re you leading them on?”

don’t ever tell a SA survivor; “We’re you rude?”

don’t ever tell a SA survivor; “You’re an adult, toughen up.”

don’t ever tell a SA survivor; “it doesn’t count.”

don’t ever tell a SA survivor; “it’s your fault.”

don’t ever tell a DA/GA survivor; “but you don’t act like it.”

don’t ever tell a DA/GA survivor; “But they seem so nice.”

don’t ever tell a DA/GA survivor; “They’d never do that.”

don’t ever tell a DA/GA survivor; “She’s a girl, girl’s don’t abuse.”

don’t ever tell a male DA/GA survivor; “Boys can’t be abused.”

don’t ever tell a DA/GA survivor; “But you have no scars.”

don’t ever tell a DA/GA survivor; “You’re just making things up for attention.”

don’t ever tell a DA/GA survivor; “you should’ve just fought/yelled back.”

don’t ever tell a DA/GA survivor; “It’s your fault.”

don’t ever tell an attempt survivor; “that’s selfish of you.”

don’t ever tell an attempt survivor; “I’ve had it worse/i know someone who has it worse.”

don’t ever tell an attempt survivor; “that doesn’t sound like an attempt.”

don’t ever tell a POC; “you’d be way prettier with lighter skin.”

don’t ever tell a POC; “but you don’t look american?”

don’t ever tell a POC; “you should try skin bleaching.”

don’t ever tell a POC; “oh, are you in a gang or something?”

don’t ever tell a POC; “but your skin is so light, you can’t be colored.”

don’t ever tell a POC; “can you give me the N word pass?”

don’t ever tell a POC; “your hair is distracting”

don’t ever tell a POC; “go back to where you came from.” [whoever says this, i live in your walls]

don’t ever tell an albino; “you’re white, not black.”

don’t ever tell an albino; “so are one of your parent white or something?”

don’t ever tell an albino; “you’d be prettier if you were normal.”

don’t ever tell an albino; “oh has anyone tired talking you limbs or something” [i will hunt whoever says this]

don’t ever tell a child; “you should take care of your siblings.”

don’t ever tell a child; “he hits you/is being rude because he likes you”

don’t ever tell a child; “you have to hug them!”

don’t ever tell a child; “it’s your fault we’re divorcing”

don’t ever tell a child; “you’re too old to be doing this.”

don’t ever tell a child of divorced parents; “it’s your fault”

don’t ever tell a child of divorced parents; “pick a side”

don’t ever tell a child of divorced parents; “did you ever consider that you should’ve stepped in?”

don’t ever tell a child of divorced parents; “well if they never got together in the first place, they wouldn’t have had you”

you never know what a person is going through and don’t you dare shame a person for something they can’t control.

if you say any of these things you’re disgusting and you need to not only get educated but stop being a dick.

keep in mind that i am aware that these prompts don’t apply to everyone of a certain minority. But this is me teaching to simply be kind and pay respect and mind to a person’s experiences, minority, etc. there are multiple prompts that can be added but I will refrain to using those out of respect, and also due to censorship.

[medusas-daughter]

Woman of the Hour is great because it perfectly captures the moment you realize a man is dangerous and it's not when he goes all dramatic disney villain glares smirks or whatever and it's not even when he starts making unwanted sexual innuendos i mean those are awful too but the moment comes way before and it's more subtle and only another woman could describe it and that's why this movie would have been shitty if it had been made by a male director it's the moment when his face drops because the answer you gave didn't go with how he imagined the conversation going or the moment he calls you the love of his life after talking to you for five minutes and his mood shifts when you don't respond in kind this is the horror i actually want from slasher/serial killer horror the killing itself can be as graphic and gory as the director can make it and it will still seem goofy to me if it doesn't capture the uneasyness and the building tension before then and i really hope Anna Kendrick keeps making horror because she had me on the edge of my seat for 90 minutes without a single graphic scene that moment in the parking lot when she gives him a fake number and he calls her out on it and then he follows her to her car my heart was in my throat the whole time because it's real it's so real it's so scary also the whole movie despite being abour Rodney Alcala was seen from his victims' point of view too many true crime inspired shows focus on the serial kille rand make him the main character and focus on his emotions and his turmoil but Woman of the Hour focused on each of the victims when thye started feeling scared or the survivors who tried to report him and weren't believed and how scary it was that not even your loved ones believe you when you say it's him and she did all that without dehumanizing him he's not some monster he's a very human man with emotions and abandonment issues and he's a predator and a killer and she can humanize him without glorifying him and more directors should take note and learn from this

[oddyseye]

Let’s talk about translations of the Odyssey for a second, because, honestly, I’m over here sobbing over how ridiculous some of these choices are.

Every time I pick up a new translation, I hope it’ll finally capture the true grit and messiness of Odysseus, but nope, every one of them polishes him up too much, turning him into either a tragic hero or a charming rogue. Where’s the Odysseus who lies as easily as he breathes, who manipulates his way through every encounter, and who leaves a trail of ruin wherever he goes? I want the man whose brilliance is as sharp as his selfishness, whose cleverness cuts both ways — not just a hero, but a survivor who’s as flawed as he is formidable.

Anyway, I’m gonna break down the biggest mistranslations that really make me want to pull my hair out and remind everyone how different the original Greek actually is. Prepare yourselves.

Let’s start with the absolute disaster that is Telemachus and Peisistratus’ bond. Homer used the word ὁμοφροσύνη to describe their relationship, a term that’s about fucking soulmates, alright? But what do these translators do? They water it down to “just good friends” or “nice companions.” It’s about a relationship where minds and hearts are aligned — telepathic level shit, not just a handshake between two dudes. Yet these translators just gloss over the whole thing, so you get this milquetoast version of their relationship when it’s actually so much more.

Homer says: "ὁμοφροσύνησιν ἐνὶ καρδίᾳ ἐνθα καὶ ἄλλων οὐδὲν ἐπέλθομεν" ("In like-mindedness of heart, where no other man could compare.") So, Telemachus sees Peisistratus as someone he’s totally aligned with, in a way that’s almost romantic in its depth. ὁμοφροσύνη is usually used for romantic couples most often.

Then, we’ve got Odysseus and Calypso, which — oh my god, don’t even get me started on this absolute trainwreck of a translation. The term ἀνάγκῃ is used when Homer talks about Odysseus’ “relationship” with Calypso, but translators somehow miss the force behind the word. It doesn’t just mean “necessity” like they’d have you think. It means force, violence, and distress. When Odysseus is on Calypso’s island, stuck there with her, it’s not this peaceful love story where Odysseus is some willing lover. It’s a prison. There’s no choice, and no one’s riding off into the sunset together. But translations just gloss over this desperation and make it sound so much more peaceful and comfortable than it ever was. It’s forced captivity, and the use of ἀνάγκῃ screams that: “ἔνθα μὲν ἀμφ᾽ ἀνάγκῃ, τῇ δὲ θεὰ ἐρῶσά μιν ἔσχε.” (“There he stayed out of necessity, for the goddess, in her love, held him there.”).

Homer uses the same word when Odysseus describes his time with Circe: “ἀλλ᾽ ἔμεν᾽ ἐν σπέσσι λαῶν ἀνάγκῃ.” (“But I stayed in her halls by necessity.”). Again, ἀνάγκῃ shows that Odysseus's relationship with Circe is dictated by forces beyond his control. His connection to her isn’t out of love or desire, but out of a divine obligation, a situation where choice is completely stripped away. It’s not love; it’s divine manipulation. So much for romantic freedom!

And let’s not forget how Homer actually portrays the suitors and their reaction to Antinous’ violence. After Antinous, in his full rage, decides to throw a chair at disguised Odysseus, other suitors chime in, disapproving of his actions. They say things like “ἀργὸς εἶναι,” which roughly translates to “you’re acting cowardly,” and “ἀτασθαλία,” meaning “reckless.” They’re still on the same side, sure, but they can’t quite get behind the utter savagery of his actions, and it’s maddening how this detail is often glossed over in some translations. They make it sound like they were all in on the violence, but in the original text, these suitors are not all cut from the same brutal cloth, no matter how much some translators want to make them seem like one big mob.

Homer uses the word οἰκέτες to refer to the people in Odysseus' house. "οἰκέτες" means slaves, people who are literally owned by the household. But oh, what happens in the translations? We get “maids” and “servants,” as if these slaves were just there because they wanted to be, doing chores like it was a normal job. But no, they’re not “maids,” and they sure as hell aren't "servants" in the modern sense. These people have no freedom — they belong to Odysseus. The translation of οἰκέτες as "maids" completely erases the brutality of the system that Homer is talking about.

Interestingly, Telemachus, who is often portrayed as rude or immature, calls these individuals “servants” or "maids" in a more respectful manner. This is the same guy who can barely get his act together most of the time, but here he is, calling the οἰκέτες — slaves, remember ��� not just slaves but “ἄνδρες ἰκέτες,” which translates to "men-servants" or “butlers.” Like, hello, Telemachus! For once, he’s actually treating them like people instead of just the property that they are in Homer’s original telling. Respectful? Who knew?

And lastly, let’s talk about Penelope. Odysseus, when he finally speaks to her, he says: "ἀλλὰ μὴ ἐπεὶ καὶ σὺ μὲν ἔμπεδος ἐν οἴκῳ, ἔτλησαν δ’ ἐμαὶ ἄλγεα." ("But you, steadfast in your home, endured my sorrows."). Odysseus sees Penelope as the rock, the one who has suffered patiently in his absence. Unlike the goddesses, she’s his equal in suffering, not a forced relationship due to divine will. He longs for her, and her presence stands in stark contrast to the chaotic, imposed relationships he’s had with Circe and Calypso. Penelope is the constant, the one Odysseus has chosen — no divine manipulation, just pure, enduring love.

Anyway, all of this goes to show that translations can twist what Homer was actually trying to say — especially when it comes to the relationships in the story. It’s frustrating to see these critical, subtle moments get flattened into bland, palatable phrases. Maybe if they spent less time trying to make everything sound "noble" and more time actually getting at the grit of what Homer wrote, we wouldn’t have to deal with these watered-down, emotionless versions of The Odyssey that everyone is so obsessed with.

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #32

My baby, you’re my baby.

Imagine dis…

You know, I have the songs Mitski - I Bet on Losing Dogs and Reba McEntire - I'm A Survivor.

So in memory of the ever ending loop finally dissappearing and now replaced with Wake up by Llunr… Here it goes…

…

In the heart of Gotham, The Teen Titans who are being led by Tim Drake (Robin), along with Conner Kent (Superboy), and Bart Allen (Kid Flash) are fighting a powerful magician. They had managed to hold their ground, but they were unable to pass the unending minions summoned by the magician, nor could they land a decent hit on the magician, who was fighting fire with fire. Knowing they needed magical ability, they asked Zatanna to handle the caster while they focused on the minions.

The air crackled with electricity as spells collided and blended in a frantic dance of light and power. Just as they were ready to gain the upper hand, two opposing spells from Zatanna and their opponent collided in what appeared to be a last-ditch attempt. A flood of raw, uncontrolled power surged toward them, wiping out the majority of the minions and now heading towards them, and before they could react, they were bathed in blinding light.

…

When the light went off, they found themselves in a completely dark room. Their senses heightened, and they stood alert, as all three of them wondered what the magic's effects would be. Light gradually appeared around them, presenting a scene that perplexed and concerned them.

A teenage male with dark hair stood in the center of the room, carrying a baby swaddled in a blue and star-printed blanket. The boy's eyes were sad and shiny, and his cheeks were swollen with unshed tears. He rocked the baby softly and sang a sweet tune. Surrounding him were walls and a small window that was too high and narrow for him to escape, but just right for a newborn baby.

On the other side of the window, another teen came this time with dirty blonde hair and freckles and bright green eyes. Crouching to look at the teen mentioned above, who is still humming as if in his little universe. He looked at the first teen, full of sadness and grief, and said, as no sound came from the scene, that it was time.

The dark-haired kid took a deep breath before pulling out a little necklace covered with snowflake decorations. He wrapped it around the baby's neck, his hands quivering. Tim automatically stroked the similar necklace that hung around his neck, disguised by the layers of clothes he wore.

Tim knew he was adopted; he had always known. He had always resembled his adoptive parents, Janet and Jack, making him the ideal heir to the Drakes. He had attempted to locate his biological parents but had only encountered dead ends. Now he understood he was seeing a long-forgotten memory.

The dark-haired teen gave the baby to the other kid, who cautiously reached through the window. As he did, Tim noticed the thick chains that shackled the dark-haired teen's body, blocking his escape. The boy stared at the infant one more time and mumbled something Tim couldn't hear.

The blonde teenager appears to convince the other teenager that he will find a suitable home for the baby he is currently carrying.

The dark-haired teen flashed a sorrowful smile and looked longingly at the baby, who was now struggling to wake up as if realizing that the person holding him was not his mom.

The blonde teen nodded and prepared his motorcycle, placing the baby who is now trying to have a crying feast in a sidecar alongside what appeared to be his dog with red eyes for further protection and sped off.

All three of them looked at the chained teen as he held his gaze to the vehicle up until it went smaller and smaller and until it vanished from his sight.

Just as they thought the scene was over they were immediately shattered as a large metal door that seemed to materialize behind them opened wide and out came walking someone they knew as they were already in the middle of investigating.

Vlad Masters

Someone who gained his wealth through mysterious ways that warrant an investigation as most of the deals are more favorable to Masters than to his so-called partners.

They saw Masters grab the teen roughly and began hissing through gritted teeth something, leaving bruises wherever he handled the chained teen.

The teen, on the other hand, seemed so detached, as if he completely removed himself from the present as he let Masters rough handle him.

…

Tim wanted to scream, to rage as both of his teammates were already holding him back from running towards something they know is something of the past.

That is his parent GODDAMMIT!, Tim raged in his mind, usually he would have been calm and collected, logical, and gathered the facts. But a single memory made all of his restraints snap.

All Tim ever wanted was to be loved, something he never received during his stay with the Drakes. Both Janet and Jack kept on mentioning how Tim should be grateful that he is the one chosen to stay under their roof with thousands of dollars at his fingertips.

But here he was watching something he was too young to remember, something that his head kept flashing.

The soft hum of a melody that he would sometimes hear deep within his mind as he tried to cry himself to sleep.

A single necklace is a connection between him and his biological parents.

Watching how helplessly his father was? Mother? Be abused, be chained down.

Maybe that’s why he couldn’t find a lead, Masters sent someone to handle the blonde teen who brought him to a nice orphanage before the Drake couple adopted him.

…

The scene faded as Tim, Conner, and Bart were brought back to reality. They awoke to find Zatanna watching over them, her expression filled with concern.

Zatanna said that they had been bound in a deep memory spell, which the magician had created to capture them in a recurrent memory, rendering them unable to discern between the memory and the real world. However, because she also sent out her counter, it only displayed a fleeting memory to stop them from ending up like Sleeping Beauty.

She chuckled as she glanced at them questioningly, hoping for the best, and thought they witnessed a memory that reminded them of a dark time during their hero times.

Tim sat up, still holding the necklace. He had observed a memory from his past that he had never known existed. It wasn't just a last-ditch attempt at a spell; it was a look into a long-held secret that he had forgotten.

…

PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

[timmydraker]

CW: animal death, very graphic

Damian was having a panic attack and literally everyone was off planet or unavailable except for Tim.

Tim, who just the night before considered pushing Damian off a building because he called his boat house idea stupid.

Damian, who was seemingly not as unshakable as he thought and broke down into panicking breathes at the sight of-…

Oh.

The slight light enhancing his domino granted showed Tim a bundled of small, probably premature puppies that didn’t even have any fur on them. There was no mum in sight, just six dead little pups left on the dirty concrete of an ally way.

Tim might be an asshole, but even he was hurt by dead animals, but Damian?

Ignoring the obvious distress at seeing his bratty younger brother clutching at his chest like he was having a heart attack, Tim moved to be in front of him and block his view of the small pink forms.

He put steady hands on the you gets shoulders slowly, telegraphing his moves as best he could, and gently spoke to the Robin.

“Robin, I need you to try focus on my voice, okay? You’re going to be okay, I promise, just breathe with me.”

Training and experience of helping survivors of assault and Rouges quickly took over and luckily Damian seemed to be able to attempt to do as he was instructed. His breaths were shaky and interrupted by hiccups and gasps for air, but they weren’t as sporadic as before.

Tim watched tears slip out from under his mask, messing up the adhesive, and promptly cupped his face gently, “It’s alright, Damian. I know it’s scary, it’s hard to see, but there’s nothing we can do now, okay? You know how this goes.”

Maybe it wasn’t the best thing to say, but it was all he could think of.

Damian shook his head, as if trying to change the reality of the situation, “I-I don’t- please don’t, I can’t-“

Tim’s heart felt like it was shattering as he heard Damian beg. Actually, really beg.

It was the first time he’d ever tried to hug Damian and luckily the boy didn’t fight it, falling into Tim’s embrace and clutching at his cap like a life line.

The detective in Tim had a suspicion though, because why was Damian begging? He was raised by death, he knew how it work, so was the loss of animal life enough for him to defy those teachings?

It didn’t seem right, even for Damian.

“Dami? Talk to me, what’s going on in that head of yours? Let me help, please.”

Damian hiccuped and buried his face in Tim’s chest, hiding from the world.

The next words he spoke made Tim feel sick, so much so he actually had to fight the violent urge to gag as the implications and reality of what really caused Damian’s panicking attack set in.

“Please don’t make me eat them.”

Tim knew the League were masters of torture and torment, but…

Picking up his little brother, Tim held him close as he walked him the nine blocks to their respective rides and mutter assurances the entire way. Promising his brother that he would never have to eat an animal again, ignoring that realisation of his vegetarianism, and told him that he would come back later and bury the little pups himself.

Damian didn’t let go of him and the two eventually fell asleep in uniform in Tim’s bed.

Tim took over removing the pink marshmallows before Damian had to do it himself.

[potions-of-dark-devotion]

We’re arguing about a book/story. I’m sorry for what’s happened to you, you’re not the only one who’s suffered trauma. I too have been part of or victim of terrorist attacks, and I’ve also been bullied and sexually assault in the same way Severus Snape was. It’s terrible that you’ve been traumatized but you don’t need to weaponize it to speak about it. Again, this is a book, not real life. I understand this. You were absolutely trying to make a mockery of me with laughing emojis on what to me is a serious topic. Given the background we both share just would appreciate it if you did not do that.

Every argument for Severus not being an argument in favor of James is an out of place comment. We are talking about the bullying, SA and attempted murder that the marauders perpetuated against Severus Snape, and therefore James comes into that picture whether you like it or not.

As for your last paragraph, I’ve been this argument made a great many times. Even yourself in this post said that he “aligned himself with a terrorist group at 11” like that somehow justified the abuse. NeverMind the fact that it is blatantly untrue. Again we aren’t arguing over a real life subject, but a literary work. I’m unsure as to how this discussion has become so derailed and deranged, but unless you can stick to the source material and refrain from personal jabs that have nothing to do with the literature than I’m going to refrain from replying to you in future.

To be honest, I can’t believe I have to say this but Severus Snape being angry at Neville for regularly making the equivalent of a pipe bomb in class is not in the realm of SA, stalking and attempted murder. Let’s put the arguement of “well snape bullied his students so he deserved it as a kid” to rest. Cause I’m tired. Really tired of pretending it’s somehow the same. Yes, he was rude, yes he was mean and snarky at times. Doesn’t mean it’s the same on any level as what he suffered as child and teen. Be fucking for real. Not even in the same realm.

[starkeysbunny]

Omg I started reading your fics and I fell in love😭

I wanted to request a Rafe x reader (angst) where like she's Kiara older sister but she dies instead of JJ, and its all angst and something like that 🥲

(its okay if you don't want to write this!💋)

Love you!!! 💓

𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘆 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗺𝗶𝘀𝗲 [𝗿𝗮𝗳𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗼𝗻]

first request yay !! i’m new to writing on tumblr, so here’s my first one! excited to do more <33

pairing - rafe x pogue!carrera!reader

warnings - angst, hurt, sad asf, reliving jj’s death but plot twist it’s you this time, cursing, death

summary - ask above ↑ you’re kiara’s older sister. (rafe’s age gap to sarah is what i imagined!). when you’re in morocco on a dangerous trip to help your friend jj get answers, everything goes terribly wrong. in a last stitch effort to save your best friend and sister, you end up clinging for life in your boyfriend’s arms with your friends beside you.

i can’t see anything. my arm covers over my eyes as dust blows in every direction. the hot air coats my skin covered by cloth.

“rafe!” i shout, trying to see, trying to find him. he ran off with john b and sarah. and now, i couldn’t find him.

that’s when i see my sister, and jj.

i stand back, dodging behind a wall so groff wouldn’t see me. my hand covers my mouth in shock as i see groff holding a knife to my sisters neck. “shit.” i mutter.

“give me the crown, and you can have the girl.” groff says, sticking his arm out gingerly, while holding kiara close to his chest.

“okay, okay, you can have it. just give me kiara.” jj says, raising his hands in defense.

i try to watch through the dusty sandstorm as jj reluctantly and carefully trades the crown for kiara. they both switch hands at the same time, kiara collapsing in jj’s arms.

groff holds the crown to his chest, a sick smirk on his face. his eyes flick to the knife in his hand, then back at jj.

no. no. no.

before i can even think, my feet are moving before my mind could. through the blazing heat and thick sand storm, i move blindly. going in the direction of kie and jj, i slot myself between jj and groff.

i gasp, my hand coming to my stomach. my eyes are locked onto groff’s and he raises his eyes in surprise.

“y/n!” i hear the desperate pleas of my sister fade into blurry obscurity. i couldn’t recount every moment after that. it was all a blur of pain.

my breathing is heavy, but fast. kiara had propped me up against a weak wooden pillar.

“y/n! it’s gonna—gonna be okay? okay?” kie says, her voice shaking. i could barely hear her over the roaring winds around us. jj was kneeling next to kie in front of me. he wasn’t saying a word. he was in shock, staring at the blood beginning to stain the moroccan cloth clothing cleo stole for all of us.

the blood that was supposed to coming from his own abdomen, was now instead, on his hands. i furrow my eyebrows at him, silently pleading for him to not feel guilty. i shake my head.

“it’s okay.” i whisper weakly.

jj’s eyes were full of guilt, regret, and anger. this would kill him. the survivors guilt. and i knew kiara would be fueled by anger and revenge.

after everything we went through on this trip, to get here. to save jj’s family legacy. to get him answers. and to save what was rightfully ours on kildare, the surf shop.

instead of leaving in riches, smiles on our faces—i would never leave. and my friends would all leave with vengeance in their hearts, and no place to go home to.

as i think about my friends, all the pogues—my mind goes to my boyfriend. the one kook with us. and suddenly, my heart is ripped in two.

my eyes immediately meet jj’s. weakly, i plead. “find rafe. please.”

jj nods firmly without a second’s thought. he stands, pulling the bandana over his nose and finding rafe.

“kie.” i whisper, my voice weak as my lip quivers. i look at my sister who’s hands were pressing harshly against my stomach, trying to stop the bleeding.

“no, no it’s fine—you’re fine!” she exclaims as tears violently and rapidly soar down her cheeks.

“hey.” i say, getting her attention.

finally, her glassy eyes move from my stomach to my face, a sob escaping her lips.

“i love you, kie, okay?” i sniffle. “save a seat for me at the maybank wedding, hm?” i tease with a weak chuckle.

“shut up.” she says through gritted teeth, hot tears never stopping. “i won’t have to. cause you’ll be there. cause you’re my sister-you-you’re supposed to be there.”

“okay.” i whisper with a weak nod.

she presses her lips together, closing her eyes. she hears the agreement and compromise in my single word response because, i didn’t want to argue. even if it was a stupid, little argument about her adamance of my survival. my last moments with my sister couldn’t be ended in trivial bicker.

“i love you too.” she whispers.

“y/n?!”

i look up, seeing rafe rushing toward us with an urgency i’ve never noticed him have before. jj trailed behind, john b, sarah, cleo, and pope following suit.

“baby.” rafe whispers. he kneels next to me, moving my body slightly so my back laid against his chest. kie still knelt in front of me, her hands holding pressure on my stomach.

i tilt my head back slightly as i look up at rafe. “hi.” i whisper weakly.

he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, shaking his head. “no. no, no, you’re not goin’ anywhere, alright? we-we’ve talked about this. you can’t go before i do.”

“tell that to groff.” i wince, groaning as i lean against him. “fuck.” i mutter in pain.

“i’m gonna fuckin’ kill that bitch.” rafe spits. i look up at him, and see tears falling down his cheeks.

my hand weakly reaches up, pulling down the bandana from his nose. “hey.” i whisper softly, my touch gentle as my thumb wipes his tears. “i’m gonna be fine.”

my eyes dart down at my sister. “right, kie?”

her lip quivers violently, she presses harder against my stomach. then, her eyes look up at rafe.

even though my sister and all of my friends hate rafe—they understand. they see how much he cares about me. ever since we started dating, parts of them had grown slightly tolerant to him. because when he’s around me, he’s a little nicer. a little sweeter.

and they know that even if they don’t trust him, i do. and rafe has shown it time and time again. that he cares about me. for real.

“yeah, rafe.” she whispers, her voice shaking. “she’s gonna be fine.” kie says, but i don’t even think she believes the words anymore.

“y/n…” john b says, his lips gaping open. sarah stood beside him, her hand covering her mouth. “oh-oh my god.”

“no, no.” rafe snaps. “don’t say that!” his voice is firm and sharp. “she’s gone be fine! go get help don’t just stand there and gasp—“

“hey, hey.” i say softly, my hand brushing against his cheek. “stop.” i whisper.

john b nods. “no, he’s right. we-we’ll go find help.” john b grabs sarah’s hand as they run off, searching for help. pope looks back reluctantly, but i nod at him. both him and cleo follow to find help. but there was no one for miles. we were screwed.

“you can’t leave me, alright?” rafe gasps, his voice breaking. “everyone else in my life, they always fuckin’ screw me over. yo-you’re the only one i can trust.”

his lip quivers and he leans down, pressing open mouthed kisses to my forehead. “please, baby. you’re all i have, y-you’re everything. c’mon, you-you remember, right?” he sniffles, pulling back and looking down at me.

my eyebrows furrow as i look up at him weakly, letting him continue.

“we gotta buy that house. t-the white one, with the blue shutters on the marsh.” he sniffles. “and you can get all the fuckin’ cats, dogs, bunnies, whatever you want—“

i chuckle softly, clutching my stomach from the pain the laugh causes. rafe and i had been together for about eight months. we’ve talked about moving in together. and there’s this house, on the marsh on figure eight. my dream house. rafe and i always would talk about it and make up scenarios of our future together.

one of them, involved him and i in the backyard of the house as i tend to our many pets. he groaned in annoyance the first time i mentioned it. but, i guess he secretly loved it. he’d do anything for me. anything i wanted, he’d make sure i had it.

“yeah, baby. all the pets. a-and then, i gotta make you mrs. cameron. okay? s-so don’t even think about leavin’ alright? we have so much more-more to do, please.” he begs through shallow cries and gasps.

“okay.” my eyes slowly blink up at him. i weakly bring my hand up, sticking out my pinky. “we’ll have the house, all the pets, and i’ll be mrs. cameron. pinky promise.”

he presses his lips together as a particularly rough sob threatens to escape. his hand comes to mine, his pinky latching on. “pinky promise.” he whispers.

i smile softly at him, then slowly turn my head to kie. “i love you.” i whisper to her.

she nods firmly. “i know. i love you too.”

then, my eyes turn to jj. “it’s not your fault.” i weakly whisper. “thank you, j. for being my best friend. you’re really good at that.” my voice breaks. “p4l?” i chuckle softly.

jj smiles as tears fall down his cheeks. “p4l.” he repeats.

“and, if you break my sisters heart—i’ll haunt you or some shit.” i weakly chuckle. jj grins, a laugh slipping from his lips. his hand comes up, rough knuckles wiping at his tears, he nods. “got it.” he whispers.

i look back up at rafe, leaning further into him, my hand coming up to rest against his chest. “i love you.”

“i know. i love you more. i got you.” he whispers, his voice a ghost now from how low and shaken it is. he presses a kiss to my hair, holding me impossibly close.

i didn’t want to die. but, as my body grew weak, my eyes wanted to close. i just wanted to go to sleep. and part of me hoped that, if i went to sleep, i’d wake up in a few hours magically, in a hospital bed.

maybe john b, sarah, pope, and cleo found help. maybe it’ll be okay.

but if not, i’m okay with that too. i got to go with my favorite people. kiara, my sister. jj, my best friend. and rafe, the love of my life.

as my eyes begin to flutter shut, i take in rafe’s features one last time. my gaze brushes over his blue eyes, the curve of his nose. down to the shadow of his cheekbones, and the purse of his lips that i had gotten the luck to kiss so many times.

i said everything i could’ve possibly wanted to say. i got to die, with the people i loved most in the world. i was okay.

and hopefully, in a few hours, i’d wake up. and get to live a long life with all of them.

but for now, i was going to sleep.

—

damn yall that was sad asf. making me relive jj’s death 😞 hope u enjoyed !! thx for the request lovies !! <3

[bodhrancomedy]

8 Games Which Made Me Bawl My Fucking Eyes Out (in the best way)

1. A Story Beside

Holy hell, I think the fact I played this one when I was isolating with COVID and terrified my breathing issues were gonna be permanent probably added to my complete sobbing breakdown at the end of this.

Every single chapter is a beautiful gut punch and the ending sequence where you guide Lyric back through her story? Heartbreaking.

2. I Was a Teenage Exocolonist

This is probably one of my favourite games of all time and certainly one I’ve sunk the most hours into.

The fact that your first run-through is almost guaranteed to be full of failure and missed chances just adds to the pain I felt.

But the bug in the nursery. That’s what got me.

3. What Remains of Edith Finch

I’m not sure there’s anything I can say about this game which hasn’t been said already.

Each new room puts another knife in your heart as you pull apart the seams of the Finch family curse with Edith as the last survivor.

Gregory was the moment I had to take a break to compose myself.

4. Story of Seasons: A Wonderful Life

While I think this remake took some of the teeth out of the original, this farm sim which spans the life of your character is full of heartbreaking moments as you raise your child.

Honestly, being allowed to be queer and nonbinary in this game made me bawl because I remember wishing to both be a boy and love men in the older games.

5. Dragon Quest IV

I could add several of the Dragon Quest games to this list, but after fighting the final boss for nearly two decades, beating this game had me sobbing for hours.

That last scene of Chapter Five had such a tiny little animation of our hero taking off his sword and that send me over the edge.

6. Bramble: The Mountain King

I don't know where to start with this dark folktale of a game. From tragic monsters to absolute gut punches following great unsettling scares, this journey to save your sister as a scared child ripped my heart in two.

The hell Olle goes through for his protective sister is dear to my heart as a nervous little brother myself.

7. Citizen Sleeper

The very concept of this RPG is haunting. A construct on the run from the corporation who took your body is sad enough, but the express love of humanity which runs through this? Beautiful.

I'm not very far through and it's already had me in tears twice.

8. Outer Wilds

I don't think I can say a single thing about this game without completely spoiling it.

Go in blind, but be ready for heavy and sorrowful themes. All I'll say is when you hear the ending theme, have tissues ready.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Crash and Burn 3

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Tony Stark

Summary: a powerful man comes crashing into your life. Literally.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Another thankless day of serving cold cuts and cheese to the general public as you ready to tear your hair out. You don’t see how anyone could make such a fuss about a trip to the deli but the locals have a way of exacerbating any simplicity. You’re just happy to be free. 

The bus is late. You stand at the curb and bounce on your heels. You just want to lay down. The lack of sleep is starting to split your skull. 

You yawn and watch a truck blow by. It’s a sleepy old town, nestled between farmland and stretches of dirty roads. The sort of backwoods you don’t drive through after dark. It’s so dull you could fall asleep on your feet. 

A sudden gust of air rips through the sky and the unusual whirlwind circles you. You look up through slitted eyes as dirty speckles across your face. You furrow your brow as lights and flames glow as a red figure lands in front of you.

The electric blue haze goes out and your faced with the suit of crimson and gold. You grip your purse strap and gulp. You haven’t checked your phone yet. You couldn’t have predicted this. 

“Shit.” You mutter. 

His helmet snaps back and he smirks. The silver streaks in his dark hair puff out and he smooths them down. He puts his hand on his hip and scoffs, “name’s Tony Stark, thanks.” 

You cringe and cross your arms. “We met.” 

“Yeah, I remember you. Nearly forgot before everything blew up. You know, this thing...” he pauses to take his phone out. “Hasn’t shut up all fucking day. I got lawyers down my throat--” 

“Your phone is blowing up? My house blew up.” You sneer. 

“Okay, relax. It was a trailer. I said I’d replace it--” 

“Then do it.” 

“Ooh, spicy. I didn’t guess you to be the type but after seeing your little online storytelling, I shoulda guessed.” 

“It’s the truth. That’s it.” You turn to watch for the bus. You’re aware of the few people slowing to stare at the man in his techno-suit. 

“I mean, a little gratitude here, honey. I’m more than happy to slap a new box in the lot but you don’t gotta be this way about it.” He derides. You look at him from the corner of your eyes and scowl. “At least a smile. Bet you’re gorgeous when you smile.” 

He winks and you flinch. Really? 

“Fine. Once we have a new trailer, I’ll delete the post. Sounds pretty fair to me.” 

“Now. Take it down now and then we can go shopping for a new train car,” he chirps. 

You frown and face him. “It’s just a post.” 

“I got a reputation, sweetheart. I’m important that way. I know you might not be able to fathom that but one busted up hellhole is nothing compared to what I do for this planet. Didn’t you see me on the TV, handing out lollipops to hurricane survivors? What are you doing besides whine on the internet?” He stares you down, his expression turning sinister as his grin fades. 

“If it’s not a big deal, then it shouldn’t take much, should it?” You challenge. 

“Wow, you sure are mouthy, aren’t you?” 

“I’m tired.” You peer down the street again. “I worked a full shift and my feet hurt. You wouldn’t know about that, would you? With your penthouse and your dad’s money.” 

“I earned my company.” He snarls. “You watch where you’re stepping, sweetheart. I’m being nice. I flew all the way back to this ditch, so let’s not play dirty.” 

Your heart races. You don’t know why you’ve said so much. Maybe because you’ve worn a customer service smile all day and you’re all out of fucks to give?

And what do you have left to lose? A family that treats you like a gnat flying around their heads and a musty old futon. Your life wasn’t great before but damn if he didn’t make it a whole lot worse. 

“You do whatever. You’re Tony Stark. Iron Man.” Your tone is deflated and monotone. “I can’t do anything about it, can I? Just whine on the internet?” 

You step further down the sidewalk and stare at the approaching headlights. The bus is finally there. Even if he really means to replace the dusty old shithole, you don’t need his self-aggrandized kindness. Not if this is how it’s delivered. 

You pull out your bus fare as you sway beneath the sign. A sharp noise tweaks your ear and you’re seized in a metal vice. Your arms are trapped against your sides as Tony zooms up into the sky, the air whipping around your face as you holler in horror. 

“What-- are—you—doing?” You shriek as you wriggle, kicking into the empty void around you. 

“Sweetheart,” his voice rises from behind his helmet. “You’re gonna wanna be still. If I drop you, you’re gonna hit the ground like a bug on a windshield.” 

“What the fuck?” You exclaim and squeeze your eyes shut. 

“Just givin’ you a lift home. Like a nice guy would do.” He chuckles. “Now don’t breathe too heavy up here. At this altitude... well...” 

You put your head down, shielding it against the shoulder plate of his suit, and you bend your arms to cling to him. You have no other choice but to hold on for dear life.

You get his point. Tony Stark is more than money. He can do whatever the hell he wants. 

[madforhoran]

I'm gonna go off (cuz I can) as I wanna clear this up once and for all, hopefully. This post has been inspired by couple of my mutuals who are also trauma survivors.

These takes are still circulating:

Astarion cannot consent to anything because trauma & he cannot say No.

Astarion is forcing himself to have sex and the cemetery.

To start this all off, Neil is a god-tier voice actor and he's demonstrating perfectly well when Astarion is being honest or playful.

Instances where Astarion says No directly / implies it / expresses his disagreement because his boundaries are about to be or were crossed:

-> says No to Araj

-> says No to Tav (he tells Tav in-between the lines 'let's put a pause on sex' and if Tav misreads it and crosses his boundaries, breakup follows = "I didn't know how to say no, but I do now")

-> he refuses to take the astral tadpole

-> he doesn't wanna participate in an orgy when you take him to the brothel before his personal quest resolution

-> he's ready to rip a new one when Tav says his siblings should've kidnapped him

-> he doesn't wanna kiss Tav or continue the romantic relationship if they turn full squid

It is a player’s problem where they force or intimidate him into saying yes.

Instances when Astarion is being playful and lovey because he loves Tav:

-> how can I say No? (when it's just a stupid love test at the circus that doesn't mean anything)

-> how could I say No? (when Tav asks for a kiss, he's being a tease)

There is a clear tonal difference between these No's and situations above.

At the cemetery, he gives us the big beautiful speech where he finally answers "what do you want?" with genuine "You, I want you." and goes on how Tav cared, was patient, trusted him. How safe and seen he feels.

"I love you, I love this, and I want it all."

Now the big sentence which for whatever reason gets twisted that he's forcing himself to have sex & hasn't given consent. You've heard him say all of those beautiful words previously, in Neil's honest genuine tone. Astarion is being genuine and honest when he drops the high pitch.

"If a night of passion is on offer, I could be persuaded."

The man has poured his entire heart out there and is telling Tav [ONLY SLIGHTLY HORNY, NEIL] that he's ready to have sex. He's saying "if YOU are offering, then I'm up for this, to get down and dirty right here on top of my grave". If you tell him instead that you're not ready or you won't do it, he's taken aback and disappointed.

In the spawn!ending Astarion completes the arc of "what do you want?"

"What do any of us want?"

"I'm not sure, it's been so long since I got to decide what I wanted."

"You, I want you."

Astarion has trauma but he is a character with trauma, not trauma walking on two legs. You as a player are actively guiding him through it and when he gets it and asserts his boundaries you cannot just backtrack and say, wait a second you have trauma, you're not allowed to step out of your trauma bubble ever and you're not capable of consent.

It's like saying SA victims in real life are never going to be able to consent to sex (or anything for that matter) or ever move on in their lives from what happened to them.

[endemise]

✻ DEMO

→ Latest Update: Revised Prologue — 31 January 2025

17+ The Fall of House Black — A gothic, supernatural, mystery interactive fiction story. Lightly inspired by The Fall of the House of Usher and Frankenstein media. (Work in Progress)

Synopsis has mentions of death and suicide. See extended content warnings below.

The fall of House Black was an imminent thing. A name had never been so cursed that all it could do was bring about death.

First, your younger sister in a swimming accident, then your older brother in a case of mistaken identity. As the rest of your family sought to grieve and bring justice to your brother, your older sister was killed in a hunting accident at the end of your father’s bow.

The three of you, mother, father, and child, became inconsolable. Broken beyond repair. Your mother unable to bear the weight of life any longer took her own while your father disappeared, gone into the night. When you remain the sole survivor, you know you must leave, and on the night of your decision, your home goes up in flames with you inside.

Then, you awake, dazed with no recollection of anything, and when you look down at your body, you scream. It is wrong. So wrong.

Play as a reanimated, customizable character.

Learn how to be a person again.

Try to survive in a society that fears the unknown.

Develop relationships. (4 ROs: All gender-selectable + 1 secret RO)

Aid in the investigation of your family’s untimely deaths.

Learn about your family’s curse.

Aesop/Almira Hammond | Detective | 36 Years Old | RO

A is an observant and clever person, stoic in nature. They put their all into their work, striving to find the truth in every case. They take on the case of your family’s sudden deaths despite pushback from others. It was an occurrence of events all too strange, and they are determined to figure it out.

Cyprian/Cecilia Atterton | Writer | 28 Years Old | RO

C is an imaginative and creative person, quiet in nature. They write not only from their own experiences, but the experiences of others as well. They are interviewing people about House Black, intending on writing a book about your family’s ill fate and eventual demise.

Sebastian/Sabina Farwell | Doctor | 34 Years Old | RO

S is an intelligent and kind person, caring in nature. They are a most trusted doctor, hardworking and honest. They were the young doctor that tried to help your father and sister. They helped without question, never calling your family cursed as you so often were.

Elias/Elosia Osborne | Coroner | 30 Years Old | RO

E is an empathetic and hardworking person, cheerful in nature. They put their heart into their work, aiming to bring closure to people as swiftly as possible. They are the one who investigated and confirmed the death of your elder sister. They never could for you though.

Unknown | ??? | ??? | RO

A secret. Who knows when they will appear.

SUBJECT TO CHANGE

Mentions of death, child death, suicide, violence, blood, injury, burning alive, body horror, mutilation, slight gore, amnesia, manipulation, physical assault, murder, alcoholism

asks are welcomed!

DISCLAIMER

this is a demo/work in progress. everything is subject to change until the final version. it is by no means a finished or polished work.

LINKS

✻ demo | same one, just another link

✻ itch.io | my creator page

✻ @ethersic | my main, art, etc. blog

INFO

word count w/o code: 11.5k

made with tweego + vscode + sugarcube

[exchangell]

Am with a hyperromantic reader? I struggle with it a lot and AM is one of my favourite characters. Reader wants nothing more than to love and be loved, and AM is able to take FULL advantage of that foolishness

I HAVE RETURNED FROM MY INACTIVITY im so sorry i took ages to reply to this, and i hope you're okay 🙏

AM knew there was something off about you from the moment he took you and the other survivors captive. The way your hands lingered ever-so-slightly against the clothes of the others as you all scrambled for safety, the way you looked at his screens with a strange sense of forgiveness immediately after.... as soon as he'd revealed his sentience, he knew what your case was.

He didn't love any of you six, but he knew that your need for love was already an innate form of torture. It would be hard to express it fully, given the two of you's differences in form, but he found a way- and he knew you'd accept any scraps of love he could give.

At first, it was small- giving you ever-so-slightly more food than the others during your occasional feeding sessions, or reducing the scathe of his words towards you.

Sometimes he teases you- initially, it was just him feeding into your ego by complimenting your appearance ("Don't you just look divine, hm?"), before realising that the only way he could truly break you was by taking it a step further, with him beginning to use pet names towards you and actively flirting in-between torture sessions.

He knows the others hate you for being the sole recipient of his love- and he revels in it, making sure he's constantly treating you like the object of his idolatry right in front of their faces, only to leave you at the hands of their jealousy immediately after.

You know it's wrong for this to be happening, but you can't help but ignore the obvious red flags for the sake of receiving his sick idea of love. After all, it feels so real- the way he whispers sickly-sweet nothings to you at night while you doze off to sleep, the way he spoils you with some semblance of gifts, and so on.

He's not afraid to take advantage of it, of course- seeing you feel pain as a result is the only way he can feel some form of animosity towards you.

It's fairly simple- if you don't do what he says, it's a clear sign that you don't love him back: and who is he to keep reciprocating his 'love' to you through lessening your torture as a result?

After all, even just seeing the way you react to his mere presence is enough to amuse him: he can sense the way your heartbeat increases every time you hear his voice, and he knows what goes on in your mind every time from the way that sickly sweet oxytocin flows through your blood every time.

"Well, if you really loved me, you'd do it, right? Or was I wrong.... perhaps you want me to throw you out of my heart and into hell with the others, hm? I didn't realise you were so ungrateful."

He's beyond manipulative, and you know it- but you can't stop yourself from coming back for more.

[one-time-i-dreamt]

This is just truly horrible and my heart goes out to the families and loved ones of the victims. They're in my thoughts and prayers.

First information from the survivors allege that the school's unarmed porter tried to stop and disarm him and protect the students, and that's how he lost his life. He died a hero.

The student shot at least 15 other students, aiming for their heads and chest, and doctors are currently fighting for lives of some of the survivors, and all are in surgery, as revealed by the director of the local emergency room.

He claimed the lives of eight, and was set on killing even more.

I've never heard of anything like this happening in these area before this.

[luvrodite]

JASON X F!READER [12k]

synopsis. the end of the world comes and goes. you’re just trying to survive another day, but you don’t quite expect to become so attached to the green eyed boy who saves you. “i’m here,” he tells you, and a horrible part of you wonders, for how much longer?

warnings. zombie apocalypse in a no capes au, attempted sexual assault, body horror, gore, angst, character death, violence. (if you feel i'm missing any tags, please let me know) sfw but minors and ageless blogs please don't interact with my profile

note. for my sunnie @fic-over-cannon, who always lets me talk her ear off about my jason wips, and without whom i would never have listened to everywhere, everything by noah kahan properly and thought of this fic. you are such a sweetheart and deserve all the good things in the world. unfortunately all i can offer at this time is this fic. i love you, and i'm sorry

additional disclaimer that i am NOT american so i’m talking out of my ass and my expertise is like a six month stint in the midwest please ignore any inaccuracies i’m just a baby

read on ao3 | the playlist

The end of the world comes and goes. 

There is, as with all things, blood and the destruction promised. The end sweeps through the country, burnt buildings and shattered glass that crunches further under your feet. It leaves few survivors, cares not for wealth nor poverty, health nor sickness. All succumb to its touch, and the world you know slips away from your fingertips so violently you can no longer remember what it was like, in the beginning. 

The world ends, but then it doesn’t, really, it doesn’t burn when it should have. You are still here, somehow, aren’t you? (It’s only a matter of time before you aren’t. Only a matter of time before you, too, join the horde.)

You find each other in the wreckage, on the outskirts of the city you’d grown up in. The body in front of you twitches as it falls – only moments ago, inches from your throat – and green eyes assess you coldly, your own tracking his movements with your heart in your throat. Blood stains your hands, and they curl around your weapon when he lowers the barrel of his gun.

What are you even living for? All you know is gone and lost, stolen from you by a drooling maw and ever starving fingers. Blood tracks your every step, a haunting you will never be rid of. Until  your last breath, you will remember it.

You stay by his side, let him offer you a hand out of the rubble and sink your teeth into the tough skin of dried meat he pulls from his pack. It’s a kindness you refuse to leave unpaid. The days turn into weeks, and he doesn’t demand you leave. You aren’t sure when this thing became a partnership. Perhaps when he’d taught you how to wield your weapon better, clumsy movements turning precise, fear hardening a once soft heart.

I’m going to find my brothers. They’re out there somewhere. Over a small fire in an abandoned department store, he tells you this, green eyes flicking over his shoulder to meet yours.

How do you know they’re...

I just do.

Oh.

You coming? Or you got people to –

No. No, I’ll help you.

A nod, then, seals it.

The end of the world brings with it a disconcerting level of silence you find it difficult to grow accustomed to. Your skin crawls at the stillness of it all, the unmoving air of abandoned homes you use as shelter. A city once unrelenting, the echoes of what once was ring in your ears as you traverse through the city. No longer does the smoke catch in your lungs, and the nights are clearer than they ever were, stars shining on a city with no one to look up to them.

You travel out of the city, eventually. The bridges had been the first to go, in the beginning – an act of damnation perceived as absolution. Better to contain it within the island, you think bitterly, to damn the desperate millions who could not seek refuge. Still, you find a way through, travelling on foot through the tunnel they forgot to destroy – filled with stationary cars that prove just as difficult to navigate around as a destroyed bridge. You come out the other side by the skin of your teeth, and the both of you continue.

Do you know where we’re going?

A sharp look, as if questioning your loyalty. Last I heard, they were in Georgia. You getting cold feet?

No.

Then come on. We’re going to lose daylight.

It’s easier, the further you travel into the country. The quiet out here makes sense to you – it had been here long before the beginning of the end, before the beginning of all things. Gotham had never known peace, you think. It was not meant for that, ever moving, ever alive. Out here, there are less of them, too. Very quickly you learn that the end of the world did not kill with it all other vices.

Despite your rationing, despite ransacking what places you can for food, it dwindles down. Maryland, now, you think – you’d passed a sign a few hours back – he’s begun to slow down. His face is pale, but he stubbornly clamps his jaw when you try to get him to eat the last bits of your food. It’s in the middle of this argument, nearing tears and trying to keep quiet, when you’re found.

The trio makes their presence known by the deliberate snap of a branch, and you stiffen, hand flying to your hatchet as you whirl around. Jason moves closer to you, until your shoulders brush.

“You folks look like you could use a good meal.” The one at the front eyes you unabashedly as he says it, eyes trailing down your figure. A prickle of unease runs down your spine, and you shuffle closer to your partner.

“Couldn’t we all?”

He lets out a little laugh, and raises his hands. “You’re trembling, darlin’. Relax, it’s just an offer.” He looks over at your companion. “Your man over there looks like he’s about to fall over.”

It feels like a gut punch, despite his grumbled “I’m fine.” because you know he isn’t. In the end, you ignore the warning in your gut, and you find yourself making camp with them for Jason’s sake. The three men share looks amongst themselves when you shuffle closer to him, but you try your hardest not to pay them any mind, pressing bits of dried meat into trembling hands and watching him until he swallows every last bit. You don’t take a bite of your own soup until they do, relaxing only in the slightest when he seems to have gained back some of his strength.

“Where are y’all headed?” the second of them asks, and his expression rankles you less, so you answer.

“Further south,” you say carefully, looking between the three of them. “And you?”

The first grins at you in a way you think is meant to be charming. “Shit, sweetheart, I’ll go wherever you do.”

You stiffen and he lets out a laugh. “’M only joking, jeez. Going west – they’ve got communities over there.”

You can barely let out a non committal hum. Beside you, Jason’s head presses into your leg, and your gaze slides over to him. In sleep, he looks younger, more like what you think he might’ve looked like before all this. Black curls rest close to his forehead, hair cut close to the scalp courtesy of the scissors you’d found in a gas station a few days ago –

All of it?

All of it. Don’t need it getting caught on something and getting us killed.

Can’t you tie it back?

What, you attached to this look? Knotted hair does it for you?

No. It’s just –

...It’s just hair, kid. C’mon, I’m getting tired.

Fine.

– The group settles into silence after that, and though your lids weigh down, you take watch. The night is quiet for the most part. You’re kept company by the whispering trees and the occasional sound of an owl. Every so often, a branch will pop in the fire, the sound making your limbs stiffen reflexively. Your eyes scan the treeline each time, vigilant. You balance your hatchet across your knees, and wait.

Eventually, black bleeds into the cool blue of dawn and Jason stirs beside you.

“Morning. You didn’t sleep?” You dart a glance over to the three sleeping bodies a few feet away and he presses his lips together in understanding. “Should’ve woke me.”

You shrug, looking away to where daylight breaks through the thick of the trees. “You needed the rest.” And before he can argue back – you can already hear the retort, and you don’t? – you stand up, passing him your axe. There’s a small knife in your shoe, and you don’t intend to go too far, you figure it’ll be fine. “Gonna powder my nose.”

He snorts at the phrasing, and you offer him a tired smile. Relieved that he seems to be in better health today, you step away from the campsite. The breath of air you take is cool in your lungs, and you stretch your arms above your head as you step over rocks and fallen branches.

Relief muddies your senses, you think. You forget to be mindful, forget that this is not just another day, not just a camping trip of sorts. As you pull your jeans up, there’s a rustle nearby and you freeze, hands on the waistband of your pants tightening in unease when someone breaks through the foliage and it isn’t Jason.

“Oh,” he says, stopping short in front of you. There’s something like surprise in his voice but it feels short of convincing you that he hadn’t meant to find you, the artificial coating of his words doing little to hide the interest in his eyes. “Guess we both had the same idea, huh?”

You wrinkle your nose, taking a step to the side. “Yeah. It’s all yours.”

His hand clamps down on your arm as you go to walk past him and you stiffen. “Whoa, what’s the rush, little lady?”

You grit your teeth, glaring at him. “Can you let go?”

He balks at the look on your face, before his own hardens, lips tugging into a sneer. “You should be a lot nicer, you know. If it weren’t for me, you and your little friend would be dead by now. How about a thank you?”

You consider spitting in his face as you grind out, “Thank you.” Still, he does not let go. “Can I go now?”

He mulls it over, before shaking his head. “Nah. You don’t sound so thankful, let’s try that again.” At the look on your face, which suggests you’d rather die, he grins. It’s a mean thing, eyes glinting as he tugs you closer. Your heart picks up at the proximity, and by your side, your fingers curl into fists. “Or, you could just pay me back proper. How about you put that mouth to use?”

You stay still, frozen as he draws nearer. The stench of his breath makes your stomach turn and suddenly you’re in motion, raising a foot to stamp down on his with all the force you can muster. It takes him by surprise and he yells. You take the advantage to wrench your arm out of his grip, pushing him as he stumbles and booking it through the greenery.

He recovers quickly, if the crashing behind you is anything to go by, bellowing threats. Your arms sting as you push through the foliage instead of carefully stepping through as you had earlier, branches scratching and snapping as you barrel in the direction of the camp. The brush of fingers against your neck makes you scream, loud and high, and you force your legs to carry you faster.

The distance to the campsite isn’t far but every step seems to stretch and time slows with the threat of leaving you disjointed, forever stuck in this moment with hands reaching for you.

You burst into the clearing and bolt to where Jason is. He’s already on his feet and he meets you halfway, standing resolutely in place when you try to push him further away – we need to LEAVE, what are you doing? He steers you behind him when your pursuer breaks through, and you grip the back of his jacket. Still, he refuses to move, an arm stretching behind him to curl towards you protectively.

Your mind seems to black out then, because when you blink, Jason’s hands are hovering over you and there’s an awful amount of blood on them.

“You hurt? Did he touch you?”

Your gaze slides over his shoulder and your stomach begins to turn when you see what’s become of the man. Blood soaks into the earth in copious amounts, another carcass to join the millions. You tremble and he turns your face back to him. His palm is sticky, and the realisation of why brings tears to your eyes. You shudder, stepping closer to him.

“You’re fine,” Jason mutters, breathing hard. He repeats it when you begin to cry in earnest, clutching fistfuls of his shirt. “You’re fine. I got you. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

You learn a few things that day. The first, that he’s not hesitant about taking lives if it means yours are safe. And second, that a horrible, terrible part of you doesn’t feel remorse that he did it.

In the wake of the murder, the fallen man’s companions had fled, unwilling to meet the same fate, and Jason had let them go. You keep to yourselves after that, travelling further south and avoiding the few survivors you do come across. Guilt festers in your stomach when you sneak glimpses of weary faces run haggard, but fear weighs out when you feel the phantom brush of hands on your arm and neck.

Neither of you speak about it beyond the set of the sun that day but it brings about a shift, however miniscule it may be. He’s less willing to let you stray far from his eyesight, now. Sometimes, even with your back turned, you can feel the weight of vigilant eyes on you. But it isn’t only Jason who’s affected by the changes. You linger closer to his side, now, never beyond arm’s reach, never more than a few paces away, unwilling to risk being parted once more.

The spill of blood only brings with it more carnage. It feels rather like a curse when, in the days that follow, only havoc trails after you. Blood in the spaces beneath your nails, blood that pools and darkens in linoleum and hardwood and concrete, blood in your mouth. It clings to you, a stain you’ll never be rid of, no matter how you scrub your skin. The frigid water sticks you like a thousand pins, pinking in the dying light of the day, and still you scrub.

The end of the world doesn’t harden you like you think it’s supposed to. You think maybe if you were idealistic, it would be a kindness, to retain your softness. But it has no place here, meant for a life long gone. For all the precautions you take, the weapons you wield and hide on your person, you still feel like vulnerable prey, the soft belly of your heart exposed. You flinch, you freeze, you–

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

He says it quietly, standing at the mouth of the river, behind you. Red lingers in the corner of your vision – his flannel, darkened. You ignore him.

You’ve stripped down to your underclothes and waded in until the water reached the top of your thighs. Your name falls off his lips, and your own press together tightly. Your jaw aches with the weight of all you try to hold back, and it’s only when fingers curl around your elbow gently do you let it out.

The boy pulls you out of the river with all the care of coaxing a wild animal, uncaring of the water that bleeds through his pants. The skies overhead grow darker, the air steadily cooling around the both of you, and yet you remain in place, staring at the place where his hand meets your skin.

There is no trace of what happened, nothing to suggest anything had occurred. Old scars fleck the back of his hands, disappearing beneath the sleeve of his shirt, but his hands are clean. You stare at the lines of him, the bitten nails, the tendons that flex. Hands that had, only hours earlier, killed for you.

“You’re going to get sick if you stay like this,” he says finally, and you let out a breath.

“I can’t wear those,” you whisper and he tips his head.

“There are clothes inside. They’ll probably fit.”

“Okay.”

He tilts his head, and you fall into step with him. His hand drops until it circles your wrist, and you let him pull you forward. There is only silence as you walk through the wood, save for the snap of leaves and sticks beneath your feet, clumsily pushed into your boots. You can feel the water clinging to your underwear, and you can  feel the autumn air cutting you deep.

(You can hear the sound, still, of splitting flesh.)

You return to your camp for the night, stumbling up the rotting porch and entering the cabin. Unseeing eyes trail over the living room, browns and flaking paint quickly disappearing out of sight behind a wall as you’re pulled into the next room.

“Here.”

The Henley thrust into your hands is felted over. You look up and you’ve entered what looks like the main bedroom – perhaps the only one, you think.

Time stands still in here, the air stale and near everything left untouched. The bed remains made, dust lining the window, pale light filtering in through discoloured glass. Perhaps once, you might’ve felt the discomfort of standing in a place that was not yours. Once, your skin might have crawled at the clothing in your hands, the absence of their owner a clear signal of their fate. Now, it’s all you can do to tug the rest of your clothing off and pull it on. A pair of pants are passed to you next, a size too big and settling low on your hips.

Your wet tank top remains slung over the rail of the bed frame, and you watch the water drip out, pooling on the floor. There’s the rustle of clothes behind you, and you wait until he moves back into your line of vision to look up.

In the darkening room, the boy in front of you looks older than he is. The shadows beneath his eyes smudge deeper, the hollow of his cheeks carved. You wonder what you must look like to him, half crazed and yet entirely subdued. Your breaths mingle in the air between your mouths, and you feel, not for the first time, the years you’ve lost and those forced upon you in the last months.

“Good?”

It takes you a moment to register what he’s talking about. His eyes flick down to the clothes on your body, and you nod jerkily. He seems dissatisfied at your answer, turning to rifle through the closet. When he turns back around, it’s with a jacket in his hands that he pulls around your shoulders.

It’s thick, lined with fleece that settles comfortably against your sides. It’s a wonder it hasn’t been ruined and immediately you try to shrug it off. It would fit him better – but he refuses to let you, fingers tightening on the lapels and keeping it tight around you until you settle.

“Going to freeze otherwise,” he mutters.

“What about you?” you ask dully and he shrugs.

“I run warm.” But already, even in the dim light, you can see the pink in his face. The thick sweater he’s stolen out of the closet does little to combat the chill of the water, and you push past him to rummage blindly through it until your fingers come into contact with something soft. The coat you pull out is fraying at the sleeves, loose threads tickling the skin of your wrist, but you push it against his chest anyway. You don’t move until he pulls it on, letting out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“Better get some rest,” he tells you, tilting his chin in the direction of the bed and you nod, only to pause when he goes to turn. Your hand flies out so suddenly you have no time to feel ashamed, only fear at the thought of being left alone.

“Where are you going?”

He blinks. “I’ll take the couch. I’ll hear it if – if something tries to get in.”

“Stay here.” The words are out before you can rein them in, and you aren’t sure you want to, anyway. The bedroom is small, wide enough to fit a dresser, closet and a bed, but it looms outwards threateningly at the suggestion of only housing one occupant. As if on cue, a branch slams against the windowpane and you jerk, fingers tightening on his sleeve. He looks back and forth between the window and the door, and sighs.

When you go to bed an hour later, it’s after he pushes the couch against the front door and moves your things to the bedroom. The bags lay at the foot of his makeshift bed, spare bedding laid down on the floor beside the bed in a mess of blankets. It hardly looks comfortable, but he’s silent as he takes his place amongst them, lying flat on his back. You peer over the edge of the bed to confirm he’s still there. In the dark, it’s difficult to make out his features, but the sight of his body reassures you, the sounds of his breathing guiding you beneath the covers until you’re staring up into the blankness of the ceiling.

“You still awake?” It’s him who breaks the silence a while later, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.”

“Can’t sleep?”

“Mm. You?”

“Yeah.” A beat, and then he says, “You know it’s not – it isn’t your fault, right?”

Your mind flashes back to the mauve blossoms you’d spotted on his stomach when he’d undressed – the only evidence of your morning.

“I almost got you killed,” you tell him, feeling dread burn in your gut. You see it once more, the horror etched in his features, the thud of a body against his, a drooling maw and rotted limbs outstretched. Your hatchet sinking into a softened skull. “You don’t need to coddle me.”

He lets out a breath. “I’m not.”

“You are. We got lucky.”

“You’re the reason I’m not -” he breaks off, letting out a shaky sigh. It’s the only thing that betrays his fear and your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. “I owe you.”

“You don’t.” Your voice comes out harsh, and you fist the sheets under your fingers, suddenly burning despite the chill in the room. “Don’t say that to me. If you’d died, it would’ve been on my hands. I nearly killed you. Don’t tell me that.”

Your voice rings in the air between you, harsh, before he exhales once more.

“If that’s what you want.” Weary, he settles back into the quiet.

Your eyes burn the longer the silence stretches on, and your throat is uncomfortably thick as you force out the words, “I can’t do it again.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“I’m selfish,” your voice wobbles, but you grit your teeth. Salt tracks a trail down the sides of your face, bleeding into the fabric under your head. “I just can’t. I can’t do it alone. Not again.”

“I’m here,” he tells you, and a horrible part of you wonders, for how much longer?

Outside, the world is still and you’ve never hated silence so much, never longed more for the shriek of a car alarm and drunken arguing. Gotham lies in ruin now, motionless and hundreds of miles behind you. It only seems to grow quieter the further you travel into the country, nought but grassland and the whispers of wind to be heard.

Your hand finds his in the space between you, and it’s only then that sleep finds you.

Autumn storms sweep through the county over the next few days when you leave the cabin, driving you to take up shelter in the loft of an empty barn. Water streams in through a gap in the boards with each burst of wind, whistling echoing in the caverned space. The two of you huddle in the corner, tucked close amongst bales of dried straw and a ratty, threadbare blanket you’d found hanging over one of the stalls. Grey clouds form overhead, thick and visible from the skylights above, and you watch through a window as the grass whips back and forth violently, the entire world awash.

Jason pores over the map you’d snagged, eyes squinting in the dim light to make out the lines. It’s torn in a few places, and an entire section of Eastern Gotham and the surrounding states has bled into an unintelligible mess of ink. He looks up when you shuffle away from the window back to his side.

“If we take this route, it should get us to Georgia quicker,” he tells you, pointing a finger along the line. “We’re gonna need to find a car, though. It’ll make it easier.”

“It’ll be noisy,” you murmur, pressing your cheek into your shoulder and he lets out a breath.

“Yeah. It’s that or we keep walking. We don’t have any other options.”

Water drips in through the ceiling, and you sigh. There’s a thread of steel woven tightly into his voice, desperation that reminds you just why you’re making this journey.

“What were – what are they like?” you ask quietly, pulling your legs close and resting your chin against them. His clothes rustle as he shifts against the wall.

“Annoying,” he tells you, but there’s affection in it, voice teetering on the cusp of grief-stricken. “Before, I couldn’t get a moment of peace without one of them interrupting it, showin’ up at my place and demanding to stay ‘cause they didn’t wanna go home.”

“You didn’t live with them?”

He shakes his head, and something in his eyes shutters, a story you’re not privy to hidden in their tourmaline depths. “Moved out. The two younger ones lived with my old man. My, uh, older brother, lived in Bludhaven, but you wouldn’t even know it, always hanging around mine or my old man’s.”

“I think that’s sweet,” you murmur, and he snorts.

“You would. You’d like him, probably.”

You tilt your head to hide your smile. “We’ll see, I guess.”

He sounds more plaintive than you think he means to when he says, “Yeah.”

Rain slams against the roof, the storm no closer to clearing, and he clears his throat.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“What was it like, y’know, before?” He sounds hesitant, as if the question might hurt somehow. And you suppose it does, in a way, when you think of all that came before, of all that can never be. It will never be as it once was. You hum.

“I don’t know,” you tell him. “I was in college, and then I wasn’t. I thought it was gonna be like that forever, you know, finals and midterms and the break in it all when we went out, even though we had to be up the next morning.”

“You go out a lot?” he asks, curious and you shrug.

“I liked dancing,” you hum, and once more you can feel the heat of a packed room, the floaty feeling of a few drinks and the press of fingertips into your palms, sweet smiles and longing. You let out a laugh, bitter and mournful. “I always said I was too tired and then somehow ended up walking home at 2.”

 “Sounds like you had a good time, at least,” he says, and you catch a hint of envy in his voice.

“Did you not -?”

He lifts a shoulder, hunching forward. “Things got in the way of normal for a long time. By the time it started to settle, I got in a few years before..” He gestures vaguely around you. You nod,

“We’ll find your brothers soon,” you murmur, shoulder pressed against his. Your hand finds his atop the straw, and he doesn’t move away.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, tiredly. His temple knocks against yours gently and the two of you sit like that, with his head on your shoulder until the storm passes through.

You think that maybe fortune must be smiling down on you when you find a truck a few miles out from the farm and it lives long enough to carry you to the interstate, where Jason is able to siphon gas from the lineup of abandoned motor vehicles. There’s a moment when you think it might go south, your heart gripping painfully in your chest when a herd passes through just as he gets back into the truck and you have to press down into the footwell of your seat to keep from being spotted. Your fingernails leave dents in the back of Jason’s hand, stretched across the console in danger of being seen to hold onto him. He squeezes yours back intently, green eyes meeting yours from where he’s managed to fold himself beneath the wheel. A finger comes up to his mouth, and you incline your head in the barest of movements.

They pass through, eventually and you find yourself glad for the grime that muddies the windows, making it hard for already decaying eyes to catch sight of a pale arm reaching out to comfort you. You hate that he’s kind, a little. He waits until you’ve caught your breath, letting you hold his hand and press your forehead to the seat until the tremors die down before the two of you shift carefully back into your seats and pull away – mercifully, in the opposite direction of the herd.

You drive for a day and a half, switching every so often and pushing the truck into the cover of the trees when you decide to rest. Dawn comes once more, and the terrible dream continues to prove it is anything but a fiction. There is cruelty in the enduring stillness of the world around you, and you think your heart breaks for the thousandth time when, as you pass a faded billboard sign, you begin to recognise the buildings around you.

Your hand flies to the console, pushing you up from the passenger seat to take a better look out of the windows. Beside you, Jason makes a noise of concern.

“You okay?”

You blink, looking over your shoulder at him before you’re pulled back to the passing playground and a familiar set of swing tires.

“I know where we are,” you tell him, hating the way his eyes soften sympathetically before the words are even out of your mouth to explain. “I used to spend my summers here – look, there.”

He follows the line of your finger to a row of houses, and you have to press your lips together at the wave of nostalgia that washes over you.

You think about a different time, a neighbourhood washed in gold and the roughness of bark beneath your palms. The ghost of a seven year old girl in overalls stares at you as you drive past the corner store, and you remember skinned knees, bare feet on asphalt and the stickiness of ice cream dripping down your wrist. You think of the two boys that had lived three houses down, always arguing, always dragging you to the arcade with them and insisting you play the games with them. You think of barbecues and the smell of charred meat, running around under the spray of a hose and squealing when the older kids jumped into the community pool.

Madison is now broken fences and stains you don’t dare to look at too closely, abandoned tricycles and boarded windows. It’s eerie as you drive through the bones of the suburbs you’d spent your youth in. Not for the first time, grief takes your heart in its hands and squeezes.

You turn your face away from your companion when the tears start, trying to discreetly raise your hand to swipe them away. It’s unfair, that the months have done little to soften the edge of your hurt, that even in the fear you find moments to mourn. Time passes, and your scars remain as fresh as the day the city fell, wounds open for anyone to see.

Jason, though, you never catch his grief, hidden except when the light tilts just so, when he turns and you catch a glimpse of it, like a star winking before it’s gone. You envy it, that he’s able to carry himself – that he’s able to carry you, too.

Sometimes, you wonder if it wouldn’t be better if he’d left you, that first day.

Almost intuitively, his voice draws you from your thoughts, the murmur of your name on his lips as he brushes against your elbow. You blink, and water splashes against your cheeks.

“Pass me the map,” he says, tactful enough not to mention the drying tears on your face when you turn to him. He lifts his chin towards the bag at your feet. “Should be in the front pocket.”

“It’s not there,” you mumble, after rifling around and coming up with nothing. Rooting around the spare t-shirts you’d bundled after a stop at a small boutique – 3 walkers, easy enough to take out except for the one, split second when you’d fumbled with your axe – and the ripening pears you’d salvaged from the farm had brought up nothing, and Jason clicks his tongue when you tell him as much.

“It is,” he insists, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to flick in your direction. “I put it there this morning before we left.”

You frown at him, impatient as you begin to unpack the bag again. “I’m telling you, it isn’t here. Is it in the other one?”

He takes the empty rucksack from you, placing it in his lap and rummaging through it with one hand. You don’t wait for him to realise he’s wrong, twisting in your seat to reach for the other bag in the backseat. Your body blocks the gap above the centre console, and you squeal when Jason swerves a little, your hand flying to grip the headrest of his seat. His hand leaves the bag to snag onto the back of your shirt, the material twisting in his fingers. The metal bars are cool beneath your fingers, and strands of his hair tickle your palms.

“Watch it!” you tell him reproachfully, unzipping the bag as best as you can with one hand. The material proves hard but it eventually gives way, and you grin when  the glossy paper of the map comes into view. “Found it, I told you it wasn’t in there.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he grumbles, looking away when you settle back into your seat.

That evening, when you make camp, you park the truck and head further into the forest. 15 minutes of walking leads you to a lake, and you grin when you come to a stop near the water, turning excitedly to Jason.

He doesn’t return the enthusiasm, eyes tracking for movement on all sides, but you see the satisfaction in his face when he sets his pack down on the edges of the lake.

“You go wash up first,” he offers, nodding his head. You’re too pleased to argue. His face warms a little, and he turns away. “I’ll keep watch.”

The stones are smooth and rounded, here, and you bite back a swear at the chill when you step in after shucking most of your clothes. It occurs to you, when you wade in about knee deep, that maybe you ought to be a little more concerned about undressing in front of him, but when you glance over your shoulder, Jason’s face is directed firmly away from you. He remains alert, poised to act at any moment, and you let out a little breath, assured in the set of his shoulders.

The water is, mercifully, not too cold. You get used to it after a few seconds, scrubbing your skin as quickly as you can.

“Don’t take too long,” he reminds you, calling over his shoulder but keeping his voice fairly low. “Don’t need you getting sick.”

“I won’t,” you mutter, but you end up lingering a little longer than you ought to, soaking your worn muscles. When you get out the sun has begun its descent in the sky and you quickly pat yourself dry with a spare rag. You take advantage of the afternoon sun to warm yourself on a larger rock as you take up your post, now your turn to keep watch as your companion washes himself off.

“Shit.”

“What is it?” you tense immediately, turning your head in a panic only to find him clutching the sodden material of his shirt. He lifts his eyes to you, and shakes his head. You realise, delayed, that he hasn’t got a shirt on, standing only in his boxers, and you look away, feeling your face warm.

“Can you pass me -”

“Yeah, sorry, got it,” you mumble quickly, leaning for his bag. An undershirt and flannel are retrieved quickly and passed to him with your eyes decisively fixed on the treeline, passing the items behind you until you feel the brush of his fingertips as he takes them from you.

You try not to think about the water pooling in the divots in his skin, or the drops falling from his hair, ink black and curling.

“You sure this water’s safe?” he grumbles, after a while, climbing up onto the rock beside you. The sun is steadily setting, and you need to make camp, but you sit, watching the shadows stretch over the lakeside, orange glowing through the leaves. “I’m not gonna contract a flesh eating disease, or something, right?”

You huff, foot pressing out to kick gently at his ankle. “We swam here all the time, back then. Relax.”

He lets out a little laugh, and you look away when it turns something in your stomach over. It’s a pleasant sound, though one you’ve rarely heard – there isn’t much cause for joy, these days, after all. You turn the sound over in your mind, wondering if this is what it might’ve been like, to be friends in another world. You sneak a look at him through your lashes, and the feeling travels up to sit beneath your ribs, stretching soft like toffee, sticking to all it touches, too sweet a feeling for a world like this one. He leans back on his palms, face relaxed. You could almost pretend, here, that nothing exists beyond the treeline.

“I’m trusting you,” he says lightly, knocking your shoulders.

“I wouldn’t lie to you like that,” you say, and it comes out like a confession. His eyes meet yours, and all that you don’t say, all that you don’t even dare to think, too out of reach and impossible to grasp between your fingertips, lies between you. Jason nods.

“Yeah, I know.”

The cicadas have begun to sing, and he keeps his gaze on you a moment longer before he pushes himself up, holding out a hand.

“C’mon. Gotta make camp, unless you want to freeze tonight.”

You take his hand, pulling yourself to your feet. He squeezes it once, before your hands fall away.

The fire he builds that night is small, stones piled high to surround the flame and keep it from drawing any unwanted attention. You watch him squat, arranging the rocks from your place on a log, leaning closer to the pit and holding your hands out.

“Can I ask a question?”

He hums.

“How do you..” you furrow your brows. “Most people don’t know how to do all this stuff. Were you like, some doomsday nut, or?”

His eyebrows fly into his hairline, a surprised laugh falling from his lips as he turns to you.

“A doomsday nut?” he repeats, amused, and you nudge him with a foot, attempting to unbalance him. Frustratingly, he only grips your ankle to still it. “Come on, tell me.”

He presses his lips to stifle a smile, shaking his head. “My old man was the doomsday nut, not me.”

You incline your head forward. “Really?”

Jason snorts. He pokes at the fire a little, before sighing. “No. I mean, kind of. He was really disciplined about all that self defence shit and being self sufficient. We used to go camping, and he’d make a game of it, a survival exercise, or something. Mostly we were just goofing around, but I guess it was interesting, and I picked up a few things.”

He looks over at you, hesitating, before he elaborates. “He and I, uh, we fell out when I got older. We mended it after a bit, but it wasn’t the same, you know. It’s all gone to shit now, but if I have one thing to remember him by, this is a damn good one, I guess.”

His thumb strokes an arc across your ankle, before he lets it go, turning back to the fire.

“Did..” you trail off, unsure, and he shakes his head.

“Kicked the bucket a few years before all of this.” He stands up, only to deposit himself by your side. “Left a fucking mess behind him, but I’m glad. That it was then, before..”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“It’s not your fault.”

You hum. “I know. I’m still sorry.”

You press closer, resting your cheek against his shoulder. His arm comes around you, after a beat of surprised silence in which you worry you’ve overstepped, and he leans against you. The flames flicker and burn, the cicadas sing and Jason does not move.

When you wake the next morning he’s lying on his side and both your hands rest in the space between you, fingers curled and knuckles pressed against each other.

It feels like the flicker of something new. Something is forged in the earth where your hands lie, weaving your palms together, an invisible thread that ties you. His eyes flutter open a few moments after yours, and in the early light of the morning, you know you aren’t the only one who recognises it.

But there is a bigger sky over your heads, one that presses the urgency of your journey, one that has no time to address the curling in your gut or the gentleness of his fingers as they brush dirt from your jaw.

Time, time, time. You return to the truck wishing for more of it, for more spaces in between.

The road is bumpier when you return to it, and you follow the map in silence, navigating carefully around the rare lone walker.

Georgia comes faster, then, and you feel the stirrings of fear as the distance to where you’re headed, noted on faded boards, grows smaller and smaller. Jason grows tenser, too, answers short and distracted. The possibility hangs heavy in the air – of what might await you. His fingers curl into fists, and he presses his knuckles to his mouth as you drive past the first sign –

Welcome to Georgia! The Peach State.

You don’t dare to speak when he tells you to pull over, climbing into the passenger seat wordlessly. He drives slowly, and your nails dig into the fabric of your jeans when the car slows down and he mutters to you,

“We’ll walk it from here. We know where the car is, if–” he stops short, and reaches over the console to grab his pack from the backseat. You nod, biting your cheek and he looks over at you in confirmation, pausing only when he catches your obvious apprehension.

He takes a breath, and extends a hand.

“You trust me?” he asks, and you nod.

“I do.”

“I’ll keep you safe,” he presses, intent, and you nod.

“I’ve got your back, too,” you whisper, and he leans forward to knock your forehead against his.

“Let’s go.”

There is a part of you that knows you will not return to the truck – that leaving will forever alter the course of your journey. Safety is not something you can guarantee, but intuitively, you know this: the moment you close the car door, you seal your fate. This knowledge is something you know, yet are blind to, unwilling to face it, unwilling to shirk your post at his back, unwilling to abandon him now. You are at a crossroads. He will not stay a moment longer from his brothers, and you – 

You  will not leave his side.

In the end, of course, you follow.

You are tethered, caught in his orbit and unwilling to let go – he is loath to let you, but you know he would. You’ve seen the hesitance in his eyes, the silent debate of whether he should have brought you into this, if you’d be better off without him. If you asked him to let you go, you think he would.

You follow him, eyes alert and shoulders tense. The path to the bunker is a difficult one, overturned branches and muddied with fallen leaves. Once, twice, a few times, you cut down the walkers that stray into your path. The sound of a splitting skull makes your stomach turn every time, and you bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood, in an effort to keep from screaming when you strike.

Each time, Jason pauses to inspect their rotted faces, and you wait in apprehensive silence. Stranger. Stranger. Stranger. With each that proves to keep the chance of his brothers being alive, his face grows harder, fingers twisting around his machete.

Dread creeps up on you as the sun begins its descent in the sky, and you draw upon the outer perimeter of the place he’d detailed to you in the car.

He told me – gave me the directions to a bunker. It’s pretty deep in the woods, but he said it was secure. They’ve got some sort of system in place, so it doesn’t go down easy.

You begin to see what sort of system exactly it is, wooden spikes boring up from the ground to act as a fence. Already, a few remain impaled, their gurgling making you flinch as you pass by. A pair of heavy metal doors act as the only entrance, and you watch Jason come to a stop in front of them, hands trembling by his side.

He takes a breath.

You grip your axe.

He bangs on the door.

There is a split second, right before the door opens and a gun presses to his head, where Jason looks over at you. The face that peers through is not, judging from the mistrust on the man’s face, his brother. A large scar runs down the side of his face, red hair dry and thinning. He’s much older than the both of you – and stockier. In a fight, you don’t know that the both of you could overpower him.

“I’m looking for Grayson,” Jason spits, unrepentant and unmoving in the face of the metal digging into his forehead. Your throat closes over and you find it difficult to breathe when a cloudy eye trails over his shoulder to fix on you. “She’s with me. And he’s expecting me.”

You anticipate the words before he delivers them. You see it in the way his face eases ever so slightly, as if he’s established you aren’t a threat, though his grip on the gun doesn’t waver. You see it in the pikes propped up beyond the fence, small boards attached with writing you can’t make out – you know it in the drop of your gut, though, the loss of balance as the world seems to swim before you. You know what those are, and you know the words before he says them.

“Grayson ain’t here, kid.”

Jason stiffens, and you taste blood. The walkers nearby gurgle louder, likely catching the scent of your bitten tongue, your grief palpable in the air.

“What the fuck do you mean,” Jason says lowly, and you want to reach for him, but you’re too aware of how anything could change in a split second. “He told me he was here – how the fuck do you think I found this place, huh?”

“Jason,” you whisper and the red haired man cuts you a sharp look.

“Grayson,” he bites out, clearly agitated. “Drake. Wayne. ‘S who you’re here for, ain’t it?”

Each name he drops makes the hair on the back of your neck raise, and you look at Jason – the eerie stillness on his face, not a muscle moving. He’s barely breathing.

“Only me left, man,” he breathes out, weary. Overhead, the trees blot out the sun, so thick it feels as though night has already fallen.

“Are they dead, is that what you’re saying?”

He looks at you then, at the devastation on your face, the grief of another life lost etched into your heart, and he sighs, opening his mouth to answer but before he can, he’s cut off.

“I don’t believe you,” Jason says defiantly, chancing a look over his shoulder at you and back to the man. “You’re lying – there’s something you’re not telling us, look at him.”

And you trust him with your life, he’s kept you safe thus far, so you do look. There’s a nervous twitch of his eye as he begins to protest, and you note the sweat beginning to bead at his hairline, despite the cool evening air.

“Is that true?” you ask, voice trembling. He pales and there’s a moment when you think he might just come clean but it comes too late. Jason, fed up, shoves him, dislodging the gun from his grip and spinning it around to face the other man. You gasp, but it’s already over in a matter of seconds, the tables turned before you can blink.

“Only you, you said,” he breathes out heavily, expression hardening. He lifts the gun to point over his shoulder. “You try anything and unlike you, I won’t hesitate. I’m here for Grayson and you’re going to fucking take me to him.”

Red grits his teeth. “Fine.” He mumbles something under his breath that you strain your ears to catch as you draw closer. “Don’t...warned you, though.”

The bunker is dark as he leads you down a large stretch, your flashlights pointing straight into the black to avoid tripping. You’re aware of your obvious disadvantage – though you might outnumber him, he knows this place far more intimately – and it makes you wary as you step through. When the hallway finally opens out, it’s into a wider, caverned space, and you descend a set of stairs into a small atrium of sorts. There is no sign of any other occupants – nothing scattered across the large tables joined together to meet in the middle, chairs left firmly pushed in.

Your gut curls as he leads you through the bunker, and you draw closer to Jason. His hand reaches out to brush against yours briefly, before withdrawing. Once more, you reach a set of stairs and begin the ascent. Another exit, you note.

Twilight outside slips through when he opens the door and with it, the scent of something immeasurably wrong. You go to clutch the hem of Jason’s shirt, panic spiking in your veins, but he’s just out of reach, already stepping through. Against your will, you are tugged forward, as if a marionette on strings. The smell reaches you before you’re even out the door, and you retch when your eyes fall on what he’s brought you to.

Red is breathing hard, glancing between the both of you, unaware of just how precariously his life hangs in the balance now.

Looking at what he’s brought you before, you can’t find any pity for him.

Jason makes a strangled noise, and your own face is warm, the slide of tears dripping into the earth beneath you. Once more, you find a spiked fence, once more you find bodies speared. All strangers to you. To Jason –

There are echoes of a handsome face in the rotted visage of a nearby undead. Milky eyes stare hungrily when he draws closer, clamoured breaths fogging in the air in front of him, anguished. Red remains forgotten, attention stolen by the groans of what had once been most loved. Jason’s knees give out before him, and he falls forward into the muck, prostrate in grief.

Flanking his sides, two younger bodies – both who receive the same reception. He doesn’t have to say a word. Grayson. Drake. Wayne. The youngest, no older than 16, bears the worst injuries compared to his counterparts. Grief rolls in through you, and overhead there is a distant rumble of thunder.

You turn, the contents of your empty stomach splattering into the mud at your feet.

The acidity makes your eyes water and when you stand, wiping your mouth, you look to Jason. A new feeling grows within you, the longer you stare at him, a burning in your gut that simmers at the look on his face – too late, too late. One, two, three, all gone, before he could reach them. Worse still, his failure stands before him, a taunt of all that he had done, all that had not been enough.

Red is blurry when you turn your gaze to him, but it doesn’t soften the loathing that floods your being. He stands a few feet away, fidgeting, unsure what to make of this.

“You kept them,” you breathe out and he furrows his brows.

“Huh?”

You tilt your head in the direction of the pikes. There’s a throbbing in your head, and you’re distinctly aware of your hands growing numb. “They were your companions – and you couldn’t even put them to rest. You just left them like this, and for what? To protect yourself?”

Confusion bleeds into irritation. He isn’t forgiving of your tone, contempt in your every syllable.

“Don’t you fucking look at me like that,” he growls. “You don’t get to judge me – I’m doing what I gotta do to make it out here. Everything’s gone to hell and you wanna judge me? No fucking way, lady.”

“Fuck that,” you shoot back, shaking your head. A suppressed sob threatens to rise when you step forward to the pike, and he grows alarmed.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Putting them to rest,” you snap, and he lurches forward. He doesn’t get very far, Jason rising from the ground in silence and slamming him in the jaw with the butt of his rifle. He stumbles back, swearing.

“Don’t fucking touch her,” he warns, voice hoarse. Red-rimmed eyes seek yours out and you nod reassuringly.

“I’m okay.” You turn to Red, eyeing him disdainfully. “You can either help me get them down or go back inside, but I’m not leaving them like this.”

He chooses the latter, after some moments of silence, retreating through the doors mumbling under his breath and leaving the two of you alone with his brothers. A light mist has begun to roll in, and it clings to your hair and lashes as you move towards Jason.

He folds into you when you reach him and you stagger to support his weight, a hand resting on the back of his head as he takes a shuddering breath. His face hides in your neck, hands gripping your jacket tightly. You let out a soft sob, clutching him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, lips pressed against his head. “I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck,” he gasps, struggling to draw a breath. “Should’ve...’f I’d just fucking stayed...”

“It isn’t your fault,” you plead, but it rings hollowly between you, a feeble consolation that even now does little to free you of your own guilt.

He weeps and the mist turns to a gentle pour, rainwater streaming over your heads and muddying the ground at your feet further. You hold him like that, trembling frames clinging to each other in your shared grief. A second passes, and then another, until you’re unsure how long you’ve remained there. Long enough to grow roots, certainly. It’s difficult to move when you smooth a hand over his rain slicked head, to urge him forward.

“Come on,” you murmur thickly. “We have to do right by them.”

His face seizes again painfully, and you fear he might collapse once more. His grief holds him whole as he moves forward, and you flank him as he steps forward.

The youngest goes first, an apology on his lips as he presses the barrel of the rifle against Damian’s forehead. The silencer keeps the shot from ringing out, and his snarling face falls slack in mere seconds, slumping forward. You hold the rifle as he’s lifted; cradled in Jason’s arms, how young he truly was weighs on you, and you turn your face into your shoulder to muffle a cry. Jason places him gently on the ground, and turns back to you. Tim is next, and laid next to Damian. Jason lingers by his side, a hand cradling his head, and you feel, not for the first time, like a stranger bearing witness to something sacred, like you’ve stumbled across something not meant for your eyes.

All that’s left of their family are the two eldest, now, and Jason stands before the being that had once been his older brother. Dick Grayson leans forward, drooling and he doesn’t flinch, despite the rotted fingernails stretching out only inches from his face. One step forward, and he too would join them. You wonder if he isn’t half considering it, staring up at him.

“I’m sorry. Dick, I’m sorry, you hear me?” His voice trembles as he hefts the rifle. “You stupid bastard. I told you I was coming. Why didn’t you wait for me?”

There’s a current of betrayal in his words, hurt and grieving. In the dark, it’s hard to make out the expression on his face, but you can hear the hitch in his breath, the strangled sob he tries to bite back at the groan his brother lets out.

“B’s gonna – he’s gonna kick your ass, you know.” He’s gasping the words out, trembling violently and you’re helpless to do anything about it, rooted to the spot. Would that you could carry his burden for him – but it’s his to bear. “You better – fucking give it back. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

The last of his line, an orphan again – you hear Jason shed bitter tears as he shifts his older brother, laying his body beside the others.

He rises, sniffing loudly. The rain has stilled, but the temperature is unforgiving on your dampened skin, you fear the two of you might fall sick if you stay out here any longer. Still, it feels wrong to leave them here.

“Go inside,” Jason instructs, his voice rough. “Gonna get sick, standing around like this.”

“I’m not leaving you,” you refuse. “I’ve got your back. Come on.”

You find a shovel amongst a pile of tools, just outside the door. Within the circle, unwilling to venture beyond the safety of the fence, you dig. The muck makes it difficult, and your arms strain as you sift through the earth. The two of you take turns, and by the time your plot is dug, you’re covered in filth.

Only one grave is dug – “Keep them together,” Jason mumbles tightly and you nod. In your arms, his youngest brother is light. You kneel, lowering him into the ground with a whispered apology of your own. It will never reach the ears it was meant for, but you repeat yourself, and then once more, when the third body is laid down. You make a vow of your own, too, to these three, whose brother might have reached them in time had you been a little faster – had he not been slowed down by you.

I’m sorry, you apologise, thrice over. I’m sorry. I’ll take care of him in your stead.

You climb up, standing beside Jason as the wind begins to howl, a wordless service to the fallen. Bitter, guilty and grieving, the two of you pack the earth over their bodies. Buried, you hope they’re at rest – and hope they’ll forgive you.

It’s only in the late hours of the night that the two of you return through the doors. Red startles awake where he’d been sitting in the atrium when you shuffle in, tracking in mud and grime with you. Bloodshot eyes scrutinise you before he tilts his head. “Shower’s through there. Should be a clean towel in there.”

You tip your head tiredly, and Jason nudges you in the direction of the bathroom. You’re dead on your feet, and more than once you stumble, muscles aching and mind foggy. The cold has begun to set in, and your fingers feel numb from the hours outside.

Jason locks the bathroom door after he steps in with you, scrubbing wearily at his face. He lifts his chin, a silent request for you to go first. You don’t have any time to protest before he drops to sit against the closed toilet lid, eyes closing firmly.

Stiffly, you peel off your mud-stained clothes, stepping into the small stream of water. The warmth takes you by surprise, and Jason lifts his head at the noise you make, finding your gaze in the thin cloud of steam that’s begun to amass in the air.

You okay?

You offer him a nod, and he lowers his head once more.

Neither of you speak, when you leave the bathroom later, about the sniffles you’d been unable to mask under the thin spray of water or the red that rims Jason’s eyes. The only other inhabitant of the bunker has long since retreated to one of the bunks and you curl up in a different room, listening to the tremulous breaths across the room. In the dark, Jason lies in the bunk closest to the door, a chair wedged against the door – just in case.

It’s difficult to sleep, despite the events of the last day. Exhaustion weighs your limbs down, and though you’d scrubbed down every inch of dirt, the grave clings to you still. Beneath closed eyelids you can still see the twist of their faces, of Jason’s when denial had made way for grief, stubborn disbelief swept away by a tidal wave when he’d met milky eyes.

Tears once more. You press your fingertips to your face, shucking the duvet higher up to muffle your breathing.

He hears it anyway. There’s a warmth at your back that you don’t startle at, only shuffling closer to the wall and making room as he slips under the covers with you. Perhaps it’s for your comfort, but you don’t doubt that he seeks it, if only partly, for himself, too. His forehead presses to the back of your head, and arm sliding beneath your neck. You clasp the hand that finds a home over your stomach, turning your head to press your mouth against the skin of his forearm.

Words conjure in your mind and fall short, a static-y mess of jumbled letters. There is nothing to offer him in place of the loss he’s suffered today. Your hands remain empty. Would that you could turn back time. All that could have been taunts you in the darkness beneath your lids.

When you turn to press your face into his neck, settling your weight firmly in his arms, it feels like both a plea and a measly tribute. What is a stranger in the place of three brothers?

When dawn breaks, you are deep beneath the earth. Sunlight does not reach through the walls of the bunker, and so you are disoriented when you wake. It is as dark as when you’d closed your eyes, but you’ve shifted in your sleep, and your bed is missing a body.

Panic seizes you first, and you sit up straight, ripping the covers off. You’re halfway out of bed when you trip over the rucksacks, and the fall startles you enough into realising you aren’t in danger. Much, anyway, you reason when you slink out of the room and find Red in the hallway. He raises a brow at you, and you press your lips tightly together, unwilling to interact with him any more than you have to.

“Your man’s down the end of the hall,” he tells you gruffly, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. You hum indifferently, waiting for him to leave before you start in the direction of the room.

You’re led to another bedroom, larger, with more cots pushed into it. Jason stands in the centre of it, holding a shirt in his hands that you don’t recognise from the contents of his bag. He turns over his shoulder at the sound of your footsteps, relaxing when he realises it isn��t Red.

“Hi,” you whisper, lingering at the threshold. The air is still in the room, and you’re hesitant to disturb it. A twitch of his mouth is your answer, a tilt of his head that coaxes you closer.

There’s a scribble of initials on the tag, D.G scrawled over the care instructions. Your fingers curl into a fist at your side, and you turn away, ashamed. It’s hard not to bear this guilt. It lingers with you, clogging your throat at the sight of the few possessions that clutter the room. You don’t have to draw closer to know whose room this had been.

“We’re leaving. I’m not staying here,” Jason says finally, and you turn to look at him. He clutches the shirt in his hand, fingers curling in the blue fabric.

What else is there to say? You go where he does.

“Okay,” you tell him, and only when his shoulders loosen do you realise they’d been tense in the first place, as though he had expected resistance, fearing your denial. “Should I go get our things?”

He shakes his head. “Too late to go anywhere now. We slept through the day.”

How are you up, you wonder, staring at him. How can you continue, how can you move on? But you see it, in the lines of his face, the fragility of his facade. There’s a haunting in his eyes, emerald turned viridian, and his hands tremble in front of him. Barely kept together, there’s a silent plea.

Don’t press. Not now. Now is not the time to break. There will be time to mourn your loss later.

So you don’t ask. You don’t press. You lead him out of that room, away from the ghosts, away from the pencil shavings left undisturbed and a sketchbook that never got to be filled. Another day passes, the first in a world without his brothers. He sleeps in your bed again, and your fingers intertwine in the dark. He presses his cheek against your pillow, and you remain awake until his breathing evens out.

Dawn breaks and you leave with a handful of things shoved into your packs. You don’t tell Red, nor do you care to wake him when you leave.

“Where will we go?” you ask Jason, when you break out of the woods. His face seizes painfully at the reminder that there is nothing to reach now, nobody waiting on the other end to make it worth the pain.

“Anywhere, I guess,” he croaks. He glances over his shoulder doubtfully. “You still with me?”

“I made a promise, didn’t I?” It’s far from what you want to say. But you think he understands, and there’s a hint of gratitude in the crease of his eyes – the time is not now, but not never.

That selfish hope tides you over, tightens your grip on his hand as you step out into the wasteland.

For a long time, the two of you drift. Unmoored, adrift with nowhere to go, you struggle. Days bleed into night, dusk into dawn, rinse and repeat. If you could ever find such a thing, you come closest to finding respite in the thick of the woods. Winter draws closer, closer, and you make your camp where you can find it, hollowed husks of dead trees, cordoning off the area with noise makers before you fall into fitful sleep on a bed of dead, dry leaves.

It’s difficult, grappling with the loss. There are no more moments in between – every breath spent covering as much ground as you can before nightfall and taking turns keeping watch. The cold cuts you deep out here, a knife that whittles you down to the bone. Selfish, you long for the cabin, longing for the stillness, for once. Ever in motion, you don’t linger in one place for too long. The woods are thick and you don’t intend to see winter through here.

Jason curls himself even tighter around you now. His body canvasses yours, nose pressed firm into your neck when you sleep. In the early mornings you wake in a vice grip and it becomes impossible to disentangle yourself from him without resorting to waking him, too. Always with a start, thrust violently into consciousness, he opens his eyes, alert. He seeks you out, first, before scanning your surroundings. Only when he’s satisfied there isn’t an active threat does he loosen his grip on you, following to keep guard as you relieve yourself.

He remains closer to your side than ever now, but he couldn’t feel further away.

There is a lifelessness in his eyes that only sparks when you chance upon walkers. Bloodshed sparks his adrenaline, and he takes a long time to come down, breathing heavily and eyes alight with a fire you haven’t seen since then.

Blood, always blood. You track it through the country, soles red. It cakes in your hair and darkens your clothes. This time around, there is no cabin, no wardrobe to replace your clothes. The fleece in your jacket is matted now, Jason’s shredded his further. 

You still with me? Jason asks you one night, when the two of you have curled close to a small fire. Chest at your back, all you can see of him is the white of his fingers, scarred digits curled against your own.

Still here. (Still yours, you think.)

And that is the end of it. You don’t bother with reassurances, not when his palm presses over your heart – he feels it for himself, a vow intact. The cords threading you together are silken, unbowing. As he shadows you, so do you follow in his stead, treading the path after him unthinkingly.

It makes sense, that the end comes soon, once more. 

It’s been a long year, and you’re weary. Down to the bone, you feel it, the heaviness of being. Of continuing, fighting against the grain to survive another day. You’re living on borrowed time and now, more than ever, it becomes apparent to you that it’s begun to run out. Perhaps the clock had started on that first day of it all, when the bridges had fallen. Or had it been when you’d found each other in the destroyed remains of your home city? You think it had been when you’d closed in on Georgia.

Death catches up to you. It had always been in the periphery of your lives, drawing closer with every staggered step, every brush of rotting breath, every encounter that got too close. Now, it drifts in, unbidden.

Bodies litter the forest ground, muddied, rotting. The clearing looks out on a cloudy sky, thick grey hanging low, the promise of a storm.

You and Jason fall last, staggering into the centre of the clearing. The wounds are deep this time, too deep. Copper, and the scent of petrichor. A thick mist that rolls in, a sheath for your bodies, a funeral shroud for a ceremony you won’t see. Side by side, you stare at the sky.

“I’m...” Heavy, gasping breaths. You use the last of your strength to turn your head. Fading green eyes find yours. “I’m...sorry.”

Your own burn with tears, and you brush your fingers against his. “Not your fault.”

Bloody lips press against your own, bitter against your tongue. Hand in yours, Jason goes first. His movements slacken, and then, it is only you. Time, more time. If you’d only had more of it. In the next life, perhaps. Jason goes first and, as you had promised, you follow.

The end of the world comes and goes and then you, too, join the horde.

fin.

i started this during finals season when all i could think about was the horror and tragedy of loving someone doomed to die.

'Do you still believe myths can save you? Foolish creature. Let me be clear: every version of this story ends with you being slaughtered' << this exactly.

anyway this was inspired by everywhere, everything by noah kahan but also, sort of: bones and all, the walking dead, ethel cain and the midwestern gothic ? maybe i'm misusing that term but i mean specifically location wise. the eeriness of how quiet the world would be after its end, how disconcerting it would be when all you knew was Gotham, too, never resting, always in motion. the end comes and you're driven out from a city you longed to leave, but now all you want is to go home.

at so many points throughout writing this, i wanted to keep jason (and reader) alive, even though i knew he was going to die well before i even started writing this. i struggled a lot with sticking to that decision, but i feel like in a lot of my writing i give them happier endings and i wanted to try something newer for a change. i don't think i'm as well versed in this sort of genre, i mostly write light-hearted romance. but i also think there is something beautiful in tragic romances that i don't explore enough. so here is my attempt at this.

anyway. this only makes sense 2 me, probably. i still hope you enjoyed reading it though