#one leader dead lets kill the rest of the leaders dead

[theskyexists]

Honestly, sucks that vi never gets a break.

[nochepsicodelica]

NSFW

I think it would be so hard for Toji to deny you of anything when you're upset to the point of crying. You always act so passive about things that bother you, for him, because he rarely falls apart on you, so who are you to dump your emotions on him like that?

You come home from a really bad day at work that never allowed your headache to cease. Everybody was turning things in late, nobody was working to beat their deadlines—extended deadlines— and you were the one who took the hits for it all, as the leader of your group. You were one more mentioned member of your team away from snapping at your boss. Thankfully, you were allowed to go home after that talk.

Toji got home before you, so he had some time to wind down from his own stressful day, but the minute you walked in, he knew there was something wrong. You barely acknowledged him, a small smile being all you offered him, before you dragged yourself to your shared bedroom. No 'hi, baby' followed by you literally tossing yourself onto him, or even a 'wow, you're home before me?'

That didn't slide with him like you may have thought it would.

He got up after waiting two minutes for you to come back out. You never did, so he went after you, immediately spotting you face down on the bed. Your body was trembling, your shoulders jumping with your sobs. It was a strange sight, but it didn't make him feel any less concerned for you. He strode over to your side, resting a palm on your back. Your body was rigid with tension, your shoulders unable to drop because of it. He's sure you'll complain about the pain once you've calmed down a little more.

It was hard to get you to talk, but eventually you spilled every detail of what made you feel this way. Toji couldn't relate to your patience. If he were disciplined for other people's actions despite doing his job of trying to catch them up and reminding them to do things, he would be livid. You aren't like that, though. Things happen at work. Things that lure out frustration, anger, and overall feelings of wanting to implode and instead of leaving it there at work, where it belongs, you bring it home. You've clearly reached your breaking point.

"Want me to kill them?" He asks, feeling you shake your head against his chest in response. "Might just do it behind your back if you come home like this again, ma. Dead serious," he says, noting that you still haven't fully relaxed in his hold. "No reason you should ever be this stressed over people not doing their jobs. Fucking idiots, acting like children because they know it all weighs down on you."

You wanted to cry again at the way he tightened his hold on you while he defended you. You sucked it up and moved off of his chest, and when he looked down to see what you were doing, you kissed him. Your hand went beneath his shirt and felt up his warm, sculpted abdomen.

Clothes were removed and you now sat on his lap, his cock deep inside you. He knew you needed this despite how you were so distraught when he came into the room. He couldn't turn you down when you asked if he could be as close to you as he could. He knew you needed to release some steam, but he didn't expect it to be so calm. You laid your head on his shoulder, your arms draped around his neck while he held you close, his hands resting on your back.

Toji cooed at you, when you started sniffling, again. Slowly but surely, you were releasing all those bottled up emotions, your tears landing on the bare skin of his shoulder.

"Shh... it's alright. You don't have to think about anything, right now." He presses a kiss to your shoulder and then one to the side of your neck, before moving his hips a little, luring some quiet sighs from you. "Yeah, let me take care of you, mama. Just gotta breathe for me. That's all you gotta do, 'kay?"

You nod against his shoulder and allow him to bring both of you, soft, intimate, and unhurried pleasure. Your moans were light and airy, your whimpers soft and muffled by his skin.

Toji's orgasm rolled in before yours. His generous amount of release coated your walls, heavy and ragged breaths grazing your skin. In his head, he blames it on being able to become a safe space for you and his ability to provide protection. Your emotions were unconfined and you confided in him to soothe you. The mixture of physical intimacy and his comforting words was enough to calm you down. Your shoulders weren't tense anymore, and you were able to melt into his embrace.

Your orgasm had your body quivering against his. The sound of your rapid breathing was all you could release into his neck, your nails dragging across his shoulders through the intensity. He smiled softly, satisfied when you let out the smallest squeak.

"That's it, baby. Good girl. Just relax." He strokes your back, stilling his hips once the zenith of your pleasure passes.

Once the adrenaline dies down a little, you go back to rest your head on his shoulder, retightening your arms around him. Toji keeps stroking your back, his other hand resting on the back of your head.

"You're not going to work tomorrow. You have... let's see... food poisoning and you can't move without feeling like you're gonna blow chunks." He can feel your laughter against him, your shoulders jumping as a positive gesture compared to how he found you, luring a smile onto his face. "I'm not taking no for an answer either. We're both out tomorrow, 'cause I can't leave you here to die. Alright?"

"Okay," you mumble.

[kittyfrisk9]

IdeaDpxDc—There are better ways to meet someone.

Note: Sorry, I don't know English, so please use a translator. I apologize if you don't get the idea.

Dead On Main. Soul mates.

---

"Exactly... what does this ring do?" The shining ring was still attached to his finger. This wouldn't worry him if it weren't for the fact that, with each passing minute, the ring emitted more light, and that can't be good.

The cult leader refused to speak. He wouldn't even look at him, seeming particularly attentive to the material the floor was made of. Very funny that now he was scared of him when, an hour ago, he was giving a very cliché speech about how humanity was doomed because it would summon the evil of evils.

It wasn't very smart of him to perform his summoning precisely in Gotham City, home of the Dark Knight.

Red Hood was getting impatient. He placed the hand without the ring on his weapon; if words didn't work, a real threat to his life would. And this didn't really break Bruce's 'no killing' rule because the gun was only loaded with rubber bullets. However, just as he was about to advance and shoot the guy, he saw Batman grab the leader's tunic collar and lift him up.

The man, of course, screamed in fear. "Speak, what does that ring do?" No jokes. Batman's voice was deeper than usual, showing that he was upset, no, rather angry.

Or worried, but Jason could never consider that possibility. For the moment, he was only surprised, although it didn't show through his helmet.

"I-I don't know," the leader replied. Poor guy, he seemed about to cry. Batman, not content, tightened his grip even more; he wasn't willing to tolerate a lie this time.

Red Robin raised an eyebrow. "You managed to gather a bunch of magical artifacts for your summoning and you don't know what they do?"

The man looked away. "No..." The rest of the cult members also looked away. Very brave and stupid of them to all agree to lie to the bats. Jason himself wanted to mock them, but the ring kept shining. He couldn't mock when the ring kept shining and he didn't know what it meant.

From the communications, Robin could be heard. "Tt, this wouldn't be happening if Hood hadn't put on the ring." Jason suppressed a growl.

"Kid, I didn't put on the ring. This thing stuck to me the moment I touched it." It was true. In the middle of the operation to stop the ritual, Jason had pulled the ring, which at that moment was a kind of necklace by the chain that ran through it, from a member who was wearing it. The ring in his hand began to glow and suddenly teleported to his ring finger, then stopped shining. It was when everything calmed down that the ring began to release a different, but constant light.

Approximately ten minutes have passed since then, he thought as he looked at the ring, ignoring all the magical stuff; it was actually a very simple ring. Suddenly, the ring began to blink.

Oh, no. That couldn't be good.

Batman, fed up with the leader's silence and his followers, threw the man meters ahead. "Oracle, call Zatanna now, we need more information about the ring," he ordered as he approached the man who was in pain from the fall. The guy, terrified by the violent aura of the Dark Knight, tried to retreat.

Finally, Nightwing stepped between the man and the brutal beating he would receive if he didn't speak.

"It's okay, B, calm down." With his hand on his father's shoulder, Dick tried to ease the atmosphere. "I understand your concern. We are all worried about what the ring might do to Hood. But we can't let fear and anger control us. Hood is important to all of us. He is our brother, your son. We can't lose our cool now. Let's call Wonder Woman. If no one wants to talk, she can help us with the lasso of truth."

Total silence. Jason didn't know what to say; he didn't think his family would react like this over a blinking ring. That is... he doesn't know. Suddenly, the ring's light began to blink faster.

Batman, after Nightwing's words and seeing the change in the ring, understood that he couldn't waste time with someone who wouldn't talk. "You're right, thank you Nightwing." Looking at the others, he said: "We need to act quickly, we don't know the effects the ring might have on Hood. We need to take him to the cave for a thorough analysis, no discussions." The last part he said looking at Jason. "Until then, don't try to take it off or use it."

Jason scoffed, as if he would.

"Oracle, you heard, call Diana. Red Robin and I will take care of the rest of the cult. Nightwing, take Red Hood to the cave." Batman began giving orders as he reached the leader and began dragging him towards the rest of his cult. The leader, in a failed attempt, tried to resist. "Agent A, please prepare a stretcher. Understood?"

Everyone nodded.

On the other hand, the touching speech and the strange family moment of the bats seemed to soften the heart of a girl from the cult, who in a whisper said: "The ring, nothing will happen to him." Although she spoke quietly, everyone present heard her.

The leader, panicking that the information would be revealed, exclaimed: "Catrina, shut up!" However, he was struck by Batman, who was already fed up with the guy.

"What do you have to say about the ring?" he asked.

The woman hesitated to speak. "We thought of using the ring to subdue the king of the dead and make him listen to our orders..." She paused, not knowing how to continue. "There is a real legend about the ring. A long time ago, a witch wanted to know who her soulmate was, so she created the ring. This allows one to be guided to their soulmate through the red thread. I think everyone already knows what the red thread is." Nervous, she looked around. Only Nightwing nodded, and that was enough for her to continue telling. "Well, the witch's red thread connected with a prince. Unfortunately for everyone, the prince was not happy that his soulmate was a witch. So he had her killed." The girl looked at her hands; that part of the story was sad. "The witch was angry, but still wanted her soulmate to accept her, so she rewrote the ring's original purpose. It was no longer something that united you with your soulmate, but now it was something that allowed you to subdue your soulmate... uh, this." She pointed to a book that was lying in a corner. "With another spell, in fact, it can be used to subdue anyone, even a king of the dead."

With the whole story already told, Red Robin asked: "So, what is the ring doing to Red Hood?"

"It's tracking his soulmate. I... didn't get to put the other spell on it. I could only activate the ring's primary function. Your brother will be fine."

That definitely changes things. Jason swore he could hear his heart beating. A soulmate, wow. He admits he's read many romance novels and maybe once dreamed of it, but for it to actually happen, wow.

Suddenly, the ring stopped blinking. Five seconds later, everyone saw a red thread shoot out from the ring's gem. It quickly moved in one direction, went through the wall, and kept going. The process was like a fishing rod when it catches a fish.

"Does this mean it already found its soulmate?" Red Robin asked. Astonished by the red thread, he tried to touch it but his hand went through it; apparently, the thread was intangible to anyone else.

"Yes," the cultist also seemed astonished.

Jason felt a look on him, turned, it was his brother. Oh no, not that look, he knew that smile; Dick would tease him so much in the coming days. For his part, Batman sighed in relief. Well, it wasn't such an extreme danger, but it was still dangerous. "Agent A, cancel the stretcher." He never imagined this would mean a soulmate case. "Oracle, don't cancel the call to Zatanna or Wonder Woman, we need to verify the information. We'll stay here until the police arrive."

How nice it would be if everything ended like that, right? With Dick joking with Jason, Tim analyzing the thread, Barbara laughing at the turn of events, Bruce relieved and Damian surprised. However, one must remember the story.

The witch changed the ring's original purpose. Unexpectedly, the thread began to retract, as if it had caught something. It did so so quickly that Jason grabbed his hand in pain. It was then that everyone had a bad feeling. The wall the thread had previously passed through suddenly exploded, the noise and dust alerting everyone, especially when once the chaos disappeared, something horrific could be seen.

An arm. A fucking arm. Apparently freshly torn from its owner. Oh, no. What did it do to his soulmate?

...

Somewhere else in the world, somewhere in the United States, Danny gasped in pain. What the hell? What was that? Ancients! Where is his arm?

---

Note: Sorry, I don't know English, so please use a translator. I apologize if you don't get the idea.

Edited on 06/21/2024 - Note two: Thanks to redflagshipwriter, who continued this idea below. And to Sakuravalelp who made me laugh with the complement.

[mggslover]

Killing machine

In which reader shocks herself with her abilities in the field, leading her to doubt the person she's become.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader Genre: angst, fluff Tropes: wound cleaning Word count: 1,8k A/n: the first one shot on this blog and also the first I've written in years!!

The sound of her heavy breathing and the occasional clicking of her broken flashlight fill the stuffy, cramped space of the abandoned container Y/n finds herself in. The BAU is after a team of unsubs who’ve been killing elderly widows who come from old money, using their grief as a way to make it into their lives and homes. They murder them in cold blood, stealing their most prized possessions and storing them in abandoned locations. For the past two days, Y/n has been visiting warehouses all over the state, trying to identify who the found property belongs to and finding new leads on where the unsubs could be. 

Today should’ve been another day of clearing out warehouses and containers. Y/n and the team split up after arriving on the property. Callahan, JJ, and Rossi taking one warehouse, Hotch, Morgan, and Reid taking the other, while Y/n got the task to search some smaller containers around the area. She squints her eyes in an attempt to fight the night blindness as her flashlight flickers. “Come on, just work with me,” she mumbles as she slaps her palm against the back of the flashlight, trying to get it to properly work. Y/n gives a small sigh of satisfaction when a bright light erupts out of the flashlight. As she tilts her head back up, she’s greeted by the chest of a male just inches away from her. Her flashlight shatters to the ground, her hard effort gone as the lens breaks into tiny pieces. The male, who she identifies as one of the unsubs, reaches in his jean pocket where the handle of a Glock is sticking out. Before the unsub has the chance to make a single movement, a bullet derived from Y/n’s gun makes a quick and clean hole in his forehead. She’s met with the familiar ringing in her ear and natural response of flinching as his blood splatters onto her. 

She hears a creak and turns around, expecting a team member to make sure she’s alright. 

“Hey, I-“

She stops dead in her tracks as she catches a small dim of light behind a wooden crate, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she makes out two eyes. The click of a gun makes her snap her head around, and she soon figures out it wasn’t just one of the unsubs hiding in here… it’s all of them. Gun in her clammy hand, she guides herself by the small sounds of movement that suddenly sound as loud as the beating of drums. Adrenaline courses through her veins, her gaze only focused on what’s in front of her as she starts firing. One by one the unsubs hidden behind boxes and shelves fall to the ground. She lets out a yelp and stumbles when a bullet grazes her cheek, making her land on her back. Y/n quickly holds herself up on her arms as she hits the final blow at her shooter. The sound of the gunshots had barely registered in her mind before the deafening silence followed. Her grip remains strong on her gun as her heart pounds into her chest. 

“Y/n!” Spencer’s shriek of panic is heard across the container. He stumbles his way over the boxes and bodies on the ground, only focused on her. “I thought you were dead,” he says as he kneels next to her, brows furrowed and mouth softly agape as he flashes his flashlight in her face, examining her. She hisses as his cold fingers trace the wound on her cheek. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes. 

The rest of the team follows Spencer into the container. Derek crouches to observe the lifeless body of the assumed leader of the group of unsubs. “Damn girl, that’s a good shot,” he compliments. 

Rossi looks around at the scattered bodies. “It’s not just him, all of these are aimed perfectly,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice. “I need to take some extra classes from you. I can’t even shoot like this in GTA.” His words earn some chuckles, but it makes her stomach churn. She didn’t even think twice about taking them down—how was that something she should feel proud of? The praise made her feel like a weapon, like she was being recognized for something she didn’t want to be good at. 

Hotch’s eyes softened when he noticed her clear discomfort and the state of shock she was still in as she couldn’t find the words to speak. “Reid, get Y/n to the medics outside and then take her home. We’ll get the paperwork done tomorrow.”

-

As Spencer turns the key into his apartment door, he makes sure to keep his hand steady on Y/n’s lower back, gently guiding her inside. “Let’s go clean this wound up. The medic told me you have to sanitize it twice a day, before going to bed and after waking up.” Spencer continues rambling on about the medical books he’s read and how he’s practiced cleaning dirty cuts on himself, as he makes her sit down on the edge of the bathtub. She doesn’t process any of his words, though. Her mind keeps spinning back to the container, how she didn’t experience a moment of doubt as she saw the unsubs armed and how meticulously she ended them. How easy it was to end the lives of five human beings in the span of a single minute. 

She tilts her head with a hum as Spencer repeats her name. “Can I take your vest off?” She nods as she lifts her arms, giving Spencer access. He helps her lift out of it,  tossing the bulletproof vest behind him. She cringes as she notices the dried blood and gunpowder coating it. “Hey… I’m right here, you’re okay,” Spencer softly coos, turning Y/n’s attention back on him. 

He traces the back of his finger against her unhurt cheek. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” When she doesn’t respond, he gently cups her chin, tilting it up to bring her attention to him. He crouches so that he can look her in the eyes. “Tell me what’s bothering you.” She bites down on her bottom lip, a nervous habit she has. She knows she can trust Spencer, but she’s feeling embarrassed. Embarrassed by the fact that she’s struggling so much about something that should be routine by now after the number of years she’s worked at the BAU, but also embarrassed by the fact that it’s supposed to be routine, since it shouldn’t. She shouldn’t have the skill to perform headshots like that and she definitely shouldn’t be praised about it by her colleagues. She knows they mean well, but she cannot get rid of the sick taste in her mouth. 

“Sweetheart, listen to me. I know it was terrifying being alone in there. I know you don’t like the dark or tight spaces, but it’s over now. You did so well.” 

“Did I?” Her voice comes out harsher than intended, making Spencer tilt his head in confusion. 

“I killed five people, Spencer, five,” she says as her voice shakes. Spencer rubs her shoulders up and down. “You were left with no choice, there was no other option.” 

“That doesn’t make what I did any better.” She whispers, her voice barely audible as the tears start to spill. She shakes her head as she scoffs a laugh in disbelief. “God… you heard what Rossi said. I’m a killing machine, Spencer! I didn’t even know I was capable of doing that.” She says. “Garcia fights the justice system to get the man who almost killed her off of death row, and what do I do? I don’t give them a single chance and kill them without even thinking about it. I swear Spence, it happened as a reflex. It shouldn’t happen as a reflex!” Y/n’s anxiety builds up as she keeps thinking of reasons as to why she’s a bad person. The empathy is visible in Spencer’s eyes as his hand trembles slightly as he reaches for the dirty bandage. It wasn’t the wound he was worried about— it was what he couldn’t see. How the strongest person he knew was shaking in front of him, wanting nothing more than to protect her from everything the job took from her. 

“You cannot compare those situations. Garcia saw the potential of him bettering his life. You had no other choice, you needed to protect yourself.” 

She swallows. “I used to be a lot like her, you know.” The memories of Y/n’s early days in her career flood her mind. Back when she could feel proud of her ability to protect others. Back when she could still relate to believing the good in people. She used to think every life had some value worth saving. She doesn’t remember the moment that changed. 

Spencer softly smiles down at her. “You still are, love. You’re a soft-spoken kind soul, you just put some protective layers over that. I know it’s hard to reconcile who you are now with who you were when you started this job,” Spencer says as he caresses her freshly bandaged cheek. “Your strength might have hardened you, but that doesn’t mean you’ve lost your compassion. You’re still the same person. You just do it differently now.” His words make her melt as she leans into his touch, surrendering herself to the security he offered. Spencer smiles to himself as he guides her up off of the bathtub, pulling her into his embrace and resting his chin on her head. 

“You’re such a caring person, sweetheart. The fact that you’re worrying about this tells me enough of how good of a person you are.” Her eyes water as he presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. “I don’t know anyone as gentle and loving as you,” he whispers between kisses as he continues showering her in words of affection and reassurance.

 “You’re the most perfect woman I’ve ever met and you’re amazing at the job that you do. The risk you took has saved so many people, love, just think about it.” Warm, full tears soak his sweatshirt as she buries her face in his chest. Finding gratitude in the fact that her boyfriend always knows the right words to comfort her. 

He takes her face in his hands. “I’m not going to lie to you. It’s going to take a while to get over this, but we’ll go through it together,” he says. Those sweet, brown bambi eyes looking deeply into hers make her believe every word he says. 

“Will you help me? When I need to fill in the evaluation?” She softly asks, already dreading going through the case again, but Spencer's soft gaze calms her. 

“I will, love. I’ll be there every step of the way.”

[miley1442111]

protective- a.hotchner

summary: aaron (literally) fights for you

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!fem! reader

warnings: angst, talk of abuse, violence, general cm topics, crying, reader is a victim of DV (not aaron), gross men (i think that's it?)

not entirely proofread

------------------

Aaron Hotchner was a leader that you’d known from the beginning. He was your team leader, he was calm, collected, and calculated in everything. His lunch was the same everyday, he didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t swear all that often, and he wore the same sequence of shirts and suits every week. He was organised. 

Mondays was a blue shirt with a black suit, Tuesdays was a white shirt with a navy suit, Wednesdays was a white shirt with a black suit, Thursdays was a blue shirt with a grey suit, and Fridays was a white shirt with navy suit. Everything was fine and dandy, you trusted him, and you enjoyed his company. Everything was fine, until it wasn't. 

One stupid day, 8 whole months after you and your ex had broken up, he just so happens to be at the same bar you and the team are celebrating in, and he must’ve made it his personal mission to find you, to shout at you, to get you back. To piss you off. It hadn’t exactly been a good week, but then again, what week is when you’re dealing with murder cases? 

“Y/n,” Penelope sighed, looking out at the rest of the team on the ‘dance floor’. “I don’t understand,” she drew out the ‘understand’ to a ridiculous length, purely to annoy you. “How are you two so perfect?”

“Keep your voice down!” you hissed, turning back to her again. “We may not be at work but this is a work dinner.”

Did I mention he was your boyfriend too? 

“Have you seen yourself?” she gawked. “You’re gorgeous! He’s gorgeous! You two would make perfect babies” 

You chuckled. “I thank you for the flattery, but we can be honest here, he’s fucking gorgeous, and yeah, I’m alright,” you laughed when she hit you lovingly. “And, we’ve been together for 6 months, not 6 years. No babies for like… a while at least.”

“Y/n!” Charles’ voice rang out in the bar, meaning everyone around you turned to your group. “You fucking blocked me?!”He came up behind you, placing a tense hand on your shoulder, gripping the skin there until it hurt. “What kind of bitch does that?”

“Me, I guess,” you answered simply, staring straight down at your drink. Charles hadn’t been a very good boyfriend, nor a good person, and you didn’t really understand why you’d stayed for so long. Something about watching women get killed by their partners kind of snapped you into reality. Not that he was that bad but, he wasn’t good.

“Yeah right, you bitch. Unblock me, we need to talk about this!” 

“About what?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “We broke up 8 months ago, let it die Charles.”

“Baby, I miss you,” he leaned in closer, his breath heavy with alcohol. “I miss that pretty pussy too.”

You shuttered with disgust. “Get the fuck off of me,” you punctuated each word carefully and spoke slowly, making sure he heard you.

“Don’t be like that baby,” he smirked, tightening his grip. “Or it won’t end well.”   

You felt it. The gun in his holster. He wasn’t past killing you, you knew that. You knew he wasn’t safe. He never had been. He just wanted to get you home and into his bed, and you’d rather that than dead. 

“Get off of her,” Penelope demanded. He turned his attention to her, and you instinctively reached for your gun, only to remember that you left it at home. You weren’t about to let him hurt Pen. “And who may you be?” he asked. “Don’t,” you gritted out. “You’re here for me, not her.”

He turned his attention back to you. “I know that sweetheart, I don’t see why I can’t chat, do you?” 

“Let’s just go,” you told him. He nodded, a smug smirk on his face. You got up, his hand stayed on your shoulder the whole time, his other hand on his hip. 

“Good girl,” his laugh was dirty. Everything about him was dirty and sleazy and it made you sick. But again, better you than Penlope. 

Penelope’s eyes searched for someone, anyone to see you. He needed Morgan, o-or Hotch, or just anyone. “Hotch!” she called when she finally caught his eye. He rushed over to her. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, searching her for injury or signs of upset. 

“Y/n a-and this tall guy, he was talking to her and then she just got up a-and left. She looked scared. I-I didn’t know what to do,” she stuttered through her sentence, tears building in her eyes. 

You. Scared. You. Scared. You. Scared. You. Scared. You. Scared. You. Scared. You. Scared. You. Scared. 

It played in his head like a sick mantra until he finally did something. He rushed out of there as fast as he could. He had to find you. He needed to find you. 

He ran down the alley beside the bar, nothing. Ran down the road with Morgan on his tail, nothing. Cars weren’t even moving, it was just a regular night. 

“Y/n!” Spencer called out to you. 

There you were. Leaning against a car with him standing over you. 

The three of them rushed over, ready to just take you back inside. They didn’t know how dangerous Charles was, how obsessed he was. 

“Stop!” you warned them. “Go back inside, I’m alright, I promise.” 

“We’re not leaving you here,” Derek argued. “Man, get off of her-”

Charles scoffed. “She wants this, she’s into it. It’s just some harmless fun!” 

Aaron almost recoiled out of disgust. He knew what you were into, and he knew it wasn’t this. It had taken you almost the full 6 months you’d been with him to even be comfortable enough to kiss or touch him in public. You didn’t talk about it but… it did come with the territory of being a behavioural analyst. He noticed how you shied away from the way he touched you sometimes, he noticed how you refused to drink a drop of alcohol, he noticed how you flinched at big noises, he noticed how you held his hand during sex. All of these little things, it led him to one conclusion, you’d been abused. 

He promised himself if he ever got to meet the fucker, he’d hurt him, if not kill him. 

Then in came Charles, and thus began the night Aaron Hotchner ended up in jail for aggravated assault. 

------------------

You sat in the police station, your head hung low. This was all your fault, none of this would’ve happened if you’d just-

“It’s not your fault,” Aaron whispered as he sat beside you, putting his cufflinks back on. Of course, you’d bailed him out and he’d gotten off with a warning and a fine, which was pretty good considering what he did to the guy. “Please don’t blame yourself.” 

You shook your head, willing yourself not to cry. “Aaron you got in a fight because of-”

“A choice I made to provoke a dangerous person,” he finished. “A choice I made.”

You nodded. “Aaron, your lip,” you placed a gentle hand on his cheek which he leaned into. His lip was split, he had a bruise forming on his head, and you knew his back was sore from the fight. You knew how hard Charles could hit. 

“My lip is fine, I promise. The paramedics gave me some painkillers. Are you alright?”

The dreaded question. No, you were hilariously, awfully, un-alright. You had to see Charles again, he touched you again, he talked to you again. You shook your head, tearing up.  Aaron didn’t shy away. He held you as you sobbed in that police precinct. He didn’t care about anyone staring, he didn’t care that the team was waiting outside, he didn’t care. He cared about you. You were all that mattered in that moment, and every moment after it.

------------------

criminal minds masterlist :)

navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games :)

[sfznyxio]

-ˋˏ REQUIESCAT IN PACE ˎˊ

SYNOPSIS. the dead deserve their happy endings.

CHARACTERS. dainsleif, tartaglia, zhongli

CONTENT. gn!reader. afterlife au. angst. 1.8k wc. rewrite of requiescat in pace at my old main blog @/verxsyon. everyone dies and ascends to a higher plane of existence. fan interpretation of snezhnaya and celestia arc. allusions to war, so expect blood and death. tartaglia and reader adopted children together in the afterlife. dainsleif killed reader from the curse. reader is killed by their spouse (zhongli). petnames (my dear, darling - zhongli).

VERA. it’s been three years since this fic was posted. crazy how time flies. i remember crying when i wrote this. hopefully i’ll make you all suffer as well hahaha.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. DAINSLEIF

five hundred years ago is when dainsleif committed the gravest mistake of his life. he was the twilight sword, a royal guard sworn to protect the people and the royalties of khaenri’ah. his people placed their trust in him to stop the destruction of the nation, only to watch them turn into monsters from the curse laid upon them.

the castle he enters with the traveler and paimon holds many memories he wishes to forget. it was occupied by the eclipse dynasty, the ruler of khaenri’ah before its destruction. he was well acquainted with the heir at the time: you, and soon fell in love. he passes by your room, where he killed you to stop your transformation. realizing what he had done, he left for them to suffer.

“dainsleif,” the abyss herald sneers. dainsleif is so used to that tone of voice. him and the rest of the abyss, especially its leader, have the right to resent him. the traveler and paimon are not here to back him up as they are looking for the twin, so he must atone his own sins himself.

“do whatever you need to do,” dainsleif says, starry voids emitting from his palms. “i don’t intend to hold back.”

the curse of immortality. how sickening. for five hundred years, he has wandered aimlessly for information about his nation. regardless of the amount he has gathered, he wants to end his journey here. he trusts the traveling duo to answer the rest for him.

is death supposed to be this painful? well-deserved for a coward like him. he can sense the satisfaction from the herald destroying him inside his body with hydro. the abyss now has one less problem to deal with. dainsleif can feel himself slipping away, departing the world still a sinner. 

“sir dainsleif. their highness requests your presence.” he is at the castle, decorated with life instead of the dust and cracks when he first arrived. the guard with him possesses no signs of abyssal features. everyone here doesn’t.

behind the double doors is you admiring the plants on the balcony. he gapes at your appearance: the heir of the eclipse dynasty, beautiful and regal as ever. you thank the guard for bringing him over, and they take their leave. this can’t be real.

“my dear dainsleif.” he loses his composure, rushing over to you to pull you into his embrace. your eyes soften upon feeling his sobs on your neck. “my love? are you alright?”

he sniffs, tightening his grip. your touch, your voice, your love for him, he misses them all. “forgive me, your highness. let’s stay like this for a while.”

“i told you to drop the formalities when we’re alone. we’re lovers, aren’t we?” you chuckle, your fingers finding purchase in his blonde locks. oh, how he misses that feeling. “and what are you saying sorry for? we’re all human here. if that makes you feel better, we can stay like this as long as you like.”

dainsleif lifts his head to kiss your knuckles and then presses his lips on yours. he does not know what brought him here, but he is truly grateful. whatever this realm is called, as long as you’re by his side, he will always be forgiven.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. TARTAGLIA

tartaglia is naive about the future. the desire to protect it influences his decision to serve the tsaritsa. with the mora he earned as a harbinger, he hopes to buy his family a house and send teucer to school. when the war is over, he plans to settle with you and live in a cabin where the two of you ice fish with your children.

if only it was that easy. his family is suffering from financial hardships, and the mora he sends is their savior. as for you, you severed ties with him a long time ago because of moral differences. in fact, you lead the faction that opposes the cryo archon and the fatui as your act of revenge for your family.

the palace is in shambles. the traveler and paimon escort the tsaritsa out of the throne room to allow you and tartaglia to compromise. your mind is not easily swayed as expected, given that you spent most of your life waiting to kill. your fate has been decided, when bloodlust overtook him and made him pierce his weapon through your stomach.

“no!” he cradles your body into his arms. his grief causes his delusion to spiral out of control, bringing the palace to destruction. the traveler and paimon rush back inside the room, yelling at the harbinger to get out of there. but he chooses to stay.

“traveler, can you please do me a favor?” they look at him in shock when he places the tip of their on his chest. “put me out of my misery before i lose control. i want to see my friend again. and when you see my family, tell them i’m sorry for everything.”

swift and painless, exactly how he wants death to feel like. the boulders come crashing down upon you and him, and he blacks out. he wonders if the tsaritsa and the traveler will succeed in preventing the second cataclysm. he wonders how his family will handle the news. teucer will be affected the most, feeling betrayed by his big brother lying that he’ll come home soon.

he wonders about you. if you two ever come to a mutual understanding, will the future be any different?

“papa!” a voice of a child calls, waking him up to a scenery full of snow. he spots a cabin in the distance, where a little girl is waving at him with a proud grin. she runs up to him with a bucket in tow, tripping on lumps of ice along the way.

“papa, look! i caught some fish!” she exclaims, showing him the content of her bucket. a cacophony of high-pitched screams echo. more children spook him by hugging his legs.

“good job, baby. you found papa.” he gasps at the sight of you kissing the girl’s forehead. he can’t believe it. “okay, kids. since papa is here, let’s go home. we’re going to eat fish for dinner.”

“yay!” the kids who seem to be his children happily zoom to the cabin, making you chuckle. tartaglia doesn’t waste any time hugging you tight. he can’t lose you again.

“ajax?” it’s been a while since you called him by his birth name. you cup his cheeks with worry when you see tears streaming down his face. “are you okay?”

he nods, kissing you as if his life depends on it. “i’m okay. shall we go home? we don’t want to keep our kids waiting, do we?”

hand in hand, the two of you follow your children to the cabin. in a future where a war between all creatures of teyvat is over, ajax is finally home.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. ZHONGLI

the past six thousand years have been prolific of brutality. old friends and acquaintances were subjected to erosion, being forced to neutralize them. one is unfortunate enough to perish from the archon war, leading to the creation of liyue harbor.

if there is one thing to take away from her advice, it’s about the concept of change. he is the type of person to slowly adapt into it. her death and the death of the land they both created is not easy to accept. change isn’t a bad thing, she had said. he did not take her words into heart until he met you.

you’re a mortal who lived in a village, you spent more time exploring the outskirts without letting everyone know. you couldn’t care less, having a dream to live in a lively city like liyue. a certain archon would’ve loved you, for you valued freedom. 

he finds you to be quite humorous. once you joked about eloping with the former archon somewhere teeming with fireflies and crystalflies. when he asked you to define the term, you brushed it off and changed the subject. if he knew you weren’t kidding, you wouldn’t have fallen victim to your marriage.

shame, at such a young age too. he regrets not being able to keep you safe, reminding him of his failure with his old friends and the people who are fighting in the second cataclysm by his side. at the climax of the war, he comes face to face with the gods who stirred the calamities around the world for centuries. as much as he wants to stray from violence, he can’t let them win.

“i will no longer stay silent,” he growls, summoning his pillars around incoming enemies. contracts are sacred, no matter who he established them with. breaking any of those would result in facing the wrath of the rock. breaking the one he signed with celestia would mean he would suffer under his own wrath.

gold liquid spills onto the floor, and his ears are blocked by white noise. no, he can’t die like this. not right this instant. his allies haven’t reached an advantage yet. how is it possible for the strongest deity to already fall like this?

six thousand years of changes and sacrifices. the geo element is strong and unmoving, yet it can also crumble. zhongli has to keep on fighting for the sake of his allies and those who have perished, and yours. all he needs to do is take that extra step to victory.

“zhongli?” that voice is familiar. too familiar. he gazes at his swarms of fireflies and crystalflies circling around your figure. your fingers lingers across his cheek with a somber smile. “my dear, you looked troubled in your sleep. do you want to talk about it?”

he leans on your shoulder, inhaling your scent. he’s so tired, enduring six thousand years worth of cycles of life and death among his nation. “hm, i will eventually. but please let me rest first, darling…”

“okay,” you hum, linking your hand with his. “rest well, zhongli. if you need a shoulder to cry on, i will be here. i won’t ever leave your side.”

you tilt his head to kiss him, tasting the salt of his tears on your lips. his allies may be gone and treasured in his memories, you choose to remain by his side and give him relief that he won’t be alone. not anymore.

zhongli is not the same person he was before, and believes he will never be. cradling the finger adorned with the ring crafted from the abundant rocks in liyue, it gives him hope. you are his pillar. when at his lowest, you and your army of lights will guide him back to the surface.

[haine-kleine]

after sitting with my thoughts about the epilogue for some time, I think the thing that broke the story had started right after Dabi's dance. said thing is LOV' utterly out of character treatment of each other and Shigaraki specifically.

them just standing there and passively observing the scene makes absolutely zero sense, if you use anything from their previously established relationships within the organisation for reference. especially with All for One's creepy comments. Spinner even points out shortly before this chapter that AFO!Shigaraki seems nothing like his normal self and this person is not the one he had chosen to follow.

and yes, Spinner does approach screaming Shigaraki and tries to help him, and his concern later leads him to seeing Shigaraki's mutated form in the cave, and on its own this development for Spinner is in line with his character and all around fine. pretty reminiscent of Toga and Twice, too.

(except Spinner is not allowed to really help Shigaraki in any way, unlike Toga was allowed to help Twice, and this entire thing between Shigaraki and Spinner only ends with Spinner's regrets and survivor's guilt instead of anything good or meaningful that isn't meaningless angst porn)

it isn't Spinner approaching Shigaraki that is the issue, it's the other's complete lack of action or even reaction besides appearing mildly disturbed. this is simply out of character for all of them, just judging by Twice's example who had similar breakdowns and wasn't plainly ignored by the others until his fit stops. this reaction makes even less sense, when you take into account the current state of the League. Twice had just been murdered by Hawks, the double agent who had infiltrated the League via Dabi, and Mister Compress had just sacrificed himself to give the League a chance for escape, and was sent to Tartarus immediately after his condition was no longer life threatening. Kurogiri is also being held captive by the heroes. there are only four of them left, with two dead and two captured. and none of them even mention the dead or the captured outside of the context of Kurogiri and his quirk.

this straight out makes no sense if you look back to the Overhaul arc and remember how far Shigaraki and the rest of them were willing to go to avenge Magne's death and Mr Compress' destroyed arm. this was important.

the event had motivated Shigaraki to be a better leader, because he had realized these people depend on him, and he won't let them be hurt under his protection. it had started the seed of self-doubt in Jin which would eventually grow to the desperation that allowed him to overcome the mental block against his quirk in the MVA arc, because he wanted to do everything he possibly could to help the League. it allowed him to make his clones despite the crippling trauma, because he saw Toga's hurt, bleeding body, and he didn't want her to die.

even fucking Giran, a broker whose very profession requires him to care about himself and his own well-being first and foremost, had sacrificed all of his fingers to prevent Redestro from getting his hands on the League. because he wants to protect them, to save them. and then we never actually see his mutilated hands or hear anything from him ever again.

and when Twice actually dies? all we get in response to that are two upset faces from Dabi and Toga's fury. that's it.

i really want to stress how out of character this barely-present reaction is, because Magne's example is right there and when Overhaul had killed her, the League knew each other for no longer than a month. this League has been together for at least half a year, had been through thick and thin together, had spent months on the run, homeless, having no one but each other to rely on, has defeated the Meta Liberation Army, quite literally, with the power of their friendship. they all cared enough about each other and Shigaraki specifically to stay with him during those months they had to fight Gigantomachia with barely any breaks for rest, still homeless, barely scraping by. it was imperative that they all survive through this together, especially for Shigaraki, who had went on this quest of getting stronger at least partly so that he would become a more reliable protector for the League. and when Twice falls victim to the hero who had murdered him in cold blood, because no one except for Dabi was there to save him, Shigaraki doesn't even get to react to Twice's death, and possibly never even learns about the fact.

on topic of Dabi, his reaction being exactly two frames of sad expressions and including the footage of Twice's murder into his broadcast, and ending immediately after that, also makes no sense. Dabi is someone who holds himself accountable and despite his declarations, cares about the League, it's the very reason he was keeping Hawks from the League and sprinted to Twice as soon as he realized Hawks' intentions with him, to protect him. Dabi's unsuccessful attempt to save Twice is another iteration of Overhaul, a combination of Shigaraki and Twice's roles in the tragedy. but unlike Shigaraki, who had steeled himself into taking care of his subordinates and becoming a responsible and strong leader, or Twice who had never forgotten about his role in the incident, Dabi just somehow forgets about the entire thing as soon as the first war is over. Toga is the one whom the narrative allows to actively react to Twice's death and express her grief. it makes sense that her reaction would be the strongest, as she was the closest with Twice, but why are two LOV members no longer allowed to care about the same incident at the same time? why aren't they allowed to protect each other anymore, when Giran, who is not even in the League, had made that sacrifice for them?

These are pretty small things, but it's these instances of Toga and Dabi preventing Machia from being injected with the sedative, protecting the League that are sorely missing in the second war.

and the biggest act of devotion and protection to the League, which was the last time we saw anything like this for them, Mister Compress' last moments with the League.

Mutilating his own body just to buy them five seconds to possibly escape. Because he loved the League, because he wanted all of them to be happy and achieve their dreams, to be free, and to live.

and in return for the favour, not only do they not come back for him like they did for Kurogiri (because his quirk is important for the plot, while Compress' isn't), but none of them mention Compress ever again. same with Twice (with the exception of Toga), same with Magne. from this point onwards, none of them are allowed by the plot to even care about the League of Villains. the interpersonal relationships between two individuals still shine through, occasionally, like Spinner's devotion to Shigaraki (and him alone), Dabi and Toga's pyromaniac trauma lane visit to her house and him giving her Twice's blood, Kurogiri reaching out to Shigaraki in the very end. but what about the League? ahd what about the dead members of the League, or Mister Compress?

somehow, at the point of the final war it boils down to the generalized conflict of heroes vs villains and the morality gymnastics involved in the concept. on its own, this would have been an okay development, if the examples the story was using to prove its point weren't people who had become very close friends and who had lost four people to this war against the heroes.

if the individual conflicts, like Toga's desperation to be acknowledged as human being deserving of affection, Dabi's familial abuse trauma and Shigaraki's lifelong manipulation by All for One not giving him any chance to be saved at all, were the finishing line of the villains' story development, why join them within the League at all? LOV is a separate concept functioning as a collective uniting all these villains, giving them a place to belong and people who give a fuck whether they live or die. except not anymore, because for some reason after the first war this concept is scratched completely.

so why not make them mere acquaintances who sometimes collaborate to bother the heroes together, if the bond between them got in the way of the story and wasn't the point of the story? why prove the depth of their bond with the Overhaul and My Villain Academia arcs? why make Shigaraki develop relationships and a sense of responsibility for these people at all, if in the very end his desire to save these people is denied by the author himself?

the previous arcs have spent a great deal of effort establishing that the villains are human too. they have human feelings, human desires and human relationships. so why is it that in the final arc their ability to experience human emotions towards each other is turned on and off manually by the author? at the very end even the author stops pretending like anything happening to the villains is evaluated on the scale of human experiences (unlike the heroes, whose injuries and deaths are talked about and mourned in great detail) and Kurogiri and Shigaraki are wiped out like plot inconveniences rather than important and well written characters.

honestly? it's ironically meta that the story ended up proving the very point it has spent 400 chapters arguing against.

[dwaekkilinos]

savior complex (pt. 2) | bang chan

summary: Your father had wielded you to become a machine; a weapon. And a machine you would become. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat. He taught you how to protect; specifically how to protect your family. But he never taught you how to survive with other groups, especially when their leader seems to have it out for you.

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | strangers/enemies to lovers + zombie apocalypse au, angst, fluff, smut word count: 35.4K? chapter summary: the female of the species are the most deadly. you see it in everything, including the mirror. warnings/notes: i hate this so bad, i'm so sorry, zombie apocalypse au so . . . blood, guts, gore, sad, sad, sad. beware. lots of inspo from every zombie thing i've literally ever seen (twd, tlou, train to busan, etc.), typos probably, parental death, actions of violence and murder, religious TRAUMA, religious undertones, reader does not believe in god but she's deeply influenced by it bc of her childhood and it haunts her, slight inspiration for the host, talk of cwd, animal death, fights, sexual tension, drinking, ever so small blood consumption, sleeping in the smae bed/one bed trope/stuck together trope, making out, dry humping, um chris and reader being actually stupid, i think that's it but let me know if i missed anything, and enjoy! <3

chapter one: the female of the species (are the most deadly) ( ← previous | series masterlist | next → )

Deer are meant to flee.

In the scenario of a predator in an open field, deer always choose to run zigzag to get away. Running straight puts a wanted sign on their heads. Running straight gets them killed. Running straight turns them into prey.

It’s simple. It’s fight or flight syndrome.

Deer will always choose to flee first to save themselves. They will only fight as a last alternative. That is what makes them prey. That is what distinguishes them from the predator.

That was the first thing your father taught you when he led you into those woods during Pestilence’s rise from the dead. But back then, he would ignore your questions of what would happen to the deer that would fight. You’d always wondered. And you remembered even now how you found out the truth. You’d snuck out of your bed in the middle of the night just like at the beginning of Pestilence’s reign, and tip-toed into your father’s study. Then . . . one search and you discovered the truth.

A deer that fights is a dead deer.

It made less sense then, or rather you hadn’t wanted it to make sense. You hadn’t wanted to believe that even nature could be so cruel. At the time, you could take being locked away from the rest of the world with that sickness out there. After all, the town had been tucked away from civilization for so long anyway. Isolation wasn’t anything new to you. But this . . . cruelty . . . that was something you couldn’t stomach all those years ago.

And now . . . now you found it easy to admit that a deer that fights is a dead deer. Now you found it easy to admit that it is better to be the hunter . . . to be the predator. Now it was easy to admit you were never a deer like the rest of your town. Now it was easy to admit, you hadn’t been running from the hunter, you had been running from yourself . . . from the predator ripping at your viscera.

Now it was easy to admit you were the wolf that your town kept in a cage . . . until you’d found a way to break the lock.

And the deer? They still ran.

Your mother had been trying to run from you since the moment the world fell away. Your sister used to walk with you, used to not fight nor run from you . . . until she realized she should’ve been the entire time. And Felix . . . he’d realize one day that it was the right decision to leave you behind in those woods. One day he’d be grateful he’d left the predator preying on his family. One day he would.

You knew he would, too. You knew because he’d witnessed what happened to the deer that fought back. You knew because he’d watched you rip open that man’s jugular like it was just the tough end of a piece of steak. You knew because he’d hesitated before he followed after you when you’d slaughtered one of the dead without a second thought. You knew because he’d listened to you in that warehouse . . . because he hadn’t followed after you.

That . . . that thought was the only thing that kept you going the past couple of days as you faded in and out of consciousness.

And when you did finally come to, your eyes fluttering open to meet the image of fluorescent overhead lights staring back at you, you knew your deer were finally safe from you. That was how you found yourself breathing a sigh of relief as a small smile touched your lips, surely making you appear out of your mind (and well . . . maybe you were).

The first night, with the fever still ruling your body, you realized what you’d gotten yourself into. You realized that no, this was not the afterlife. Your father would not walk through the door any time soon. You would not get to hug him once more. You wouldn’t be able to feel him, hear him, see him, or even smell him.

(You tried to ignore the ache swelling in your chest when you realized even if he was there by some chance, there was a good chance you wouldn’t be able to recognize him from feel, touch, sight, smell. It had become increasingly obvious to you as you laid bedridden that perhaps while trying to survive and keep your family alive, you’d been forgetting your father’s face little by little.)

And while those thoughts haunted you, the dull scenery of the room you’d been locked away in setting in more and more as the days passed, you almost accepted what had happened. You hadn’t gotten yourself killed in those woods. No, you’d stepped into something so much worse.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed since you’d found yourself there. People had come in and out while you were suffering the worst ends of the fever. You couldn’t quite tell who, or why they had come in and out, but you did know you’d put up a fight the few times they’d tried to feed you or shove medicine down your throat. Whether it was the fever taking hold of you or the deep mistrust that ran inside your bloodstream, it didn’t matter. You fought just as you always had.

Only now as you stared at the fluorescent lights above your bed did you have the time to actually think. The fever had subsided, but the pain in your ankle still remained. You weren’t sure if an infection had come about or if the sprain had actually been a break, but you did know you didn’t want to move from your spot. You wanted to stay right there and stare into the light until your eyes started to water and ache from not blinking for so long.

Perhaps if you pretended to be sicker, they’d let you go. Perhaps they’d give up on you, throw you out with the rest of the dead. Perhaps they’d let you rest like you had been begging them.

And perhaps they would. Perhaps they would when you finally let your guard down. Perhaps then they’d kill you like you’d been begging.

Was this all just a trick then?

Or another test?

However, deja vu set in as your mind wasn’t allowed much longer to ponder when the sound of a door opening brought you out of your questioning. Your body stiffened as you shot up in your bed, bringing your knees to your chest despite the pain in your ankle. Your eyes never left the door as you tightened your hand into a fist, making sure you were alert for anything just as you had been taught. Wearily, you watched with stern eyes as a man stepped in, expecting to meet the gaze of the man who had brought you here, but no, he wasn’t him but did he look ever so familiar. You watched as this new man let himself in, not looking up while he closed the door behind him, softly humming to himself as he scribbled down something onto the notepad in his hand.

Your eyes dragged over his figure, taking note of the tattered tee and cargo pants that looked a little too worn, but much less used than the clothes on your own back. His hair was dark and long, long enough to curl around his ears, and he wore glasses that had no smudges or fingerprints tainting the glass, almost as if he’d had the time to think of his appearance that day. And . . . his face and hands were clean. He was clean. There was no dirt or scrapes in sight. He . . . he’d washed himself recently. He had the time to wash himself.

Confusion struck your face for only a mere second before it dawned on you their bunker must have had access to a water supply. That only made your rage grow.

He was allowed to hold up underground, his skin clear of dirt and grime and . . . blood. And you could still smell the squirrel guts that had seeped into your shirt from your last meal.

He was clean, and you . . . you had lost count of how many days it had been since you had had the time to properly clean yourself. Hell, you hadn’t smelled a bar of soap in about a year or more. And yet . . . he probably washed every day.

Gritting your teeth together, your rage grew. Or perhaps this was . . . envy? Jealousy? No, no you were sure it was guilt now. Guilt because . . . here you were stuck in a bunker where they had running water and your family was still out there. You’d run into those woods to save them. It seemed you had only saved yourself in the end, or rather they had forced you to.

And that . . . that made you angry.

The man must have felt the flames of your scorching glare because the next second he was glancing up from his notebook, his eyes quickly meeting yours. His eyes widened slightly. “Oh,” he mumbled in shock before a toothy grin spread onto his face. He advanced toward you, approaching the bed with that smile still on his face. “She lives.”

But you remained silent, calculating.

Your hand remained in a fist.

His eyes flicked down to your hands, his smile faltering slightly, but he didn’t bring attention to it. He was meeting your glare once again in a second, but before he spoke, he took a step back, leaving space between the two of you. “You’ve been out for a few days. I did manage to get some medicine shoved down your throat,” he began again, his voice soft, almost as if he didn’t want to startle you. “Not without a fight—” he softly laughed as he turned his arm and showed a bite mark you had left on the meat of his forearm— “but . . . all’s forgiven.”

Still, you remained silent, eyes flicking from his arm back to his face without even breathing. Your glare remained.

And he faltered under your gaze, his smile dropping as he cleared his throat and went back to his notebook. He kept searching for . . . something as he continued humming, until his eyes landed and he hummed, “Ah, now—”

A knock at the door interrupted the man as his brows raised and he glanced over his shoulder. You followed his gaze just in time to see the door open once again as another man walked into the room. But this time, confusion didn’t strike you. This time you recognized the man as the one from the other night; as the one who had taken your hand and led you out of those woods when you had condemned yourself to your death; as the man you had mistaken as Death himself.

It was silent as he shut the door behind him and began to approach the bed with that same look in his eyes—stern, cold, and calculating just as he had been the other night. In response, you tucked yourself further to the top of the bed, trying to create as much space between you and the men. But . . . the man from the other night . . . Death . . . barely even spared you a glance.

He glanced toward the man with the glasses. “How’s she looking?” he asked, his voice stern and void of emotion as he crossed his arms over his broad chest.

“Well—” the other man began but quickly cut himself off as he turned his gaze to you, eyes casting over your demeanor. He sucked on his teeth in thought, then pointed to the bed sheet which covered your legs. “Can I?”

Clutching the sheets closer to your body, you furrowed your brows, a scowl deepening on your face. What did he want with your body? No one had ever asked to see it before. Why was he?

“Your ankle . . . ” he mumbled, almost apologetically.

And then it hit you, and for the first time in a long time, you felt embarrassed. You had been taught to always be on alert, to never trust, to fight and the others would flee. You had been taught to be a weapon. You’d been taught too well to the point you’d forgotten how the world used to be; how a simple question could just be exactly that and not come with an ulterior motive.

He wanted to check your ankle. That was why he’d come in here in the first place. He didn’t want your body. Perhaps he didn’t want anything from you. But . . .

You have to grow up. No more kid stuff.

Those had been the words your father left you with. You knew what they meant. And you knew what they entailed.

Trust no one. Children had trust. Children trusted blindly. And you were no child. You hadn’t been for a while. And you wouldn’t be today.

Sure, you recognized his motive, but you didn’t trust him, and you certainly didn’t trust letting him get anywhere near you. With your eyes boring into his you pulled back the sheet covering your legs and revealed your swollen ankle.

The man with the glasses took a step forward to inspect the injury, but you jerked back, smacking your back against the wall. Like a dog who had been beaten one too many times, your reflexes were fast, instinctive, and jarring. That was evident by the looks both of the men gave you, then gave each other.

It was only after a minute of thick silence that the same man cleared his throat, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he took a step back. “She can probably walk on it now but not for long,” he began as his eyes scanned his notebook. “As for the wounds . . . “ trailing off, he pointed to the gashing along your legs, across your arms, even the one just under your eye as he sighed heavily in thought. “They look to be healing pretty well, but we’ll keep checking in case a nasty infection decides to latch on.”

Death . . . No . . . the other man nodded in acknowledgement, then turned his attention to you. And you couldn’t look away. Those eyes. The same eyes that had dragged you out of those woods glared back at you, and yet they carried a certain softness that you couldn’t figure out. Those eyes seemed to haunt you. You didn’t know him, but . . . you felt as though you’d seen him before. In that dog as she ran after the stick you’d thrown moments before you snapped her neck; in Felix as you played with his hair so he’d sleep soundly at night; in the beginning when your family still smiled at you.

He continued to glare, and you glared right back, but you saw something deeper in there. You saw the things you wished you could forget. You saw the people you’d lost; the things you’d loved. You saw the decisions you had to commit to in order to keep your family alive.

That only made you glare harder.

“How do you feel?” he finally asked, but his stare only intensified.

You remained silent.

The man with the glasses cleared his throat. “Chris,” he muttered, and your brain took note of the name, remembering it from the other night. This Death . . . had a name. “I don’t think she talks.”

“Oh, she talks,” Chris replied instantly, not taking his eyes off yours. He tilted his head, brows furrowing in thought. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Still, you didn’t speak, your eyes watching him.

There was that quiet rage again. He held himself so elegantly, but his eyes always gave him away. There was no hiding with eyes like that.

It seemed your oath of silence had stirred an even greater anger within him.

Good, you couldn’t help but think. Maybe then he’d finally kill you.

(And yet . . . your hands were still firmly clenched into fists as if one wrong move and you’d attack like the wild dog you knew yourself to be. (It was a peculiar thing to realize: wishing to be killed but still so desperately willing to defend yourself.))

Chris cocked his head to the side. You mirrored his actions, causing him to scoff as he tongued his inner cheek and shook his head. “Ji,” he began, his voice low as he spoke to the other man while maintaining eye contact with you, “will you go get a bath ready?”

This Ji only nodded in response, glancing between you and Chris before he slowly began to back out of the room. He was gone a second later, the door shutting closed behind him. That left you and Death alone.

A visceral beat of silence pounded so loudly you felt it deep within your chest. Had that been your heartbeat or were you too far gone for even that?

The man . . . Death . . . Chris quietly walked to the other side of the room, grabbing the lone chair and placing it beside your bed just like he had the other night. You watched him the entire time, following closely so as to not miss even the slightest action, and only when he relaxed into the chair, his legs spread out, arms still crossed over his chest, as his gaze flicked over the wounds tattering your body, did you let yourself take in his appearance.

He was still handsome, yes, but a little more human now that your fever had broken. His dark hair was still curly, albeit messier than a few days prior, and it seemed the bags under his eyes had darkened even more. Yet, his lips were still pink, still smooth, still . . . pretty. (It made you think of the before; of the years in your childhood when you’d sneak into the living room while everyone else slept and turn on the TV late at night just to watch news reports of your favorite actors.)

You’d never seen a man like this so close before. You should’ve been used to it given the other night, but there was no mistaking the urge buried deep within yourself that wanted him to see worth in the body he was analyzing. You’d felt this thing before. You’d felt it in the way the boys in the pews would stare at you while you played the piano during church. But you had only been a girl then. The world hadn’t ended then.

A girl turned into a creature with sharp canines you had become. And a death valley the world had turned into.

At the realization, you shoved that eerie feeling down so far you were no longer hungry, as you tugged the bedsheet back over your body. You tugged the sheet so far until you tucked it under your chin, not allowing a sliver of skin to show. If your mind wanted to ponder over if someone found worth within it, then you’d bury it for even you to see.

Chris seemed to catch on, his eyes still trained on the bed sheet where your wounded leg once was, before his gaze snapped back up to meet yours. Your eyes hardened first, his followed suit.

“Feel like talking now?” he all but sighed.

A second passed.

You didn’t respond.

And he scoffed as if he had seen it coming. “Fine, suit yourself.”

Chris quickly pushed himself out of the chair, the legs screeching against the floor as he stood to his feet. His back was to you the next moment as you watched him walk to the other side of the room where a small storage cabinet resided right next to a makeshift desk. He opened the cabinet, sifting through its contents before he pulled out a woman’s black shirt and jeans that looked to be around your size. Each piece of clothing he haphazardly tossed onto the desk with a sigh, even pulling out socks and undergarments.

And when he was done, he slammed the cabinet shut and almost hesitantly glanced toward the clothes resting on the desk. His hand seemed to almost shake as he rested it on top of the clothes, rubbing his thumb against the fabric.

It made you wonder. Who had those clothes belonged to?

Your brows pulled together as you finally tore your eyes from his figure, and observed the rest of the room for the first time. At first glance, it was a small room, a little bigger than a closet but just enough to house the bed you were sitting on, along with a cabinet and a desk for . . . whatever you supposed. Your eyes snapped back to the bed you were on, and then it hit you.

This was no medical bed like you had once thought when you first awoke here. This was just a mattress on top of a metal bed frame that had been built into the metal walls surrounding you. And in the corner of the room, there was a pile of clothes which belonged to a man. The cabinet, the desk, the bed, the clothes on the floor . . . this wasn’t an infirmary . . . this was someone’s room.

Was it his?

Those clothes . . . did they belong to someone close to him? Is that why—

“These will probably fit you,” he interrupted your train of thought, throwing the clothes down beside you on the bed. “There’s towels and soap in the washrooms. Ready to wash, yeah?”

You eyed the clothes beside your feet, then peeked at him out of the corner of your eye. He wasn’t sitting anymore. He was just standing there and you could feel his dark gaze on the side of your head, but you didn’t glance up to meet his eyes. Not yet. Not until you figured out what was going on.

This was his room. It had to have been. He was giving you clothes and allowing you to bathe, yet his demeanor was still . . . off. Was this a ploy?

You blinked. Your gun.

Your gun . . . had they taken it to leave you defenseless?

“Did you take my gun?” you harshly bit out as you finally met his gaze.

His brows furrowed. “You didn’t have one on you.”

Your jaw clenched. “I had a gun.”

His brows raised. “Did you drop it?”

You shook your head. “I wouldn’t—”

But your words cut out quickly as a flash from a few nights ago hit you. The woods. He surprised you that night. You’d dropped your gun. You’d dropped your father’s gun. You’d left him his gun there.

In an instant, you sprung out of bed, barely feeling the pain in your body. “The woods,” you muttered out as you scanned the room for your shoes. “It must be—”

But Chris was quick. “Woah, woah, woah, hey,” he said, his hands finding your shoulders to stop you from moving on your ankle, “you’re not going anywhere.”

You halted, but your anger remained. “I don’t answer to you,” you spat out, tearing his hands from your body.

Again, you made another move for your shoes, but he blocked your path with his body. “You do when you’re under my roof,” he reiterated, his words sterner now. “It’s only been a few days. The horde will still be around . . . and you can barely walk. You go out there and you will bring the dead to my door. You force my hand and make me send my people out there, the horde will get them, too.” He took a step closer then, his voice quieter, darker. “I will not let you burden my people.”

“I won’t bring the dead to your door,” you muttered, searching his eyes for an understanding. “I won’t come back. I won’t bring them here. I won’t turn back. I’ll go through the horde if I have to . . . or die with my gun. I don’t care, but trust me . . . I won’t bring the dead to you or your people.” You jutted out your chin. “I won’t be your burden. I can promise you that.”

He didn’t even take a second to think before he shook his head once. “I’m a man of my word,” he spoke, standing taller now as he took a step away from you. “We will retrieve your gun when the horde has moved on.”

“You don’t get—”

“I will not send out my people to die with that horde still around,” he cut you off. “The bomb distracted them then, but more have crowded because of the sound. More will come and then they will pass. But I will not and cannot send out my people for a gun until they pass.”

You remained silent then, watching him carefully. He wasn’t listening. You were prepared to go back for the gun alone. You’d find it, you’d lay down beside it, and let yourself rest. You wouldn’t run. You wouldn’t lead them back to this place. You would barely move. You’d let the horde take you and your gun.

You wouldn’t come back. You wouldn’t. Couldn’t he see that?

“You have my word,” he said once again, his eyes no longer on you, but rather on the clothes still resting on the bed. “And when they pass, I will personally help you find your gun.” His eyes briefly met yours for only a moment, before he was turning around, and walking toward the door.

You took a step forward. You weren’t sure why, but you did. Was it to stop him? Follow? Run?

He noticed, too, stopping in his tracks. His eyes didn’t meet yours, but his profile was in your sights. He just stood there, his eyes on the ground but his profile angled toward you, as if he were waiting for your next moves as if he expected you to attack him from behind.

You wouldn’t. You knew you wouldn’t. A wild dog you may have seemed to him, but you didn’t bite so generously. He hadn’t done something yet. Yet . . .

But before either you or him could address the situation, he spoke, “Grab the clothes and follow me. You have a long day ahead of you.”

On the seventh day, God ended his work which he had done, and rested. The seventh day was meant for worship. Take pause and express gratitude toward your savior, you’d learned. The seventh day was meant for worship, and for years you’d knelt and knelt on those pews until the wood dug into your flesh and made wounds that would never heal.

For years, the seventh day had meant something to you. For years, you’d endured the scabs on your knees. For years, you’d almost worshiped them, too.

But . . .

On the seventh year of the end of days, you ended your vow to protect your family, except . . . you couldn’t seem to rest. The seventh year was meant to be your last. Take pause in those woods with your father’s gun in hand, and let the dead express their gratitude toward your flesh which would satiate their visceral hunger for only a few mere seconds. The seventh year was meant for your end, and for a few years, you had laid on the forest floor when it was night and everyone was asleep, and prayed that your day would come.

For years, the seventh year was just a sick wish. For years, you’d pick at the old scabs on your knees, creating new ones while you stared into the sky and prayed to a god you didn’t believe in. For years, you’d nearly promised to believe in him again if he’d just give you your damnation.

It was supposed to be that night in the woods. You were supposed to be eaten by them or become one. That was how it was supposed to end. That was your sentence for causing your father’s death.

Except . . . like all those years ago, it seemed not even these prayers were worthy enough to be granted. But maybe that was just it. Maybe this was your damnation. Maybe no matter what you did, death would always follow you but never seek you specifically out. Because maybe death was too kind for someone like you. Maybe the real damnation was for you to sit and watch as everyone around you died because of you.

Would Chris kick you out then? If he knew saving you meant bringing death to his doorstep?

Those thoughts in your mind, you continued to follow after this Chris, limping silently behind him as he took you through the bunker. It must have been the backway or something because you hadn’t seen another soul the entire few minutes you’d been passing through each room. Even as you reached the bottom floor, you still could not find another one of his people.

Had he told them to hide? Did he say why? Were there children? Were they scared of you? Were you akin to the monsters in those fairytales your father used to read you when you were younger?

On the seventh minute, the two of you stopped in front of a hatched metal door, and you almost felt fear. But you told yourself you didn’t get to feel that way as he unhatched the door and pulled it open, revealing a washing room akin to a basement bathroom except four showers were lining the wall, all of which were separated by thick slabs of metal dividers and covered by plastic shower curtains. Two toilets were out in the open on the wall opposite the showers, a sink in the middle of them; and a bathtub resting near the middle wall.

You blinked once. Then twice. Then nearly collapsed against the doorframe at the sight.

It had been so long since you’d seen a bathroom; since you’d seen showers and bathtubs and proper toilets. It had been so long since you’d been clean. Sometimes you could still feel your father’s blood on your skin, and no matter how many times you scrubbed your skin in streams or lakes or even puddles, you still felt dirty. You always felt tainted, like your skin was just as rotted as the deads’.

And yet here you were staring into a bathroom with all the things you missed about civilization and you couldn’t quite tell what to do with yourself. You didn’t move. You didn’t even speak. You barely breathed. You just stared, and tried to quiet your rapid heartbeat.

Chris didn’t seem to notice your pause or if he did, he didn’t pay it much mind. Instead, you watched him out of the corner of your eye as he left you by the door and walked toward the bathtub, stretching out his hand toward the water. He swished the water around a few times, checking the temperature before he shook the water from his hand and dried it off on his pants.

Then . . . he was looking at you again. “This should be hot enough,” he muttered before he stalked toward the metal shelves opposite the side of the room where the bathtub rested. He grabbed a washcloth, then dug into a plastic bin which held chunks of soap, all the while you watched him with careful eyes. You continued to watch him as he approached you, taking the clothes out of your hands and replacing them with the washing materials. “I’ll get you a towel once you’ve washed.”

And that was it. Chris tossed the clean clothes onto the top metal shelf, then, with a sign, he leaned his back against the wall next to the shelves, his arms crossed over his broad chest while his eyes lazily trailed from the bathtub to where you stood in the doorway. Your brows furrowed, your head tilting as you stared back at him, almost as if you were challenging him.

“What are you doing?” you asked, but your voice sounded harsh, bitter . . . lethal like the weapon you’d known yourself to be.

Chris sighed through his nose again. “I told you I don’t kill the living . . . and I won’t kill you,” he started off, maintaining eye contact with you. “But I do not trust you. I do not like you. And I won’t put my people at risk just because I let you live. So, wash, yeah? You have my word I want nothing with your body. Just wash so I can show you around and you can finally eat.” His brows raised as he jutted out his chin, gesturing toward the bathtub. “Hmm? Sound good?”

“Men aren’t supposed to—” but you quickly cut yourself off. Men aren’t supposed to see women naked without marriage. That was what you were going to say. That was what your mother had drilled into your head as you were growing up. That was what the town believed, because that was what they preached. And you’d almost slipped up. You’d almost spoken their words, not your own. And while you couldn’t have that, you didn’t address your previous argument, instead, you tore your eyes from his and bit your tongue. “Just . . . don’t touch me.”

“You have my word,” he mumbled, his voice almost softer now, but you ignored it. “I don’t do that. I wouldn’t.”

You swallowed hard.

A beat of silence.

And then another.

Until you couldn’t take it anymore and nearly charged toward the bathtub, but you didn’t touch it. Not yet. You paused abruptly before the tub, then carefully, you outstretched your hand, testing the water. Warm. Not hot, nearly scalding . . . just like the baths you’d used to have when you were a kid.

But you couldn’t let him know that. You couldn’t show that you were once human . . . not to him. Instead . . . you tore your hand from the water, your eyes immediately snapping in his direction, narrowing at his figure. He was staring back at you, almost analyzing you or trying to piece together the things he didn’t understand about you. And then: his brows twitched downward, his face falling slightly before he cleared his throat and that look was gone.

“Listen,” he began, and turned his head to the side so you could only see his profile. His eyes weren’t on you anymore. “I won’t look. Just . . . undress and get in quickly.” He wet his lips, sighing. “I won’t look.”

You didn’t respond. He wasn’t looking for a response anyway. You only nodded at his words before you got to work, throwing the washcloth and soap into the water before unbuttoning your tattered pants and wincing as the fabric snagged on cuts and wounds that you’d accumulated. Your eyes remained on his figure, making sure he didn’t turn his head to see you lift your shirt over your head, throwing it to the floor along with your sports bra. Finally, you nearly tore off your underwear and socks just before you stepped into the bathtub, letting the water envelope your body until you were sitting in the tub, your knees to your chest as the water lightly swished around your shoulders.

Once the swishing of the water ceased, you watched out of the corner of your eye as Chris turned his attention back to you. His eyes were on you once again, and you tried to ignore it. You tried to stop watching him. You tried to enjoy the water surrounding you, but his eyes were nearly burning holes into your skin.

He’d promised not to hurt you, but what good was a man’s word in this world? You couldn’t trust that. You couldn’t trust him.

You kept one eye open. The water surrounding your body was a glorious distraction, but even as you rubbed at your feet underneath the water, trying to ease the aches, you still watched him in your peripheral vision. And the entire time . . . he didn’t move.

The water had begun to turn red and dark due to your accumulation of blood, wounds, and dirt. Only then did you search the tub’s floor to find the bar of soap. Once it was in your hand, you brought it out of the water, rubbing the white bubbly film with your thumbs before you reached for the washcloth and began to rub the two together to create a paste. With the cloth covered in suds, you allowed yourself to feel bliss just for a mere second as you touched the cloth to your skin and . . . scrubbed.

If this were a few years ago or even a few months ago, you thought you might have cried at the sensation. You wanted to cry now. You wanted to scrub your skin until the blood was gone, until the dirt was gone, until your skin was gone, until you were just raw and clean and new, until you were nearly born again. You wanted to scrub it all way. All the years, all the pain, all the memories. You wanted it all to be washed away like the dirt and grim hiding beneath your fingernails.

But you didn’t cry and you didn’t scrub until your skin was raw. You kept your composure, scrubbing up and down your arms with the washcloth, getting your neck, behind your ears, your legs, feet, toes, fingers, your most intimate parts, even your nostrils. And god . . . did it feel good, almost too good, so good, you’d taken your eyes off the man on the other side of the room.

“The blood—” his voice sounded from across the room, nearly startling you but you nearly whipped yourself to maintain your composure— “Is it all yours?”

Your movements paused. You blinked. “No,” you muttered as your eyes went to the dirtied water.

It was never just yours.

“Whose is it?” he asked. You knew what he wanted. You knew what he was really asking.

Running the washcloth over your nails to clean the dirt, you swallowed hard. “Does it matter?”

“It could,” he merely said. “Why did you do it?”

You didn’t respond. He knew. You knew he did. There was no way someone like you stepped into a place like this how you did, without doing the things you’d done. It might as well have been written across your forehead. You’d done something. It haunted you. And he knew it.

“If you stay here you’re going to have to answer my questions,” he said again, reiterating that his questions were harmless.

A muscle in your jaw twitched. Lifting your head, your eyes flicked to his, harsh and hostile. “Kick me out then, sheriff,” you spat, a challenge within your gaze.

But it seemed he wasn’t the type to take the bait. At least that might have been what he wanted you to believe as he discarded your comment and pushed, “Why did you do it?”

Your glare darkened. “Same reason we all do,” you muttered. “I had to.” But you didn’t.

It wasn’t something you had to do. Killing someone was not something you had to do. And even then, even if you had to . . . you didn’t have to do it like . . . that. Yet . . . you did.

“Was it deserved?”

Was it deserved? he had asked.

Yes, you wanted to growl back. Because yes, yes, yes he fucking deserved it. That man had taken your sister. He’d held her in his harsh grasp and laughed as she kicked and screamed. He’d put a gun to her head, and threatened to pull it unless you gave up all your food. But you had seen the look in his eyes. Even if you’d followed his orders, he would’ve pulled that trigger. Maybe he would’ve pulled it on you first or maybe he’d really have killed your sister. Maybe he would have taken you all down before you could even breathe and run off with your food. Or maybe he would have done worse.

Because you’d seen the look in his eyes. You’d seen how he’d put his hands on your sister. You knew what men like that did to little girls in a world without rules, without hope. You knew what he would do.

Anyone would have defended their blood. Anyone would've protected. Some would kill, others would find a way to knock him out and run off before he could catch up. But you . . . you didn’t just kill that night. No, it was a slaughter . . . and it was fun.

That . . . that was what made you different from the rest. You’d taken a man’s death sentence and become death yourself. You’d become god that night, wielding your hand to end another’s life with just your teeth and a visceral thirst that could only be quenched by fresh, spilled blood.

So . . . was it deserved? Yes, but . . . no one person should have that much power. No one should just play god like . . . that. But you had . . . and you had enjoyed it.

If Chris knew . . . would he turn you away, too? He’d given you a bed to rest and heal, a bath, and soon food, but if he knew, would he send you out there against his word?

You could only hope.

“I ripped out a man’s throat with my teeth,” you abruptly bit out, ignoring all the voices in your head telling you to just keep quiet, because you knew you deserved the hell he should have brought to you for this. If God wouldn’t answer your prayers, maybe a man would. Maybe he’d condemn you for him. “Does anyone deserve that?”

His eyes were on you. You knew they were. And you knew he was looking at you as if he was just another deer off the highway. As if you were the howls he could hear in the distance. As if you were what was lurking in the shadows of a dark forest. As if your teeth had been sharpened for the hunt. And he was just prey.

You waited for him to run, too, because you knew what happened to those who didn’t. You could see it before your eyes, all around you, soaking your skin and underneath the dirt in your fingernails.

Because you’d seen this before. You knew who you were in this story, and you knew who he was. It was predator versus prey. It was instinct. It was nature.

You’d seen it before in life before, too. The summer before everything, you’d gone every day to shadow your local vet, and every day you’d seen animal after animal be put down again and again. Some from health issues. Others from abscesses caused in the wild. Few . . . from locking their jaws around a human hand.

It was always the latter that struck you deepest. No one knew the art of the veterinarian clinic. To them, it was just a waiting room with doors, but nothing behind. But you knew what was behind those doors. The stuff no one wants to deal with hid there. The dogs that acted out, barked too loud, became too . . . feral came to die there.

It was almost funny, nearly sickening that almost all of the dogs had two things in common: they weren’t spayed and they were female. Because, you see, everyone always said how neutering a male dog will fix its aggression. Everyone always told you that if not tamed, a male dog will always bite, but they didn’t realize most dogs that bite are female. It was instinct again. Protect the womb. Protect your young. It was nature. Biological. The female of the species were more deadly than the male . . . because they were always in a state of survival.

When you thought about it, you’d like to say that the raising of the dead was when your game of survival began, but you knew better. Your games began the day you were born . . . the day every woman was born.

And while some knew how to wield it well, you had been beaten into another narrative. Like animals, most female dogs can be tamed with trust, but the few that aren’t; the few that come into the world in the middle of the woods, forced into submission by their male counterparts and bred over and over again . . . those few could never be domesticated. They would always be wild.

You’d seen it once in the before. A pregnant feral dog brought in by an old woman with a heart for poor souls. The moment she was brought into the clinic, death followed her. It smelled of shit and piss and blood. And when you’d asked what could have possibly caused such a smell, they’d told you how animals worked in the wild, and it was so much worse than you’d thought. A female dog in a feral colony is but a womb. The males fight. The males become violent and possessive. To mark their territory they will urinate on her, and when another smells the mark of another male, they will become violent again. They will fight and try to claim their territory in the same way. And when they are through with the female, she will be left with wounds from fighting against their force. Yet . . . they still fight. Every time.

It was possible to tame a feral dog with time. But it was impossible to tame a feral dog if female because she would always be in a state of protecting her womb; protecting her young.

You knew what you were. When you’d see your reflection in pond water or shards of glass, it wouldn’t be your face staring back at you, no it would be that dog’s. Every time, you’d see her. You’d see her scared, teeth bared and growls echoing off the walls as your vet and his techs tried to sedate her for surgery. You’d see her lying on the operating table, finally, tame like she’d never been before. You’d see the vet cutting into her abdomen, cutting out the uterus filled with those babies she had been trying to protect. You’d see her as your vet explained to you how spaying her now would prevent her from being impregnated over and over again and causing the colony to grow. Because spaying a feral dog was more mercy than she would have ever been shown amongst her clan.

And you’d understood. You did. But it’d still made you sick to your stomach.

Until you finally did understand. Until you had to do things you’d never done in the before. Until your teeth had been sharpened. Until all you knew was survival. Until you were forced to protect your young. Until that man put a gun to your sister’s head and tried to use her like those male dogs would use the females. Until you charged at him. Until you fought him, fists bloody and knife ready. Until you sunk your canines into his neck and tore out his throat. Until you tasted his blood on your tongue and craved for more. Until his blood began to taste like honey. Until you stepped back, saw your bloodied hands, and realized that this was no longer just survival, but your nature. Until it was instinct. Until you were the female of your species that you had heard so much about.

So . . . you waited.

You waited for Chris to run out of the room and leave you to your bath of blood. Because you knew what happened to those who didn’t. Because you knew you were the female of your species. Because you knew a female dog could never be tamed if deemed feral. Because you could see it before your eyes, all around you, soaking your skin and underneath the dirt in your fingernails.

Because you’d seen this before. You knew who you were in this story, and you knew who he was. It was predator versus prey. It was instinct. It was nature. It was biological.

And yet . . .

“When’s the last time you bathed?” Chris asked, but his voice was different now. It wasn’t like before.

“Like you need to know,” you bit out almost immediately, almost as if it were a reflex.

But you still couldn’t help wonder . . . Why didn’t he leave?

Brows furrowed, you turned to face him, eyes going straight to his as if expecting a challenge, but no challenge was there. The man was just staring at you as if he was just . . . observing. And he was still . . . there.

Why didn’t he run? A deer that fights is a dead deer. Did he not know this? Did he not see what you were?

But he didn’t.

Your body stilled in the water, your hands wrapped tightly around the washcloth. And for some reason, you hadn’t known what possessed you, but you found yourself muttering out, “A few years give or take . . . minus the odd lake here and there.”

Chris shifted his weight to his other foot, but his arms stayed crossed and his expression remained stern, unreadable. “Is that how long you’ve been out there?”

Your brows twitched. You blinked and the past seven years flashed for just a second. “Longer,” you nearly whispered as your eyes sunk back to the water before you resumed dragging the washcloth down your arms. “Not all of us have the luxury of a bunker. Being out there—Fuck.” A hiss left your lips as you tried to bring the washcloth over your back, but the ache in your arms mixed with the evident wounds all over your body sent a sharp pain . . . everywhere.

Chris stepped forward, almost flinching as he did. “Let me—”

“Don’t,” you growled. This time you did bare your teeth like the wild animal you knew yourself to be. “Don’t touch me.”

But he wasn’t like the other deer. “Let me help you,” he said firmly.

And all you could do was stare at him, a skeptical look in your eyes while your heart pounded in your chest. He didn’t move, and you knew he wouldn’t unless you let him. That was the thing that perplexed you. He was fighting back, but waiting for your permission. He wouldn’t lay his hands on you unless you let him. You’d never seen a deer like this before.

Against all your best judgment, you all but threw the washcloth at him. You held out your arm, washcloth in hand, offering it to him and once he took it from you, you hesitantly leaned forward, pulling your knees to your chest to cover your intimate parts. But you still kept your eyes on him, trying to ignore how you flinched each time you felt the gentle scrape of the washcloth on your skin.

You remembered the feral dog at that moment. She’d fought for so long and yet . . . it was almost as if when she finally knew no one was going to hurt her, her growls lessened and her demeanor became more . . . cautious, eyes on everyone at all times, but she’d still bowed, letting your vet draw her blood and administer a rabies vaccine. It was almost as if she couldn’t let herself fully trust him, but she knew she was . . . safe.

You felt her within you as you sat in that now lukewarm water, letting a stranger gently wash your back. You remembered her eyes, and kept your own on him at all times, remembering the exit in case something truly did happen. You let him help you, but you kept in mind how hard the tub was, knowing if you had to, you could smash his head into the metal in a split second.

“What’s this from?” he asked after a minute of silence, his voice softer now as he paused his movement just near your shoulder, where you knew a bullet hole scar resided.

A flash of the man who’d taught you how to become a machine crossed your mind. The night you lost him, too. The way it felt. How it was . . . your fault.

You swallowed hard. “Happened a long time ago.”

“Mmm, wasn’t my question,” Chris hummed before he continued washing your back.

“It’s not from anything you have to be suspicious of, OK?” you spat, your muscles stiffening. “It’s not—” you wet your lips— “that’s not what makes me dangerous.”

“What does?”

“What?”

“You said the scar’s not what makes you dangerous,” He reiterated, dragging the washcloth over your shoulders and sending a shiver down your spine from the contact. “What does?”

You hugged your knees tighter. You remembered the feral dog. You remembered the deer. You remembered your father. But you remained silent.

“The other night . . . you begged me to kill you,” he stated. “What were you running from?”

“The dead.”

“Alright.” Chris tongued his inner cheek and laughed out a scoff, shaking his head at you. “Why were you running from them then?”

You lowered your head to your folded arms. “To survive.”

“Mmm, but then why beg for death?”

“I had a fever, you said.” You bit your arm like you should’ve bit your tongue. “I was out of my mind.”

It was then he sighed. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth.”

And it was then, that feral dog found you again. “I don’t want your help,” you quickly bit out, lifting your head to eye him.

He tilted his head slightly to the side, observing your features. “You need it.”

Your brows furrowed and your anger spread. “I don’t need anything,” you muttered out before you tried to snatch the washcloth out of his hand, but he tore it out of your way.

“Don’t be stupid,” he remarked. “You’re hurt.”

You tried again, but he dodged yet again.

“You are hurt,” he reiterated like he was scolding a small child.

You just stared at him, hesitantly.

And he stared back at you, calmly.

A beat of silence.

Then, your brows twitched almost in pain before you submitted again, lowering your arm. He picked up on this quickly but instead of washing the rest of your back, his other hand gently gripping your arm. You flinched, prepared to smash his head in, but you caught onto what he was doing before your instincts kicked in.

He had taken your arm to clean the large oozing gash on your forearm that would surely need more antibiotics as directed by his quiet remarks while he tried to clean the wound. And you let him. You weren’t sure why. Maybe you were still recovering. Maybe you were sick. Either way, something had possessed you as you let him work in silence while he cleaned the wounds that even you hadn’t realized were there.

Until, finally, he spoke the words that you never expected to hear from anyone. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice soft again.

Your breath hitched in shock before you covered it up by scoffing. “What are you sorry for?”

Beat.

Beat.

Beat.

“That you’re here and they are not,” he confessed.

Your brows pinched together. How did he know? “What are you—”

“Whoever you were trying to save . . . “ he cut you off, still speaking gently, “ . . . they will remember it.”

Your eyes snapped to his.

He was already looking at you. “Or,” he continued, “you will forgive yourself for it.”

In the before, everything always had rules. Not just life but . . . your own house, too. Even up until the age of fourteen, your mother would either dress you herself or lay out the clothes she wanted you to wear, never letting you choose. It was only when you turned fifteen and your father gave you his old Harley Davidson leather jacket that you were allowed to wear it whenever you wanted as long as it never left the house. But that . . . that was the first taste of freedom you’d ever had. (Now you thought perhaps it was the only bit of freedom that you’d been allowed.)

Other than that, you were designated to wear long skirts that reached your ankles and a dull sweater that was a little too big for you even during the warmer months. And always with those little black Mary Jane flats.

The first time you felt the stinging of a slap against your cheek, was the day you went to school and came back wearing the leather jacket your father had given you. As soon as you walked through the door, your mother slapped you right across the face, and you realized rules were rules and when they were broken, consequences followed.

Your mother had always been like that. She never slapped you again after that, until . . .

But it was the fact that you knew she would that stopped you from disobeying her. That was until the dead started rising from the dead and you traded short, polished nails for claws. That was before she became more afraid of you than you had ever been afraid of her.

But the fear still remained. Maybe it shouldn’t have, but maybe it was inevitable.

In the beginning, when you first began to learn how to kill the dead, you didn’t realize that the old world was just that. You didn’t realize it would never be normal again, and yet, being perfect, following the rules had been so ingrained into your mind, that you couldn’t abandon it entirely.

Every day, you’d try to manage your hair and keep it neat even in a world like this. Every day, some water was wasted to clean the dirt and blood from underneath your fingernails and staining your skin. Every day, your mother tried to make you live a life that was as close to normal as possible, and you followed that rule (even going as far as to leave that Harley Davidson jacket back at your house instead of bringing it along).

It wasn’t until your family had stumbled across a small shop for supplies and you found this pretty pink shirt, that you realized the old world was dead. Only ten minutes after trading your old, tattered top for the new one, did your father have to kill a few of the dead, their blood splattering and staining your shirt.

You stopped trying to be so . . . clean after that. No more struggling to manage your hair. No more wasting water to clean the blood and dirt and whatever else. No more choosing clothes that your mother would approve of. No more old world.

The new world was supposed to go on without you. The new world was supposed to end for you in the middle of those woods. And yet, here you still were, standing before a mirror, your hair washed and damp as you ran a brush through it for the first time since the beginning.

You almost didn’t recognize yourself either. This person staring back at you in the mirror didn’t look like the you you remembered. This was a stranger and yet so . . . familiar.

Was it your father that you saw?

The feral dog?

Or something else entirely?

Resting the hairbrush on the lip of the sink, you retracted your hand and before you could stop yourself, your fingertips grazed across your cheek. There under your eye was a cut. You didn’t know how it came to be. On your forehead was a scar that must have happened years ago, and another across the bridge of your nose.

You remembered a time when your face was clean of blemishes. You remembered a time when your cheeks were soft with peach fuzz, not raised and rough from the new world. You remembered a time when your appearance had been the only thing you cared about; the only thing you spent hours plaguing yourself with; when it was your only worry.

Swallowing hard, you dropped your hand and your eyes fell to the ground. You couldn’t stare at . . . her anymore.

Who even was she anymore?

A knock came at the bathroom door before your mind could spin further. “Decent yet?” Chris called from the other side of the door.

But you didn’t answer. You didn’t have it in you. Instead, with a sigh, you ignored the mirror once more and approached the door, swinging it open before he could get the chance.

Chris stepped back at your appearance, but his expression remained the same. That was until his eyes flicked down to your clothes, lingering for just a second but in that second you could have sworn you caught the slight twitch in his brows.

“Come on, you should eat,” he said without looking at you before he turned and headed for the stairs.

Tugging on the hem of your shirt, you followed after him without a word or a fight. This time, while the stairs were empty and there was no one lingering in the hallways, you could hear faint chatter from afar. And this time, you held yourself stiffer, on edge, calculating. You kept your eyes on the man before you as well as your surroundings, with your ears peeled, trying to decipher the conversations up ahead. Mostly you were trying to figure out how many voices there were which would tell you how many people were in this bunker, which could possibly mean how many people you would have to fight off.

The noise became louder the further you two walked. As you grew closer, you could mostly hear the voices of men with the odd woman, and you couldn’t stop yourself from winding into position—a stance you’d taken a million times before to protect your family.

Just as Chris turned the corner, you followed after him, knowing what you’d have to do. He wasn’t on your side. This was just a ploy. It had to be. Butter you up for fun, then leave you for the slaughter. That was how it had always been since the world died, and you were sure that was what was awaiting you.

Who knew you could still be scared even after all this time?

Swallowing hard, you readied yourself . . . but when Chris rounded another corner, and his group first came into sight, you almost couldn’t believe it. Right before you was a room, a dining room, or rather something that seemed awfully close to it with tables to eat on and kitchen appliances on the back wall. And in the room were the men you’d heard, but with them were women . . . elders . . . kids . . . The room was filled with people—people you’d never thought could survive a world like this, chatting and eating amongst each other as if . . . as if this was just some kind of picnic.

. . . And . . . in the corner of the room sat a little girl no older than ten, feeding a cracker to a . . . dog.

A dog. You’d thought all domesticated animals had perished during Famine’s reign.

There was no masking the shocked expression on your face. This wasn’t an ambush. But that would mean . . . Chris hadn’t lied to you.

Could this truly be a safe place? Was this really just a community of survivors?

No . . . No . . . it couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. Because if it was then that meant you’d ended up here . . . safe . . . and your family was still out there. That would mean you were the reason you were safe and they were not. And that would mean you’d failed him . . . again.

Chris tossed a lunch tray on the table before you, snapping you out of your own mind.

You blinked, but didn’t show your surprise. Blank. You remained blank.

He only stared at you with the same expression. Then, he raised his brow and nodded toward the tray as if telling you to eat.

And while you sat down, eyes locked on him, watching, you didn’t pick up the fork on your tray. Because this had to be a ploy. This seemed too good to be true. It had to be. And if it wasn’t, then one day it would be.

Chris scoffed when he realized you weren’t going to touch the food. “You think I’d poison you?” he asked, nearly laughing in disbelief. “I’ve given you medical help, a bed, shower, clean clothes and you think I poisoned the food? For what? What would be my game?”

You only shrugged, your body stiff as you kept your eyes narrowed in on him. (It was odd to realize you were still trying to survive. Wasn’t death what you wanted?)

He stared at you a little longer, searching your eyes as if you’d let an answer slip through. But you weren’t one to wear your emotions on your face; you weren’t one to give yourself away, not unless you wanted to . . . and there was nothing you wanted to give to him. You wouldn’t let him in your head. You knew what that did. So, you stared back, gaze harsh and expression stern.

Trust no one, even if they give you a reason to. That was what you had learned. That was what your father’s death had taught you. That was what the world had whispered to you that night. That was your lesson.

But it was almost as if even if you gave him nothing, he knew. His eyes flashed in acceptance (?) as he pursed his lips and nodded once. The next second he dipped his finger into what appeared to be mashed potatoes before he plopped it into his mouth . . . and swallowed. He took a swig of the glass of water by your hand as well, and you watched, blinking rapidly, taken aback.

“Happy?” he asked, placing the glass of water on the table with a clank.

Your brows twitched for nearly a second too long. You hoped he didn’t see. He wasn’t supposed to, but you couldn’t wrap your head around this place. You’d never seen people like this. Why did he want you to trust him? Why was he helping you? What did he want?

Swallowing hard, you averted your gaze from his face to the food placed in front of you. Oddly enough, it almost looked like a home-cooked meal. The mashed potatoes were still hot, still steaming, and the meat didn’t look too fresh, but fresher than you’d seen in a while, and cooked better than you ever could. There were even some freshly roasted walnuts on the side, that smelled like the winter holidays at your house during the before.

It was almost too good to ignore. It was almost too good to deny. Until it was. Until your stomach growled, and hunger sept back in. Until you realized this wasn’t the before and this was the first meal you’d had in a week, maybe longer. Until you realized it didn’t matter if you didn’t want to survive, you were just so fucking hungry and those mashed potatoes were still hot . . . and the meat was cooked thoroughly . . . and the walnuts smelled just like home. Until you realized just how hungry you were for it all.

And then you couldn’t stop yourself. For a few minutes, you forgot who you were. For a few minutes, you forgot how to survive. For a few minutes, you wanted not to be hungry.

Your hunger overcame you as you neglected the fork and knife, your greedy fingers digging into the mashed potatoes first, and shoveling it down your throat before you could even breathe. And when that was scraped clean, you dug into the meat, tearing piece by piece off with your teeth like the wild animal you knew he saw you as. And when that was gone, your hands reached for the glass of water, chugging as much as you could without choking.

The walnuts were left for last.

With your hands shaking from the influx of food, you grasped the first walnut, inhaling its smell as you popped it in your mouth and allowed yourself to savor its flavor. Only then when you took your time chewing walnut after walnut did you realize Chris was watching you again, except this time he was seated in front of you, his elbows resting on the table with his hands clasped in front of his mouth. He rubbed his lips against the rough skin of his hands, clearly lost in deep thought as he analyzed you.

When you'd finally caught on, your grip on the walnut in your hand loosened, your chewing slowing a second later. You dropped the walnut onto your tray and swallowed the rest of the food in your mouth before you cleared your throat and averted your gaze across the room. But you only saw something more unnerving. Everyone in the room seemed to be watching you. Maybe not so obviously, but you could tell their hushed whispers and quick glances in your direction meant only one thing: the topic of their conversations was you.

What did they want? Was it your presence? The way you looked? The way you’d eaten? Could they see who you really were? And . . . why did that . . . hurt you?

Chris interrupted your mind before you could torture yourself further. “You can be out there too long, you know?”

There was your answer. That was why they were staring at you.

While your family had been out there, scavenging for years, losing people after people . . . they had been safe in here. While you barely had any scraps to go around, they were eating mashed potatoes and gravy. While you hadn’t bathed in years, they hadn’t gone more than a day. While you’d lost your father, your mother, sister, Felix . . . children were allowed to grow here. While you had to put down the dog your sister had grown to love just so your family wouldn’t die of starvation . . . dogs were allowed to bark, play, eat here. While you had survived, they had lived.

And while they ate with forks and knives, you’d devoured everything with your hands as if you truly were one of the dead. To them, this was a meal. To you, this was survival.

There was your answer, and it wasn’t one you accepted kindly.

Your jaw locked, anger fueling you once again. “There’s no escaping it,” you muttered out.

Chris’s brows pinched together. “What?”

“What’s out there,” you reiterated, sucking on your teeth as your gaze dropped to the bandages wrapped tightly around your leg. “You can’t escape it. You can run, scavenge, fight . . . but the dead are always right there.” Glancing up, your eyes were blank again. “There’s no being out there too long. It is what it is. Out there is our world. Can’t get away from that even in here.”

There was no response to your words. Chris remained silent. He remained stern, stiff, calculated, but his eyes never left your face.

Was he deciding your fate?

Your eyes flicked back to the little girl and the dog, and you realized you wanted to decide for him. “We found a dog, too,” you began, recalling the bitter memory. “Smaller than that one, but sweet.” Your brows twitched. “And at first I thought it was a good thing. I thought it meant that the dead hadn’t taken everything . . . until the dead started to eat the deer and the squirrels . . . even the rats . . . until it got colder and the things that used to be alive died . . . until we didn’t have any food left.”

The scene before you of the little girl combing her fingers through the dog’s fur played out and you couldn’t help but see your sister and Berry in it. She’d loved that dog. She’d loved it like you loved her.

It broke your heart ripping that away from her. It broke hers, too.

She was too young to understand, but she’d loved you more back then. She’d loved you enough to force herself to ignore your lies. She’d loved you enough to believe that the meat you’d found was a deer and not her beloved dog. She’d loved you enough to pretend that her dog had been killed by the dead and not her sister. Although you supposed she never really had, she just pushed it away, and when your father died, that resentment all came back.

You’d killed her dog and her father. The dead suddenly wasn’t her biggest issue. It was you.

Forcefully tearing your eyes from the little girl, you met Chris’s gaze and held it. “Eighteen days we waited,” you began again, leaning forward this time to make sure he wouldn’t look away. You wanted him to be convinced. You wanted him to learn. “You know you can survive up to a month without food if you’re lucky? It’s funny because . . . you don’t realize just how much the days don’t matter when your only thought is food . . . food . . . food. Kinda makes you sympathize with the dead. Kinda also makes you envy them.”

Still, he remained silent, only squinting his eyes in thought but never tearing his gaze from your face. You mirrored him, but added in a grin.

“No one else wanted to do it,” you whispered with an hiss. “And they were right, right? Should’ve listened to them. Should’ve tested the limits a little longer, yeah?” You clicked your tongue. “But I was so damn hungry . . . “

You saw it then. It was gone in a flash, but you swore you saw it. He’d reacted. It was written on his face, he’d leaned back ever so slightly, but then it was gone. Then he was composed. Then he was this stranger again.

But you had seen it.

But it wasn’t enough.

You had to go further.

Swallowing hard you knew what you had to admit. “Her name was Berry . . . I snapped her neck and made everyone eat her,” you bitterly spat out. “The next morning we stumbled across a fuckin’ deer.”

There. Another flash. He knew. He knew what you were and you knew it, too.

“So I’ll ask you a question,” you quickly continued before he could compose himself. “Do you honestly think you’re safe? You think they won’t find their way in here? That you won’t lose people? Friends? Family? Those kids?” You felt yourself grin again. “They always find a way. Something will go wrong or someone will come along and ruin this place just like all the others. Or maybe it’ll be you.” With a shrug, you toyed with the walnuts, popping another one into your mouth. “Maybe you’ll bring the wrong person down here at the wrong time and you’ll have to kill more than just that dog to survive.”

A beat passed but he still didn’t divert his eyes from your face. And when there was only one walnut left, you sighed and rested your chin in the palm of your hand, meeting his eyes again.

“Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t. And I promise you . . . it will,” you muttered in an almost bored tone. “This place will burn one day and everyone you’ve ever loved will die. There is no difference between out there and in here. You’ll realize that. And when you do . . . you’ll know I was right.” Your hand reached your glass of water again, your finger tracing the rim. “You’ll realize you should’ve poisoned this food and you’ll regret not killing me when you—“

But you never finished. No, instead, Chris abruptly slammed his fist down onto the table. The tray clattered against the table, the glass fell and shattered on the ground, and the room fell silent.

You blinked, trying to mask your thoughts from crossing your face but you were taken aback by the lethal look he had. It was such a familiar look, too. A look that you felt you’d only seen in yourself before.

“Enough,” he bit out, his voice only loud enough for you to hear. “Get up. You’re done.”

There was no time to process his words. He didn’t even let you stand up by yourself. He was on his feet in an instant, moments before his hand wrapped around your arm and tugged you along with him. He seemed to have no care for your injured leg, dragging you behind him as he exited the dining area despite your limping.

And all of it told you one thing: you had him right he where you wanted him.

Grinning slightly, you scoffed out a laugh. “Did I hit a nerve?” you all but mocked. “It’s just logical. What if I betray you? If I open that hatch and lead the dead down here? If I let them—”

Before you could continue your threat, your back was slammed against a wall, and Chris was on you. His body cornered yours, his arms pinning you to the wall as he breathed heavily, his face not even an inch from yours.

“Listen to me—” he began, his voice low, quiet, but lethal. “I know what you’re doing. I know what it’s like to be out there too long. I know what it’s like to kill something you love. I know death and I know people like you. If I didn’t . . . I would have let the dead tear you apart and waited to steal your supplies.” His eyes searched yours. They were a lighter brown from this proximity, you noted. “Don't say that shit around here. My people don’t trust outsiders. You say that when I’m not around and I won’t be able to protect you from what they’ll do.”

You shook your head, but kept your eyes locked with his. “I don’t want your protection.”

“But you need it.”

“Fuck you.”

“You need it.”

You remained silent for only a second, questions swarming your head. “I thought you said your people didn’t kill the living?” you asked, voicing one of those questions aloud.

He swallowed before he answered, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “We don’t,” he reiterated, but . . . there was something in the way he said it. Something that wasn’t there before. “But they can and will hurt you if you bring harm to this place. And if you are a threat, I can’t guarantee that someone won’t be tempted.”

“That go for you, too, ‘man of your word’?”

Only then did his eyes flick from your eyes to your shoulders where his arm had pinned you to the wall before he met your gaze again. “Yes,” he whispered, his words sounding like a confession.

No other words were exchanged between the two of you. You knew what his words meant and he knew what the look on your face said. If you tried to kill him, he’d take you out. And you accepted that knowing if you were a different person with fewer morals, you’d take him up on that offer. But to die like that . . . it wasn’t enough. It was cheap. It was the death of a coward. And it was like he knew you’d never fall into that trap.

So, with a quiet understanding, he cautiously stepped back and waved you down the hall, claiming the tour wasn’t over. And you merely limped after him.

Nightfall came fast. Grounds were covered and this Chris had made sure to be thorough; so thorough your ankle had begun to pulse in pain. But even with your complaints, he carried on, and only stopped when you’d reached the medical room. The same guy before; the guy who’d bandaged you up in the first place had met you there, and quickly redid your dressings from when Chris had done them after your bath. And just when you thought that meant you’d be allowed to hobble back to the room they’d been keeping you in, Chris patted his friend’s back and mentioned something about getting to the dining room before the storyteller began.

Then you found yourself stuck at the same picnic table from this morning, chin resting on your hand as you listened to one of the older ladies share a story of made-up lands and characters to not only the children but the adults as well. It seemed everyone here looked forward to this exact moment and you wondered if this happened every day. (If it did, you’d need to fake a few injuries to get out of having to listen in.)

It felt like a dream. You couldn’t decide if it was a good one or like the kinds you’d had when you were growing up. It was odd to witness; odd to sit in; odd to realize that you were a part of this in some way or another. Sure, it was against your will to sit there and listen in, and yet when all you could think about was surviving in the world outside the bunker, and . . . your heart still raced like you were out there.

There was no without, you supposed. Maybe you’d always feel this way—on edge. Maybe you deserved it. But no matter how you thought of it, there was no erasing the fact that you were underground with food and people and shelter, and your family was out there.

Were they safe?

You shook your head, averting your gaze to the table. They were safer without you. People died around you. You brought death. It was better this way; safer. When a dog is violent, they’re meant to be muzzled before anything else. There’s a reason. It’s so they don’t bite. You discovered that the day your father died . . . perhaps a little sooner. A caged animal is there for a reason. And you, you’d stayed locked in your cage for years, your father’s hand being the only thing keeping you in there.

. . . Until your father died and his hand released you. You couldn’t go back. A caged animal doesn’t cage itself. A caged animal runs. That was why you left. That was why it wasn’t safe for your family to be around you. A freed animal ran, and you had to keep running.

With a sigh, you began to pick at the edges of the table, blocking out the voice of the storyteller. And that was when you felt it: the reason you had been uneasy. Your brows pinched together as you glanced up, your eyes immediately catching sight of the disturbance. Tilting your head to the side, you let your eyes go blank as you stared at him.

Because, there on the other side of the room, stood Chris, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the wall, his eyes focused solely on you. There was something in the way he looked at you; something that told you you didn’t belong here. And suddenly, it was like you were eleven years old again, being told you’d be condemned to Hell because of who your father was.

It seemed that was always the case. The only man in the whole town who didn’t go to Sunday morning mass was your father. The only man who sat silently during dinner prayers was your father. The only man who ignored his neighbors, stalked off early in the morning to hunt, and left the town for the farmers market was your father. He was the only man in the town who’d forsaken their God, and he just so happened to be your father. And you just so happened to look exactly like him.

You understood some of it back then, and from what you gathered, you hated the similarity. You hated that you couldn’t be like everyone else. You hated how it scared you.

When you were little, you were scared to die, because you knew where you'd end up. When you were little, you were scared to be like your father. When you were little, you were scared of everything. And when you’d get a little too in your head, you’d start to think about what Hell was like. You used to imagine Hell was a room covered in blood. A room with only one door that led to nowhere, but with no windows, like the kind you’d see in basements. And in the corner of the room was this chair. It was familiar, almost yours. And as you grew, you started to imagine that this chair was yours; that it did belong to you. It was easy to imagine the seat waiting for you in Hell was a chair you’d sat on many times before during breakfast, lunch, and dinner. A chair with marker stains in the wood. A chair with butterflies, flowers, and rainbows covering the seat, arms, and legs. A chair that was your own.

In this room, this chair would be the only thing left untouched. Bloodied handprints would litter the ground, and claw marks could be seen carved into the walls. The room would be white, too, so the red would just . . . pop.

This was Hell. No demons. No Satan. They were there, sure. They were somewhere, but not in your room, because you’d liked to imagine that everyone had their own room, otherwise how would that make any sense? Hell was different for everyone, and to you . . . to you Hell was a bloodied room with four walls, your childhood chair in the corner, and no one in sight. That was what scared you most—that even at the end, no one would be waiting for you.

When you were a kid, this was your greatest fear, but it was a fear because you thought it was something that might happen to you. Back then, it was only a threat. Now . . . if Hell and Heaven or whatever existed as the town had predicted, then you knew that was exactly where you’d end up. There were no ifs, ands, or buts. A lonely room with bloodied walls and your childhood chair awaited you at the end of the line. (You wouldn’t admit that the thought still scared you.)

The difference now was that it didn’t matter if it still scared you, you would’ve preferred it over this. A grotesque room with no exit was a far better Hell than the one plaguing the earth. Even then, you weren’t sure which you deserved for your sins and bloodied hands.

But it wasn’t until your father’s death that you realized it wasn’t just you who imagined this Hell. It wasn’t just you who had feared it. It wasn’t just you who recognized the dark inside you.

You remembered the night he died. You remembered what you’d done; how it had been your fault. You remembered his face and you remembered his screams. You remembered how he’d saved you from your own stupid decisions. You remembered the look of relief which crossed his face, and the confusion you felt wondering if he was relieved because you were safe . . . or because he knew this was the end. And you remembered the silence.

While your father had died because of a stupid decision you’d made, he’d saved you all, and everyone knew that. The walk of silence after running for hours was agony. The dryness of your throat and the wounds littering your body. The bullet hole leaking from your shoulder. All you had wanted to do was fall to the ground and let the roots and weeds grow over you.

But you were still younger then. You were still . . . open like the wounds on your body. You hadn’t scarred over yet. And, you remembered, what you wanted most in that moment was to rest your head in your mother’s lap and let her stroke your hair. You wanted her to tell you it wasn’t your fault; that you couldn’t have known that would happen; that all of you thought it was safe; that she’d be on your side whether you were right or wrong.

Only . . . you’d forgotten your mother’s love wasn’t all that different from her hatred, and sometimes it was hard to tell them apart. You’d forgotten that you could never really tell if she loved you or if her love was just resentment in the form of a prayer before bed.

You’d forgotten and you’d . . . cried out to her.

That day . . . it had been so hot. The night had died and the sun had come out and you were all so tired from running and running and . . . you’d given in to your temptation and fallen to the ground, crying out for your mother.

“Mom,” you remembered sobbing out, begging for her to slow down so you could all rest. You remembered Felix falling to his knees along with you, wiping the sweat from your forehead and holding on to your hand with his free one for dear life. “Mom.”

Then . . . you remembered how her steps halted, her back rigid as she put your sister on the floor and turned to face you. You remembered seeing it: resentment . . . or was it her love? And all you had wanted to do was cry and cry and tell her that you needed her; that you wanted her to love you; that you need it more than anything in that moment. And then: “Mommy, please, I’m sorry. Please, I didn’t know,” you’d whimpered out, trying to beg for her forgiveness.

For a second, you’d thought she might, too. For a second, you’d thought you’d seen it in her eyes: forgiveness. But just like her love, that, too, had always turned into resentment and rage so quickly. Still, you hoped. You wanted to believe it so much you nearly leaned into her as she kneeled before you, her eyes searching yours as she reached out and cupped your cheek with her shaking hand. And then, she’d wiped the tears from your eyes, and you choked out a sob.

But nothing had ever been certain with her, and just as you breathed a puff of relief, a sudden impact hit your cheek, sharp stinging following. You remembered the pain like no other, not because it’d hurt worse than the open wounds you’d received, but because it had been her. Your mother had slapped you across the face and all you could do was cry out, your hand quickly coming to soothe your cheek.

Her grip had remained; however. Her hand gripped your chin, forcing you to meet her angry gaze. And then: “God made sure to punish me with you,” she spat out, her jaw locked, nose flared, and eyes so similar to your own now.

That . . . was the last time you cried for her love.

God made sure to punish me with you.

You remembered that, too. You never let yourself forget it. You kept it as a reminder that no matter the outcome, you deserved whatever horrible things happened to you. This was only just the beginning of your Hell, and at the end, you were sure you’d see that chair from your childhood, marker stains and all.

The dining room of the bunker wasn’t much different. You still sat alone in the corner of a room far enough from everyone else to know you weren’t one of them; to know that they knew you were there and didn’t want to sit too . . . close.

God made sure to punish me with you.

Would he punish this group, too? Were you his own personal bad omen? Were you more dangerous than the dead? Were you the last harbinger of Hell? Were you the Death you had been so afraid of? Is that—

“Do you not like stories?” a little voice suddenly asked, tearing you from your mind.

You blinked, taken aback before your eyes fell on the little girl who had sat down in front of you. Silently, you glanced around for her parents, but no one seemed to be even looking at the two of you. Your eyes fell upon her again, furrowing your brows as you watched her mindlessly sip on the drink in her cup. Her hair was dark, and her eyes were even darker. Her glasses adorned her face, and there was a small freckle just under her eye. She was little, no younger than nine, but probably smaller than she should’ve been for her age. She had this brightness to her face that reminded you a little too much of the sister you’d said goodbye to a few nights ago.

She turned back to you and puffed up her cheeks, blowing out air. “The others said you don’t talk,” she mumbled, tilting her head to the side. “Is that true?”

Brows still furrowed, you shook your head. Still, however, you didn’t reply.

“So you do speak?” she asked, her voice more chipper as she leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Will you play a game with me then?” She didn’t wait for you to reply, instead, she turned her head and pointed in the direction of the group of kids surrounding the storyteller. “You see that boy over there with the green hat? That’s Jiung. He stole my favorite pen and won’t give it back. I planned to sneak into his room tonight and find it, but two is better than one. You—” she pointed at you, smiling wide, her two canines missing— “look like you want to keep watch for me.”

Your brows twitched, but you remained silent. This kid was bold. She spoke clearly and knew what she wanted. You never grew up with kids like her. Your sister was timid, and still young. You had been like that, too, until you grew into . . . this.

“I don’t play pranks,” was all you muttered.

The little girl rolled her eyes. “It’s not a prank,” she groaned, pausing to take a sip of her drink. “It’s just getting back what’s mine, but that is a good idea. I should pour water on his pillow so he can’t sleep.”

Shaking your head, you fought the small twitch in your lips. “I don’t hang out with children either.”

“I’m not a child,” she huffed. “I’m ten.”

That time the corners of your lips did curve up ever so slightly. And she seemed to notice.

“You smiled,” she exclaimed, pointing her tiny finger in your face. “Bess said you looked mean, but I knew it. I knew you couldn’t be. You like me, of course you do. How could you be mean?”

“I smiled because you’re ridiculous, toothless.”

She grinned wider. “Toothless,” she giggled. “That’s what my brother calls me, but he’s ugly so I don’t really care, and he took after Daddy, so he got all the bad genes. I look like my Mama, you see. Mama was pretty.” She looked down, tapping her fingers on the table. “You’re pretty like Mama. I like to think I’ll be pretty like Mama one day, too. My teeth will grow in, you’ll see, and I’ll get her hair. I’ll be pretty.”

You swallowed, hard, watching as the little girl as she peered over her shoulder at the storyteller. She took another sip of her drink, humming now, all the while, you could only stare at her. You didn’t want to feel this way, but you knew what her words meant. Her parents were gone. You could infer that, and yet . . . here she was smiling at you. Were children truly the strongest of you all? Was that all it took to be brave?

But, no, that was wrong. It wasn’t fair. Children weren’t meant to go without their parents. And yet, here she was, asking you to rob another kid blind with her. It almost made you laugh. It almost made you cry.

In silence, you watched as she turned back, opening her mouth to no doubt try to convince you to help her, but before she could, she knocked her arm on the table, causing her drink to spill. The red liquid splashed her chin and trickled down, staining her shirt. But you reacted quicker. It was almost instinct. It was almost your nature. It was almost a part of you. It was you who reached forward to clean her chin, forgetting yourself.

And then everything happened too quickly, and you were reminded of who you really were.

A glint of steel flashed in the corner of your eye, similar to the one you’d used on that man the night everything changed. You went for the little girl like you’d gone for your sister. An unfamiliar, desperate voice that sounded similar to your own that night you killed that man, yelled, “Don’t touch her!” The storyteller stopped, gasps spread throughout the room, and you turned your head just in time to catch a glimpse of a knife making its way to your skull, your brain to make sure you’d drop dead for good, and then—

It all just stopped. You could still feel it, the tip of the knife a hairbreadth away from piercing your skull and ending you right there, but it didn’t hurt. There was no blood like that night. There was no pain. You were still breathing, but you couldn’t feel her in your arms any longer. Your sister, the little girl, wasn't in your grasp. You didn’t remember closing your eyes, but when they snapped open, desperately trying to find the little girl, instead of your attacker, you realized what had happened.

There, before you, was a man, no younger than twenty, staring not at you but at something behind you with a certain fear in his eyes. He’d come at you with a knife. He’d tried to kill you, and he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t come back as one of them. You hadn’t noticed him. You hadn’t noticed anyone. You’d wanted to clean the dribble of juice from the little girl’s chin like you’d done for your sister many times before. It was a knee-jerk reaction, and it’d almost gotten you killed. So why were you still alive?

You hadn’t noticed him. The little girl hadn’t either. No one else had. Except, the man that saved you from the death you’d sought; the man you’d mistaken as Death; Chris . . .

Chris had wrapped his palm around the blade, his grip deathly. Blood trickled down his forearm, and you took note of how tightly he was holding it, his muscles twitching. You couldn’t see him, but you could feel him. He’d grabbed you at the same time he grabbed the knife, tugging you into his chest and away from death. Your back was against his chest as he held you so tightly, that you could feel him breathe with you. And his hand . . . his hand was secured around your middle, splaying out across your ribcage, holding you there against him to make sure you wouldn’t budge; to make sure the knife wouldn’t touch you; to make sure you were alive.

He’d saved you. Again.

“Chris,” the boy murmured, out of breath. “I’m sorry. I—“ His words were chopped and weak, like he wasn’t expecting the consequences. “The others heard what she told you at lunch. I—I thought she was going to hurt Misun.”

Chris ripped the knife out of the boy’s hand and threw it to the ground, causing more blood to trickle down his arm. “Get your sister to bed, Jeongin,” he said, his voice low as he pointed to the little girl and then the exit. “I will escort our guest to her room and then you and I will have a little chat about hospitality in the hall.”

The boy nodded as he sheepishly grabbed his sister’s hand and led her toward the stairs. But you caught her eyes. She was looking back at you, scratching at her brother’s hold with tears in her eyes. And for a second, you forgot who you were, until you caught a glimpse of the knife on the floor, and then you remembered. You forced yourself to look away from her, masking your emotions and making your face blank once again.

Only once the two were gone and the room was quiet again, did you realize you were still in Chris’s arms. Your back was still pressed against his chest and his hand was still embracing your body. Stiffening, you turned your head to eye him, but his eyes were staring at the exit. His wounded hand didn’t even seem to bother him, he just kept staring as if he were waiting for someone else to walk through. Only when you tried to tear yourself from his body did he snap out of it, blinking rapidly before his eyes landed on you. His brows furrowed before he averted his gaze and pursed his lips as he stepped back from you, his hand dropping to his side.

“Everything will be fine. Continue,” he barked at the rest of the inhabitants in the room, and they all immediately listened, turning from the scene. A few even had to turn their children’s heads from the two of you, but you barely noticed. You just kept staring at him.

He’d saved you again, but he knew you wanted to die. Was he some kind of savior or sadist? Did he want to protect or torture you? You couldn’t figure it out. You couldn’t figure him out, and it intrigued you one way or another.

But before you could ponder longer, he was touching you again. His hand wrapped around your arm, and he tugged, dragging you after him as he headed toward the exit. He was taking you back to that room. You knew it, too. But was he keeping you there for your own protection or for the protection of his group?

When you exited the room, out of earshot of the rest of the group, he turned around, face only an inch from yours. His eyes searched yours for only a moment before he muttered, “I think it’d be best if you stay away from the others until I have a proper talking with them.”

Your brows furrowed as you took in his words. He was confusing. He was different from anyone you’d ever met back home or on the road. You had no idea what his motives were or why he was going to these great lengths to either convince you he was to be trusted because he actually wanted your trust. You just didn’t get it. You didn’t get him.

Tilting your head, you swallowed these questions, masking it all with a scoff. “All these lengths to keep me alive,” you began, lazily shaking your head as your eyes trailed over his face. (He really was handsome, you noted. The teenage girl in you never really was allowed to dream of men like this. You didn’t really know if the race in your chest was because of his face or the questions you had about him.) “You’d think I was . . . important.”

You could tell by the brief look which crossed his face that he wasn’t expecting your words. An odd sense of accomplishment filled you at that. Until:

“All life is now,” he whispered, letting go of your arm immediately.

Then he was gone, stalking down the stairs.

And you followed after him, your jaw tight.

There was something inside you that was sick. Something rotten. Something small, but growing. Dark, grotesque, and ugly. It was akin to a wild animal—feral and unloved, clawing at your ribcage in a helpless attempt to break free. Sometimes you let it out. Sometimes you encouraged it, fed it, nourished it, nurtured it the way you never had been. It had become something of a pet to you.

The little dark seed inside you had laid dormant for years. Water didn’t allow the little seed to sprout. It seemed only blood could do the trick. First with the dog. Then your father. And now . . . the man. Even now, you could still feel the seed clinging onto the blood of his which you’d swallowed. And it was hungry for more; angry; impatient.

You were growing impatient, too.

It had been another two weeks. Your ankle was almost nearly healed; at least healed enough to walk on it. None of that mattered. It seemed Chris was adamant about not letting you go outside even with the results, and you were beginning to feel like the animal inside you: trapped.

The days were long without sunlight, and the people didn’t come near you. The only one brave enough to bother you was the same little girl you’d met on your first day. Yang Misun was something you’d only met once. In a lot of ways she reminded you of your sister, but in a lot of other ways, she was nothing like her. She had a habit of following you around even when you’d ignore her or shut the door in her face. She’d find a way to get to you, and eventually, you kind of just gave up, resorting to just sitting there in silence while she went on about whatever.

Through your silence, you’d learned she liked playing pranks on this Jiung. There weren’t many girls her age, so she mostly played with the group’s dog, Barney. She claimed that it was really her dog since he came to her first when they rescued him three years ago. She hated story time and loved dinner because her brother always gave her a little bit of his every time. (Speaking of which, she’d gone on to say that her brother was an idiot who acted before he thought and that was why he was so . . . “stupid” (He refused to come near you, except the one time he threatened to kill you if you tried to hurt his sister.).)

And that was pretty much all you’d done in the past two weeks: eat, sleep, be avoided and avoid, and glare at their leader.

But sometimes, if you woke up early enough, earlier than anyone else, and walked up the stairs to the highest part of the bunker, you could finally get some peace and quiet alone, and far away from everything. Every time you did, it always went the same way, too. You’d reach the top of the stairs, the bunker exit staring you down as you sighed before you sat down on the edge of the platform, feet hanging over the edge while you rested your arms on the railing. And every time, you wondered what would happen if you just slipped . . .

You were high enough. Something would happen. Maybe that would be best. Maybe that was what you wanted. No, you knew it was. You knew you had to. You knew you had to kill it. You knew one day it would happen, but . . . not before you retrieved your father’s gun. You couldn’t die without him it. You just couldn’t.

That day was no different. You’d figured out the schedule now. It was hard to tell when morning was, but you figured when you awoke out of habit that was when the sun rose. You listened to your body well, waking up when the pounding in your chest followed you even in your dreams. Promptly, you readied yourself and carefully walked the silent halls until you reached the highest point of the bunker. And now, you sat in the same spot you found yourself in every day and just waited. For what? You didn’t know. You just sat, legs dangling over the edge as you rested your forehead against the railing.

The bunker door was right there. You could leave. It would be so easy, and yet . . . you still waited. You weren’t sure why and you didn’t care to figure it out. You just let your body sag against the railing and listened to the noises of the sleeping bunker.

This was how you lived now. How utterly mundane. How selfish. How privileged. You couldn’t help but think if your family was starving. If they had shelter. If they were alive. Were they really safe without you? Could they survive?

Shaking your head, you stopped yourself. You couldn’t go back. Like a wild dog, your love was rotten. A violent dog. You bit. Your love was rotten. Your love was something no one would wish for; it was something that no one could love back; it was tainted; bloody; grotesque; ugly. Who could be safe with a love like that? A love like that would get them killed. They were safer with Felix; they were safer under his protection; under his love, not yours. You couldn’t return. Feral dogs didn’t have homes to crawl back to, anyway. Feral dogs got put down, and you needed to find a way to put yourself down before you brought any more harm to anyone else.

“This area’s off limits, you know?” a voice abruptly interrupted your silence.

Stiff, you glanced up. Chris.

You only stared blankly.

He stood still on the staircase, leaning on the railing as he stared up at you, taking in your demeanor. “I could report you for coming here every day,” he hummed, eyes flicking from your face to your beat-up shoes.

“This is my first time here,” you muttered, clenching your jaw tight.

His brows raised ever so slightly. “Mmm, I don’t think so,” he mused, tilting his head to the side as his eyes flicked back up to meet yours. “Every day, I see you come out of your room, walk up this staircase, and sit right there until the others start wakin’ up.”

How had he seen you? You were sure everyone else was asleep at this time.

Your brows furrowed further.

He’s said your room as if there was anything that belonged to you in this place. But it wasn’t true. The room wasn’t yours. You were pretty sure it belonged to him. Which led you to another question, where had he been sleeping? “Then why haven't you said anything?” you asked.

He shrugged and sighed, “Well . . . I suppose if you’re going to kill yourself, I’d rather you do it when no one’s around.”

You scoffed. Asshole. And that was it. You dragged yourself to your feet, and rounded the ledge toward the staircase. You’d tried to walk right past him like you thought he expected, but before you could, his hand reached for your arm. You glanced his way, remaining silent, but your eyes roared with questions. Almost hesitantly, he dropped his hand, eyes following as he stared at your shoes.

“You’ve healed,” he began, tonguing the inside of his cheek before his eyes flicked back up to meet your scrutinizing gaze. “We can get your gun.”

Your brows twitched. You hadn’t been expecting that.

“Really?” you heard yourself whisper before you could stop yourself. It was odd too. The way you sounded, it was almost as if it hadn’t been you. The voice wasn’t the you you knew, but rather the you from when you first inherited that gun.

Chris nodded. “I keep my word.”

Lips pursed, you nodded right back.

Hunger. You’d always been a hungry child. You’d come into the world hungry, oftentimes being left to cry in your crib alone. When you grew older, your mother used to joke that you were a greedy baby; one that always needed a bottle. It wasn’t until your sister was born, and you noticed not once was she left alone to cry, did you realize it had never been the bottles upon bottles that you were hungry for.

Instead, you grew up hungry. You grew up obedient, wondering if that would satiate your hunger. And when it didn’t, you’d act out, but one cue from the hand that feeds and you’d go back to that quiet, hungry, little girl.

Since the beginning of the end, hunger became something different. You were almost used to it; almost unbothered. Everyone else had a hard time adjusting to it. The food that was gorged, the drinks that were spilled. Everyone seemed to be so . . . so ravenous. But you remained the same—the same, familiar hunger deep inside you. It was almost too hard to differentiate.

And when your father passed, you were reminded of why hunger had never bothered you. You were reminded of the difference between this hunger and the one you’d been born with.

All you had wanted was to keep your family safe. That was your promise to your father. It was your job. That was your life now. But you had begun to think that . . . what you truly wanted was to be loved as much as you were hated. You thought your mother’s love would have been much easier to swallow then. Maybe you’d be able to get it down without choking. Or . . . maybe it’d kill you.

You knew that was what you were truly seeking for. You’d remain hungry until then, no matter how well fed they’d keep you in the bunker. It was a sick kind of hunger. That was it. And suddenly it all made sense: you’d been hungry for everyone you’ve ever loved.

The woods enveloped you and Chris like a living, breathing entity, no sign of the dead or their unnerving groans. It was still morning, only a few hours had passed since he approached you with the idea to retrieve your gun. You managed to convince him you were ready to go off on your own, meeting him back at the front entrance of the bunker an hour after your conversation, but he insisted on accompanying you. He claimed it was his last act of hospitality. You called bullshit but didn’t argue, figuring you’d be rid of him soon enough.

Your hunger only grew as you shoved the food Chris had forced you to pack for your travels. It grew larger and larger when you walked by the room you knew to belong to Misun Yang. It grew harder to ignore when you approached the bunker vault, watching as Chris climbed up the stairs and opened the hatch, climbing out. It consumed you as you joined him on the outside, the sunlight nearly blinding you. But you ignored this hunger; you ignored that a part of you wanted to belong in that bunker; you ignored how much you wished you could stay, and then you shoved it all down, claiming insanity, because that wasn’t you and you wouldn’t think that. You didn’t deserve to.

This was where you belonged—on the outside. Just another animal in the woods. That was who you were. You didn’t get to sleep in a bed or not go hungry. This . . . this was your life—constant hunger. You accepted that long ago. You accepted it once more as you trailed behind Chris, keeping a close eye on him and your surroundings.

The air was thick and heavy; fall was coming; you could see it in the trees. The disgusting decay of fallen leaves was only a reminder. Sunlight pierced through the dense canopy above, illuminating the path before you. Chris seemed to know where he was going, sure, but you couldn’t help but wonder if he was just following the trail the light had given him, trying to stall as long as he could. It didn’t make any sense to you. He should’ve sent you out on your own, and yet . . .

As your mind spiraled, you glanced up, eyes finding him. Chris moved ahead of you, his movements careful and deliberate. You watched his back, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his head swiveled at every snapped twig or rustling leaf. His posture spoke volumes. He was on edge. Always on edge. The slight hunch in his stance, as if he was ready to spring into action at any moment. His hand never strayed far from the knife in his right hand and the gun holstered over his left shoulder. But you . . . you remained relaxed. The dead would come or they wouldn’t. You had no one to live for now. You just wanted your father’s gun, and then . . . then you could lay it all to rest; then you could let yourself become one of the dead things buried deep in the woods.

Chris had barely spoken since you set out, probably sensing you weren’t in the mood for conversation. He knew when to leave you alone. That was one thing you liked noticed about him. Even now, he didn’t ask any more questions, didn’t push for details you weren’t willing to give.

“There,” he said after what felt like, and might have just been, hours, pointing to a small clearing up ahead. “It should be just past those trees.”

You didn’t respond, just nodded and followed. Chris moved ahead, his footsteps careful, almost reverent, as if he were crossing sacred ground. You followed closely, each step weighed down by the knowledge of what lay ahead. This wasn’t just a hunt for a weapon; it was a search for a piece of your father.

As you pushed deeper into the woods, the canopy above thickened, blocking out the muted light. Shadows danced at the edges of your vision, and the sounds of the forest—crickets chirping, leaves rustling—seemed to fade into an eerie silence. The only sound was the crunch of twigs beneath your feet.

Chris paused, scanning the area with a wary expression. “Stay close,” he said, glancing back at you, his eyes dark and serious. “There might be some stragglers from the horde.”

But you barely heard him. You barely cared.

Chris resumed moving, leading you toward a patch of exposed earth that came into view through the thicket. Your breath hitched as the anticipation mounted. The clearing looked different—an unnatural mound rising in the center, marked by an absence of vegetation that made it stand out like a beacon, but you recognized it. You remembered the sprint you’d made down that same mound, screaming for the dead to take you with them; to take you to him.

“This was the place,” he murmured, pushing aside some branches with careful deliberation, as if not wanting to disturb the stillness. You narrowed your eyes at his back as he searched the area, doing your own searching with your eyes and an unsteady heart. A part of you felt like you’d never see the gun again. Another part of you wanted to search the woods until the dead or time consumed you. It seemed Chris had the same mindset as he crouched down, brushing away moss and leaves, his movements urgent yet cautious. “It has to be here,” he insisted, more to himself than to you.

And then, with a sudden, reverent flourish, he unearthed the shotgun near a tree that looked oddly familiar. But . . . there it was. Your father's shotgun.

Time slowed as you stared at it, the world around you narrowing to that singular moment. The metal glinted dully in the subdued light, as if the forest itself had recognized the significance of the moment. You felt a rush of emotions—nostalgia, longing, and an overwhelming sense of urgency—but dread settled in your chest like a stone.

Chris handed it to you, the cold steel familiar but distant, like grasping at a ghost or holding your father’s hand for the last time. The moment hung heavy in the air, thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts. You wanted to feel relief, but instead, you felt an insistent pull of dread, a sinking feeling that this was more than just reclaiming a lost object. It was a harbinger of the path you had chosen; the person you’d become.

This was it. The last piece of him. The last thing you needed before you could leave.

You should’ve felt relief. That’s what you had been waiting for—relief. The plan had been simple: find the gun, then go. You didn’t want to stick around, didn’t want to keep pretending you had a place at the bunker with Chris and the others. You’d leave, disappear, and find some way to submit to the dead. End it all on your terms.

But as you held the shotgun, that sense of closure didn’t come. Instead, something else settled over you—a heavy, suffocating weight that clung to your skin, your chest tightening with an emotion you didn’t want to name. You clenched your jaw, trying to push it down, trying to force yourself to feel what you had expected: a clean break, the freedom to walk away and dig your own grave.

But you couldn’t.

Chris watched you, his expression unreadable, though you could feel the question hanging in the air between you. You avoided his eyes, focusing on the gun instead. It wasn’t relief that you felt. It wasn’t peace. It was something darker, something colder. Dread. Grief. Guilt.

You didn’t want to admit what those feelings meant. Couldn’t let yourself acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, a part of you didn’t want to leave. That part of you wanted to stay, despite everything you had told yourself. Despite the voice in your head telling you that you didn’t deserve it. That staying would only bring more pain, more loss—for you and for them.

But none of that mattered. You couldn’t stay. You didn’t deserve the chance to stay. After everything that had happened, it was better for everyone if you just left. Better if you disappeared.

“Well,” Chris’s voice cut through the tension, steady but unsure, “you found it.”

You nodded, still not looking at him. “Yeah,” you muttered, your voice low, hollow. You needed to get out of here. Now.

Hastily, you shrugged the holster over your shoulder and turned to leave, but Chris’s voice stopped you.

“Did you see that?” he abruptly gasped, not even acknowledging that you had tried to split on him a few seconds ago. It was like he couldn’t even comprehend it; like he thought you wouldn’t. And for a second, as you took in his question, you thought he was referring to the look of dread on your face that you’d tried to hide, but when you turned to meet his eyes, he was already staring at something else in the distance.

His body was rigid, his brows pinched together. At the look, you could only imagine what was behind you. The horde? Death? Your end? But . . . it was meant to be yours, not his. He couldn’t die for you, not when you’d forced everyone else to. You wouldn’t let that happen. Not again.

Swallowing hard, every muscle in your body tensed, adrenaline surging through your veins like liquid fire. Your heart pounded in your chest, its rhythm so loud in your ears that you feared it might give away your position. Your hand instinctively moved to the knife at your belt, fingers curling around the familiar handle, as your eyes followed Chris's fixed gaze, searching for whatever had caught his attention.

But what met your eyes wasn’t one of the dead, or even ten of them. No Death awaited you or impending end. No, instead, there, in a small clearing ahead, stood a deer. Only, as soon as you caught sight of it, you realized perhaps, in a way, this was a form of Death you’d been afraid to meet again.

“I haven’t seen one of those in a long time,” Chris murmured, but you barely heard him.

The deer’s once-proud form was a shadow of what it used to be, a grotesque parody of life that sent a chill down your spine. You’d only seen this once before . . . in the before. The animal's coat, which should’ve been sleek and glossy, hung in patchy clumps from its emaciated frame, revealing sickly pale skin beneath. Ribs protruded sharply beneath the skin, each one clearly visible, a testament to the ravages of disease. The deer's legs, usually strong and nimble, trembled slightly with the effort of standing, as if remaining upright was a monumental task.

But it was the eyes that truly betrayed the animal's condition, making your breath catch in your throat and your stomach churn with pity and revulsion. Once bright and alert, windows to a vital, vibrant spirit, now stared vacantly into the middle distance, glazed over with a milky film. There was no spark of life, no hint of the vital spirit that should animate this creature of the wild. It was as if the deer was already gone, its body simply a shell that hadn't yet realized it should fall. The sight was gut-wrenching. It was a miracle it was even still alive.

Chris raised his gun, his movements slow and deliberate. The metal of the barrel gleamed dully in the filtered sunlight, a cold, hard contrast to the soft greens and browns of the forest. Without conscious thought, your hand shot out, fingers wrapping firmly around his forearm. The touch seems to break the spell of silence that had fallen over the clearing, the contact between you electric, charged with unspoken urgency.

"Wait," you hissed, your voice barely above a whisper. The word hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. The lessons your father drilled into you came flooding back, a bittersweet tide of memory that threatened to overwhelm you. Each word he spoke echoed in your mind, as clear as if he were standing beside you now. "It’s sick. You can’t . . . you can’t eat sick things." And then you took a step forward.

Chris turned to you, his brows furrowed in confusion. The gun lowered slightly, but his finger remained close to the trigger. "Wait, you do that and it’s gone before you even get to it,” he said, his voice gravelly. His eyes searched yours, seeking understanding, but you knew better; you knew more.

"She won’t run," you explained, shaking your head. Your voice was tight, strained with the effort of keeping your emotions in check. “She won't run.”

Taking a deep breath, you stepped closer to the deer. The knife at your belt seemed to grow heavier with each step, its weight a grim reminder of what sin you were about to commit. As you drew it, the blade caught the sunlight, sending brief flashes across the clearing. The deer didn't react to your approach, didn't even twitch an ear. Its stillness was eerie and unnatural. Up close, the ravages of the disease were even more apparent, more horrifying. You could see the hollows in its cheeks, the way its bones seemed to push against its skin as if trying to escape the decaying flesh. A wave of pity washed over you. You’d always hated this part—the killing, even though it seemed to be the only thing you’d been good at in this new world.

You took a step forward, feeling the weight of the knife at your belt grow heavier with each movement. The sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the forest floor, illuminating the sickly form of the deer. Each shallow breath you took carried the earthy scent of the forest, mingling with a faint metallic tang that made your stomach churn.

“Hey, baby girl,” you murmured softly, your voice trembling as you approached. “It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.” Your hand found its way to the deer’s tattered fur, softly petting its back. Its breathing was shallow, and you could barely feel its heart beat. 

Gently, you did as you’d seen your father do once before. You continued brushing your fingers through its fur, quietly humming to it as you searched those glossed-over eyes for any sign of life. But deep down, you knew the truth. The deer stood motionless, its eyes dull and unseeing, reflecting a haunting emptiness that gripped your heart. It was a shell of its former self, a mere ghost wandering the world of the living. No amount of searching would ever bring back what it once was.

Is this how your mother had seen you? A dead girl walking? Or something much, much darker?

And just like when you’d glanced at your reflection in the mirror that morning, you couldn’t bear to see the deer suffer any longer. You shifted closer to the deer, laying its head on your chest as you rubbed its cheek with your thumb. This was the end, you thought. It knew you. You knew it, and you were sure, somewhere in there, the deer knew, too.

With a swift motion, you plunged the knife into the deer’s skull, feeling the resistance give way to the flesh and bone. A silent gasp escaped your lips, mingling with the sharp sound of the blade cutting through the skin. The warmth of blood spilled out, soaking into the forest floor and your clothes, a vivid contrast against the muted greens and browns surrounding you.

You slowly lay its body into the soft earth, resting your hand on its stomach as you watched its blood pool, soaking the dirt. For a brief moment, time seemed to stretch, the world around you holding its breath. You remained where you were, unmoving and unfeeling.

Deer were meant to flee. A deer that didn’t, was a dead deer. The predator would catch up to it sooner or later. You supposed you’d finally found the prey you’d been desperately waiting to sink your teeth into, and yet . . . it felt no different from leaving your father in that burning building, and you remained hungry. 

Was this a sign from him? A punishment? Did he want you to kill so you knew you were making the right decision to leave? Did he want you to know that you didn’t deserve to live? That you didn’t deserve to stay at the bunker? That you belonged out here—lost in the woods on the forest floor like a sick deer? 

Or was it God?

Or had it always been you? Is that why—

“It let you kill it,” Chris suddenly whispered, the words hanging heavy in the air. “Why didn’t it run?”

“Too sick,” you replied after a minute, your voice barely above a whisper. “CWD. Their own personal zombie virus. That’s why . . . that’s why you can’t take it back to them. You can’t . . . you eat a sick deer like that, and you get sick.” Swallowing hard, you could almost hear your father’s voice as you said, “That’s rule number one. Don’t eat sick things.”

Chris's eyebrows knitted together, deepening the furrow in his brow. His expression was a mixture of bewilderment and concern, his eyes darting between you and the deer, seeking understanding. "Then leave it,” he muttered, staring off into the woods, searching, analyzing. “It’ll be noon soon. We shouldn’t stay in one place for too long.”

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, you dropped your hand from the warmth of the deer’s belly, your fingers digging into the soft, loamy soil. The earth was cool and damp against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of emotion burning through you. Then . . . you began to dig, your movements frantic yet purposeful, driven by a visceral need. Clumps of dirt and decaying leaves collected under your fingernails as you scooped away handfuls of forest floor, the physical labor a welcome outlet for the tumult of emotions roiling within you. “My people bury the dead,” you explained, your voice thick with unshed tears that you refused to acknowledge. “We can’t just leave her out here. She deserves more respect than that. We all do. Right? That’s what you told me. All life is important, so why isn’t hers?” You glanced back at him then.

Chris hesitated for a moment, his gaze moving from you to the deer and back again. You could almost see the wheels turning in his brain, weighing the risks, the effort, against the intangible benefits of this act. Then, with a small nod of understanding, he joined you on the ground. His hands working alongside yours, scooping away earth and leaves.

As you dug, you kept your eyes fixed on the growing hole, fighting back the flood of memories threatening to overwhelm you. The rhythmic movement of your hands, the earthy scent rising from the disturbed soil, the quiet sounds of exertion—all of it blended together, creating a meditative state that allows your mind to wander, to remember.

Images of your lost family flashed through your mind like a cruel slideshow, each memory as vivid and painful as if it were happening anew. Your father. The burning building. The bullet. The whiskey. Your mother. Her love that felt like hatred. Your sister. Felix. You were a monster to them now. Just another dead thing. You didn’t want this. You wanted it all to stop. You wanted to be gone, gone, dead. Fuck, the ache of their absence was a constant, throbbing wound. And the worst of it all: you thought that it would have always ended this way, dead or not, end of the world or not. This was always how your life was going to go; how it was going to end. You’d always known it, too, and that perhaps was more terrifying than knowing you’d be dead soon.

You wondered if you’d find relief then. Would you deserve it then?

With your thoughts consuming you, the only sounds surrounding the two of you were the scraping of earth and your labored breathing. As the hole grew deeper, you stole a glance at Chris. His face was etched with concentration, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. His hands, now as dirt-stained as yours, moved with purpose, mirroring your own movements in a silent dance of shared effort. He might not have fully understood the significance of what you were doing, the weight of tradition and memory that drove your actions, but his willingness to help, tugged on something deep inside you. You turned back a second later, reminding yourself that you’d be dead by dusk.

And when minutes had passed and you’d lain the deer in the hole you’d dug, the two of you worked to cover the body with dirt. Another minute would pass before the deer was fully buried, the earth packed down, but the silence between you and Chris felt heavier than the soil itself. The weight of what you had just done. The deer. The wolf. The prey. The predator. You didn’t even know who you were anymore.

You straightened slowly, wiping dirt from your hands, your fingers still trembling. The forest around you was quiet, almost too quiet, as if even nature was holding its breath in the aftermath of this small, sacred act. And then, you tore yourself from the grave, hand reaching for your gun as you holsted it over your shoulder and stood to your feet, unsure of what came next. You could feel Chris’s presence beside you, solid but distant, like a tether you weren’t sure you wanted to hold onto. The quiet stretched, and you realized you had nothing else to say. It was over. The deer was buried. You had become the only predator to mourn its prey, and Chris had been witness to it all. There was only one thing left to do: pay for your sins.

Clearing your throat, you took a step away from the grave. “Well . . . don’t die,” you said softly, almost under your breath. The words felt inadequate, but they were all you had, and before he could respond, you turned to go, your steps already leading you back into the shadowy embrace of the woods.

Chris’s voice stopped you, his tone rough but filled with something you couldn’t quite name. “That’s it?”

You froze, your pulse quickening. Slowly, you turned back to face him, your face hardening, instinctively putting up your walls again. “Thank you, I guess, for, you know . . .” You gestured vaguely toward the mound of dirt, the words feeling clumsy in your mouth, like they didn’t belong to you.

Chris nodded, his expression unreadable. “Man of my word,” he said quietly, the words simple but carrying weight.

“Right.” You gave him a brief, curt nod, and turned away again, eager to leave the scene behind. You had made it just a few steps before his voice reached you once more, this time softer, hesitant.

“I think you should stay.”

The words made you stop in your tracks, confusion flickering across your face as you turned to look at him. His posture was different now—less guarded, more uncertain. “What?”

Chris shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. “I’d . . . I’d like it if you stayed,” he said, voice low, his eyes meeting yours with a sincerity that made your stomach twist. “You’re smart. You’ve been out here longer than any of us. You know things. You’re—”

“Useful?” you cut in sharply, the word laced with bitterness.

Chris’s brows knitted together, and he wet his lips, searching for the right response. “Yes . . . but—”

Before he could finish, a low, guttural growl cut through the air, sending a shiver of dread racing down your spine. Both of you turned toward the sound, eyes wide, as a lone dead one staggered out from the underbrush, its rotting flesh illuminated by the sunlight peeking through the trees.

Chris reached for his gun, but you were already moving. In one fluid motion, you pulled out your knife and surged forward. The blade cut through the air with deadly precision, sinking into the dead’s skull with a sickening crunch. The body crumpled to the ground at your feet, lifeless once more, as you yanked your knife free, wiping the blood on your pants without a second thought.

Chris stared at you, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and admiration, though he said nothing. He didn’t need to. You could feel the unspoken acknowledgment hanging between you—a silent respect, begrudging but undeniable.

But there was no time to dwell on it. The distant sound of more growling echoed through the trees, louder this time, closer. The horde hadn’t scattered like Chris had thought. They were closing in, drawn to the noise, to the scent of death that still lingered in the air.

“Shit,” Chris muttered, his voice tight with urgency. “They’re blocking the way back. Fuck.” Without another word, he grabbed your arm, pulling you with him as you both broke into a run. The forest became a blur around you, the sounds of the dead growing louder with each passing second.

You stumbled over roots and ducked under low branches, adrenaline pumping through your veins. The darkness of the forest closed in, thick and oppressive, but Chris seemed to know exactly where he was going. His hand gripped your arm like a lifeline, keeping you steady as the two of you sprinted through the underbrush.

Finally, he led you to a concealed hatch hidden beneath a layer of leaves and branches. He dropped to his knees, sweeping the debris aside and pulling it open with a creak. “In,” he urged, and you didn’t hesitate. You climbed down into the darkness, landing on cold metal as Chris followed close behind, slamming the hatch shut just as the first of the undead reached the clearing.

You stood in the dimly lit space, your breath coming in ragged gasps as your eyes adjusted to the gloom. The underground bunker was small, claustrophobic, the walls made from welded scrap metal. A single lantern cast a weak glow over the room, revealing a mattress with blankets, some crates, and a few scattered supplies. The air was cool and musty, the kind of place that felt forgotten by the world above.

“What the fuck is this?” you asked, glancing around, your voice still thick with adrenaline.

“Underground shelter,” Chris said, leaning against the wall as he caught his breath. His eyes flicked toward the meager supplies stacked in the corner. “We built it a couple years ago, after we lost some people on patrol. Thought it’d be good to have a place to fall back to if things went south.” He nodded toward the bed and the crates. “Overnight bed. Some food. Lanterns. Walkies if we need to reach home base. It’s not much, but it keeps us safe from the dead. Can’t live down here more than a week, but . . . it does the trick.”

You raised an eyebrow, letting out a dry laugh as you dropped your backpack on the ground. “Jesus Christ, you guys are like fuckin’ moles.”

He cracked a smile at that, just a small one, barely visible in the dim light, but there nonetheless. It was fleeting, like he wasn’t used to showing that part of himself.

“We’ll stay here tonight,” Chris said after a moment, his voice softer now, almost gentle in the quiet space.

You nodded, sinking down to the floor, your back against the cool metal wall. Your heart was still racing, but the immediate threat had passed. Above you, faint and muffled, you could hear the groans of the undead, but down here, in this small bunker, you were safe. At least for tonight.

Sometimes you thought there wasn’t much to say about the way you’d grown up. Other times, you wondered if there was perhaps too much to say. You wondered if some parts of your life growing up would forever be lost to time; forever forgotten because there just wasn’t enough room to remember. A lot of the time, you wondered if your family thought the same. You wondered if you were the part of their lives that would one day be forgotten to time. You wondered if it were better that way.

But other times you wished you could force yourself to forget.

Memories only consumed you as you sat on the edge of the mattress, wine glass in your hand that you’d yet to drink, and the reflection of the dead deer staring back at you in the red of the wine. You’d forgotten to pray.

You’d killed the thing, buried it, and left it without a prayer. Would it be forever stuck in limbo like your mother used to warn you? Dead things needed prayers to be put to rest. Had she been right?

Swallowing hard, your grip on the wine glass tightened. Had she been right? . . . Your knees began to itch.

“Not up to par with your standards?” a deep voice intruded on your thoughts, catching your gaze.

You ripped your eyes from the wine glass, glancing up in time to see Chris sit down in front of you, his back leaning up against the wooden chest he’d pulled the wine from. It had been hours since the two of you had found yourselves down there and he’d only pulled the wine from the chest about fifteen minutes ago, pouring you and himself a glass, claiming the two of you needed it after the day you’d had.

It was a simple thing. Adults drank. You; however, didn’t. Your mother . . . the town . . . it was never allowed unless in the name of Christ.

So your wine glass stayed full, and you empty. You wanted to drink it. You wanted to guzzle glass after glass down and forget about everything like your sister would one day forget about you, but you couldn’t. Memories haunted you, and you knew it wasn’t the town or even your mother that made you think twice about sipping from your temptation.

The last time you’d had alcohol, your father had just died. The last time you’d had alcohol, your world stopped. The last time you had alcohol, you could still taste your father’s blood in your mouth. The last time you’d had alcohol, it wasn’t enough to burn away the memories.

But you hadn’t told a soul that. Not even Felix, and you wouldn’t start with this man now.

“It’s fine,” was all you muttered but you didn’t dare to bring the glass to your lips.

Chris, now, was on his second glass you’d say, not that it seemed to have any affect on him. You had; however, taken note of that.

“You sure?” He cocked a brow, leaning toward you, his hand outstretched toward your glass. “I wouldn’t be opposed to drinking it for you.”

You only snarled, and pulled the glass in closer toward your chest. A second later, you forced yourself to tear your gaze from his smug face, and instead toward the glass in your hand. The reflection of the deer was gone now, but your memories remained.

It was all so familiar.

You’d been here before. You’d been here many times. You’d been here since you were a child, first learning the scriptures of your town. You’d never left.

You’d been here in the before. It was easy to be there then. It had been easy to kneel when you were just a girl; when you didn’t know any better; when wine was blood.

The Eucharist. The blood and body of Christ. You’d walked down that aisle, hands clasped in prayer a thousand times. You’d stopped before the priest and named your father, son, and holy spirit over and over again. You’d taken his body into your mouth and drank his blood. You’d done it for years and years, more than once a week, all the time, every time. You’d done it so long and so well you began to think wine was just blood and blood was never wine. You’d done it until you were sick; until War came and Famine followed. You’d done it until you’d seen your father kill a man before your eyes. You’d done it until you realized spilled blood tasted no different from wine. You’d done it until you’d tasted body and blood and rage; until you’d killed a man and left his body for the dead to consume three days later.

You’d done it until you realized wine was never blood, blood would always be blood, and wine would always be wine.

It was just wine.

It was just . . . wine. It was familiar, but different now. Your knees were still scabbed but there was no body and no blood before you, just wine.

You swallowed hard once more, wet your lips, then brought the glass to your lips and chugged it whole. You could have sworn you’d heard Chris click his tongue in response, but you didn’t care, because you had been wrong.

It was supposed to just be wine. Wine was wine and blood was blood. So then why could you only taste blood when it should’ve been wine?

Memories haunted you once more. The man your father killed. The dog. Your father. The man you’d killed. The deer. All of it. Every single thing you’d had to kill to survive this long. All of it.

And you realized it was too late. The taste of blood would never leave you.

You leaned forward, snatching the bottle of wine from Chris’s hands and pouring yourself another glass of wine. It was gone the next second, and you knew the violent dog inside of you had finally been fed.

“You don’t drink much, do you?” he questioned into the night as you downed another glass.

Glancing up, you wondered how he knew; how he always knew. However, the next second, your head felt funny, and you realized maybe it wasn’t too hard to tell. (You also realized that maybe you should’ve stopped, but you didn’t care and poured yourself another glass.)

Before you could lift the glass to your lips again, Chris’s hand got in the way. He blocked you from downing the drink, and you stopped right before his knuckles touched your lips. You couldn’t have that. You couldn’t let him touch you, so you listened to him despite wanting to down drink after drink after drink.

“You’re supposed to sip it,” he murmured as his eyes flicked from your eyes to your wine-stained lips. He slowly brought the glass away from your lips, and you let him in your haze. “Wine’s meant to be savored. You chugged it.”

“I was thirsty,” you muttered with a shrug, your grip still tight on the stem of the glass.

He shook his head. “No one’s ever that thirsty.”

A beat of silence. Your head felt funnier. It was odd. Odd but good. Too odd for you to care to keep up the charade. “Fine, you’re right,” you huffed as you plucked his hand from your glass. He leaned back again, but his eyes never left you, watching as you tried and failed to sip the drink. “This is—” you smacked your lips— “my third time drinking.”

“Ever?”

You nodded.

He raised a brow. “How old are you?”

Narrowing your eyes, you gave him a look before attempting to down the rest of your glass, but he stopped you. “Nah, nah, nah, hold on. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he muttered out with a laugh under his breath. Only a drop of red wine touched your tongue, and then the glass wasn’t in your hand anymore. “I just kinda assumed.”

With a scoff, you watched as he moved toward you, sitting down beside you on the bed. He swirled the wine in the glass he’d stolen from you before he downed it, leaving no more. You rolled your eyes at him and attempted to reach for the bottle, but he was faster, kicking it to the ground, allowing the last bit of wine to spill onto the floor. Your eyes snapped to his smug face, nearly growling at him.

Tonguing his cheek, he seemed to hold back a smile. “Oops.”

You snatched the glass out of his hand, trying to get the last drop before you sighed and slouched. Maybe it was for the best. You’d never been drunk before. Your mother always told you too many sips led to bad mistakes, and you already had enough of those.

And yet, you found yourself sighing out: “My mother. She always said alcohol was the devil’s drink, unless, of course, it was during mass.” Why were you telling him this? Why was your head so fuzzy? Why did you not care? “I was only eighteen when this whole thing started. There wasn’t much . . . time to drink after that.”

Chris sighed, leaning back onto the bed with his leg bent at the knee and his elbow supporting his weight against the mattress. “Then what were the other times?” he asked, lazily picking at his nails.

You glanced over your shoulder at him, brows scrunched. “What?”

His head dipped back with a soft groan. “Come on, you can tell me. I’m trustworthy,” he mused, gesturing to his chest.

“You’re . . . drunk,” you stated, almost asking.

“Mmm, not quite, but, close,” he hummed as he waved his finger at you. “I also don’t drink much.” Silence. A click of his tongue. His eyes on yours. “Not much time.” He winked, repeating your words from earlier.

Silence again. A clenching of your jaw. Your eyes on his. And then you did something odd. Keeping your eyes on him as if you were predator and prey, you leaned back onto the bed, propping yourself up on your elbow. You kept your eyes on him, and he did the same, like two animals scared to look away, wondering who was in danger of who.

“My dad,” you finally muttered out as you glanced from one eye to the other, taking in his features. “When I hit twenty-one, he snuck me a shot in the woods.”

He squinted his eyes and nodded. “Mmm, vodka?”

You shook your head. “Whiskey.”

“Odd.”

The corners of your lips twitched. “It was his favorite.”

“And the second?”

The second. You swallowed hard, tearing your eyes from his. There it was. The memories. The hunger. The taste of blood.

“Whiskey, again,” you forced yourself to say. And, yet, it was almost too easy to mutter: “After my dad died.”

Out of your peripheral vision, you saw him nod, but you didn’t dare look at him. You didn’t dare acknowledge the look on his face. You couldn’t, and you certainly couldn’t have him seeing the look on yours. You weren’t in the right headspace to hide the secrets you’d buried when you should’ve buried your father.

“Ah, well, you’re missing out,” was all Chris said instead. No talk of your father, no more questions. Nothing. Just . . . moving on, and somehow . . . somehow you felt grateful. “The best drink is plum-flavored soju and beer. Can’t get any better than that.” He leaned forward, whispering now. “But I’d say alcohol tastes the best when you’re bar hopping until two AM, surviving off shots of cheap vodka with friends.”

“Not much of that anymore.”

Chris hummed in agreement. “One day though,” he added. “We’ll all be different then, but . . . someday.”

Your brows furrowed and you scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re an optimist,” you mused as you traced the rim of the glass with your finger. “Thinkin’ like that gets you killed.”

“Mmm, maybe, but so far . . . it’s the reason I’m alive,” he replied almost as if it were fact; as if the reason he was alive didn’t have anything to do with luck and chance. “You’ll see. When we get you a shot of vodka, you’ll see I’m right. Or you can shoot me and leave me for dead. Either way, you win, yeah?”

You couldn’t help but look at him then, your face sunken in confusion. He only had this look on his face: a lazy smile and soft eyes. You swallowed hard in response, unsure of how to react. Why was he so . . . odd?

“So . . . “ he began again after a second of silence, tapping on your glass with his finger— “how do you know so much about deer?”

Why was he so interested? And why did you like it?

“My dad taught me how to hunt,” you heard yourself say before you knew what you were doing. It was odd how he could get this out of you. Maybe alcohol really was the devil’s drink. But . . . you didn’t care, you just . . . couldn’t stop yourself from responding; from talking to . . . him. “Where I come from . . . hunting season was the only celebration we ever had. My dad would come home with a truckload of deer. We’d get to keep one and the rest would be sold at this farmer’s market just outside of town.” You sucked your bottom lip under the grasp of your teeth at the memories. You’d been a dutiful child then. You didn’t know how to shove yourself back into that mold, and right now . . . you didn’t care. “That was the only time I’d ever been out of town before all this. I didn’t even know nothing about hunting back then. He only taught me when . . . when Pestilence rose.”

“Pestilence?”

Oh. You blinked. The hunger. The blood. The wine. The sick.

“I meant . . . “ you cleared your throat— “when everyone started getting . . . sick.”

Silence passed between the two of you once again, and you knew he could see something in you that you wouldn’t share. You knew he could sense it, perhaps even smell it. You couldn’t run away from the lives you’d lived. They were a part of you just as the wild animal you kept at bay had always lived within you. And somehow, it was like he just knew.

“How was that for you guys?” he asked, brushing over your slip-up.

And you let him. “It didn’t reach us.”

Chris stiffened then. “What?”

Your brows scrunched in confusion. “How bad did it reach you?”

“My city was the first to get it.”

Your confusion deepened. “War conquered you first?”

“If you can even call it that,” he muttered, eyes falling to the blanket as his thumb brushed over the loose threads. “It wasn’t a war. It—It—the government—it was genocide.”

“Genocide? But . . . “ you paused. You couldn’t wrap your head around it. This didn’t make sense. You never heard anything about genocide. It had always been the dead. The dead were to blame. “The dead. They rose. What did the government . . . ?”

Chris cocked his head in his own confusion. “You don’t know?”

You shook your head. “What . . . what did they do?”

“Bombed the major cities.”

“What?” you uttered, your face falling. No, but, your father checked the news with you every day. There was nothing like that. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t have lied to you. He wanted you to see the truth. It didn’t make any— “Sense. That doesn’t make any sense. I saw the news. The dead . . . they—”

It didn’t make any sense. Your father had promised to show you the truth, unlike the town. He promised. But the look on Chris’s face. It was as if he’d seen these bombings before his very eyes. You knew that look he held. It was the same one you wore every day. It was familiar and sick and . . . and that was when it hit you. Your father had hidden this from you. He’d shown you the news, but not all of it.

Was it to protect you?

Deceive you?

“I was away at college at the time,” Chris continued with a sigh while you tried to wrap your head around it all. “The travel ban had lifted and I hadn’t seen my family in so long but . . . I was waiting until break to return home. I wanted . . . I wanted to be able to bring good news with me when I returned. I didn’t want to come back without finishing the semester, empty-handed, especially all we had been through the past three years.” He swallowed hard. You’d heard it. “And then the dead started to come back, and they told us to stay inside; to stay indoors; to not leave for our safety, so I stayed. Not even a week later, the bombings happened, and I did everything I could to get back home, to find my family, to make sure they had made it out, that they were . . . that they were looking for me, too.”

You blinked.

He sighed. “I did find them eventually . . . Right where I left them.”

Right where I left them. You knew what that meant.

“You look afraid to ask,” he commented.

You shook your head once more. It wasn’t fear. It was understanding. “I’m not.”

“But you are.”

“They were dead,” you replied, proving him wrong.

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Four.”

You felt your brows twitch, and the memories were back again. Your father, mother, sister, Felix. You’d lost four, too. Four too many.

A second later, you met his eyes again, opening your mouth, but before you could tell him, you quickly stopped yourself. If you did that; if you told him you understood; if you told him you’d lost it all too, then he’d have this over you. You couldn’t have that. He could know only a few things about you, but not everything. Everything was too much. Everything would mean knowing you and knowing you was so similar to owning you. You wouldn’t let him have the ability to control you, not when you were already a gun waiting for your trigger to be pulled.

Instead, you forced your face into a blank slate and muttered out, “They’re lucky, then.”

But he only grinned, scoffing. “I know what you’re doing, but . . . you should know I agree with you,” he mused, brows raised as he studied your face. “It’s not the dead that suffer . . . and I know you know it, too. I can see it on your face. I know people like you . . . I know you think if you tell me these horrible stories, I’ll somehow be afraid of you, too, but this isn’t a storybook and you’re not some wild animal. We’ll always be who we were. Maybe we’ll distance ourselves from who we used to be, but . . . you can’t kill parts of yourself that have already lived.”

You clenched your jaw hard.

You can’t kill parts of yourself that have already lived, he’d said. **

Stop, you thought. He didn’t know that you’d spent your childhood tearing yourself down the middle, pulling stitches from the back of your legs, only to spend all night resewing them. He didn’t know there was a rotten seed that’d been planted inside you from birth, growing and growing the more you did. He didn’t know wine had never just been wine to you. He didn’t know that you had tried so hard to stuff yourself back into the shape of the dutiful child you used to pretend to be. He didn’t know that no matter how many stitches you sewed into your skin, it was never enough to keep the rot inside you from spilling out. He didn’t know that you would remain undone.

In silence, you watched as he locked his jaw, staring off at the wall. “I am all the things I have done and . . . all the things I will do,” he murmured as he picked at the blanket he laid upon. “Good and bad. They were all me at one point, and during those times, I never thought I’d ever change . . . but I did. Can’t take it back; can’t erase it. It’s just there. It just is . . . as am I . . . as are you.”

I am all the things I have done. But that was impossible. How could you still be the girl who’d pretend to be sick so that she could walk the outskirts of the woods? How could you be the girl who’d always imagined faraway lands existed beyond those woods, but was always too afraid to take a step further to find out? How could you be that girl who’d never held a gun before? Who’d been too scared to kill an animal? How could you still be that dutiful child when you’d killed a man not even a month ago? How could that part of you still exist when you could still taste his blood on your tongue every time you took a swig of wine?

You’d never tried to kill that part of yourself. You never wanted to. You wanted to hold onto her, stroke her hair, and let her dream of a better tomorrow, but she just . . . simply didn’t exist anymore.

Well . . . perhaps he was right in a sense. You couldn’t kill parts of yourself that had already lived, but they could die. Parts of you died as you aged. A part of you died in that house you grew up in. A part of you died the night you saw your father kill a man. A part of you died the day you had to put that dog down. A part of you died the night your father died. Another the night you killed a man. And one more tonight. All of which he was oblivious to.

He didn’t know you. He didn’t know you were a rotten seed.

And yet: “You can try to change my mind, but . . . it won’t work,” Chris went on, trying to catch your eye, but you didn’t dare look at him. “You’re a good person somewhere in there. You can’t hide from that.”

But he was wrong. He was so wrong. He was— “You’re wrong,” you blurted out, unable to filter yourself in this state. “I’m not . . . good.” You looked at him then. He was already staring at you. You didn’t mean to let it slip, but for a split second, there was a look on your face. For a split second, you were sure he could see the pain you’d carried for years. You tried to wipe it from your face, but you knew he’d seen it and you knew he’d understood it.

In shock, you held back a gasp and averted your eyes to the blanket. How could you be so foolish? How could you let him see that part of you? Shaking your head, you sat up, stiff and untouchable.

A beat of silence. Then, he sat up, too, nearly brushing arms with you but being careful enough not to touch you. “Bad people . . . “ he trailed off, picking at his fingers as you watched, taking him in cautiously. “Bad people don’t go screaming into the woods with a bunch of the dead after them. They also don’t risk their lives for a gun . . . or bury dead animals.”

Furrowing your brows, you took in his words. He’d caught onto all those things? But . . . that meant—

No, it meant nothing. Bad people kill animals for their own survival. Bad people cause their father’s deaths and still have the nerve to ask for forgiveness. Bad people kill others. Bad people taste blood when they sip wine, and wine when they taste blood.

He didn’t know you. You were still rotten at heart, diseased, and plagued with this darkness you’d been born with, and yet here was this stranger telling you you weren’t all the things you believed yourself to be. It didn’t make any sense. He was wrong. Either he wanted something from you or wanted you weak or—

And, then, something off happened. The next second, his hand hesitantly inched forward, and you watched stiff and silent as he rested it on your knee, giving it a soft comforting squeeze before he retracted, leaving you in shock.

What was that? Why did he squeeze your knee? The boys your mother talked about would’ve used that as their chance to take advantage of you, but he’d retracted so quickly. He didn’t linger. He didn’t try to . . . Then why? What for?

“Sorry,” he cleared his throat, taking note of your reaction. Awkwardly, he scratched the back of his neck. “Not very good at comforting people.”

Comfort?

Your eyes snapped to his profile. He wasn’t looking at you now, but you were staring straight at him, mouth slightly agape and brows furrowed in confusion. You were sure he felt your gaze, but he didn’t dare glance your way. Was he scared? Why would he try to . . . comfort you then? Why did he—

“In junior high . . . I cut Samantha Claken’s ponytail off because she got the lead choir part. I . . . I was just a part of the fucking chorus,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself. Why you mentioned such an old memory you didn’t know, but it just slipped out. You just . . . you wanted him to know he was wrong; that you’d been a rotten child no matter how long you worked each night to sew yourself together. “I’ve always been jealous. Jealous child, jealous adult. I’ve hurt people who’ve taken the things I wanted and I didn’t care. I’m not good. You shouldn’t comfort me. I’ve never once deserved it, not even as a child. I’m not good. I’m not your friend. I don’t like you. I don’t care about you. I won’t. I am not good. I will hurt you.” Your brows twitched. “I’m violent.”

Chris looked at you then, and it was almost as if you were staring into a mirror. The look on his face . . . no, he needed to stop. You wouldn’t let him in your head. You wouldn’t let him know you. You wouldn’t bring death to more doorsteps.

Wetting your lips, you breathed in sharply, and reiterated, “Sam got what I wanted and I cut all her hair off. The year before that she won the superlative for best hair. I knew it would hurt her, and that’s why I did it.” You leaned closer to him just a smidge, eyes blank. “I would’ve done worse if I could’ve. I would’ve cut her. I would’ve.”

But he just kept staring at you like he could see right through you. You’d never felt so exposed in your entire life than you did when you were with him.

And then . . . he smiled. No, grinned. “Well . . . maybe she deserved it.”

Your brows raised. All you could do was stare at him. It was obvious he didn’t believe you. It was obvious your suspicions were right: he could see right through you. Or maybe . . . maybe he didn’t care.

“All she did was tell Sister Agnes that I was the one who stole all the communion wafers before mass,” you replied. “Do you think I did the right thing?”

He laughed through his nose, shaking his head. And for a second you thought he’d agreed with you. For a second, you thought you’d proven your point, but instead: “So she did deserve it,” he mused with a soft sigh, leaning back onto the mattress.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered as you put your glass on the floor in an attempt to cover up the fact that you were fighting back the feeling of your lips twitching upward. “There’s always a clear distinction between right and wrong. I deserved the punishment.”

“Punishment?”

You glanced at him, taking note of his scrunched brows. Had you said too much? “They had to push mass back an hour just so they could make a whole new batch. It was a big deal, apparently,” you went on, going against every bone in your body telling you to keep your mouth shut. “Sister Agnes made me stay after bible study just so she could slap my hands with a fucking ruler. Went home with cuts all along my knuckles—” you offered him your hand, pointing out the old scars with your fingers— “and when my mom saw . . . “ Your brows furrowed at the memory. You’d almost forgotten. “There was this room in the attic . . . I—”

Stop! your brain screamed at you before the words left your lips. You didn’t even realize you were about to tell him anything about yourself. How could you be so foolish? Why had it been so easy to let those words spill? Why did you— Was it the wine or him?

Clearing your throat, you shook your head and sighed. “But you know . . . I think that was the best day of my life,” you said instead, ignoring your previous admission. “Word got back to my mom, and she made me give them all back, you know? But . . . I still got an extra twenty wafers than I would’ve on a Sunday.”

And what was even weirder . . . he let you move on without another question. Instead, all he asked was, “How do they taste anyway?”

But that seemed to shock you more than if he had tried to pry. “You’ve never had?”

He shook his head once. “I grew up believing in nothing.”

“Mmm, you missed out,” you hummed, glancing at him over your shoulder. They’re like the perfect amount of nothing and just a pinch of flavor. The aftertaste . . . I swear . . . is like this wine . . . better than it maybe.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, but that day . . . that day they tasted even better,” you went on, getting wrapped up in your memories again, forgetting yourself. “Like . . . like . . . “

“Payback,” Chris finished for you.

Shock weaved onto your face as you openly stared at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. You just . . . how did he always know? Quickly, you wiped the look off your face, trying to compose yourself. “Payback,” you confirmed, nodding your head, but this time you couldn’t stop from the corners of your lips twitching into the smallest, faintest of smiles as you stared at him. What was worse was the fact that you couldn’t stop yourself from leaning back onto the mattress, your eyes trained on the metal ceiling as you clasped your hands together, resting them on your stomach. “You know . . . I had to clean up after mass every day for a month and wash the windows every week, but it was so fuckin’ worth it to see the look on Sister’s face when she opened the cabinet and they were all gone.”

Chris nodded, then sighed before he laid down right beside you, your arms nearly brushing. “I can’t say I’ve ever done something like that before,” he murmured as he tucked an arm behind his head.

“Mmm, I know,” you hummed back. “I know your type.”

“My type?” he laughed through his nose. “Tell me more about my type.”

Wetting your lips, you knew what you were doing letting him know what you thought of him, but you blamed the alcohol. It didn’t mean you trusted him or anything like that. You were just not . . . yourself. “You’re too good,” you told him as you accepted your fate. “Anyone can see that. It’s so clear, almost too clear. It’s so clear I sometimes wonder if I should warn you.” The words left your lips and you knew you’d said too much, but you just couldn’t stop. “I had a friend. He was good, too. He still is. I know he is, but I’m scared that because of me, he won’t be for much longer. And you . . . you have the same kind of look in your eyes as him.” Felix’s eyes. Chris’s. It was like they both looked at you like you were still there; like the blood staining your teeth was just wine. “They’re kind . . . like you can tell you’ve smiled even in a world like this. You can’t fool anyone with eyes like that. They tell everything about what’s going on in here.” You pointed to your chest, repeatedly jabbing it like a knife into flesh. “I think . . . I think it’d kill you to do something bad . . . to hurt someone.”

A beat of silence. Then another. And by the third one, you were afraid to glance over at him.

So instead, you accepted your fate for a second time that night and went on, “And maybe that’s good. Maybe it’s people like you who’ll survive all of this. Maybe it’s people like me who got it all wrong. I don’t know.” Covering your face with your hands, you groaned. “I don’t know. I just . . . I just think that in this world to love . . . is to kill, and if you don’t get that; if you can’t do that, then the only way you can love is if you die.”

This time when a beat of silence pounded in your ears, you didn’t let him or time make the decision for you. Instead . . .

“I guess that’s the question of the century, yeah?” you scoffed, shaking your head as the memories from all those years came fading in and out, in and out, in and— “Is it better to kill . . . or to die?”

“And—” out of your peripheral vision, you watched as Chris turned his head to look at you, but you wouldn’t dare meet his gaze— “what would you choose?”

“I’ve killed.”

“I know,” he replied, calmly, “but . . . what would you choose?”

It was then you couldn’t help but meet his eyes. You glanced from one eye to the other, searching them in hopes he wouldn’t force you to answer. “Why ask questions you already know the answer to?” you questioned, still searching his eyes for . . . something. “Once you do something . . . you don’t get to choose anymore. You’ve already committed yourself. There’s no undoing the past . . . just like you said. So what I would choose now doesn’t matter. I’ve already chosen.”

Chris nodded at that, but you could tell . . . no you could see that he didn’t believe you. What was he thinking? Why was he always so—

“I think if I could go back to the beginning, I’d turn on the TV sooner,” Chris said before your mind could spiral, and then it hit you that he was giving you his answer on a silver platter, and for some reason, you wanted to know; for some reason, you listened. “I’d see the news and I’d get to my family in time. I’d . . . die with them or for them, it wouldn’t matter. I just wouldn’t want to survive without them if I had the choice.”

Furrowing your brows, you couldn’t help but ask, “Then . . . why did you keep going?”

He glanced away, accepting the silence as well. “If given the choice, every single one of them would’ve died for me. I would’ve done the same. But shit hit the fan and I was the only one who made it out alive,” he said, almost as if it were hard for him; almost if he, too, wasn’t telling you the full truth. “They’d already died waiting for me. I couldn’t let their deaths be in vain. And . . . “ he wet his lips— “I had other people to protect . . . ”

“So you went on surviving,” you whispered more to yourself than to him.

“They didn’t get a choice,” he muttered. “I did. I . . . do.”

Swallowing hard, you bit the inside of your cheek. “Is that why you saved me?”

He looked at you again then, and you swore you saw something different in his gaze. Grief? Regret? Pain? No . . . no . . . what was it? “I don’t know,” he answered your thoughts with a small shrug.

He didn’t know why he’d saved you . . . You nodded and muttered under your breath, “Well . . . you shouldn’t have. Would have saved you all this—” you gestured to the safe house bunker— “trouble.”

“Mmm, there it is again,” he mused, his voice lighter now or maybe . . . amused(?). “I’m not scared of you, you know?”

The beat of your heart could be felt in your throat. Why was he always so . . . like this? And yet . . . you wanted to know what he thought. You wanted to know what he thought of you.

“You’ve tried to scare me, but I see it. I’ve seen who you used to be,” he whispered almost as if he wanted you to know his words were only for you despite there not being anyone alive for meters upon meters. “That story about your dog. The man you killed. I know when someone’s not telling the full truth. I started to believe you weeks ago, but after what happened with Misun . . . I was watching you the entire night. You were only wiping her chin.” You blinked and he smiled, softly. “You had a sister before. I’m right, aren’t I? When Jeongin went for you, you were trying to protect her. You were willing to die for her . . . not kill. That tells me everything.” He brought a hand to his chin, rubbing it as he scoffed. “And today . . . seeing you today with that deer . . . I've never seen someone be so violent yet so . . . so . . . gentle.”

“There’s nothing gentle about me,” you quickly protested, but you could still feel your heart in your throat. Then . . . your knees began to itch, and you wanted to run. You wanted to run and yet . . . you stayed put, laying side by side next to a man who seemed to see all the things you tried to hide, and you just couldn’t look away.

You only became more enraptured by him when he grinned at your words, almost laughing it off; as if your words were the farthest thing from the truth; as if you weren’t a wild animal. “That’s why I want you to stay with us,” he confessed, his voice still soft, still inviting; still hypnotizing. “You’d do anything for any one of those kids. I know you would. It doesn’t matter what else you’ve done, it matters who you are, and I know you’re a good person.”

I know you’re a good person, he’d said. But how could he know? You could still taste the blood of a man on your tongue. You could still feel the hardness of his trachea hitting your teeth as you bit into his neck. You could still feel the arteries stuck between your teeth. You could still feel it all, and yet: I know you’re a good person.

“Something told me to save you that night,” he finally admitted, now searching your eyes. “I don’t know what it was. I don’t believe in God. I’m not religious. I don’t know what it was, but something told me to save you, and . . . “ he paused only for a second, and yet, you could see everything he hadn’t said already . . . “I’m glad I listened.”

But all you could do was shake your head because you knew. You knew he was wrong. You knew because . . . you remembered the whine Berry emitted when you snapped her neck. You remembered how you were gone for seven hours that day; how many times you threw up as you skinned her, gutted her, cooked her, and peeled the meat from her bones so no one would know what you’d killed. You remembered how long it took for you to scrub her blood from underneath your fingernails. You remembered going to the lake that day, and contemplating for hours on end what would happen if you found the heaviest rock you could and just . . . let yourself sink. And . . . you remembered the look on your mother’s face when it was you who came out of that burning building and not your father. You remembered the sting of her slap and the rage in her words. You remembered everything because you couldn’t forget; you wouldn’t let yourself.

“There will come a day where you won’t be,” was all you spat as the memories turned you sour and bitter.

Chris furrowed his brows, opening his mouth to say something, but this time you didn’t want to hear it. This time, you turned away from him and sat up, reaching for your wine glass so you could put it back where he’d gotten it from. But as you grabbed the glass, your hand slipped and the broken part of the rim sliced your finger. With a soft gasp, you dropped the glass and it shattered against the floor, but that wasn’t what caught your attention. No, as soon as blood came into your sight, you didn’t even have enough time to react before Chris sprung from the bed and reached for you.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, trying to tear yourself from him as you wiped the blood onto your shirt, but the cut was deeper than you thought. The blood just kept coming and coming and—

His hands were cradling yours the next second. Gently, he opened up your hand to himself, and you watched, stunned as he leaned forward and wrapped his mouth around your finger. It was quiet then, almost too quiet. Your heart was hammering in your throat, blood pumping through your ears as you felt his tongue softly touch your fingertip, while he gently sucked the wound. A man had never touched you like this, and you’d never touched a man like that either, and yet there he was . . .

Only a few minutes passed before he popped your finger out of his mouth, slowly backing away from you, but his hands never left yours. And all you could do was stare at him wide-eyed, mouth agape and chest rapidly moving up and down. Only then, it seemed, did he realize just how close the two of you had gotten and just how suggestive this position put him in, and only then . . . only then did he drop your hand, rapidly blinking as he cleared his throat.

“I’ll—I’m gonna clean this up,” he muttered, scratching the back of his head as he stood to his feet. “Enough, um, wine for the night, yeah?”

And then he wasn’t near anymore. You couldn’t feel the heat of his body radiating onto yours or smell his shampoo or even his skin. He was shuffling around the room, and you were stuck frozen in time as you processed everything. Then, slowly, you glanced down at your finger, finding it had stopped bleeding.

Swallowing hard, you wondered why he’d done it. Was he not afraid of the taste or was he used to it? Did blood taste like wine or was blood just blood to him? And was wine just blood to him, too?

Despite trying to call it a night and forget the awkward moment you’d shared, another wine bottle was consumed. The two of you hadn’t looked at each other since, but Chris popped open another bottle about an hour ago, quietly offering you another glass while he avoided eye contact, and you graciously accepted it. It was unusual. It was awkward. It was a bad idea.

The bunker felt too quiet, the kind of silence that made the air heavy, pressing against your skin. You lay on the bed, glaring at the ceiling with your arms tightly crossed over your chest as if trying to keep something inside from spilling out. The alcohol buzzed in your veins, dulling the edges of your mind, but not enough. Not enough to quiet the guilt that gnawed at you, whispering that you didn’t belong here—that you never would. You shouldn’t trust him. And yet, here you were. Drinking with him, sleeping beside him, letting yourself unravel. His lips had touched you. He’d tasted your blood and nothing bad had happened. He’d taken a part of you, graciously. And you’d had too many dark thoughts since then, because all you wanted to do was drink more and more and tell him to do it again and again.

How could he do that? How was he always doing that? It was like he’d found a way under your skin, and decided that would be his shelter. Why did he want to build a home inside you? Nobody had ever been hungry for you. You’d always been hungry for everyone else, and yet . . . he’d tasted your blood willingly. It made you wonder . . . everything about him.

Your mind was gone, and all you could taste was blood, no, wine, no, blood, no, no, no, you tasted something else entirely. God, what was it? "Back at the bunker," you felt yourself blurt out before you could stop yourself, wanting to talk more and wanting to know more about him. (Was it curiosity you tasted? You’d never felt this way before . . . ) You just . . . you didn’t want this night to end because when morning came and you were no longer intoxicated with rich rich wine, you’d regret it all. Tomorrow you’d leave, and tomorrow you’d die. You just wanted this one thing. So you let yourself continue. "Where do you sleep?"

Chris lay on the floor beside the bed with just a blanket covering him, his broad frame making the small room feel even smaller. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and something in his expression softened, his cheeks flush from the wine. "The hall," he said quietly, swinging one of his arms under his head. "Outside all the rooms."

The confession made something inside you twist. You frowned . . . because his voice seemed to satiate this hunger deep inside you. "Why?" The word slipped out harsher than intended. You just . . . you wanted more answers, and . . . you’d never been a very dutiful child.

His gaze didn’t falter. "I didn’t trust you enough to leave my people unguarded." There was a pause, a flash of something in his eyes. "And . . . I didn’t trust everyone enough to leave you unguarded."

You flinched inwardly. He should’ve kicked you out. Trust or no trust. It wasn’t worth it. You wouldn’t have been that naive. Letting a wild animal into your home was a bad decision. Just like the wine. Just like that night your father died. Just like the night you killed a man. Just like the pet you’d slaughtered to satiate this deep hunger inside you. Letting a wild animal into your home was a death sentence, so then why did he do it?

"So,” you began again, eyes on the ceiling, “the room I sleep in—it’s yours?"

Chris nodded. "Yes."

And then you knew you’d been right to assume, and remembered. The worn bedding, the lingering scent of him, the faint outline of something familiar and lived in. It felt wrong, like an intrusion. It was his room, and yet . . . he’d let you sleep in it for weeks now, while he slept outside like a dog with no home. And then . . . the clothes he’d given you. Your stomach clenched as your fingers tightly tugged at the bottom of your shirt. Where was she? "You have women’s clothes in your room?" you muttered out, letting your words linger, knowing he’d understood what your question truly meant.

Chris tensed, his jaw tightening for a brief moment. "She’s gone," he said, voice quieter now, almost fragile. "She’s been gone for a long time."

You took a breath, but it felt like you were swallowing shards of glass. You knew what that meant. You’d known what that meant since the day you were taught how to shoot a deer. You knew. "Dead,” you whispered.

His eyes dropped, a shadow passing over his face. "It’s like I said . . . being out here too long. It changes things."

You knew what he meant, but the weight of it sat heavy between you. You were no stranger to loss. Hell, you’d been the cause of it more times than you cared to count. The thought lingered like poison in your veins. You glanced at the floor where he’d been sleeping. He’d taken a wild animal into his home, he’d offered this thing food and water and a bed, and he’d slept on the floor, losing sleep just to watch this animal, and yet . . . he’d never caused it harm. How could he do that? How could he trust you, covered in blood and smelling of death? What kind of idiot trusts someone like that?

And what kind of idiot . . . likes that? You swallowed hard, the taste of wine still on your tongue as you tried to fight back your words. You tried to swallow it down just as easily as you’d swallowed the wine, but . . . you’d turned into one of those idiots, too. You realized that as you asked, "Is the floor . . comfortable?"

He let out a small laugh, one without much humor, rubbing his hand over his face. "Could be worse."

That familiar tightening in your chest came back, the one that was always there when you were too close to people, too close to places that felt safe. It was the kind of suffocation that came with the knowledge that safety didn’t last—that you didn’t deserve it. You’d felt it with Felix. You’d taught him how to fly and refused to let him soar on his own. You hungered for his love, his friendship, him . . . just as you’d been hungry for your mother’s. It felt all too similar to a bullet going through your shoulder. You knew how it felt to heal from a wound like that, but you didn’t know if you could ever do it again. And yet . . . You pulled the covers back, then turned your back to him as quickly as you could. "Sleep with me," you said, the words coming out sharp and impulsive. "Just . . . just sleep on the bed."

Chris stilled. You didn’t have to look at him to know he was surprised. "What?"

"This isn’t some movie," you said, trying to steady your voice, make it sound like you were in control, like this was nothing. "You can sleep on the bed with me, and it won’t be inappropriate."

There was a beat of silence. You could feel his eyes on you, and you were reminded of how painful it’d been to rip a bullet out of your shoulder. "I think you’re still drunk," he said softly, a quiet accusation as he nearly scoffed, humor in his voice.

You chewed on your inner cheek as you picked at the cracked skin of your lower lip. "Grow up," you muttered. "Sleep on the bed. Or don’t. I don’t care."

A beat of silence. You nearly lacerated your inner cheek with your canines. And then: the mattress shifted as he climbed in beside you, his presence warm and solid, too close but not close enough to touch. The space between you was charged, a tension that knotted your stomach. His breathing was steady, almost comforting, but it only made you feel more exposed.

"Has anyone ever told you you can be harsh?" he asked, voice soft but laced with amusement.

You felt the corners of your lips twitch, but you wouldn’t let yourself smile and you refused to let him see it. Another minute passed, and then you felt your stomach growl. Hunger persisted. You shifted uncomfortably, your hip digging into the mattress as you turned over, facing him now as you lay on your side. "My hip hurt," you muttered, too afraid he’d think you wanted to be closer to him. Or perhaps . . . you were afraid to admit that you wanted to be closer to him.

Chris chuckled, a low sound that rumbled through him. "OK."

It was such a simple response, and yet it felt like he was giving you more than you deserved. He always did. And that was the problem. You didn’t deserve this—the warmth, the laughter, the steadiness of him beside you. You shifted again, the words rising in your throat before you could stop them.

"I should leave tomorrow," you said, though the words feel hollow as they leave your mouth.

Chris glanced toward you, brows furrowed. His eyes traced your features, almost as if he were studying you. "You’re asking for my approval," he said after a minute, his voice calm and steady. "Why are you asking for my approval?"

You closed your eyes, a tightness forming in your throat. "You don’t get it," you whispered.

"Then explain it to me."

You exhaled, and before you could stop yourself, the words came spilling out. "When I was a kid . . . I used to pray something bad would happen to me." You didn’t look at him, didn’t let yourself see the expression on his face. "I was always too afraid to do it myself, so sometimes I’d skip class and go into the woods during hunting season. I never went in far . . . but I’d pray that they’d mistake me for a deer. That a stray bullet would hit me instead of one of the fawns." You paused, your chest tightening with the weight of memories you never wanted to share. "I think . . . I think I’ve lived longer now than I ever would’ve if none of this had happened." You swallowed hard, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Then the world died . . . and I’ve watched so many people die since then. And every time, I come out unscathed."

You glanced up, searching his eyes for something—anger, judgment, anything to make sense of the mess you just unloaded on him. "Don’t you see? You welcome me into that bunker, and everyone will die. That’s how it always goes. You should’ve let me die that night," you said quietly. To sleep in the same bed as a wild animal is to put a gun to your head and pull the trigger. Why didn’t he seem scared? And why were you hoping he wasn’t?

The silence that followed was heavy. You watched as his brows furrowed and his eyes left your face and darted across the ceiling as if he were truly thinking. And you wondered what he thought. You knew what he should’ve thought. You knew what you’d told him. You knew what he’d told you. But now . . . it seemed the alcohol in your system had you hoping that he’d prove you wrong. And then: "You’re not the reason people die," he said, his voice calm, as if his certainty could erase the years of guilt you carried. "The world is."

You shook your head, the familiar ache in your chest tightening. "You don’t know me."

He turned his head then, eyes falling upon yours. He searched them for a moment before his brows twitched and he whispered, "I want to."

That simple, direct response cut through you, leaving you raw. He wanted to know you. He wanted to see something good in you, something you were convinced didn’t exist. You had spent so long hiding, so long convinced you were beyond redemption, but Chris refused to see the darkness you clung to.

"You’ll regret your words one day," you murmured, bitterness lacing your tone as you shook your head.

He didn’t flinch. "Let’s make a deal then," he said quietly, his gaze never leaving yours. "If you agree to come back with me, and everything goes to shit, you can leave. No questions asked. But if not . . . if things work out, you get a roof over your head, food, a bed. You get people." His lips quirked into a small smile. "Deal?"

You stared at him, your heart pounding too hard. He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t know what would happen. You were meant to leave tomorrow. You were meant to die tomorrow. How could you go back to him and . . . live? "Doesn’t seem like a very good deal on your end," you muttered, but your words held truth to them.

"You’re a good asset.” He shrugged. “Seems like the best kind of deal to me."

You were about to scoff when he took your hand gently, and placed it against his chest, right over his heart. The gesture startled you, making you feel too close, too exposed, but you didn’t pull away. His heartbeat was steady beneath your palm, grounding you in a way that terrified you. His eyes held yours, unwavering. "Cross my heart and hope to die," he said, his tone soft, playful, but with a depth that lingered beneath the words.

You pulled your hand back slightly, but he didn’t let go. "That’s not funny,” you scoffed, shaking your head.

He grinned, and the sight of it made something in your chest tighten. "You’ll need to work on your sense of humor. So the deal’s fair, you know?"

This was too much. He was still grinning at you, and you felt like you might die. Was this how it felt to be drunk? Or was it him? The wine or him? The wine or him? God, you didn’t know. Your heart sped up at the questions clogging your mind, and you pushed his hand away to clear those thoughts, but the roughness of his skin against yours sent an unwanted shiver down your spine. "Your hands are too rough," you blurted out, more sharply than you intended.

"Strike one," he replied, still smiling. "That was rude."

"It’s the truth," you countered, swallowing hard as you tried to quietly steady your mind. You forced yourself to break eye contact, rolling onto your back to stare at the ceiling. You could still feel him, but . . . you couldn’t see him, and that . . . that seemed to help. Wetting your lips, you felt a pang of guilt tug on your heart. "Mine are too. Just the way it is." You lifted your hand up, showing your knuckles to him, where you knew the scars would still be.

“Liar.”

You were about to scoff when he took your hand again, this time more firmly, inspecting it with his. His touch was gentle just like hours before, his fingers tracing the lines of your palm, the warmth of his skin sending an unwanted shiver down your spine. He seemed lost in thought, studying you with a seriousness that made your heart race.

“Do you believe me now?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, almost as if you were afraid of his answer; as if for the first time in your life, you wanted a man to look at you.

“Soft.” He looked up, his gaze piercing yet soft, an intriguing mix of concern and something deeper. “You’re soft,” he said, and there was a gravity in his tone that caught you off guard. His eyes held so much—curiosity, determination, and an undeniable pull that made your breath hitch.

In that moment, the distance between you collapsed, the air thick with unspoken words and emotions swirling like a storm. You could feel it—a magnetic draw that pulled you closer. And then you realized something peculiar: for the first time in your life, you did want a man to look at you. And . . . and . . . he was.

Swallowing hard, you decided. Tomorrow you’d leave. Tomorrow you’d die. Tomorrow you’d kill yourself with your father’s gun in hand and finally find him again. You’d grown up in a town where there were whispers; where the name of God was the only thing you should’ve cared about; where you were taught if you even so much as looked at a man for too long, you’d gone against the almighty father; where you were the sacrificial lamb in a hollow of wolves. You’d turned into one of those wolves now. You were raw and ugly and grotesque. You didn’t deserve his hospitality, his kindness, him. You didn’t deserve to look at him like he was the apple and you were Eve. You didn’t deserve to taste him as he’d tasted you, but god did you want to. You supposed you finally got what it meant to sin.

But tonight . . . tonight you wanted all the things you’d never had. You’d set the world straight tomorrow. You’d give this God what he wanted, but tonight . . . tonight there was no God, there was no town, no mother, no dead father, no outside world. Tonight, all you could see, all you could smell, all you wanted to feel and taste was . . . him.

You’d never felt a man before. You’d never touched or held or kissed a man you wanted like this before. And for the first time, dying without having ever touching him scared you more than the scabs on your knees or the evil in your heart.

Tomorrow, you’d die, but tonight . . . tonight . . .

You wet your lips, your hunger consuming you while your hands hesitantly touched either side of his face, shaking as the tips of your fingers danced across his cheekbones. You lived in a world where the dead came back; where you had to kill them brutally and violently. You weren’t scared of the monsters under your bed anymore, not in a world like this. And yet, somehow, the man before you was the scariest thing you’d ever had to deal with. It wasn’t what you knew about him that scared you or even what you didn’t know, but rather his proximity.

Was it the wine or him?

You’d never been this close to a man like him before; you’d never touched one like this; you’d never wanted to touch one like this and . . . more; you’d been taught sex before marriage was a sin and never once really found interest in it; you’d never laid with a man or ever kissed, you never wanted to. Somehow; however, every time he was near you, you couldn’t help but stare at him a little longer.

Was it the wine or him?

At night . . . sometimes his face revisited you in your dreams. You thought you couldn’t dream anymore or rather the dreams you were allowed were tainted. Yet . . . the dreams you’d have of him . . . they were just dreams . . . they were just him. It made you curious. It made you go mad. It terrified you, and yet as you cradled his face in the palms of your hands . . . you couldn’t stop thinking about what his lips would feel like against yours.

Was it the wine or him?

Swallowing hard, you knew the answer. Him . . .

Why do you make me feel this way? you wanted to ask. Why is it you and not God? The end of the world was supposed to bring more faith, and yet you’d only lost it. This . . . this was the first feeling of salvation you’d yearned for since the day you first awoke. Why is it you? Why is it you? Why is it not him? Why is it not God? How could the man you’d once mistaken for Death make you feel like how the rapture was supposed to?

Those words never left your lips. Instead, you did something that shouldn’t have come as a surprise to you. You touched your thumb to his bottom lip, breathing out a heavy sigh, then . . . you crashed into him, slamming your lips onto his and nearly knocking out all the air in your lungs. The warmth of his lips obliterated your every thought, melting your mind as you melded into him. Chris, however, remained stunned, his hand frozen still on your arm while you pressed your chapped lips against his soft, plush ones.

But when your fingers gently grazed across his cheek, traveling up to curl his hair behind his ear, he gave in. He reacted quickly after that, and gripped onto your thighs, locking your leg over his hip the best he could to shift closer to you. And then he was wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you even closer to him until there was no space left between. His other hand found its way to the back of your neck and he deepened the kiss, causing you to release a soft gasp into his mouth.

You’d never touched a man. You’d never wanted to before. But in that moment, all you wanted was to feel more and more of him before you left the next morning and bid him goodbye. You’d never see him again, and maybe that was what scared you. You wanted to feel all of him. You wanted to know more about him and why you felt the way you did, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t let yourself, not when the next morning you’d be off and alone like you were supposed to be. Tomorrow, you’d end it all and never see him again . . .

But God . . . you wanted to see him again and again. You wanted him like this over and over. You wanted more and more, but you wouldn’t let yourself. Death would follow. He’d seen enough of it. Kissing him was not the worst you could do to him, but it was the only sin you’d allow yourself to commit. You wanted to remember this when you died.

The descent into madness only quickened as you realized you weren’t just kissing him, but kissing anyone for the first and only time. You wanted this. You wanted him. You wanted it to be memorable. And so it was.

It was sloppy and needy . . . like the two of you were trying to drink each other up; like you were thanking him and he was thanking you right back. And his touch. His touch lit a fire inside you as he sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, asking you for permission first. And you willingly gave it to him, parting your lips just enough to allow him access, and relishing in the way he nearly groaned at your neediness.

Every squeeze of your hips, every hurried touch he left along your sides, your legs, your arms, face, lips . . . you felt yourself sinking further and further into him. You just wanted more and more and more. No one had ever felt this good. Nothing had ever tasted this sweet, not even blood or wine. No one had ever made you want to kiss them until the sun rose, but him . . . He was nearly otherworldly, and you hated that. Why him and not God? Why him? Why now?

“I don’t like you,” you heard yourself gasp against his lips before you began to kiss his cheek, then his jaw, until you reached his neck.

Chris chuckled under his breath, tilting his head to the side to allow you more access and you eagerly took it. “You don’t like me?” he questioned, his voice deeper now as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when you leaned back and your finger replaced your lips as it lazily traced figures along the slope of his neck.

“You make me feel like I’m on fire,” you confessed, continuing to trail your finger across his beautiful, beautiful neck as he drew your body closer to his, your core now directly resting on top of his lower half. “I hate it. I hate . . . “ You swallowed hard. “I have this . . . hunger inside me. It’s incorrigible and disgusting and . . . and . . . I’ve always been like this even as a kid. I would do things and make trouble because I wanted to feel full; I wanted to feel normal . . . fulfilled . . . content . . . and then I would try to apologize for this hunger by pretending to be this perfect child and praying and repenting and swallowing it down, but right now—” you shook your head, in disbelief of yourself— “I just . . . I don’t . . . I don’t feel violent . . . I’m not. I don’t know why I am . . . and I don’t know why I’m not right now. I hate this. I hate you. I . . . don’t feel violent with you.”

Chris laced your fingers together, holding your hand close to his neck. “What do you feel?” he whispered, almost hesitant to hear the answer.

You could only shake your head, your words nothing but gibberish. “A different kind of hunger,” you spat out, scoffing at your own confession. “I want . . . “ You choked out a laugh, inching closer toward him. “I just want to kiss you.”

The corners of his lips twitched into a handsome half-grin as he softly brushed his nose against yours. “Kiss me then.”

That was all it took. You pressed your lips firmly against his, trailing your hand up to the back of his head, pulling him into you. He laughed into your mouth, but didn’t dare pull away. He only pulled himself closer, and the fire inside you burned brighter. He took the reins from you as he deepened the kiss, his tongue melding against your own, and then you felt yourself inhaling sharply just before you pushed yourself further into him, trying to taste as much of him as you could. His body moved with his lips, melding into your own body as his arm wrapped around your back once again, trying to get you as close as possible.

That was when you felt it—his hardness poking you where you needed it most. You’d never felt something like this before; something so hot and . . . there. You’d never been too curious about it. You’d never had the time, but now . . . it was all you could think about. For a second, you were just a woman and he was just a man, and that was all. You knew how it all worked, and now . . . now you wanted it. You couldn't tell if he was fully hard due to the material of his jeans, but you didn't care. The feeling alone was enough to set you off—your skin grew hot and your breath hitched in your throat as your core ached for even the simplest of touches. It was new. It was odd. It was everything.

Even just the slightest of pressure on your body had your head spinning. His hand squeezed your thigh and you nearly sighed into his mouth, wishing he’d just hold you against him and squeeze you into his broad chest. “You’re—” he began at the sound of your quiet gasp, but his words quickly died on his tongue when your body moved against his.

Grinning against his lips, you mumbled, taunting him, “I’m?”

But he only groaned, his deep voice doing unspeakable things to you as his grip on you tightened. His touch only spurred you on further. “You make me—You’re—” he cut himself off as dived back in, his mouth skillfully working against yours— “everything.” His words shocked you to the core, but not for long as one of his hands tightened around the hair at the back of your head, pulling you into him while his other hand tugged your body against his in a new position, the movements simultaneously brushing your core ever so slightly against the tent in his jeans.

If he knew how he was affecting you, he didn’t show it. It just seemed he wanted more and more of you, and that was it. Yet, still, his simple touches were making your underwear stick to your core, and you were becoming more and more lost in him as the seconds passed.

When your core began to ache all too much, you listened to your body, subconsciously grinding against his hardness. And oh . . . you’d never felt that. Your stomach flipped, your most intimate parts of yourself pulsing against his body. And instantly, he, too, curled into you, a deep moan sounding from the back of his throat as he buried his head into the crook of your neck.

But he didn’t dare touch you like . . . that . . . back. No . . . instead . . . his hands stilled, his touch light against you as he halted you from grinding against him again.

And you were left out of breath, dazed, and confused, with an odd ache in your chest.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He kissed your neck once, but it was gentle, almost innocent, and then he was pulling away.

A beat of silence.

Beat.

It was deafening.

Beat.

And for a second, you thought it was the second coming.

Beat.

For a second, you thought this was Hell, and then he looked at you and spoke, and you realized it was.

“I just . . . “ His eyes met yours, searching and you searched right back, practically begging him to tell you the truth. You knew you’d never been someone people . . . liked. You could take this. He just . . . he just had to tell you. But instead: “I just . . . I can’t be . . . intimate with you.”

Oh. Your brows furrowed, your face hot, and suddenly, you remembered who you were, and what had happened, and what that meant. Then . . . you hated him for a whole different reason. “Um . . . OK . . . “ scoffing, you tried to turn over to get as far away from him as possible, but he pulled you back.

“Please,” he begged, hand still on your arm as he searched your eyes with such earnestness. “I want to kiss you.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “But . . . I just . . . I can’t.”

You blinked once. Then twice. Then once more as you stared at him while confusion and something else twisted through your brain. He wanted to kiss you. He had, and yet . . .

“OK,” you said, voice flat, void of the emotions swirling inside you. You slipped out of his hold without looking back, grabbing the blanket from the floor, and made your way to the corner of the room. The cold, hard floor seemed like a fitting place for you now, far away from him, from everything you’d just felt. You dropped down onto the floor, wrapping the blanket around you like a shield.

“You don’t have to—” he began, but you cut him off before he could finish.

“Don’t console me.” Your words were sharp, a dagger thrown with precision. “You think you mean anything to me? You don’t. You touch me, I will not hesitate to kill you. I have my gun. I will slit your throat, steal your shit, and leave your body to rot down here.” Your voice was icy, harsh. You wanted him to believe it, to push him away before he could come any closer, before he could see through the walls you so carefully built. You turned to look at him, meeting his eyes with a glare that you hoped would drive the point home. “I’m not your friend. I don’t like you. I don’t care about you. I am not a good person. I will hurt you.”

The silence that followed felt heavy, oppressive, like the weight of your own words was crashing down on both of you. You stared at him, daring him to challenge you, to call you out as a liar. But all he did was nod, his face unreadable.

“Understood?” you added, your voice softer now but no less dangerous.

His eyes flickered with something—sadness, maybe, or something deeper, something you didn’t want to recognize. “Understood,” he replied quietly, his voice steady, though the tension between you crackled like a live wire.

You turned away again, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, trying to will your body to relax, to push away the hurt that had taken root deep inside. You closed your eyes, blocking him out, knowing that sleep wouldn’t come easy tonight.

You had built your walls higher than ever, but somehow, you'd never felt so exposed.

taglist:

@amaranth-writing @binchanluvrr @dreamingsmile @eternalrajin @palindrome969 @lixxpix @miin17

(if you want to be taken off, send me a lil message <3)

[reareaotaku]

Yandere Leon Kennedy Headcanons

Tw: Paranoia

[Been getting really into Resident Evil (Mainly 4, 7, 8) & Resident Lover]

⚔️ He first met you when you were trapped in a cult town that was injecting people with parasites. You begged him to help you. You didn't want to die- Not like everyone you loved did. He's pretty reluctant at first, but he also has a savior complex, so he does help you.

⚔️ You are a little scared, because you don't have anywhere to go. This is the only home you have ever known, but you can't stay. You're fear is dwelled when he promises that he the people he works for will help you.

⚔️ You prove yourself valuable though, when you showed him you know how to use a knife and a gun. You two made quite the team when you were able to take out the people when they tried attacking him from behind.

⚔️ You told him your father used to take you hunting because he had no son, so you learned how to use a weapon.

⚔️ He's not going to lie, he does become slightly attached to you. It might just be the trauma bond, but he likes being around you. He likes when you laugh at his jokes, likes when you share your life wit him, likes when it's you and him... God, he hates this feeling. The feeling of attachment.

⚔️ You become attached to him as well though, because you don't know anyone else besides him. Everyone you've ever loved is dead or a monster. You don't want to lose Leon too. You become extremely paranoid that he's going to become one of them, so you stay up all night, when he decides you need to rest. You hadn't been attacked during those times, but the paranoia still sits with you.

⚔️ He doesn't realize that you weren't sleeping, until you were in a lab and you ended up fainting on the floor. He becomes worried about you when you don't wake up. You're still breathing though, so he's not as scared, but he's confused.

⚔️ He barricades the room and lets you sleep. He's on a time limit, but it's not essential- And he has plenty of time anyway. Besides- the cult is still going to be there when you wake up.

⚔️ You awoke in a panic and Leon was quick to recognize this and covered your mouth before you could scream. He reassures you that it's fine and you just passed out. Nothing bad happened.

⚔️ You felt terrible for falling asleep knowing he had a mission and you profusely apologize. He assures you it's fine, but you still feel bad. Leon's not to good with emotions, but he does feel bad that you feel bad and he promises you that it's okay. This whole thing must be so stressful for you and you're not like him and trained to fight like this, so of course it isn't easy for you. He assures you it's okay if you're scared.

--

"Are you?

Leon looks at you confused, his back pinned against the wall. "Am I what?"

"Scared."

He looks away from you, looking towards the door he had barricaded. His eyebrows scrunch together, before he responds. "No."

You don't believe him.

--

⚔️ You're incredibly thankful when the cult is destroyed, thanks to Leon. Your home has been destroyed and you are only person left, as the all people affected died when the leader was killed. You had nothing. You were scared, because you felt so alone. The D.S.O. decided to let Leon take you in, as they wanted to keep an eye on you and thought that Leon could do the best job, because you already trusted and felt safe around.

⚔️ He's very kind to you, even though he's not used to having someone around. He's used to being alone, but... He kind of likes it. It helps that you're easy to get along with and you make his life easier. You do things that skip his mind or he doesn't have time for. Ex. Dishes, laundry, making the bed [Which he never does, as he rarely sleeps in it], making dinner [Frozen Dinner's are his go-to.], etc. Just taking care of the place, because he's stressed out and/or overworked.

⚔️ You were already doing those things for your family, as it was traditional town [Hence why it was so easy for a cult to form], so it didn't bother you- In fact, it made you feel at home. Also, you liked taking care of him, especially since he saved your life.

⚔️ You don't have to be a great cook, he appreciates any of it. He likes that you cook FOR him. Besides, anything's better than frozen dinner. He also thinks it's sweet when he does finally get to his bed to see it all done for him. He doesn't remember the last time someone cared for him in such a way.

⚔️ He becomes extremely attached- Like more so than before. He hates leaving you for long periods of times, but god it's so good to get back to you. He doesn't want you to leave- At all

⚔️ He also becomes incredibly protective over you. He saw the evil you had experienced and so much more and he wants to keep it all away from you. He wants you to be safe and sound.

⚔️ He's scared of losing you and the fear of you dying does haunt his mind and dreams.

⚔️ He teaches you how to use a phone and technology, so that when he's on a mission, he can still get into contact with you. He just wants to talk to you- Hear your voice. Make sure you're still alive. He gets very anxious and paranoid if you don't answer him when he calls you. He won't do anything until he gets back into contact with you.

⚔️ When you don't answer it's just because you're confused by the technology, because you always try to answer him, but you get pretty overwhelmed by it

⚔️ He's just glad to hear your voice, especially if he just had a nightmare that you died. It helps calm his nerves, also he likes talking about the mundane with you, because you bring him back down to earth.

⚔️ You can never leave him. He won't let you become attached or close to anyone in fer of you leaving him. You don't recognize his toxic behavior, just seeing it as him caring about you. What else could it possibly be?

[glader13]

Me and the Devil pt.2

True form/Heian period Sukuna x Heian period Reader

Part 1

A/N: 18 and up

You woke up alone the next morning, wondering where Sukuna went. You wrapped yourself in one of Sukuna’s robes, walking out of your shared room and into the rest of the estate. You first wandered into the dining hall, seeing no one there but the other concubines. None of them dared to look at you unless you engaged with them first. Their behavior was not caused entirely by fear of Sukuna but by you. Your reputation for killing your village was only reinforced when a concubine stepped out of her place, bullying and harassing you like those from your past. You burned her, creating ashes from her flesh, a vibrant warning. You guess your village and family were right: there is a darkness in you.

But he loves it. He loves how you tripped over the heavenly precipice, becoming his. Perfectly fallen.

“Have you seen Lord Sukuna?” You asked one of the concubines. She quickly shook her head, mumbling no.

The sun gently shined through the windows and the vine-covered archways as you went looking for him, asking other servants for his whereabouts which were still unknown. You decided to take your search outside, testing your luck in the garden. As you walked through the garden, underneath the cherry blossom trees, you thought of the night before. You still felt Sukuna’s touch lingering on your skin, his promise to protect you. You scarcely smiled, feeling confident in knowing what you felt towards him, but doubting if he felt the same way. Before, you would go everywhere with him, and attend his meetings with the different leaders collecting their tribute. But now, ever since he’s become a target, he kept you here. Out of public, out of sight. He always brings you back gifts to still provide you with a gateway to the outside world. But you yearn for the freedom you once had, you yearn to be by his side.

You know he’s protecting you, but who will protect him? A foolish thought, but it keeps you up. The thought invades your mind as you spend time in his arms. Rounding a corner in the garden, you heard his voice, strong against Uruame’s concerned one.

The sorcerers are turning them against you. This is the fifth village who have given in to their influence,” Uruame folded the letter, “I fear an uprising, Lord Sukuna.”

“Let them try,” you could hear Sukuna’s smirk, “it’ll be foolish anyway.”

“But the land, you rule it all. What if they-”

“It’s just dirt, I can take it back whenever I please,” he interrupted them.

“What if they get here? What if they harm her?” Uruame’s voice was a whisper.

That’s when you felt something more terrifying, more powerful than fear. It was stomach-churning, causing you to sweat. You were paralyzed, so weak that you fell to your knees, scarcely breathing. Your vision was darkening, the ground beneath you blurred and moving, as if it would give way underneath you. You focused on the ground, clutching the grass for some stability as you were feeling that you were in the presence of the devil himself. Or something much worse.

“Let them try. They’re dead the moment that idea crosses their mind,” he said.

You shakily got up, seeing Sukuna standing by himself as Uruame went off to do a task. You quietly walked behind him, kissing the markings that decorate his back and shoulders as you wrapped your arms around him. He relaxed underneath your touch, asking why you weren’t in bed, to which you explained.

“I’ll be leaving on business to a nearby village,” he said taking your hands, “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, so you’ll be alone for a little bit longer.”

“Take me with you,” you kissed his shoulder again, “I miss being by your side.”

“It was … different then,” he sighed, “it’s much better if you stay here.”

“I can handle my own,” you walked in front of him, placing a finger on his lips, “I’ll bring my weapon, I’ll be safe. Especially with the King of Curses around.”

_

“Lord Sukuna,” you stood at the entrance of his room, “Are you prepared to leave?”

He looked over, standing up from where he was sitting as he gave you a curt nod. You didn’t move, not knowing where you stood in his eyes, the words that you heard a couple of moments ago were still burning, leaving a mess of questions in your mind. Without looking at you, he motioned you over with a hand. You fixed your kimono and the flowers in your hair and adjusted your katana before walking in front of him. You felt heat envelop your face as you couldn’t meet his eyes, though you could feel them on you. His gaze was piercing, feeling like lightning.

The warmth from the closeness of his body told you that he was towering over you. You bit your lip, unable to meet his gaze, feeling your heartbeat throughout your body. Sukuna didn’t say a word, confused by your sudden change of character, you never shied away from meeting his gaze. He smiled slightly, feeling comfortable with making you look at him. He held your face from your chin, your body shivering when you finally met his crimson eyes.

“Since when have you been afraid to look at me?” He teased you, and you looked away again, unable to talk, “So unlike you,” he whispered in your ear and you shivered again.

Despite enjoying this, he did wish that you would meet his gaze, that he would hear your voice. Just as you couldn’t look at him, he couldn’t tell you why he wants you, why he keeps feeling the softness of your lips on his from those nights ago. He didn’t know why he couldn’t get it out of his mind, why you have taken residence in his head. He looked you over, still in awe of how power and beauty can balance in you.

“It fits you well,” he told you, his fingers rubbing the silk fabric.

He still stood in front of you, and you finally found the courage to look at him. His arms were folded as he looked at you as if you were a puzzle, his eyes drinking your form, no doubt noticing how well the kimono suits your body. You took a breath before speaking, “Is everything okay? Did I do something to upset you?”

“No,” he said, “And yes, I am prepared to leave.”

The ride was quiet, Sukuna was stuck in his papers, occasionally mumbling something about numbers. He rarely looked at you, causing another sting. He usually would have said something, at least acknowledged you, but now he’s treating you like the other concubines that he keeps. He has to be angry, you bit the inside of your cheek, you were too pushy with him allowing you to go. You felt embarrassed to look at him, feeling that you crossed a line, so you stared at the rolling landscape. He’s always leaving you guessing, he’s a riddle that you’ll never be able to solve. But when you’re with him, you feel like his queen. Yes, he opens up his bed and body to you, but you want a piece of his mind. You want his heart. A foolish hope, you are aware, but you can never fully bring yourself to extinguish it. You love him, and there’s nothing that you can do.

“I believe that you are mad at me,” you announced, causing him to look at you, “Due to my intrusion, I shall sit here until you’re done.”

Sukuna’s crimson eyes shined with amusement as he said, “I’m not mad at you.”

“But you haven’t said one word to me,” you folded your arms, “Am I not worth your time? Is my usefulness over for you?”

Sukuna’s laugh bellowed in the space, “Quite a needy thing you are.” You felt your heart jump at his words.

“Your usefulness has never run out, it never will,” he said, “But you do cause me problems. I seem to not be myself when you’re around. And when you’re not around, it’s emptiness. What did you do to me?”

You smirked, understanding his dilemma. You leaned forward, your voice sickeningly soft and innocent, “Do I frustrate the King of Curses?”

He got closer to you, once again holding your face and instead of looking away, your smirk only grew. Sukuna felt himself slightly smile, something in him shifting, though he didn’t what it was. But he knew that he wanted to keep the look on your face, your lidded eyes brimming with desire, all to himself. He was getting lost in your eyes, going past the point of return. It was driving him mad, for his thoughts to be consumed by a human.

“Did you put a hex on me?” His voice rumbled through your body, as you mumbled maybe.

He leaned even closer, his lips inches away from yours. You held your breath, hoping that he would close the distance, gracing you with a kiss, but he didn’t. He traced over your lips with his thumb as his mind could only form one coherent thought, which was that he wanted to taste you. It was the only reason why he would ever get on his knees for a human, to put himself below. He kissed the inside of your thighs, your soft skin warm against his mouth as he stared up at you. Your eyes were closed, and your lips were curled in a soft smile, Sukuna strangely felt in awe again, as if discovering another reason why he so easily got on his knees. But, you were only smiling, and he needed to hear your voice. You gasped feeling Sukuna’s tongue languidly lick from the top of your pussy to the bottom.

You breathed heavily, feeling his tongue in between your folds, as his fingers were digging into your soft skin. He didn’t pick up the pace, slowly maneuvering his tongue around, ignoring your aching clit. The only time that it would get attention was when his nose would occasionally bump into it, causing you to moan. You were a heavenly sight to Sukuna, with closed eyes and beautiful noises coming from your lips. He loved how you were falling apart by his tongue, your hips desperately grinding against his mouth, the word please and his name the only thing you could say. He smiled against your cunt, knowing what you want, but still not giving it to you. He kissed your cunt, the filthy sounds echoing in the small space. You nearly screamed, feeling Sukuna’s fingers spread open your fucked out cunt, before his lips went back to abusing it.

You arched your back, your fingers getting lost in his pink hair. It was messy, as he sloppily made love to your cunt. The seat below you had a stain, and each time Sukuna would stop and smile at you, a trail of saliva would be visible. He eventually gave you what you wanted, and you could have sworn that you were going to pass out. Ecstasy and euphoria flooded your senses as he sucked on your clit, nipping and pulling on the sensitive area. Shamelessly, you guided his head, making sure that his mouth stayed where you wanted it to be, your thighs keeping him in place. Sukuna would have normally lashed out and stopped altogether if a concubine had touched him without permission, but with you, he didn’t mind. He wanted to please you.

“Cum on my tongue,” he breathed against you, causing you to squirm and moan, “I want to taste you.”

So you did, as he murmured good. He didn’t give you time to recover, long strokes of his tongue left you shivering as he cleaned you up. His lips found yours, locking you in as his tongue deepened the kiss, “Look at how good you taste.” His words caused you to moan again.

He would have done more, but the announcement of their arrival caused him to stop. The two of you walked to the chief’s estate, everyone in the village moving out of the way when the two of you walked past. This troubled Sukuna as he thought back to Uruame’s words of caution, an uprising is sure to happen. Usually, they would have bowed, cowering from his sight, but now they look him in the eyes as he walks by. They are bold. The chief was late, causing Sukuna to grow even angrier at his insolence.

The two of you sat in the grand room in silence, as servants stood ready to refill your cups once you needed them too. You stared out into the windows, seeing the beautiful village nestled in a valley from a vantage point, it was quite large and decently populated. A prime spot for Sukuna to rule, a prime spot for sorcerers to gamble and take control over. Once the chief arrived, you could tell the type of man he was, reminding you instantly of everyone in your old village, in your family. He was a greedy man, exuding more power than he ever would have. You weren’t even there in his eyes, being referred to as one of Sukuna’s favorite concubines.

“Don’t kill him,” you said seeing Sukuna tense, “At least not over that,” you then directed your attention to the village chief, “Your tribute payments, have stopped, why is that?”

He scoffed at you, “That’s not a woman’s place.”

Sukuna leaned forward, his large frame almost blocking the chief entirely from your point of view, “She’s equal to me, so it is her place as much as it is my place.”

“They promised me protection,” he was smug, “They promised that you are going to get sealed,” he pointed at Sukuna, “So why should I fear an extinct curse?”

“Sorcerers? That’s impossible,” you jumped in, “They don’t have anything to seal him away, it’ll be suicide.”

You looked at Sukuna, seeing if he wanted to join in, but his arms were crossed, his eyes were focusing on nothing, yet you could see that his mind was running. Running with possibilities of him being sealed, his power stripped. With the possibility of losing you in the process. You focused back on the man, “He has burned villages, and killed anyone who had tried to stop him, what makes you think that they can win? You wouldn’t be standing on your feet if it wasn’t for him. They lie and cheat, they’ll leave you when they can’t handle their responsibilities and the consequences. They can never be trusted.”

You thought of your time as a sorcerer, sold away by your family because of the darkness in you. You thought that you would be comforted by fellow sorcerers, people just like you, but you were wrong. Beaten by those who deemed themselves to be protectors. Beaten by people who were like you. No one was there, no one cared about your cries for help. The scars on your body prove it, the scar across your chest, a testament to your survival, of your anger. You can never trust a self-proclaimed savior.

“You were dead when they arrived, and you were dead welcoming them in,” you said, “You will never be safe with them.”

He laughed and it caused your blood to boil. Heat enveloped your face as you stood up, which caused Sukuna to finally snap out of his daze. Red flames sprouted from your hand, causing the chief’s face to drop. Sukuna smiled at you, more than ready to let you take control of the negotiations.

“Once we bring you the heads of your protectors, the tribute that you owe to Lord Sukuna will be quadrupled,” you frowned, “quite merciful for your insolence.”

You walked out before momentarily being followed by Sukuna who told you that a bath was being prepared before you departed. You nodded, falling slightly behind as you thought back to inside, how he fell quiet.

“Why did you go silent, if I may ask,” you said.

“We may be attacked,” was all he responded with. But he gave you a look that silenced any further questions.

You and Sukuna walked through the village to kill time until the bathing room was ready, and every time you asked him why he needed a bathing room prepared, he would tell you to not worry. You only frowned, hoping that last night would mean something different. You kept on thinking of his head in between your thighs with a mixture of pride and worry, you don’t want to become a glorified whore. You felt your cheeks heat up when you caught a pair of his eyes looking at you before he pulled you closer. He didn’t say anything, and you took the quiet to take in the beautiful village, despite its failure to uphold its bargain. It was nestled by a clear running spring that people used to fish or swim. There was a bridge that connected to the other side of the village, decorated with lanterns.

Despite the day being beautiful, the walkways were empty for you and Sukuna. The vendors looked at you nervously each time you stopped to look at an item. Sukuna watched you carefully, seeing if anything did manage to truly catch your attention, you were captured by jewelry that he would describe as plain. But, he saw your eyes light up looking at a matching set, a gold necklace with a deep red pendant, and a gold ring with the same deep red gem in the center.

“I can’t help but notice,” you held up the necklace to his face, “The color matches your eyes, it’s beautiful.”

Sukuna didn’t say anything, taken aback once again. In the sunlight, your eyes seem to have been glowing, making him annoyingly weak. Once again, he wasn’t sure why something stirred in him when you called his eyes beautiful when you smiled as you said it. He wanted to stay here, to keep this moment forever. He felt something drop in him, thinking this way would lead to nothing good.

“Do you want it?” He managed to ask, and you nodded.

“This is such a simple thing,” he muttered from behind you, putting on your necklace, “I can give you jewelry that these people can’t afford to even look at.”

You stared at the koi fish in the water, watching them glimmer in the light as Sukuna talked. “Well, there’s beauty in simplicity,” you said.

“I guess so,” he whispered against your neck.

The bathhouse was ready soon after you got the jewelry, which caused Sukuna’s face to lighten up a bit. You followed Sukuna up to the door before taking a spot next to it. You were still confused about the need for him to bathe right now, but you weren’t going to press him again. Seeing that he didn’t call for you, or perhaps he didn’t notice that you weren’t in there, you decided to go back into the village and explore what was on the other side of the river.

“Where are you going?” He asked, causing you to stop and turn.

“Back to the village,” you said, “You need privacy.”

“It’s for us,” he smirked, “So come here,” and you felt your heart racing.

The inside was nice, there was even a little table in the corner with a pitcher of water and tea. On a plate was a variety of fruits nuts, and other finger foods. The details of the place became, blurred as Sukuna revealed his true intention for the bathhouse. You couldn’t escape from his grasp as he bounced you on his dick, which was kissing your cervix each time you came down. You could have sworn that you were being split open as your cunt accommodated his size, the pain, and pleasure mixing into something that had your arms wrapped around him as you moaned his name. You didn’t know how many times he made you cum, but he didn’t falter, pistoning in you with renewed energy each time he discovered a new spot that made you cry for him even louder. You felt him move in you, his dark eyes shining with desire as he licked away your tears.

Each time you would beg for him to slow down, he would punish you. Drawing your lips into a heated kiss, his teeth biting your bottom lip and then your neck, as he would remove his fingers from your pulsing clit, causing you to whine. With an arm, he held yours behind your back, forcing you upright. You felt yourself tighten around him as you looked down seeing him pump in and out of you, white wisps coming from where the two of you are connected, and even coming from his neglected other cock.

“You feel just as good as you taste,” he was still bouncing you, talking as if this was a walk in his estate, “But, how would you be able to take my other cock if one is too much?”

“I …” you couldn’t talk, and Sukuna was enjoying this moment a little too much. He loved seeing your tits bounce, the necklace a beautiful touch, and he loved how your eyes were fucked out, only able to focus on him. He leaned forward, kissing your neck, his tongue was cool against your warm skin as he told you to finish your sentence, his finger back to your aching clit, and your arms were free to hold onto him again.

“I … I can,” you breathed against his neck.

“You can?” You can hear the smile in his voice, “Why is that?”

“I’m much stronger than the whores that you keep,” you said, lightly biting on his ear. You felt his laugh in your body, as he roughly kissed your lips.

Soon after, the two of you were lounging on floor cushions, you were pressed against his chest, occasionally turning over to feed him some fruit, which he took, teasingly placing his mouth around your fingers. You felt yourself beginning to doze off, being lulled by the soft sounds of the bathing pool and his arm holding you firmly.

“Uraume might be thinking where we are,” you say, “We should leave.”

“They’ll be fine,” he murmured, “Just rest.”

And when you woke up next, you were resting in his arms, in the carriage. You kissed his cheek, causing him to slightly smile. Looking into his eyes made you wish that you could stay in this honeymoon state. It made you wish that the two of you could run away together, but you knew it would be impossible. He would be hunted down without end. Even if he wasn’t, power and ambition have a permanent residency in his heart.

“We should visit that place more often,” you murmured, “it’s beautiful.”

“I have other villages and cities that the place we were just at can’t compare to, I’ll take you to them in due time,” he said.

“I would love to,” you smiled, “But I do have something else on my mind. It’s about us, and how you-”

“Why did we stop?” Sukuna interrupted you.

You removed yourself from him, sitting up and peering between the curtains. You didn’t see anything, just rolling hills. It was beautiful out there, and that made you on edge. You grabbed your katana, looking at Sukuna, who whispered for you to stay inside. You felt like sitting ducks, as Sukuna thought of what to do, his eyes always shooting towards you.

“We need to go,” you said, making your way to the entrance, “Before we die in here.”

“Then what?” He asked.

“We’ll worry about that once we get out,” you told him.

As you stepped out first, the world erupted into flames, causing the carriage to be shattered into pieces and flames. You and Sukuna landed in opposite directions, and you hazily watched sorcerers approach the both of you. You shakily began to crawl towards Sukuna, seeing that a few of them decided to go after him rather than you. As you crawled to him, the world changed again and you were in a snowy terrain, your breathing visible in the air. No longer visible to the world, you were stuck in a domain.

@t4naiis @midlife-crisisperson @ag1998 , sorry it took so long, I just graduated from my university

[slowbison]

Bottom! Miguel O'Hara x Top! Male Reader

Summary: Miguel's attitude lately has been rather, rude and you figured that he just needed a little reminder.

words: 2.3k

warnings: "bondage", orgasm delay/denial, overstimulation, smut

You slowly walked towards Miguel’s office from picking up food from the café since he was too occupied to get it himself. While you walked, you stopped by talking to the other spider people. Sharing greetings, cracking jokes, and laughing at some of the others then quietly left the group and slipped into the office doors, locking it as you enter further into the room.

Humming to yourself, you slung yourself to the top of the floating platform and placed the food on a less cluttered surface and slightly began cleaning around until a series of thumping and groaning broke you out of your zone.

“Would you mind keeping it down over there? Trying to do some cleaning here,” You chided before turning around to look at the cause of the series of questionable noises.

Spinning him around revealed a tied up Miguel by ropes flushed and gagged by a piece of cloth you put on before leaving as he began spouting curses at you for continuously teasing him. To which you left believing he must have been cranky because he was hungry. Hence the empanada that was now nice and steaming in its box.

“I know that you’ve been in a bad mood because you're hungry, so I brought a snack.”

“You’re welcome by the way,” you said winking at him as he slowly started fuming in his seat before the vibrating anal bead you left in him began it’s quick high intensity buzzing, jerking him up and let out a groan as it continued it’s assault within him. The device only left him nearing his orgasm, but wasn’t enough to tip him over the edge which left him thrashing and struggling to maintain his breathing.

You grinned at the beautiful sight of the almost-broken man who everyone feared as a strict leader and his sarcastic demeanor he usually upholds now lying puddy in your hands at your own mercy. You walked up to him and gently brought up his chin to get a better look at him. His eyes attempted to remain focused as if he wasn’t as affected by your continuous teasing, but his body betrays him and jerked as another wave of pleasure washed over him.

“Hey now, don’t give me that face. Haven’t I been good to you? I even got you your favorite!” You exclaimed, gesturing to the small box on the table.

Miguel focused his eyes on you with what you can assume a mixture of death while pleading and if looks could kill. Man, would someone else be dead because it certainly wouldn't be you. Maybe the empanada, you’re sure he must’ve been hungry for it. Or was it something else? You smiled and gently coddled his head in your palms.

“If you promise to be good from now on, I’ll give you what you want” you whispered in his ear. Trailing light kisses down his neck, enjoying the vibration of the groan emitting from your partner. Miguel nodded while leaning into your touch as you reached around to untie the gag from his mouth and threw it back on the table. Mouth hanging open with fangs slightly showing from his upper lip, you couldn’t help but kiss him until you took the rest of his breath away.

Miguel, desperate for any connection from you, whatever feel of your body on his, reached from his seat the best he could as he was tied naked in the ropes. One of them slipping on his hard nipples, letting out a small whine from the slight stimulation. Noticing this, you bring down your hand from his face and trail it from his body to his nipple. Rubbing and twisting the small nub in your hand before giving it a small pinch that left Miguel’s breathing staggered, pressing his chest on your hand, begging for more. A soft chuckle left from his mouth as you broke up the kiss, a small frown drew on the man’s face below you.

“My, my, Miguel. Is my baby this much of a slut for any pain?”

“Just fucking touch me, you promised” Miguel panted and reached back up for another kiss. To which you lifted your head higher, watching Miguel’s face scrunch up in frustration, fangs slightly pronounced from his upper lip.

“Ahh, I did promise, didn’t I? But only good boy’s that beg get rewarded love,” You grinned at him, watching as a slightly darker shade of blush painted his face. Jaw taut and lips pursued, he looked to his side then at you then back to the ground, before closing his eyes and ultimately deciding after another round of pleasure engulfed his body, having your dick inside him was better than a damned toy.

“Please just touch me, I don’t want to lose it from a toy when you’re here.”

“I’ll do anything.. I’ll be good just get it out of me please sir” Miguel whined feeling the toy dig deeper the more he tried moving his body closer to you, but failing and returning to sink into the chair, pushing the toy deeper within. The ropes weren’t helping the feeling as it left him hopeless that he couldn’t even touch himself even if he could break out if he truly wanted. But he won’t, because good boy’s get rewards and the last thing he wanted was to be left aching to be touched all day like last time when you found him humping his hand after warning of the no touching rules.

Content with how pliant he was, you moved one of your hands further south to his hard leaking cock and gave it a small squeeze, smearing the tip with his cum. Miguel shuddered, arched his back and began to mutter a chain of silent curses in Spanish just from a small response. His attempt to buck up into your hand was cut short as you grabbed him by his hair, forcing his eyes to look up to your own. You peered down at his trembling gaze with a slight frown drawn on.

“You only take what you’re given slut, any more of that and I’ll leave you here with more than rope burns.”

Miguel’s body trembled at the thought of multiple bruises that you left on his ass and throat a couple of months ago when his bratty behavior was at his worst. Having to be pacified after a few minutes of wrestling, spanking, through throat fucking, orgasm denials, and getting pounded into oblivion while having been chocked leaving a sobbing Miguel who had a bit of trouble walking right, much less fighting awkwardly for a few days until being fully healed. Miguel felt rather annoyed by his body’s supernatural healing factors in that moment as he missed his markings of you and the feeling of been thoroughly fucked. Showing up the next day outside your window, even though you had long since given him the spare keys to your apartment. You had taken it slow with him that day much to his chagrin, enjoying spending some time with each other before the man would go back to burying himself in work. Kissing the top of his head goodnight, promising him to fulfill his desires at the next opportunity. His incoherent agreement grumbling from your chest was all he let out and huddled closer into your arms. You didn’t let him out of that bed in the morning until you were satisfied.

Speaking of the man, Miguel nodded weakly and you returned to stroking his shaft with more and more cum staining your hand. Resisting his urge to be disobedient, he let out a loud whine as the vibrator continued its endless rippling within him, spilling out a mixture of loud moans and soft whines into the air.

Finally, it gave him enough of an edge where he could come from just your hand and the damned toy inside of him. Breathing fastening, disheveled hair across his face, eyebrows furrowed, he focused on the pleasure coursing through him after being teased for so long.

“I-I’m close... please, please keep going” Miguel whined, throwing his head back as his body shook at the feeling of his near orgasm. But at the very border of spilling over your hands, you let go and walk back to the table where the now slightly cold empanada sat in its box, cleaning the surrounding area.

Miguel let out a sob, curling in on himself as the pleasure jostled around him with no longer having much of the build to release as his body craved your touch.

“No please! Let me cum. I’m sorry for being brat, please let me cum,” Miguel cried out, pleading for the return of your warm hands on his cock or anyway part for that matter, so long he can just find some relief from the relentless abuse that is your doing.

You returned to him, shushing your lips. “It’s okay Miguelito, was just making some room to fuck you stupid okay?” Reaching behind the chair to untie him. You rubbed his arms then traveled to his chest, massaging and squeezing his delectable chest, loving the feeling of the mussels in your hands. Miguel let out a groan as you touched him, looking at his arms and chest at the lines that will evidently last for a few days again, smiling at the thought.

Miguel was then startled by being suddenly lifted in the air as he quickly grabbed at your arms. You were about the same build as him, though he surpassed you in strength, but it never stopped you from fucking him in the air. Miguel could attest for that. You chuckled at his reaction at which he grumbled and cursed at you before being placed on the cold table.

“Ay, mierda!” Miguel hissed at the cold seeping across his back.

Grabbing his waist you adjusted his position and pressed a kiss to the side of his cheek, sedating him for now. “It’s alright love, I'll give you something much better to focus on.”

To which he cocked his head and let out a moan as you switched the anal beads to its highest setting, fucking it in and out of him. Miguel arched his back at the sudden intensity, hands flailing before resting them on your shoulders as a weak effort to push yet pull you away. His brain scrambling with what decision to make then decided that there’s not much need for thinking when it was you fucking him.

Enjoying the sounds coming out of Miguel as he continued to cry out for more, morphing between scrunching his face then relaxing as the pleasure traveled up his spine and spreading all throughout his body. Lips bruised from constant biting from his fangs, making you want to swallow his mouth whole. You continued to graze upon his body and landed once more at his chest, deciding to engulf the bud into your mouth, swerving it with your tongue before digging into the center. Gently nipping it as you repeated the ministrations while doing the same as your free hand played with other bud, pinching and pulling at it before rolling it gently.

To say that Miguel was losing it would be an understatement. From the stimulation from the toy fucking into him with no signs of slowing down to having his chest mangled by your swarm of attacks on his nipples, leaving your marks across his pecs, one’s he will admire and think of you when alone. It all came too much and he reached a breaking point as he could no longer fend off his orgasm. Begging and crying that he can’t take it anymore and you have to let him cum because he’d refuse to do it without your permission. You cooed at how obedient your sweet lover had become, far from the brat who had to be tied and left in the chair much earlier before.

“Go on Miguelito, you earned it love.”

“Come for me darling,” You whispered into his ear before biting the lobe.

Watching as his chest stuttered from the confirmation from your words, head thrown back and mouth wide open as he let out a drawled whine. Spurts of cum draped his chest and torso like a fountain before pooling around his dick, twitching ever so slightly. You dialed down the intensity of the toy before turning it off and gently removing it from his quivering hole to which he whimpered at no longer having something to clench around. Placing it on the table, you ran your hand through his hair and kissed the side of his then devouring the rest of his silent cries with your lips. Miguel seemingly satisfied wrapped his arms around your neck and began a rather soft make out session. Though you broke it off, in order to undress yourself from your rather tightening suit after ignoring your raging boner underneath it all. Miguel, confused at your disappearance from his lips, opened his eyes only to see you changing out.

“What? You think I’d forget about my little promise love.”

You fully undressed from your suit, kicking it off in a corner and grabbed at your aching throbbing cock, stroking it as you placed a hand on his thigh.

“You still got another round in you right darling? Can’t leave without your cunt full of me, now can we?” You grinned, looking down as the man below face flushed whose cock’s life returned. Miguel’s face matched your own, though with a slight lopsided grin and eyes drowned in lust.

“Spread ‘em darling.”

The empanada sat cold in its box, long forgotten.

hey y'all, this is my first time after a looongg while of not writing anythin since my wattpad day's and I'm sure there's errors in this lil fic so if you see 'em, let me know. other than that, i ain't sure if i should write the second half of this since it'd take a while but if you want that, let me know x2. thank y'all for reading this, i do enjoy hearing out anyone's thoughts/ideas too...

(fyi: i'm only male focused. fems ain't my taste)

[lotus-n-l0ve]

SERENITY TO HIS HEART

— Mafia!Manjiro 'Mikey' Sano x Wife!Female Reader

You Will Forever Be My Always.

*⁠.✧ SYNOPSIS : The scarred past of Mikey haunts him even in his dreams, making him loose his mind. Though even through them you stay by his side. Bring him out of his misery.

*⁠.⁠✧ WARNINGS & TAGS : Mafia!mikey, wife!Reader, pregnant!reader, reader held at gun point, ptsd, mafia themes, angst, nightmare, 895 words.

*⁠.⁠✧ — NAVIGATION // TOKYO REVENGERS MASTERLIST

DON'T PRESS [KEEP READING] IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE. MINORS DNI, IF YOU DO THEN IT'S YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY.

The cold touch of the muzzle of the gun on your forehead woke you up with a startle. Your eyes shot open, the view of the ceiling was hazy but as you focused your vision you saw the very familiar gun pressed on your forehead. A gun that belonged to your husband, Manjiro, the leader of Toman.

You followed the pale hand holding on to the metal grip of the gun, the pointer finger resting the trigger, ready to strike any second, your eyes met his dead obsidian ones, looking at you like an injured beast does to a potential threat. The only source of light being the lamp on the nightstand didn't help either.

There he is, your husband. Sitting on your stomach, his tights had you pinned on the fluffy bed. A whisper of his name left your lips but did nothing to him. Was it one of those episodes where his past haunts him down and torments him?

“They sent you unarmed?” His empty voice cut through the tension in the room. It was more of a statement than a question, “Have I lost my touch that they thought one unarmed woman is enough to end me.”

Manjiro dragged the muzzle down your nose and lips till he hovered it over your neck, “Who sent you? Hmm? Who's your boss?”

His voice was rather calm but you couldn't miss the threat lurking underneath it. It was the same he used against his enemies. Last warning before the sword strikes.

“Manjiro, it’s me, Y/N.” Your voice shook with the fear of the trigger being pressed anytime.

You saw a silver of recognition on his face but it was gone as soon as it appeared. Mikey said your name, trying to remember who it was. Rolling the name on his tongue. The name left a sweet taste in his mouth but the name did not ring any bell of familiarity.

“Y/N?” His eyebrows frowned in suspicion, “I don't know any Y/N. They sent you here to kill me, didn't they?”

You moved your head to deny but Mikey pressed the gun under your jaw, tilting your head back as a menacing grip appeared on his face, “Do they think I'm fucked in the head that I'll believe this dumb story? You think I'm delusional?”

Breath caught in your throat. Whenever Mikey was going through these episodes, you felt your heart in your throat, ready to jump out. They scared you to the core. But then you think of Mikey, your Manjiro, your husband who loves you more than life. He would rather burn the world down than see tears in your eyes. You loving husband who stood by your side in your most difficult time. All the fear in your heart evaporates.

“I'm your wife, Manjiro. Try to remember.” Even after trying to not cry, a sob left your lips, “Try to remember. I love you so much.”

“No, you don't.” The quick words sting right at your heart, “No one loves me. No one can love me. Who are you?”

Your lips trembled as you thought about the last thing to bring Mikey back to you. You lift your shaky hand and hold his left hand that was resting on the bed by your side. His grip on the gun tightened, ready to shoot and end all this hassle. But something held him back. He could not bring himself to pull the trigger.

The image of this stranger lying on his bed with a bullet pierced through her skull, eye lifeless and a stilled heart, made his heart nervous. He didn't like that. He didn't want that. Mikey let you move his hand and settle it on your tummy.

“I love you and the soul growing in me is the proof of our love Manjio. Snap out Manjiro. For me, for our baby, please.”

Mikey stayed motionless. His eyes staring down at your stomach. Unconscious Mikey spread his finger, feeling up the skin hidden underneath the white nightwear. Then it did. Something struck in his heart.

Y/N. Y/N. His lovely Y/N. The silver speck of light in his ravaged life. How could he forget you? His love, his life, his reason to live. And the innocent soul growing in your belly, was a miracle in his life.

Mikey felt tears pricking his eyes and nose burning. Wails of pain erupted from his chest as if letting all the weight off of his chest. Tears stream down Mikey’s flushed cheeks, in shame, fear and guilt but also from the sense of comfort of your presence.

You spread your arms to the side and said with your ever so gentle voice, “Come here.”

And then the dam broke. Mikey flushed himself into your arms, burying his face into your chest, the gun fell on the floor with a clunk. His whole body shook because of the crying.

You run your hand on his back with comforting strocks, “I'm not going anywhere. I love you Manjiro. I'll be right here, by your side, whenever you need me. I'm sure our little one loves their daddy too.”

Your whispers of solace soothed his wrecked heart. Mikey weeped in your protective arms, letting himself be so vulnerable the world will never see. He let your tranquil embrace bring serenity to his heart.

LIKED IT? THEN PLEASE LEAVE A LIKE, REBLOG & COMMENT. IT WOULD MEAN A LOT AND FOLLOW ME FOR MORE LIKE THESE. THANK YOU ♡

© 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐔𝐒-𝐍-𝐋𝟎𝐕𝐄 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒, 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 — all content rights belongs to LOTUS-N-L0VE. do not plagiarise any works and do not repost or translate onto any other sites.

[beemochi-art]

THE SEEKERS

STARSCREAM

Air commander! Leader of the seeker! And second in command of the decepticons! By far he is the most talented flyer of all the cons. All these decorations sure bumps up his ego, which cause him to go barking up the wrong tree. He’s got a scar on his face to remind him of each failed attempt at dominance.

Decorate that.

In the beginning he knew Megatron and they looked out for each other. Megatron trusted him and viewed him as a friend. But when Starscream had his lil seeklet something clicked in his brain. Starscream began scheming for more power. He started holding his family closest to him and pushing away the rest. He wanted the best for them and was tired of seeing them pushed into battle like common soldiers, they are not common to him. He couldn’t imagine Slipstream being hurt.

One day on the battlefield, Megatron was trapped in a crashing ship. Megatron desperately called out for his friend. Starscream looked him in the eyes and left him. As second in command he would be air to the the throne, he enjoyed it for a while thinking Megatron was dead and his family being the ones to boss everyone around. Knowing that his bitlit wouldn’t have to face battle like a commoner but instead like a commander.

Until of course Megatron came back. Starscream was challenged. He fought and lost badly. Megatron was highly emotional and almost killed him. Slipstream was deeply traumatized by seeing this. She’s scared of him.

Starscream is still second in command. It’s hard to tell what Megatron is thinking.

NOVASTORM

I wanted to make her a girl cause why not. She’s an ass, but what seekers isn’t??

She’s gorgeous and she knows it. She’s constantly flashing her stuff. (Honestly a big ego and being a narcissist is standard seeker behavior.) she has a crush on Thundercracker and has been trying to court him for years. (To her courting is being annoying and mean and accusing him of being a perv.)

She’s constantly picking fights with the rest of the seekers. But she’s nice to Slipstream. (She’s like the the sassy auntie.)

THUNDERCRACKER

He stoic and doesn’t talk to much, he the strongest out of the seeker. He’s also the biggest. He pretty much lets the rest of the seekers walk all over him. However he’ll sometimes put his foot down with Starscream and Skywarp (mostly skywarp.) he reminds them that he could crush their heads with his bare hands.

However he loves the two girls. He recognizes Novastorm is flirting with him. He mostly is just dead pan only because she makes him nervous. She gets away with everything.

Slipstream he sometimes pretends she’s his own. He gets her gifts and when she was very little he actually broke his silent streak and begged starscream to hold her. Slipstream could yell at him to move and he’ll do it fast. He lets her get away with too much.

SLIPSTREAM

The youngest, the smallest, and has the most to prove. She exudes teenage angst. Most soldiers are surprised she screams at the second command the way she does.

She is Starscream’s daughter. Even tho she can be a mean, hurtful little shit, she loves her dad. She hates seeing him hurt. Tho she’s not super affectionate (Starscream isn’t either.) he knows she loves him. And the rest of the seekers (not skywarp). They are her family. The rest of the seekers feel the same way (still not skywarp.) they’ve known her since she was small and looked after her when Starscream couldn’t.

SKYWARP

The seekers resident psycho. Skywarp has a very special power that makes him crazy! I’m sure we all know what it is. He doesn’t care about anyone. Surprisingly a goof tho, doesn’t help his scary appearance.

He has an artifact in his helm that lets him warp. He’s a killer and likes to hunt. He intentionally antagonizes his fellow soldiers. And he will make anyone suffer when they are weakest. He see Slipstream as the weakest.

[wangxianficfinder]

Fic Finder

Oct 30th

~*~

1. So I suddenly forgot to bookmark this fic and now I am desperate to find it.

This is how it goes, it was a modern au and wei ying and lan wangji is in an arranged marriage due to the lan elders forcing it because wei ying was baoshan sanren grandson. Lan wangji and wei wuxian co exists with each other without getting in a way of each other, lan wangji first interest or crush is nie huisang but he rejected him because he likes Jiang Cheng and I don't know the rest of it. It was mpreg and wei ying adopted a-yuan. @lanwuxian0725

~*~

2. Hi, I'm desperately trying to find A) a fic where WWX dies and then LWJ plays the guqin until his fingers bleed and brings WWX back to life and Lan Huan is horrified but doesn't interfere and when WWX comes back to life, he asks LWJ to promise not to do that again but LWJ silently doesn't promise. Please do you know what fic this is

B) Also second fic im trying to find: one in which WangXian keep getting remarried to each other as WWX ages and then after he dies he comes back as a ghost and says, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, let's get married again @boneshriker

2A)

FOUND? a song you've never heard by arahir (G, 4k, WangXian, Canon Compliant, Presumed Dead, Angst with a Happy Ending)

~*~

3. Hi I’m looking for a fic were Lan Qiren goes to the Wen indoctrination in lan Zhan place were he ends up fighting the murder turtle with Wen Ruhan they defeat it together. Ruhan also ask Wen Cho how is he so stupid his mother wasn’t . @cfox96

~*~

4. Good Evening! I'm in desperate need of some help finding a particular story. I don't remember a whole lot but: •wei ying & wens make a deal to live in gusu lan land•wei ying must be cleansed & returned to sward path•they almost kill him...which he thought that's what they wanted•they didn't...they didn't "mean" to hurt him even though they where told otherwise.• I believe wangxian is endgame

I hope this is helpful enough, thank you!

-Beth @carey-roza

FOUND! 🧡 decay by antebunny (G, 15k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Angst, Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Fix-It, Angst with a Happy Ending, the fluffiest ending, Hurt/Comfort)

~*~

5. hii i would like to find a fic and its been driving me crazy! i remember it was like the 'only one bed' trope except it was wwx who kept on trying to make it happen but when they finally got to their accomodations there were two beds and his plans to seduce lwj kept getting foiled. i think at one point he purposefully spilled wine on the bed? @f1sh1ng4gl0ry

FOUND! Wei Ying's Very Good And Not At All Likely To Fail Plan Of Ultimate Seduction by craftyTrickster (luoxiaobai) (M, 6k, WangXian, Modern AU, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Implied Sexual Content)

~*~

6. Hello! Could you all help me find a thread fic? I think wangxian were exes in this one. I think they both have tattoos that are supposed to be for each other. They're on vacation at a resort or something and wwx is by the pool or by the beach and lwj keeps trying to see if he can sneak a look at the tattoo. I think the end has a beach scene where they confess to still liking each other and lwj reveals that he got the tattoo a day after the break up. I can't remember what the reason for the break up was.

FOUND? Twitter fic by anaphoricae

~*~

7. Hey its me again! thanks for the help last time. A) there is a fic that randomly crossed my head where WWX grew up with Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan, maybe after he defected from YunmengJianng or something i am not sure, but he gets similar title as XXC & SL. Thank you very much in advance φ(*￣0￣)

B) Hey! Nice to meet you again, there is a fic i am searching for long time, I remember only one scene i hope it works, there is a change in yunmengjiang and JFM YZY were thrown off from sect leader seat? not quite sure about that, and Lotus Pier was searched thoroughly and they found pheonix type creature that YZY imprisoned in Lotus Pier so that it obeys her and her son. idk for sure what was other content. thanks in advance @vbhardwaj-reads

7A)

FOUND? Frost moon’s sun by RenaFair (T, 116k, WangXian, XXC/SL, Slow Build, Childhood Sweethearts, Angst and Feels, Fluff, Family Feels, Canon Divergence, Mentions of Smut, Attempt at Humor)

7B)

FOUND? Hua Xianle by Tiffany_Guinne (Not rated, 260k, hualian, wangxian, TGCF, canon divergence, not Jiang friendly, madam lan lives, WWX adopted by hualian, WWX with different name, overprotective hualian, hurt WWX, WIP) Canon divergence + TGCF crossover, Hualian raise WWX as their little prince, Not Jiang friendly at all, the phoenix is found tortured at Lotus Pier bc YZY is a massive b*tch in this

~*~

8. Hello dear mods, I am looking for a fic that for what I remember go's like this madam yu find wei ying playing dresses up with Jiang yanli and thinks to punish him with the constriction of the female of the time but he Excelles at it then comes the time to study at cloud recess and he decides to catch him shelf a husband that is a second son that second son is Lan Zhan @androgynousbelievergarden

FOUND! 🔒 Aunt Knows Best by retired (misbehavingvigilante) (M, 10k, WWX & YZY, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Character Study, Crossdressing, Dysfunctional Family, Gender Identity, Fix-It, Sexism, Trans WWX, Good Parent YZY)

~*~

9. Hello! For fic finder please: I am looking for a fic which heavily featured the Xuanwu of Slaughter scene/cave. WWX wasn’t there for the fight, but he did go and help rescue the trapped heirs after. I think WWX might have been a rogue cultivator, and he made a name for himself by helping: he was known as the Savior Of Muxi Cave or something similar. The fic went into graphic/gory detail about how the disciples died in the cave, and there was a sequel about WWX and the survivors going back to the cave to collect the body parts and swords of their fallen clan disciples. @gloriousclotpole

FOUND! Just go forward like you mean it by tawaen (M, 101k, WangXian, WWX & WN &WQ, WWX & JYL, NHS & WWX, Canon Divergence, WWx does not attend the Wen indoctrination, WWX saves Lotus Pier, Inventor WWX, No Golden Core Transfer, Sect Leader JYL, JC Has No Golden Core, Bad Parents JFM & YZY, Not JC Friendly, but he gets a happier ending than canon so don’t look here for bashing)

~*~

10. Hi! First off thank you for all that you do! Can you please help me find a fic? This is a hard ask because I don’t remember a lot of particulars.

One of the main components of this fic focuses on the fact that Wei Wuxian really likes and prefers Lan Wangji. This fic observes how many people compare Lan Wangji to Lan Xichen and find him lacking because Xichen is much more sociable. I think Wei Wuxian even mistakes Xichen for Lan Wangji at some point and then is disappointed when he gets closer and sees Lan Xichen.

I think at least part of it is in Lan Xichen’s pov where he is pleased to see someone so devoted to his brother. I also think this fic mentions how most people consider Lan Xichen the prettier Twin Jade but Wei Wuxian absolutely thinks Lan Wangji is prettier. If I remember correctly this fic was complete when I read it. Thank you for your help! @kjwaikiki

It’s not this one (although it is a good fic). The one I’m talking about took place in Gusu and I think they were still cultivators.

NOT FOUND! The Twin Jade Problem by bonyenne (T, 23k, wangxian, LXC&LWJ, modern, college/university, humor, miscommunication) sounds like the fic where wwx thought that lz and lwj were the "twin jades of lan" and lxc was the older brother but mixes them up completely. I cannot for the life of me remember the fic title, but let me go have a look!

~*~

11. Hello fellow mods!! I don't know if you guys can also help with thread-fics on twitter(X😐) but i will still ask just in case. So it was starting with wei ying and his friends making a bet like "text lan zhan from a fake account to see if he would cheat" and when wy did that lz started to like that person too (bc he was similiar to wy) and felt guilty. I remember him crying and talking with wy, getting really mad and dissapointed when wy says that he was just testing him, that it was just a bet. Them having a break up(?) bc of that and making up. I don't have much hope but i would be really happy if someone could find it, thank you in advance!! @for13years-i-play-inquiry-foryou

FOUND? Twitter fic by cheerywhiskey And the extended version on AO3: hundred and one by cherrywhiskey (T, 20k, WangXian, College/University, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Modern AU, Happy Ending)

~*~

12. Weird ask, but I am hoping for closure to mourn. I see in my bookmarks a fic was deleted. I had written in the notes "rating due to WWX alone time in the tub ;)" I assume that means it was rated Mature and they didn't have sex but WWX was thinking ab it! It was also tagged Wei Ying POV. It it was bookmarked 5/14/2021 so it was published before that. I'm pretty sure it was canon era, tho I couldn't say why.

~*~

13. Hi! I think this is count as a fic. I’ve been searching for the fan story art about wwx de-aged then Lwj took back his husband to Cloud Recessess. I remember LQR thought Wwx and Lwj had a child together (as the de-aged wwx looks like wwx 😂).

I hope you can help me find it. Thank you!

~*~

14. Hello! I’m looking for a 3zun fic that I fear has been deleted. (TW Sexual Assault) It was a gender bent cnc fic where Xichen was dealing with extreme purity culture and asked her girls to just force her, all worked out beforehand, and they pretended to break in and hold her at knifepoint? It was so good and sweet at the end but I can’t for the life of me find it! Thanks in advance!!

~*~

15. Hello! Back in search of another fic. It was canon divergence where Wei Wuxian was a disciple of Baoshan Sanren and he and Lan Wangji were friends due to him traveling before the lectures started in Gusu? I think Wei Wuxian had some sort of run in with Jiang Fengmian or Jiang Cheng in the end, but I can’t remember anything other than that pls help

~*~

16. Im looking for a fic where wei yong and the wen leave the cultivation world and settle somewhere like Thailand and after some years sects are looking for his help @theladylily

FOUND? 💖 Echo, Murmur, Dream, Here by bluerainmist (M, 51k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Universe Alteration, the yiling patriarch survives, Angst with a Happy Ending, Catharsis, Slow Burn, Drama, Getting Together, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Melancholy, Love, Mutual Pining, Reunions, Love Confessions, Eventual Smut, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Switching, Grief/Mourning, fucking while pining, Implied/Referenced Torture, Self-Harm, golden core transfer, Playing fast and loose with worldbuilding, Battle Scenes, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, implied / Referenced suicide attempt, Sect Leader WWX, YLLZ WWX, Yílíng Wèi Sect) Wei Ying & the Wens don't head to Thailand but they travel to the "Undying Lands" and come back to help the cultivation world

FOUND? After All I Drifted Ashore by lingering_song (T, 4k, WangXian, WIP, Canon Divergence - Ambush at Qiongqi Path, Historical, Mutual Pining, Cultivation Sect Politics, JGS Wins, Meeting Again, Wen Remnants Live, The Cultivation World gets exactly what they wanted, But oh nooo they're not having a good time about it :), POV Alternating)

~*~

17. Fic finder: I’m looking for a modern au that had a funny scene where wei ying used a dildo to take a dent out of his car and got caught by lan zhan. I don’t remember anything else about it but that scene

FOUND? Elevator Pitch by relenafanel (M, 6k, WangXian, Modern AU, Elevators, meet ugly, Crack, Romantic Comedy, Demisexuality, one-sided banter, Mutual Attraction, inappropriate use of a dildo in a PG way, somewhere in North America probably, Hand Kink)

~*~

18. Hi, i'm looking for a wangxian fic where they get togeter during the war and eventually live together at Cloud recess, and Lan Xichen is like what good friends, and just think they are sworn brothers or somehing and eventually Lan Wangji has to tell him that he and Wei Wuxian are like married.

Please help, i've been looking for days. @herebedragons02

FOUND! happy not knowing by plonk (Not Rated, 16k, WangXian, Canon Era, Canon Divergence, Established Relationship)

~*~

19. hi!! i hope you guys are well!! i don't know exactly how this blog work (i read the pinned but I'm afraid i misunderstood smth 🥹) but i hope i got it right and didn't clown myself 😭😭 sooo I've been searching for a fic for the past two days and i can't find it for some reasons? and i thought you guys may be my heros and help me 😭🙏 if I'm not mistaken i think it was inspired by tangled/rapunzel, wwx was locked in koi tower i believe? and he had long magical hair if I'm not mistaken and he had a crow as a pet, i can't remember exactly how lwj found him but i do remember that lwj took him to an inn afterwards and people gave him weird looks and i think later lwj got injured becs someone tried attacking wwx i think and wwx healed him (?) and they had the journey of going go the village that had a festival (where they light lanterns but i can't for the life of me remember what the author called it 😭) and I'm not sure of this part but either they both ride the boat and have a cute moment or lwj tells wwx to ride it w/o him and he investigates smth in a nearby temple and i think jgy was there 😭? the ending is the part that goes very foggy to me and i genuinely can't remember it's name or the author's name but i believe it was yllz wwx and i think it was rated M? I'm literally blending my brain in the blender but there ain't any more juices coming out I'm gonna tear the walls 😭😭😭 i have a feeling it got taken down or deleted but i don't wanna lose hope :(( thank you in advance and I'm SO sorry for the HUGE rant/explanation forgive me gusy I'm near my breaking point 😭😭😭

FOUND? may have been the rivers start to sing by fruitys but, if so, I believe it's been deleted from AO3.

~*~

20. Hello, I'm looking for a MDZS fix-it/watching the future fic. Lan Sizhui is LW and WWX bio child, Lan Jingyi is JC and LXC Bio child through duel cultivation. Juniors are showing the future. No one believes they are parent child until they pull their parents swords. JC and LXC relationship was kept secret in the future due to the political climate I don't think it was explained. I think Madam Yu and Fengmain was being bashed or bad parents. Please help me! @megdbrew

~*~

[diejager]

How would each of the monster 141 react if hunter were like- straight up killed in front of them. Like no wiggle room “oh they might be alive and just unconscious” but just straight up dead. Sorry I am a sucker for angst and I feel like this would be a fantastic read considering how bonded and feral they all are to protect hunter. Thanks in advance! Love the blog! Keep it up 👍

Are you trying to get me killed? Do you want me to have a heartattack?

End of the line Cw: death, suicidal thoughts, angst, mention of suicide, blood, injury, tell me if I missed any.

It had been a mistake, a costly one, but still a mistake. In that moment, everything had lost its point, the mission, the goal, the enemy and the celebration were pointless, forgettable. Time slowed, lagging behind in minutes when the shot rang out, booming in your restless minds until all they could hear was a loud thump, a body slumping down.

It was a rookie mistake made by their eagerness to return home, bodies bruised from the last deployment and still sore, skin painted in black and purple, but you pushed on, being sent from one end of the planet to the other. They were hanging on a thin thread of perseverance and training, practiced to live on perpetual soreness and exhaustion.

But that didn’t ease the pain, the open wound in their hearts. They watched you slump over, blood pooling from the wound in your chest —shot center mass. They dropped everything, Rudy rushing to turn you over, hands shaky and eyes blurry, he choked down a sob and a tear slid down his cheek. You were unresponsive, eyes glazed and dull, the light that they all loved gone in a breath. You upper torso bled, a bullet pierced through your kevlar vest, the bullet’s calibre higher than anything they expected.

Ghost joined Rudy, desperate to see if there were a chance to resuscitate you, to bring you back to them. His hands were frantic, tremors wracking his whole body as he loomed forward, trying to find a pulse, hand pressing against your still warm throat. He felt his fears surging forward, the dark voice at the back of his mind grinding out words, terrors that followed him at every step. It was like the last Christmas, when Tommy and Beth died, when Joseph and his mom were shot, when the people he cared for were killed.

Ghost felt his voice leave him, croaky and dying, it made him unable to utter a single word, and so was Rudy, mind blank. So Alejandro was the one to tell the verdict, but they hadn’t needed him to tell them to know. Soap, König and Horangi heard your heart stop, the powerful muscle in your chest explode from the bullet and grow silent. The pain clawed at their hearts, the overbearing weight on their chest made their retreat harder.

However much Price wanted to cry, to fall to his knees as cradle your body against his chest, he was the TF’s leader, he had to bring the rest of them back home. He ordered Gaz back from his perch for the sniper after he dealt with it, Gaz’s advanced sight catching the glint of the scope. Holding the title of a Task Force’s captain meant a lot, it placed a certain amount of responsibility on his shoulder and he couldn’t let his men down. Price could let a few tears slip, but he had to hold it in until he had a moment to himself in the silence of his office.

Gaz was silent during and afterwards, watching your limp body being carried in König’s arms until you reached the aircraft piloted by Nikolai who shared an equally heartbroken and saddened expression as them. His voice died with you, unable to voice his mind or his sorrows, confining himself to his room in silence. Although he lost himself, he had the others to bring him back like you did when Ghost wandered too deeply into his mind, bringing back up memories.

Soap did what he knew best, throwing himself into the fray, overworking himself with solo mission and spearheading other joint work. He almost worked himself to the bone until Horangi pulled him back, scuffing him and beating your wishes into his mind, telling him that you wouldn’t want them to break away like this, to wither away as if they were never here.

Despite helping Soap, Horangi suffered the same as the werewolf did, silently crying himself to sleep, fingers clawing at his head in desperation to quiet down the loud screeches in his mind, degrading words thrown at himself for failing you. He knew you didn’t want him to hate himself, but how could he quell the bleeding wound in his heart when you weren’t here to ease the pain away? The memory of you did.

Alejandro tried his best, acting and trying to feel better until it ultimately failed, he wasn’t in the right place to see you nor talk about you to others, murmuring your name when he slept and woke up with a start. He wasn’t as lost as Ghost was, didn’t shut the world around him down and closed in on himself, but he was following closely behind if he didn’t have the Task Force.

Rudy was the most human out of them, he felt more strongly but couldn’t cry. His mind was blank, the beat in his chest loud and erratic, yet his mind was silent, a ground of deathly quiet. He couldn’t do anything, work became hard, waking up exhausting, and taking care of himself harrowingly difficult. You’d scold him if you saw how he was behaving, how little care he had for himself —to near hunger and insanity. He hung onto your words, your confession, the three words you gave them as a parting gift, that’s what forced him out of his shell.

While the rest worked through their pain, to reach a stalemate together, none fell as hard as Ghost and König, both having a difficult childhood and a harder time following their enlistment. The lost themselves easily, becoming much more violent and deranged in their kills, ripping men in half and swallowing them whole, leaving all but a puddle of blood behind. The only thing that stopped them from ending their pain, to reaching out towards the knife that hung on the side of their thighs were your words, the handwritten words on your will and a message for everyone.

You wanted them to live, to be happy without you being there and that you’d be waiting for them on the other side until eternity. You were patient after all. At least a part of you hung from their necks, your ashes shared between the eight men and your items spread equally.

“I love you.”

Tag list: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel

[bibibbon]

MHA chapter 426

4 more chapters until MHA ends and wow!!!

Honestly this chapter was mainly the conclusion of the todoroki family arc which I still hate how it played out and ended. The whole todoroki family NOT INCLUDING ENJI deserves so much better than what horikoshi gave them.

Hawks is the new HPSC leader?!?! I feel like the system should of just been destroyed considering how much it hurt everyone and hawks by no means has any proper character development to take this role. Hawks hasn't really broken down his flawed beliefs or truly developed from his mentality that ended up getting one of the most redeemable league of villains members aka twice killed. Also he barely reflects on his actions and all of this feels so underwhelming and unprepared for.

Todoroki family deserves better. The ABSLOUTELY vile ending the todoroki family received is horrible like I really feel like they should just runaway and live in a house without endeavour and actually take up on endeavours attornment bs. Like the only one who gets it is natsou who has every right to live with his girlfriend and keep her far away from that environment and oh my Rei deserves so much better both narratively and by the fandom.

Enji still sucks. Yeah I can't lie nothing this man can do can make me like him and it doesn't help that hori has written all of those retcons to humanise him and make him pitiful. I feel like when it came to the todoroki family arc enji took on a whole lot of screentime WHICH HE SHOULDNT OF!!! That should of gone to shoto and the rest of the family and an easy way to fix it is to simply have killed enji in the first war arc (as was initially planned but hori changed it later on) ALSO I SAY LET TOUYA REST AT THIS POINT!!! having him just mechanically alive and stuck is horrible honestly I think that death is much more of a merciful fate for him at this point.

So lady nagant chose to go to jail?!?! Her reasoning for it is actually so sad though and it really shows how much hero society traumatised her. Like the woman didn't want to be free so she can't be used by anyone and would rather spend time in prison over it. I wish that she was hawk's mentor from the begining because the vibe those two give is absolutely amazing and it would enhance the parallels and relationship they have if they were. Honestly I hope hawks actually does a good job but Iam still all for the destruction of hero society and I doubt hawks is actually going to reform it properly also the hero society is so deeply flawed that I don't think there is a proper way to reform more like just scratch everything out and start fresh.

Spinner is back. I hope I don't see him have a breakdown when he realises what happend to the league because I can't handle that. Also that begs the question I thought that spinner had become somewhat brain dead after all he's been through so how did he turn back from being a giant nomu?

I can't handle the sibling angst too bad that touya and shoto didn't have a better arc. The whole shoto trying to know touya better and him revealing that soba is also his favourite food softens my heart. In another universe where enji doesn't get a redemption touya gets one while justice is served to the todoroki family.

Gentle criminal and la brava getting justice. (The only good part of the chapter fr)

in conclusion this chapter was horrible if we look at it from a story perspective due to how badly MHAs already established plot points and themes are handled!!!

Also what happend to the random character in the last chapter!!! I hope we get closure on that soon