#twd new haunts

[linusbenjamin]

The Walking Dead

3.04 "Killer Within"

[cinemgc]

The Walking Dead (11ª Temp.)

Episodio 10: ''New Haunts''

• Dirección: Jon Amiel

• Guion: Magali Lozano

• Cinematografía: Duane Charles Manwiller

• Cast: Melissa McBride

[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)

[r6eduss]

I really wish you’d make up your mind.

•Summary: Daryl comes over for a smoke, who knew things would get so deep? (Fem reader)

•Warnings: 18+, Drug use, a teeny tiny bit suggestive but no smut, mentions of abuse, Stoner!Reader, Angst.

•Word Count: 2.3k.

•Setting: The Commonwealth

•A/N: Heavily inspired by Kimdracula by deftones. I have always thought Daryl is deathly afraid of labels on relationships, so here’s me implementing that into my writing. I love writing for the commonwealth era also let’s also pretend deftones lines up with twd timeline 🫢

Tension.

Tension was always the main thing between you and Daryl. For the longest time since the farm, you two have had something—something that can’t be explained by just simple words.

The both of you have kissed before, but for some reason never have said anything of it. Most people thought you two were a couple, but you don’t know what you two are. one thing for sure, is that you love each other. Platonic or not, you both have always stuck out for each other and world knows Daryl would fight to the ends of the earth to keep you and the rest of his family alive and safe.

Though right now, you haven’t seen much of Daryl, and that’s surprising considering he was your neighbor. Everyone from Alexandria have still been settling in, and he’s been incredibly busy, so have you with your new job settlement.

Suddenly being employed in the apocalypse definitely left you stoked, but you kind of enjoyed it unlike Daryl and the others. It was a bittersweet feeling, left you thinking maybe the world still does have a chance.

With some of the hard earned money that you managed to work up, you decided to head to town looking for music. It’s always been a huge comfort for you, helping you overcome challenges you had to face even before the fall, and you hoped maybe they had some of your favorite albums. Your eyes were set on the storefront at the end of the block, and you soon approached. A sign hung above it, faded but clear. “The Record Shop” and a faint sound of music leaked through the door. On entering, hearing the door chime you’re greeted with a familiar face.

“Welcome!- Oh shit hey!” It was Princess’ shift today, and honestly it was rather refreshing to see her face, you haven’t seen really anybody else you had known.

Looking around for a moment, you take in the decorations. You soon face Princess, giving her a warm smile.

“Hey! How have you been?”

“It’s been great! It’s been great.. How about you?” She responded, excited to be speaking with you.

“I’ve been good! I’m glad things are going well for you Princess.” You were kind of lying, things weren’t really good for you.. it’s been hard adjusting to this kind of life, you’ve always felt as if the apocalypse saved you in a way.

“I’m happy for you dude! Well did you come here to buy something?”

“Yeah actually, do you guys have deftones?” You were hoping to god they did. You were in such a need to listen to your favorite album, and the last time you did was years ago.

You can see her lips curve into a small smirk, as she points to the left. “Yep! All the way to the last aisle on the left.”

You’ve never felt as happy as you felt now.

“Thanks!” You quickly pick up your feet, rushing to the aisle that Princess pointed to. Upon arrival, you quickly scan the area in attempts to find your favorite album “Saturday Night Wrist”.

All you could spot was Around the Fur and White pony as you sifted through the records, fingers brushing against the glossy covers, the album you were looking for nowhere in sight. To be honest, you were a little disappointed, until you spot that beautiful untouched record hidden behind one of the Metallica covers right next to the ones you were looking through. It was very obviously the last one in stock.

You bit your lip while smirking in happiness, grabbing the album and basking in it, the cover still haunting and beautiful just as you remembered. After about 30 seconds of reminiscing, you head to the checkout where Princess was.

“That all?”

“Yep!”

“That’s 30!”

You hand her a 20 and a 10, and she proceeds to print out your receipt. “It was so good seeing you! And hey, don’t be a stranger!” She hands you what you came there for, and waves you off with a grin. You politely tell her goodnight and make your way to your apartment.

A few days ago you had asked Daryl and Judith if you could borrow that record player he had bought for her, since you were planning on buying some music. Of course they agreed, so you knew exactly what you were doing when you got home.

Just as you got to your destination, you spotted Daryl walking up to his own apartment, quickly taking notice of you. “Hey Daryl.” You already felt a bit tense, Daryl looked incredibly exhausted.

“Hey.”

Well this was kind of awkward, you greeted him but didn’t really know how to continue the conversation, until an idea sprang through you. “I uh, finally bought some music. Wanna join me in listening and have a smoke?” He seems like he could use a get away, and you have just the remedies to relax him.

You watched as he looks down at the floor, biting the inside of his lip before responding while slightly nodding his head. “Yea, Yea sure. Ya stayin’ up?” He started to swirl his thumbs together, you always thought it was really cute when he did that.

“Yeah, for a bit. C’mon I’m so excited to unwrap this.” You used your key to unlock your apartment door and enter, leaving the door open for Daryl as he quickly proceeds behind you.

He closes the door behind you both, locking it and following you to your room. It was dimly lit, bathed in the soft glow of candles around. “Hold this.” You hand Daryl the vinyl, before walking over to your drawer, pulling out rolling paper, an herb grinder, a lighter, and some weed. “Sorry, give me a second to do this, then we can put the album on the record player.” He nods, and goes to sit down on the corner of your neatly folded bed.

You go about crushing the marijuana, feeling the uncomfortableness of the situation seep into you. You and Daryl haven’t seen each other in weeks, now all of a sudden you invited him in for a smoke?

The silence starts becoming painfully sharp, so you begin at your poor attempts at starting conversation. “So how have you been settling in?” He looks up, staring at your figure then at your face, watching your movements as you proceed to add the cannabis onto the rolling paper. “I’ve been ‘Ight.” Wow. Was he normally this bland?

“Hm, that’s good. How are the kids?” Please Daryl, give a response that you can actually open a conversation to.. “They been good. Judith is doin’ better than her whole class.”

Finally, something worth answering. Your heart warms up for a moment, remembering that the kids are finally getting a real experience of what school is. You and Daryl are both incredibly thankful that the children are going to have a chance at a semi normal childhood.

“I’m not surprised at all.. Judith is so smart.” You finished up rolling the joint, sealing it with a lick. You turn to face the man you’ve grown to love, passing it to him while taking the record out of his hands, pulling out the vinyl from its frame and heading to where the record player is. This entire situation has got you feeling excited, being able to finally listen to one thing you missed before the dead rose, and doing it with your favorite person. You carefully place it onto the record player, moving the tonearm and playing it.

The first song that played was Hole in the Earth, and it gave you a type of skin crawling sensation that you just couldn’t explain.

Turning to Daryl, you take back the joint and light it. If you weren’t so focused on what you were doing, you would’ve noticed how he was staring at you, admiring everything you were doing, noticing how you felt when the music started playing, and being so entranced with how your hips swayed.

You took your first hit, soon after passing it to Daryl so he can also take a draw. He grabs the joint but he doesn’t bring it to his lips right away. He keeps his gaze on your face, looking you over before taking a deep inhale. He lets the smoke slowly spill from his mouth, while carefully making sure to blow it away from you. He passes it back to you, still maintaining eye contact. The tension was overbearing, and by the way he was looking at you, it was almost impossible not to feel flutters in your stomach.

The slow, moody guitar riff filling the space between you both accompanied with the scent of burning sage lingering in the air mixing with the sharp tang of weed, was making the tension rise all the more. You took a slow drag from the joint, eyes never leaving his, exhaling lazily and letting the smoke swirl between the two of you.

“You okay?” You ask, your voice light and teasing, catching the twitch of nerves in him. Daryl gave a small grunt, nodding and shifting his weight, his gaze flickering between your lips and the joint. He wasn’t used to moments like this—quiet, intimate.

You smiled gently, a little sly, while slowly leaning closer, feeling buzzed while the drug does its job. “Wanna shotgun it?”

Daryl swallowed hard. He wasn’t expecting something so bold, it’s not like you. But the idea of your lips so close, sharing the smoke between you, sent a ripple of emotion through him. So he gave you a nod, wanting more of this confident side of you.

You took another slow hit, eyes smoldering as you leaned in, lips barely parting. “Come here.” You whispered.

Daryl hesitated for a fraction of a second before leaning forward, feeling the heat of your breath as you exhaled into his mouth, smoke filling his lungs. All he could focus on was how close you were, the smell of your hair, and how beautiful you looked.

Before either of you could stop, the moment stretched, and your lips hovered near his. There was a beat, then two, before instinct took over. You closed the gap, pressing your mouth softly against his. Daryl was left caught off guard, still kissing you back.

The music throbbed around you as the kiss deepened, a mixture of nerves and heat rising. The joint, forgotten and placed onto the ashtray as Daryl’s hand found its way on your back, pulling you closer.

The kiss lingered longer than either of you expected. Your lips were soft and tasted of marijuana. He found himself sinking into the warmth of the moment, the aroma that had been hanging between you dissolving into something he wasn’t sure how to handle. His hands, rough and scarred, tightened around your waist, but there was a gentleness in the way he held you that surprised even him.

You kissed him slowly, as if you had all the time in the world, and Daryl could feel something stir inside him, something unfamiliar, almost unsettling. It wasn’t the impulsive thrill of survival, or the adrenaline of his attempts to protect himself from his father, it was something softer. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time, if ever. His mind was racing, trying to make sense of the warmth spreading through his chest, the vulnerability.

You pulled back just a little, breath still warm on his lips, and your forehead resting lightly against his. You smiled, eyes searching his to try and figure him out.

Suddenly, it hit him.

He wasn’t used to this, wasn’t built for it. The closeness, the intimacy, the unspoken understanding in the way you looked at him. He was a man of instinct, not one for quiet moments that left him raw and uncertain. He wasn’t sure what he expected when your lips first met, but this— whatever this was, was way more than he could handle.

Daryl blinked, pulling back a few inches, breaking the connection between you. His hand, still on your waist, fell away, as if it had become too heavy to hold them there any longer.

“I— I cant.” He muttered, the words rough, barely forming in his throat. He stood up abruptly, moving his wavy locs from his face, stepping back as if the space between you could somehow shield him from the feelings creeping up inside him.

You looked up at him, confused. “What are we Daryl?” He can’t just kiss you then walk away? What was this?

“I don’t know.” He responded low, looking at the ground, anywhere but your face. You could hear your favorite song begin to play on the record player, this is not how you would’ve wanted to enjoy it for the first time in years.

“I should get goin’” he mumbled, already heading for the door.

You didn’t stop him, instead, feeling the tears swell up in your eyes, you responded with a simple “okay”.

He paused at the door, his hand resting at the handle. He could hear the sadness in your voice, but he didn’t look back. He couldn’t. If he did, he might see something in your eyes that would make it even harder to walk away.

“I’ll see ya ‘round,” he muttered, before leaving your room and heading for your front door, exiting your apartment. You began to cry, feeling confused and angry, sitting alone in your room listening to your song, comforting you, just like it did before the fall. As Daryl was still processing it all, the night air hit him, clearing his mind a bit but not enough to shake this unfamiliar weight in his chest.

He wasn’t sure what had just happened, all he knew was that it was too much, too real, and it scared him. He wasn’t the type to let anyone in, and yet, in that small dim lit room, he had felt something that had shook him to his core.

But for now, he pushed it down, like he always did, and walked away.

@vampiresluv

[supernaturalscribe67]

Eyes

Words: 8,052

POV: 3rd Person

Pairing: Castiel x Male!Winchester!Reader

Warning(s): Language, multiple character death, torture, TWD reference sprinkled in there, Lucifer being Lucifer, Nightmares, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Animal Abuse (?) idk the butterfly isn't real, Castiel is the sweetest boyfriend known to man

Summary: The reader recently got Castiel back, and he has convinced himself that everything is back to normal, but the past has a tendency to haunt us, refusing to let go. What happens when the one person he loves more than life itself begins to remind him of the one that caused him the most pain?

Request:

Hi! I was wondering if you could do a Cas x winchester!reader(male and romantic) where Reader wakes up from a nightmare, Castiel is there to comfort them, but he refuses to tell Castiel what the nightmare was about.

After more and more repetitive nightmares every night, Cas finally got him to tell him what it was about. It turns out it was about readers' experience with Castifer. (I'm giving you free range with what happened)

The brothers can be there too, or they can be on a hunt, you choose. Thank you! I love your writing sm btw

Anonymous

A/N: It's been a while! In the course of writing this story, which consisted of 38 handwritten pages, we've had two staff members at work quit, leaving only two teachers in the entire center with a director who refuses to be in the classroom, so I've been working open-close, coming in early and staying late off the clock, and just trying to mentally recover over the weekend. Yay us :) I hope to get back in the groove of things now that this request is out of the way, as I knew I wanted it to be long enough to add the detail I had in mind. I hope I did your request justice and, as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

~ Much Love!

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

The woods near the bunker were beautiful. Tall, thick oaks decorated the skies above. Below sat wildlife. Squirrels scurried about to gather food, rabbits burrowed beneath the base of various tree trunks, robins collected sticks for their nests, and butterflies rested on wildflowers that grew on the spare patches of grass. It was a stunning forest to explore, one that (Y/N) and Castiel had walked through thousands of times, and with each instance, new beauties were presented. There was never a dull moment in nature, which was what the couple appreciated about it. Even the parts of the world that some would consider ugly were attractive to them, and they were loved even more.

They wandered through the woods as they normally did, hand in hand. Their eyes scanned every aspect of the ground below their feet and stopped to mention the most notable elements. One thing that caught (Y/N)’s eye and halted their walk altogether was a stray flower that had grown at the base of a towering oak tree. (Y/N) pulled Castiel to the flower and knelt on the ground to get a closer look. The petals were a soft white, painted with a dusting of woodchips, and the center was bright yellow. Just as (Y/N) was about to reach down and touch it, the quiet flutter of wings filled his ears.

Out of his peripherals flew a magnificent monarch butterfly. It took a moment to brush past his nose before it landed gracefully in the center of the flower. (Y/N) broke out into a large, bright smile as he glanced over at Castiel. He, too, had a smile, only his was softer. Slowly, Castiel reached his free hand forward, his index finger extended. The butterfly confidently climbed onto Castiel’s finger, as if they were old friends. When it was fully nestled in his hand, Castiel withdrew it and moved his hand so it rested between their bodies.

(Y/N) stared in awe at the closeness of the creature. The intricate detail on the wings, the way the antennae moved, the small size of its body, all of it was beautiful. Remarkable. A true gift to the universe.  For a moment, (Y/N) looked up at Castiel, and he could feel the love in his heart. He was so kind and caring. A gentleman - angel if you will - and (Y/N) could not ask for a better lover.

Then his smile changed.

Instead of the peaceful grin he wore before, the corners of his lips curled into - need I say - a devilish smirk. In an instant, Castiel grabbed the butterfly’s wings between his index and middle finger and crushed them. (Y/N) opened his mouth and felt his throat contract, as if to gasp, but no sound came out. He looked up at Castiel’s eyes, and one thing that he noted was the fact that they were no longer the oceanic color he had grown fond of. They were dark, and gloomy, as if to represent an upcoming storm. When Castiel’s look shifted so their eyes connected, (Y/N) felt his stomach drop.

That wasn’t his Castiel.

“Pathetic little creatures, don’t you think?” He leered.

Lucifer.

(Y/N)’s chest rose and fell rapidly in tandem with his breaths. He wanted to run, to scurry away until he was out of sight, but he couldn’t find the strength in him to move. It was as if he was bound to the Earth, held captive by God himself. Lucifer chuckled.

“What’s wrong, (Y/N)? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The voice didn’t belong to Castiel, despite wearing the same face.

(Y/N) tracked the movements of his hand - his familiar hand - as Lucifer reached over and brushed his fingers through his hair. Still, (Y/N) couldn’t move. Even his touch was different.

“Oh, how I’ve missed that look. It was so much fun to mess with you. So fun that I just had to come back. Did you miss me?” The last question came out barely above a whisper.

Still, (Y/N) said nothing. He failed to notice that the world around him had stopped, frozen in time. All he could focus on was the terror that reflected in Lucifer’s deep, dark eyes. The eyes of his lover. The lover who was no longer there.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. The important thing is, now we’re back together! And, in this little dreamland of yours, you can’t get rid of me. No, you’re not strong enough to. Because all you see in front of you is your precious little Castiel, and why would you want to get rid of him, right?”

(Y/N) felt himself blink rapidly. No. He’s not real. Nothing is real. It was all fake, a trick his mind made up to make him suffer. His sick, twisted mind. All he had to do was wake up.

“Sick and twisted is a little harsh, don’t you think?” Lucifer smirked.

Wake up.

“Stay with me, come on,”

Wake up.

“Stay.”

Wake up!

*~*

(Y/N) gasped as he jolted upright. His heart pounded in his chest, eyes blown wide. A thick layer of sweat coated his brow. One good look at his surroundings and he could see he was no longer in the forest. He was in his room, in the bunker. He was safe.

A hand pressed against his shoulder, which caused him to jump and let out a shout of surprise. To his right, Castiel sat on the bed, worry hidden behind his electric blue eyes. Blue eyes. His eyes. The eyes he fell in love with. His safety. As suddenly as he awoke, his nerves calmed and he could feel his heartbeat regulate. 

“Are you alright, (Y/N)?” Castiel spoke with his normal, gruff voice.

It’s Cas.

(Y/N) let out a shaky breath and gave a small nod. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Just…had a bad dream.”

“I’m sorry, Bumblebee. Do you want to talk about it?” Castiel asked as he reached up and gently cupped (Y/N)’s cheek.

He leaned into the comfort of Castiel’s hand. The fear and stress washed away. He smiled a little wider. “It was just a hunting dream, nothing more.” He spoke softly as he reached a hand up to touch Castiel’s.

With a troublesome expression still on his face, Castiel gently grasped (Y/N)’s hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed his knuckles.

“Are you sure? You seemed rather bothered by it.”

“I’m positive.”

Castiel smiled sweetly. “Okay,” he whispered and placed a kiss on his forehead. “Would you like to sleep again? It’s still early, and Sam and Dean aren’t expected back for several more hours. I can hold you while you rest. Perhaps that’ll keep the nightmares at bay.”

(Y/N) opened his mouth to turn down the offer, but quickly shut it. The idea of being held in Castiel’s arms while he slept seemed to put him at ease. Maybe Castiel was right. There was a chance he could feel better that way. More at peace. Then his nightmares wouldn’t appear and, instead, they would be relaxing dreams. He missed those.

“I’d like that,” he said and laid back down on his side, facing Castiel.

Castiel lay beside him, mirroring his position, one arm wrapped under him and the other around his waist. (Y/N) laid his head on Castiel’s arm, nose brushed against his chest, and was instantly filled to the brim with warmth. In his arms, he felt protected, safe, and secure. The same security a child had when they were covered by their blanket. 

Gingerly, Castiel placed a kiss on (Y/N)’s forehead. “Goodnight, my sweet Bumblebee.” As he spoke, it was as if his words dripped with love and adoration.

“Goodnight, my angel.” (Y/N) whispered.

*~*

Just as he was about to drift off into slumber, light kisses could be felt on the shell of his ear. Stubble tickled his neck and cheek, and he couldn’t help but grin tiredly.

“Cas, I’m trying to sleep,” his mumble sounded more like a whine as he let out hearty chuckles.

Kisses turned to nibbles at his protests, and he couldn’t hold back the giggles that erupted within him. (Y/N) tried to swat him away, but Castiel was persistent. After a moment, he began to trail sloppy kisses down his jawline, to his chin, then gave him a peck on his lips.

(Y/N) slowly opened his eyes and smiled up at him, but when Castiel pulled back and opened his own eyes, he was met with a familiar look of dark clouds.

“Thought you could get away from me that easily?” He asked.

(Y/N)’s smile vanished and his eyes widened. He swiftly pulled back from Lucifer’s grasp. In his getaway, his hand fumbled off the side of the bed and he fell to the floor. Instead of the concrete bunker floor he had expected, he landed on a soft dirt ground that was littered with natural debris. As he quickly looked around, he could see that he was back in the forest he had been in before he awoke. In any other situation, he would be full of peace in that setting. All he could feel, though, was a sense of dread.

Lucifer let out a deep chuckle that rumbled the Earth below. He moved to perch himself on the edge of the bed, feet planted on the ground on either side of (Y/N)’s body. The smirk on his face stood out as he looked down at him.

“(Y/N), you wound me! After all the time we spent together?” Lucifer pouted and placed a hand on his chest to feign hurt.

“You’re not real.” (Y/N) breathed.

Lucifer pursed his lips. “Pretty sure I am,” he nodded and stood from the bed so he towered over him. “Maybe I can get another kiss to figure it out.”

(Y/N) began to crawl backward, his eyes never leaving Lucifer’s. “No, no, no! This is all a dream! It’s all a dream. All I have to do is wake up again and you’ll be gone.”

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s so funny that you think you can run away again.”

“Fuck you!”

“Only if you want to.” Lucifer laughed.

(Y/N) sneered in disgust and finally pushed himself off of the ground. For a split second, his eyes left Lucifer, and, at that moment, he had vanished. His heart thumped to the beat of a thousand drums, and he swore he could hear it in his ears. He turned around completely in an attempt to find Lucifer, but he was nowhere to be found. Oddly enough, he found no comfort in his absence. With the forest as eerily quiet as it was, it was as if he was in the eye of the storm. That he could be hunted before he knew it.

And he wasn’t going to stick around for it.

His movements were slow at first as if he were covered in a thick layer of honey. Eventually, he gained momentum and began to rush through the maze of trees. Leaves under his feet crunched and branches cracked under the power of his steps. He did not know where he was headed, nor where he would end up, if anywhere, but all he knew was that he needed to get as far away from Lucifer as possible.

“You can run, but you can’t hide, (Y/N).” Lucifer’s sing-song voice echoed against the trees as if he were right on top of him.

He swore at any moment his heart would give out. If he thought about it too much, he was sure it would explode. He wouldn’t put it past Lucifer.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” He sounded closer, but that didn’t break (Y/N) out of his sprint. If anything, he went faster.

“I see you! Can you see me?” Lucifer laughed, and that caused the back of (Y/N)’s head to throb.

The corners of his vision started to blacken and his heart felt like it stopped. At once, his legs seized to function, and his feet scraped against the ground, not enough stamina in his body to lift them. It would prove to be his downfall as, seconds later, the tip of his foot caught on a protruding root. His whole body fell to the ground with a heavy thud.

(Y/N) felt drunk, as if his entire world spun rapidly. A soft groan fell from his lips and he opened his eyes, but he was met with nothing but darkness. He felt so helpless. So lost. So scared.

He had to wake up. 

Footsteps echoed around him as if someone actively encircled his body. They stalked him, teased him, and filled his mind with thoughts that raced, too fast to comprehend. They made him want to run, but his blindness made it impossible.

Have to wake up.

Have to wake up.

Please wake up.

Then, he spoke.

“Waking up won’t do anything, you know. I’ll still be here, waiting.” Lucifer chuckled deeply.

Suddenly, Lucifer snapped his fingers, and (Y/N)’s vision was restored. They were back in the war room of the bunker. Lucifer, still clad in Castiel’s face, had his hands placed in the pockets of his trenchcoat. He began to circle (Y/N), as a predator would its prey, eyes trained on his.

“I’ll be trapped in your little dream world with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs. That’s okay, though, because I know that, while you’re out there awake and somewhat alert, you’ll be thinking of me. Not only that, but you’ll see me, too.”

“No-” (Y/N) began weakly.

“Yes! You will,” Lucifer’s voice got louder, and the ground began to quake. “Because every time you look at your sweet angel Cassie, all you’ll see is me. All you’ll hear is me. All you’ll feel is me.”

“Cas is nothing like you.”

“Maybe not in terms of charms or amazing personality, but when it comes to looks, we are the same.” Lucifer slowly walked up and squatted down next to him. “While you lay in bed in Cassie’s arms, and you look up at him one more time to say goodnight, you won’t be able to think of anything but me.”

(Y/N)’s jaw clenched. “I won’t let you control me.”

Lucifer let out a low chuckle, deep enough to sound similar to a growl. “Oh, (Y/N). Sweet, sweet, (Y/N). It seems you’re mistaken,” he reached over, grabbed his chin, and lifted his head so their eyes met. “I already do.”

*~*

Another pothole, another curse from the eldest Winchester. Kansas backroads and highways were notorious for their terrible patchwork. The cities and counties would spend weeks on end filling any hole that had been reported only for their work to deteriorate after the next rainfall. It was all a ploy to get more money from taxpayers, and the Winchesters were glad they didn’t have to contribute to such a scam. 

While most in the car sat jolted by the road conditions, nothing seemed to rouse (Y/N) from his slumber in the backseat, something Sam and Dean were jealous of. Castiel, on the other hand, sat worried in the opposite seat. His eyes hadn’t left (Y/N) for some time, and the lack of response from his partner whenever Dean would curse nearly at the top of his lungs troubled him further.

“Have you noticed that (Y/N) has not gotten much sleep recently?” Castiel asked faintly over the car radio.

Dean reached over and turned the dial so the Classic Rock faded into the background. “What was that, Cas?” He asked.

Castiel looked up at Dean for a brief moment. “Have you noticed that (Y/N) hasn’t gotten much sleep recently?” He repeated.

Dean nodded. “I’ve started to notice that, yeah.”

He glanced over at his brother to see that his gaze was straight ahead, earbuds in. Dean sighed, slapped him on the shoulder, then returned his hand to the wheel. Sam flinched and glared at Dean as he removed a bud from his left ear.

“Dude, what?” He asked, offense obvious in his tone.

“Have you noticed (Y/N)’s been losing sleep a lot?”

Sam furrowed his brows and glanced in the backseat at Castiel and (Y/N). “You know, now that you mention it, I have.”

Castiel hummed lightly, eyes still attached to (Y/N). The confirmation from his friends gave him some comfort. “I’m beginning to worry about him,” he admitted. “He’s awoken from numerous nightmares as of late.”

“That’s normal for hunters, Cas,” Sam said.

“Not for (Y/N). He has never had this many before.”

“Have you tried talking to him about it?”

“I have, but he never wants to tell me about them. He only ever tells me they’re hunting dreams, but…”

“You think he’s lying?”

Castiel’s silence answered for him.

“Look, Cas,” Dean began. “Nightmares, to hunters, are a bit of a touchy subject. We see a lot of things in the field and our everyday lives, and (Y/N)’s been through a lot. Maybe (Y/N) doesn’t want to worry you. I think he’ll come around eventually.” 

“You believe so?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably.”

Sam rolled his eyes and scoffed as he put his earbuds back inside. Dean shot him a look.

“What?” Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. “Nothing.”

Dean grumbled under his breath before he peered in the rearview mirror. “Look, (Y/N) loves you, Cas, more than anything - trust me, he’s told me more times than I can count. If there’s anyone he would go to about this problem, it would be you. Just give him time.”

Time.

Castiel was a patient man under normal circumstances, but when it came to his partner, he found that his patience wore thin quite easily if he was in distress. Castiel never liked to see (Y/N) unhappy, and it made his heart ache when he felt he couldn’t do anything to help. How he wished he could take the pain away. How he wished he knew where to start.

(Y/N) let out a soft whimper, brows furrowed tightly, and Castiel cast him a saddened expression. He reached over and softly pulled him closer so that his head rested against Castiel’s chest. While he knew Dean was right, one thing’s for certain;

Castiel hated waiting.

*~*

“We’re on Easy Street,

And it feels so sweet.

‘Cause the world is but a treat

When you’re on Easy Street.”

(Y/N) groaned and leaned his head back against the wall as the song repeated for, what seemed like the hundredth time. A faint laugh could be heard from across the room, but the darkness that surrounded him left him completely blind. He knew it was Lucifer, though. He could tell.

“Come on, cheer up!” Lucifer said. “It’s a catchy tune!”

It was the first time in a while that (Y/N) didn’t feel terrified while he dreamt. In Lucifer’s unorthodox method of torture, he had rather grown quite annoyed. He knew it was Lucifer’s way of getting under his skin, and he was doing a fantastic job at it. It wasn’t long before the short song came to an end, then repeated. Again. (Y/N) let out a frustrated shout and buried his face in his hands.

Suddenly, the lights flickered on and revealed the gray, dull, concrete room that they were in. (Y/N) clenched his eyes shut before he removed his hands from his face to look over at Lucifer, who paced around the room rhythmically as he snapped his fingers to the beat of the song. The music mixed with the bright lights and Lucifer’s arrogant face caused the bottom of (Y/N)’s eye to twitch. When Lucifer saw the look on his face, he snickered.

“Aw, is (Y/N) getting upset?” Lucifer teased, bottom lip pushed out in a mock pout.

“I will castrate you.” (Y/N) deadpanned.

Lucifer hissed. “You know, I don’t think you can do that.”

“I’ll find a way.”

Lucifer let out a loud, boisterous laugh that reverberated off the walls. (Y/N) shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. Once the laughter died down, Lucifer stared at him intently, uncomfortably so. He lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. The music stopped. Then, it was silent. They stared at one another. Neither broke eye contact. Lucifer tilted his head to the side, and (Y/N) was partially convinced it was Castiel in that body, but he knew better.

“This isn’t working,” he sighed.

Yep, still Lucifer.

“I say you cut your losses.” (Y/N) grumbled.

“I’ll take that into consideration.”

Lucifer tapped his chin and he began to study the stone walls around them. (Y/N) furrowed his brows. There wasn’t much to study. They were just walls. Concrete walls that looked new, as if they had been constructed mere hours propr, and expertly as well. A single light fixture was placed in the center of the ceiling with a bulb bright enough to attract moths from miles away. The room was rather uncreative. Unoriginal. (Y/N) needed to start constructing better landscapes for his dreams.

“I got it!” Lucifer’s voice broke through the silence.

With the snap of his fingers, the room vanished and was replaced by a darker, dimmer setting. A small, abandoned warehouse that appeared as if it should have been demolished decades prior. Broken glass and metal beams littered the filthy floor. The only source of light came from the moonbeams that shined through the shattered windows. He took a moment to stand from his spot as his eyes scanned his surroundings. Lucifer had, again, vanished. He didn’t hold his breath, though, for he knew he wouldn’t be gone long.

“You know me so well,” a voice came from behind.

(Y/N) whipped around and came face-to-face with Lucifer. The real Lucifer. Not the one who hid behind Castiel’s face. With Castiel’s appearance gone, (Y/N) didn’t feel as much hesitation as he had before. All he felt was irritation. Annoyance. His jaw clenched, fists balled up at his sides. Lucifer smirked as he reached behind him and pulled a long blade out. He walked over and held the hilt out to him. (Y/N) took the blade and examined it intently.

“An Archangel Blade?” He questioned.

Lucifer shrugged nonchalantly. “I figured I’d tortured you long enough. You might as well get your revenge.”

(Y/N) narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You want me to kill you.”

“It’s not gonna kill me. That would be stupid of me to give you something that would get rid of me, don’t you think?”

“Then I’m not interested.”

“Aw, why not? You know you want to.”

“Nope.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Not even a little cut?”

“No! Now fuck off,” (Y/N) waved him off as he turned on his heel and walked away.

Lucifer’s jaw dropped in shock. He was quick to follow. “So, what? You’re just going to throw away your one opportunity to get revenge even when I serve it to you on a silver platter!?”

Lucifer reached out and grabbed (Y/N)’s shoulder. It was almost instinctual, the way (Y/N) tightened his hold on the hilt, the way he turned at a speed no human should have to face him, the way he grasped Lucifer’s shoulder with an iron grip, and the way the Archangel Blade seamlessly plunged into his stomach was almost a surreal experience. Then, there was silence. Nothing moved, nothing blinked, nothing breathed. It was as if he were part of a photograph or a television show that had been left on pause. Slowly, (Y/N) closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out.

Play.

“This is why you should never let your guard down.” (Y/N) said, eased the blade out of Lucifer’s (?) stomach, and took a step back.

That was when he saw them. The eyes. His heart stopped. Baby blues. Deep blues. The ocean. Wandering sea. Hurt. Sorrow. Betrayal. Death. The sea is dying. No one can stop it.

Castiel.

Castiel gripped the wound in his gut as he stumbled back. In an instant, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed. Under his back, a deep, black imprint of angel wings got singed into the concrete. (Y/N) stared at the scene before him, mouth agape, eyes wide, heart still frozen in time. The blade dropped to the ground as if it wanted to part from his shaky hand.

“Cas?” He barely registered his voice as he stumbled down onto his knees beside his body.

He could feel the tears flow down his cheeks and he watched them methodically drop onto his trenchcoat. The sobs built up inside, but were unable to escape, caught in the back of his throat. He used one hand to caress Castiel’s cold, rough cheek. Just as the cries rattled in his chest, a smirk spread across Castiel’s chapped lips and his gaze darted toward (Y/N).

“What happened to not letting your guard down?” Lucifer mused.

(Y/N) let out a loud shout that echoed in the empty building. He fell back and began to crawl away. Lucifer cackled maniacally and stood. The wound in his chest began to close as he stepped closer.

“I don’t know why I never thought of that before! To make you take down the one thing, the one person that means the most to you. But, now that I’ve got you right where I want you, we’re going to have so…much…fun…”

*~*

“Agent Bermudez.”

…

…

“Agent Bermudez?”

…

…

“Agent!”

(Y/N) jumped slightly as he was pulled out of his trance. The cup, that held scalding hot coffee, in his hand jostled, but thankfully the contents remained in the glass. His eyes shot over to the sound of the voice. Dean and Sam stared at him expectedly. It took him a moment to realize that they had been talking to him.

“Uh, um, yes D-Agent?” He corrected himself.

Sam and Dean shared a look before their gaze returned to him. Sam cleared his throat.

“Did you have any more questions for Mrs. Calloway about her husband?” He asked.

It was then that he realized the middle-aged widow had been sat there the whole time. They were in her living room. In her house. The gears creaked in his brain as he attempted to figure out what had happened. When he caught on, he sat up quickly and placed the cup on a coaster that sat on the coffee table between the four of them.

We’re on a case, (Y/N). Get your shit together.

“Um, no, no I don’t.”

The brothers nodded before they turned back to Mrs. Calloway. They stood from the couch, and (Y/N) clumsily followed.

“Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to us, Mrs. Calloway. You’ve been very helpful,” Sam said with a small, sympathetic smile as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out one of his faux business cards. “Give me a call if you can think of anything else.”

Mrs. Calloway took the card with a smile that mirrored Sam’s. “Thank you, agents. I appreciate you taking this so seriously. David would be grateful. Don’t burn yourself out over it, though. I know how much of a toll this job takes on you.” As she spoke, her eyes were trained on (Y/N).

(Y/N) flashed a small, albeit embarrassed, grin and gave a brief wave. Sam and Dean turned to leave as (Y/N) trailed behind. They let themselves out through the front door and back into the promotional poster for suburban America. Compared to the white and blue colonials with SUVs and Minivans parked in each driveway, the Impala stood out as a historic relic. Once they closed the door, the brothers looked over at (Y/N), each of them sporting their own look with Dean’s of slight annoyance and Sam’s of concern.

“What the Hell was that?” Dean asked, exasperated.

(Y/N) shook his head. “I don’t know. I just zoned out.”

“Yeah, we can tell,” Sam said. “What’s been going on recently?”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” (Y/N) said, although he wasn’t too convinced himself.

“No, you’re not fine!” Dean said. “Look, Cas told us about the nightmares. I get how they are, but these seem to be getting to you. Bad.”

“I said ‘I’m fine’.”

“You’re obviously not, and until you are, I think it would be best if you sat this one out.”

“Dean’s right,” Sam agreed. “He and I can do this one on our own. We’ve done it before. You need to get better.”

“You’re benching me?” (Y/N) growled.

“Yes.” Dean nodded sternly. “Until you’re better, that would be for the best.”

(Y/N) opened his mouth to rebuttal, but knew it would be futile. He clenched his jaw and stormed over to the Impala. He opened the back passenger door, sat inside with a huff, and slammed the door shut. Sam sighed and ran his fingers through his hair stressfully while Dean shook his head. 

“He’s getting bad,” Dean mumbled.

“Yeah, I’ve never seen him like that before. He needs some rest.” Sam said.

“Right, we don’t need him getting himself killed.”

“Cas wouldn’t like that very much.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

“We still need to interview the employees at the bookstore. You can drop me off there and take (Y/N) back to the motel.”

“No, I’ll go to the bookstore, you drive him to the motel.”

“Why me?”

“Because he’s more likely to talk to you about it. You might even get him to talk to Cas about it.”

Sam gave a small nod. “For once, I agree with you. You suck at empathy.”

“Oh, bite me,” Dean grumbled. “Just get in the damn car.”

*~*

The bookstore sat three miles from the motel. Once they dropped Dean off, (Y/N) moved to the passenger’s seat - much to his dismay - and Sam shifted to the driver’s. At first, the two were silent while Van Halen hummed calmly over the speakers. (Y/N)’s arms rested at his side, head hung down, eyes half-lidded. Sam glanced over at him now and again as he drove through the middle of the small downtown. It was from the occasional peak that Sam truly saw how exhausted he was. The skin under his eyes was dark and heavy, eyes bloodshot. His body slouched, and it appeared as if he could fall asleep in an instant.

“Cas is worried about you, you know.” Sam broke the silence.

“Why?” (Y/N) furrowed his brows.

“Because of these nightmares you’ve been having. Hell, Dean and I are just as worried as he is.”

“I’m fine.”

“See, you say that, but I think the only person you’re trying to convince is yourself.”

(Y/N) looked down at his lap and began to fiddle with his hands.

“We care about you,” Sam continued. “And we hate seeing you like this.”

Sam made a right turn into the motel lot and parked in the vacant spot in front of their door.

“How did you deal with it?” (Y/N) whispered.

Sam looked over at him. “Deal with what?” 

“Lucifer.”

Sam hesitated. “Is that what your nightmares have been about?”

(Y/N) could only nod.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since a couple of months after we got Cas back. No matter how hard I try, he won’t leave me alone. It’s like he’s really there.” (Y/N)’s voice became shaky and tears streamed down his face. 

Sam reached over, placed a gentle hand on (Y/N)’s shoulder, and gave it a light squeeze. “I’m sorry. I’ve been there before. It’s horrible…you need to tell Cas.”

“I can’t. I don’t want him to worry.”

“He’s already worried, (Y/N), and you’re getting worse by the day. You need to talk to him.”

“I don’t want him to blame himself.”

“Why would he blame himself?”

“Because Lucifer is always in Cas’ body.”

Sam raised his brows and sighed. When Lucifer used Castiel’s vessel as his own, it was tough on all of them, but he knew it was especially difficult on (Y/N). For Sam, it was difficult to see his friend a prisoner in his own body, he couldn’t imagine how hard it must’ve been for (Y/N). To see the face of your lover worn as a mask by an Archangel that tormented the people that you loved? ‘Hard’ must’ve been too light of a word.

“Listen, you know Cas would never do whatever Lucifer is doing to you.” 

(Y/N) sniffled and nodded. “I know, I know. It’s just that it keeps reminding me of when I didn’t have Cas…and Lucifer was horrible when he took over his vessel and I just hated seeing him like that. I wanna forget that it even happened.”

“I know,” Sam rubbed his shoulder comfortingly. “But I think Cas’ll understand.”

“You think so?”

“I think so.” Sam smiled over at him.

(Y/N) reached up and wiped the tears from his cheeks.

“Tell you what,” Sam said. “Why don’t you go in and lay down? I’ll give Cas a call and have him come over.”

“Don’t tell him.”

“I won’t, but you need to. If you don’t, then I will.”

(Y/N) looked over at Sam before he gave a nod. Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out the spare room key, which (Y/N) graciously took.

“Get some sleep, okay?” Sam spoke softly.

“I will. Goodnight, Sam,” (Y/N) mumbled, got out of the car, walked to the door, and entered the room.

*~*

Please, make it stop.

The warehouse was the same as in his previous dream. Still old, still dilapidated. The only difference was the large array of angel wings burnt meticulously into the floor. There was no blood, no gore, no bodies strewn about to remind him of what he did. He didn’t need the extra detail, Lucifer knew that. The wings were more than enough.

No more, please.

“And, again!” Lucifer exclaimed.

No!

(Y/N) gripped the angel blade tight in his hand, despite his mental protests. Castiel appeared in front of him, blue eyes pleading. He wasted no time as he drove the angel blade into his chest. Onto the floor, he fell like a ragdoll and a new etching of wings joined the bunch. He breathed.

It was a vicious cycle.

“Again!”

Command. Kill. Breathe.

“Again!” 

Command. Kill. Breathe.

“Again!”

Command. Kill. Breathe.

“Again!”

Command.

Kill.

Breathe.

He collapsed onto his knees. The angel blade slipped from his grasp and skidded across the floor. His eyes were so wide he was half certain they would burst from the sockets, lips parted to allow the heavy breaths of air to flow. Lucifer’s deep chuckle sounded in his ears as he stepped closer and knelt in front of him. Lucifer lifted his chin so their eyes connected. 

“Good,” he smirked. “You’ve come a long way, my dear hunter.”

Fuck you.

“Thank you, Lucifer,” (Y/N)’s voice sounded fake and robotic.

Lucifer hummed and pursed his lips. “I still hear a little defiance in that head of yours. Perhaps we should keep going.”

No! Please!

“Of course, Lucifer.” 

(Y/N) stood on shaky legs and made his way to the discarded weapon.

No, please, don’t do this.

“You are such a good listener, (Y/N).” Lucifer praised.

Don’t listen to him! Stop!

(Y/N) picked up the blade and held it with a death grip.

Put that down! You don’t have to do this!

He turned so he faced Lucifer, back straight, head held high.

Command.

No!

Kill.

Please!

Breathe.

I’ll do anything!

Lucifer smirked.

“Again!”

*~*

“No!” (Y/N) let out a loud, guttural scream as he shot up from his spot on the bed.

His eyes were red from the tears that stained his cheeks, and his chest moved up and down with the efforts of his breathing. When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he jerked away violently and scrambled off the bed, his legs weak and barely able to hold his weight.

“No, please,” (Y/N) leaned against the wall to keep himself upright. He had his palms pressed against his ears, eyes shut tight.

“(Y/N)? (Y/N), it’s me.” Castiel gently edged himself off the bed and walked over to him.

As Castiel placed his hands on (Y/N)’s shoulder, he felt his body tense.

“You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real.” (Y/N) repeated continuously.

Carefully, Castiel removed (Y/N)’s hands from his ears, despite the weak protests. He could feel the way his heart raced, the way his hands shook, and it hurt to see.

“Bumblebee, please,” Castiel’s voice was deep, soft, soothing. “It’s me. It’s Castiel.”

Bumblebee.

(Y/N)’s eyes shot open as he turned his head - eyes, look at the eyes. Elegant waves of blue. Sapphires. Full of worry. Full of life. Life. He was alive. Castiel was alive.

“Cas?” His voice came out hoarse.

“Yes, it’s me. You’re safe.”

Hesitantly, (Y/N) cupped his cheek. His thumb brushed against the stubble that decorated his jawline. The longer he stared into his eyes, the more he felt peace, comfort, a sense of love and longing, home. He brought Castiel close to him and embraced him tight enough that it was sure to hurt if he were human. The grip he had on him was tense as if he were convinced Castiel would vanish at any moment. Castiel returned the affection but, instead of wrapping his arms around him, he placed an arm around his back and another under his knees. He picked him up, carried him the short distance over to the bed, and laid him down. He lay next to him, their arms never retreating.

“(Y/N), please,” Castiel’s breath was warm against his ear. “I know that it wasn’t a hunting dream. Please, talk to me.”

(Y/N) was silent as he reveled in the fact that he was able to hold Castiel as close to him as he was. Alive. He took a moment to think back to the conversation he had with Sam - He’s already worried…You need to talk to him. Based on Castiel’s tone of voice, and the words he used, he knew Sam was right. He had to tell him.

“They’re about you,” (Y/N) whispered just loud enough for Castiel to hear.

At those words, Castiel pulled back ever so slightly, but never took his hands off him. He studied (Y/N)’s face and noticed the way he refused to look at him. His brows knit together in confusion and concern. He reached a hand up to caress his cheek.

“What happens in these dreams, (Y/N)?” He asked softly.

(Y/N) was hesitant to respond, a part of him terrified of the guilt Castiel could potentially feel, another scared at the mere idea of mentioning Lucifer’s name aloud. What if he wasn’t truly gone? What if he heard him? Would he find him? Would he kill him? Would the nightmares he had dealt with for the past several months come true? He knew he had to reveal the source of the dreams, though. Not only for his sake but for Castiel’s as well.

“It’s never really you in the dreams. It’s always Lucifer inside your vessel. He started by teasing me, mocking me, and then…he started to torture me. It was stupid shit at first, stuff that didn’t really hurt me. Then he brought you into the picture.” (Y/N)’s voice began to shake as tears appeared in the corner of his eyes, a result of recalling the events of his nightmares and exhaustion. “He made me kill you, Cas.”

Castiel was quick to pull him back into his arms. He brought their bodies so close together that it was as if they were one. At the warmth he felt wrapped around his body, (Y/N) finally let himself cry. Hard.

“And I try to stop him,” (Y/N) sobbed. “I try so hard, but nothing I do seems to work, and I have to kill you over and over and over again and he won’t let me go. I know he’s not there, but he feels so real.”

Castiel shushed him gently as his hand rubbed his back soothingly. They simply held each other as (Y/N) let out all the sadness, pain, and frustration he had kept in for the longest time. With each cry, with each shake of his body, Castiel felt himself break. The man he loved, the man who stole his heart, sat shattered in his arms, and he felt responsible.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into his ear between sobs.

(Y/N) shook his head. “It’s not your fault, I knew you would do that.” His voice was broken and shaky.

“I let Lucifer in.”

“But you couldn’t control his actions. Lucifer is to blame, not you. I could never blame you.”

“But if I would’ve-”

“Lucifer would have found a way, we both know this.”

By then, his cries had mellowed out to mere sniffles and hiccups with the occasional stray tear. They spent the next several minutes holding one another, silent. The room started to get dark as the sun set, and (Y/N) couldn’t help but wonder where the brothers were. How they were doing on the hunt. He hoped his debilitating exhaustion hadn’t cost them any valuable time or extra hands they may have needed. It wasn’t long before Castiel spoke once more.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked.

“I didn’t want you to blame yourself. I knew you would. There isn’t anything you can do about it anyway. I thought I could get it under control.”

Castiel paused before he pulled back. “Maybe I can. May I try something?”

(Y/N) hesitated before he shook his head. “I don’t want to go back to sleep, Cas,” he said, voice laced with uncertainty.

“Trust me, Bumblebee, please? I believe I know how I can help.”

(Y/N) sighed. Despite everything he told himself, he was exhausted. He had been for the past several weeks, and the strength he previously used to keep himself awake had all but faded. He didn’t want to have another nightmare, but if Castiel could help him, he had to give him a chance. (Y/N) gave Castiel a quick peck on the lips.

“I trust you.”

Castiel smiled warmly. He nuzzled his nose against (Y/N)’s and grabbed the comforter. He draped it over their bodies. He shifted so their legs were tangled together, wrapped his arms around (Y/N)’s waist, and rested his forehead against his. He began to rub his back in small, slow circles, and (Y/N) could feel his body instantly relax.

“Get some sleep, Bumblebee. I promise I’ll keep you safe. I love you.” Castiel whispered, and his words alone sounded like a lullaby.

“I love you, too, Cas. So much.” (Y/N) mumbled back.

With the warmth of Castiel’s embrace, (Y/N) was quick to drift off once more with a new hope of content slumber.

*~*

Nothing. That was the best word he could use to describe where he was. It wasn’t dark, nor was it light. It wasn’t a basic abandoned warehouse, nor was it a location embedded in his memory. It was simply and utterly nothing. Although the implication of ‘nothing’ meant the absence of ‘something’. The question was: what was missing?

“Bumblebee?”

(Y/N)’s head perked up at the nickname. He began to look around but found no source. There was still nothing.

“I’m here, (Y/N).”

As he turned around, he was blinded by a bright light. He squinted and shielded his eyes. From the light, a heat radiated off of it and surrounded him like a blanket. He felt the urge to go to it as if a rope had wrapped itself around his waist and begun to pull. When he walked, he floated. His legs didn’t move. It was unknown what waited beyond the light, but whatever it was made him feel safe, loved, and wanted. Soon, the light engulfed him, and he was blinded once more.

When his vision was restored, he was welcomed to a sight he had never witnessed before. Yellow, sandy beaches surrounded by a deep blue ocean. The sun seemed to sit where it barely kissed the distant waves, giving the sky an orangish pink tone. In front of him sat a pier, one that he was no stranger to, yet he had only seen in movies and television shows. ‘Pacific Park’ was inscribed into the archway of the entrance. Behind it sat various theme park rides, all small in size, but worth the experience.

“(Y/N)?”

(Y/N) turned to his right to see Castiel, a small smile on his lips. He was uncertain at first, but once he saw the brilliance in his eyes, he relaxed and mirrored his smile. 

“Cas,” he breathed, reached over, and took his hand. “Is this the Santa Monica Pier?”

Castiel looked up at the archway and nodded. “I’ve been here once during my exploration of Earth, and you mentioned that you had never been here before.”

(Y/N) shook his head and pursed his lips. “I think I’ve only been to California a handful of times, most of which were up North near Red Bluff.” He said. “But why are we here?”

Castiel gave his hand a gentle squeeze and began to lead him down the pier. Unlike the true Santa Monica beaches, these were barren. Not a single soul resided on the pier or beach besides (Y/N) and Castiel. It would have been an eerie experience had it not been for the sound of the roaring sea.

“Your nightmares focused on memories, or memories of how Lucifer was, correct?”

“Right?”

“Well, I figured the best way to rid you of those memories is to create new ones while you dream.”

(Y/N) couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his lips. “Like a date?”

“Yes. A date.”

“So, what? You’re going to take me on a date every time I dream now?”

“If that’s what it takes to stop the nightmares and allow you to get some sleep then we will have dates every night while you dream for the rest of your life.”

(Y/N) stopped in his tracks and slowly pulled back on Castiel’s hand. Castiel looked back at him and tilted his head ever so slightly. (Y/N) grabbed Castiel’s other hand, brought both of them up to his lips, and kissed his knuckles.

“Castiel, you are the best boyfriend that anyone could ever ask for. I don’t deserve you.” He said.

“No, Bumblebee. You deserve the world. I would love to give it to you.”

(Y/N) reached up and cupped Castiel’s cheek. “I have my world right here.”

He pressed his forehead against Castiel’s. Their noses brushed against one another, then they kissed. It was short and sweet, but it held all their love and passion behind it. When they parted, they stared deeply at each other. 

“I love you, Cas.”

“I love you, too, (Y/N).”

(Y/N) beamed and dropped one of Castiel’s hands. He began to drag him towards the theme park rides.

“Now, come on! I’ve always wanted to ride these!”

Castiel followed at an even pace behind him, and he couldn’t help but feel the guilt and pain that had built up inside of him wash away. To see his partner shine with happiness was an experience he would not soon forget. He made it his mission, from then on out, to guarantee that every dream (Y/N) had would be just as wonderful, if not better, than the last. For, as long as they were together, Castiel pledged that nightmares would be a thing of the past, never to plague the mind of his beloved until the end of his days. 

[muder-boner]

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Tws for my blog : mention of $h, mentions of fighting , a lot of venting bcuz I hate my life, cigarettes, uh strict parents and they're shitty asf, past shit that still haunts me, swearing, sometimes me being hard on myself, I do not post $h pics.

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TW UNDER THIS READING THINGY- BRIGHT COLORS AND GIFS !! :3

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This profile ain't a vent one even though most of the time I complain and whine on here, I'm actually really nice if you interact with me, ask @rainydayzxd . (They're my child and my baby I'll protect them at all costs)

I suffer with $h, I find it hard to find anything i deserve in this world, I don't post $h pics, if there's a post I didn't tag (like a tw) please DM or send me an ask, I'm trying my best to have a safe spot people can interact with.

best ffriends on Tumblr! : @agirlfr0msomewhere @rainydayzxd @deliu07 @kornyblu @dazaissceneslut @raytorosguitarstrap @s1l4s-w0rsh1ps-t0m4t03s

Hallo !! I'm looking 4 friendz, here iz my info dump

My name is Ezra !! Ftm dude and I go by he him

I'm Romanian , yet idk shit abt Romania, or do the whole "tradition" thing,

➤ Music Genre

➤ Emo rock, Death Metal, Nu metal, Goregrind, Sometimes metal core, Power Metal, Glam metal. (Yes I'm a metal head)

➤ Artists and Bands

KoRn , Green Day , Weezer, Tokio Hotel, Mitski, Eminem, Deftones, Steve Gabry, Your Favorite Martian, The Smiths, Epic Rap Battles Of History, Pink Floyd, BabyMetal, Gorillaz, The Strokes, LMFAO, Arctic Monkeys, JT Music, IC3SPEAK, My Chemical Romance, Metallica, Anal Vomit, System of a down, Slayer, Slave steel, Mortician, Slipknot, The Anxiety.

➤ Fandoms : Call Of Duty, Cry Of Fear, My Little Pony, The Walking Dead, Shameless, Deathgasm, Sally face, Err can't really thing of anything else man.

➤ Moviez : Fight club, The virgin suicides, FNAF Movie, The Mario movie, Coraline, Studio Ghibli movies, Deathgasm , All Fred Figglehorn movies, Dinner in America.

➤ Fave colorz : Green pink blue and of course, the best shade ever, Black

➤ Favorite pony from main 6 : applejack

➤ Favorite pony from all series: BIGMAC💗💗

➤ Favorite sanrio : pompompurin he's so me

➤ Favorite Twd character : Carl (i cosplay him!!!) And / or Beth (and many more lol!!)

➤ Favorite Sally face character : Travis Phelps (he's so relatable) (yes I have daddy issues)

➤ Favorite people : @agirlfr0msomewhere, @0r1sw0rldxp, @kornyblu, @s1l4s-w0rsh1ps-t0m4t03s, @wh3nth3pawn , @rainydayzxd, @bull3t-f0r-my-v4l3nt1n3 (STOP CHANGING UR USER NAME SM JORDAN I CAN'T KEEP UP WITH EDITINF THE LIST /pos /j! I luv u change ur username I love ur creativity with em :3)

LOVE MY OTHER MOOTS 2!!!

DNI: - homophobia, racism, sexism, anti furry, anti therian, over 20 , people who want donations, I don't have money, plus I have nothing to do to help. all bad stuff etc

Everyone else is welcome !!<3

I like to think that I'm kind and caring,i love taking care of people, so yes slide in my DMS if u're lonely,im always down to make new moots and friends on here !

➤ My tags !! :

Ezras' food !! ➥ what I ate

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I might add more in the future !!

Also have tags like "Silas tag !!" Where it's a post or a reblog of my friend or moot !!

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Recently started playing guitar ! fucking metal yes yes

SLAAAAAAAAAAYERRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!

Jumps up and down

I'm Carl Grimes

[paintyoureyeswithavividmind]

close to home | chapter fifty three

close to home | chapter fifty three

plot: the reader and Daryl's relationship continues to develop as more time passes

series masterlist

Pairing: Eventual Daryl Dixon x f!reader Word Count: 2,111 Warnings: violence, blood, typical twd A/N: thank you for reading!!!

When you found out Rick wanted Daryl running the sanctuary for a little while, you wanted to give Rick a piece of your mind. But, as much as you hated to admit it, you knew that Daryl might be the only one that could. So you packed up yours and his belongings. Daryl asked you to stay behind, but you wouldn’t hear it. 

So you moved to the Sanctuary with him--leaving Tora with Michonne at Hilltop. It broke your heart to do so, but you didn’t fully trust what remained of the saviors, and Tora loved the Hilltop. Besides, with your new role, you’d see her often enough. 

Rick wanted you in every community as his eyes and ears. So you would start to rotate around. At first, you tried to refuse, but after everything, you knew the communities needed it, and Rick needed to know what was happening. So you’d spend a few days at Hilltop, then the Kingdom--which you didn’t mind so much after being there for ten minutes--and then back at Alexandria, helping to get the place back together. Then you’d return to the Sanctuary for over a week and start again. 

You hated not being with Daryl and leaving him with just Eugene and Rosita. But you got used to it after a while, and when you did return, it made being with him even more special. And having sex with him after being apart for two weeks was enough to keep you both up all night. 

Slowly, fall changed to winter and then winter into spring. Things got better between the communities, but the Sanctuary wasn’t improving. Nothing grew there, and there was a lot of resentment. You begged Daryl to ask Rick for a break, but he always refused. His stubbornness was something you both loved and hated about him. 

The end of spring neared too quickly, and summer came in full swing.

Maggie had her baby, and you were there to help her through the birth. It was a little boy who she named Hershel. You cried with her and held the baby until you started crying again. After that, you spent extra time at Hilltop and made Daryl take a small break to meet him. 

But things were getting worse at the Sanctuary, and when you arrived back for the first time in two weeks, you knew Daryl needed you with him. Though it’s been under a year and a half since the saviors were defeated, you knew Daryl was still haunted by it. And being at the Sanctuary didn’t help. 

Eugene was the first to greet you, and you hugged him as he told you about what was happening. You heard someone yelling your name, and when you turned, you saw Frankie running up to you. 

“Hi!” You exclaimed, welcoming her hug. Like always, she hugged you tight for a few seconds before backing away. 

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon; how’s Maggie’s baby?”

“He’s beautiful,” You mused, “He is happy and healthy. How are you? Where’s Amber?”

“She’s probably with her new boyfriend. I’ll have to tell you about it later. I missed you.”

You smiled and grabbed her arm. “I missed you, too. I gotta go see Daryl, but I’ll find you later, and we’ll catch up.”

She gave you one last hug before she bid you goodbye. 

Besides Daryl, Rosita was the one you spent the most time with at the Sanctuary. And she smiled widely when she saw you. 

“I thought we lost you to the farmwork and that little nephew of yours,” She teased you as you walked into the ground level. 

“And miss out on your company, Rosita?” You nudged her arm. “If I didn’t see your face every day, I think I’d go mad.”

“Oh, get out of here.” 

You laughed and headed towards the impromptu garage, where you knew you’d find Daryl. If he wasn’t with you or yelling at some asshole savior, he was there, working on motorcycles. What used to be a maze to you wasn’t anymore, and you found your way there quickly. 

Daryl was precisely where you knew he would be. The garage was empty; you knew it was because everyone was getting ready for the upcoming corn harvest. You crept up to Daryl and covered his eyes with your hands. 

“Guess who?” You laughed. He grabbed your hands and pulled them away before standing up and hugging you. You laughed louder and wrapped your arms around his neck. “I missed you, too.”

“Gone for too long this time,” Daryl told you as he pulled away. He pressed a light kiss onto your lips twice and then a third. “Ya gotta tell Maggie she can take care of Hershel without ya,” 

You laughed and leaned up to kiss him again. “I’ll let her know that.” Then you walked around to see the bike he was working on and smiled when you saw the spray-painted muffler. “I see my bike is coming along great. It’s even in my favorite color.”

Daryl grunted with a nod and knelt next to it, grabbing whatever part he was using in the first place. “Sit on it, woulda ya?”

“The bike or you? I’d much prefer you.”

“Shut the hell up, and sit down, crazy girl.”

You laughed as you sat on the bike, keeping it balanced so he didn’t have to get so low under the parts. You ruffled his hair and heard him sigh with annoyance. Then you leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “You’re getting to be such a grump in your old age.”

Daryl looked up at you. “Ya done? Ya the one fuckin’ an old man.

“Don’t tease me with a good time, Dixon.”

He snorted and shook his head, “Ya gonna be the death of me. Why don’ ya just start talkin’ ‘bout everythin’ ya wanna tell me. Might as well start, gonna be yappin away all day.”

You tugged his hair as your revenge for the comment and smiled when he swatted your hand away. “Okay, okay. If you insist, I will tell you all about everyone.”

So you did, and you told him how the Hilltop was doing, how Maggie and the baby were. You told him about your brief visit to Oceanside just to drop off some neighborly gifts and then how Kingdom was. You gossiped about the budding romance between Carol and Ezekiel, but how the latter seemed keen on declining every mention of marriage-which, you admitted, you only knew about it because you were eavesdropping to get more dirt on them anyway. 

“Alexandria is doing well; they’ve really built it up nice. And Judith is talking. She is so adorable,” You mused, playing with Daryl’s hair as he worked. “She painted you a picture. You and Rick have matching big bellies, according to her. Maybe you should come with me. It’ll be nice of you to see them. You haven’t been in a few weeks. She asked me all about you.”

Daryl looked up at you, tossing his wrench aside. “I still don’ like the idea of you out there alone.”

“I’m fine,” You brushed his hair back to see his entire face. “And once my handsome old man fixes my bike, it’ll be even faster than the horse.”

“Maybe if ya didn’ crash it,”

You waved him off and slowly stood up from the bike. “Yeah, well, shit happens. Eugene told me there would only be another week or so before harvest. Summer’s nearly over again.”

“Still hot as hell.”

You nodded and walked over to him, grabbing his greasy hands and seeing the black grease smudge against your skin. Then you looked up at him and wiped the grease off his cheek. “You look tired, honey.”

He sighed and pressed his forehead against yours. “Don’ know how much more I can do this for. Wanna be with ya out there, wanna see my family.”

“I’ll talk to Rick. I’ll tell him that I want you out there with me. The walkers are clustering up again and I need you with me.”

“I-.”

You shook your head. “You’ve done enough for him. I love Rick, and I know you do too, but this was an unfair ask, and you’ve been here almost eighteen months. You deserve to rest.”

Daryl kissed your forehead, and you knew that was his way of agreeing to it because he’d never speak the words out loud. 

“Why don’t we go find Rosita and get dinner? I wanna hear about all the shit you’ve been up to since I’ve been gone.”

“Oh, forgot to yell ya, found your machete. Some asshole here had it; it’s in our room.”

***

You sent a message to Rick that you’d be staying at the Sanctuary through the upcoming harvest, which he agreed to and thanked you for your help. So you spent the next few weeks with Daryl, Rosita, and Eugene and helped in every way you could. Harvesting was the worst, and some of you wanted to run off to Alexandria to play with Judith all day.

Daryl had initially picked out the room that once belonged to you, which you had no issues with. It was easy enough to shake the memories from your head after the time passed, and being there with Daryl made everything easier. It was like he replaced every lousy memory with a good one. 

So when you walked into the room after spending the evening with Frankie and Rosita, a little tipsy, you were more than happy to see Daryl against the counter, eating. 

“Hey sexy,” You said, closing the door behind you. 

“Ya drunk?”

“A little,” You laughed, taking off your shoes and walking over to him. You wrapped your arms around his lower waist and set your head against his chest. “It was so fun with the girls. I miss them when I’m gone.” You smiled. 

Daryl kissed the top of your head. “Ya smell like wine.”

“I spilled,” You said, backing up and pointing at the stain on the bottle of your shirt. “Luckily, not too much, though."

Daryl laughed and set his late dinner down, “Come on, why don’ ya change and get ready for bed.”

You did as he said, taking one of the old shirts you kept here and then collapsed next to him on the bed. “I hate harvesting. We should run away.”

“Yeah? Where we goin’?”

“An island, just me and you. We can be all alone to do whatever the hell we want,” 

Daryl grabbed your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm. “Not a bad idea, darlin’."

You smiled and rolled over, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I love this shoulder…” You yawned. 

He snorted, “Ya’ll have a whole bottle?”

You giggled and looked up at him. “Frankie knew where ratface liked to hide shit.” The two of you had devised a nickname for the man who’d made both your lives hell, though you were the only ones you said it to. 

Daryl chuckled and moved, “Come on, in bed."

“You’re no fun,” You whined.

But you did as he asked anyway because you always did. And besides, the bed was soft and comfortable, and he let you wrap yourself up in his arms the moment his head hit the pillow. 

“Gonna have Eugene call Alexandria tomorro’, was thinkin’ we should make a run into the city, that museum gotta have some shit we can use. Was lookin’ at some books.” Daryl told you as he absentmindedly played with your hair. 

You pressed your hand flat against his chest, “That’s a good idea. You’re so fucking smart,” You mumbled as you looked up at him, just in time to watch him shake his head. “You are. You know so many things. You’ve taught me so many things.”

“Like what?”

You propped yourself up on your elbow and cupped his cheek. “You’ve taught me how to track and helped me get better at hunting. You taught me fighting skills and how to use my bow and arrow even though Carol stole it from me. And you taught me about motorcycles when you talk about them while working.” You rambled on and on. 

Daryl stared at you, the corners of his lips just barely tilted up. “Ya just sayin’ stuff 'cause ya drunk.”

“I’m not even that drunk, just a little tipsy.” You leaned down and kissed his cheek. “But we should get drunk together one day; that would be fun.”

Daryl made you lie back down. “Any chance of ya stayin’ home if we go to the city?”

You shook your head, “No way.”

[redcoralpot]

Hi may I request something like twd (any character) and a ghost reader who is like haunting them just for fun.. reader is sort of mysterious and cryptic but overall he just wants to mess with them :3 Idk how it would work but I couldn’t get rid of the idea in my head

Harmless Pranks, Little Thoughts

Daryl Dixon x Ghost!M Reader

-

Summary: You are quite the formidable ghost from your years behind a desk, however, you find that the afterlife gets boring rather quickly. When you stumble across a man in the forest, struggling to survive, how can you resist a little harmless fun?

Warnings: Animal death, canon typical violence, and implied death.

Word Count: 1.1K

A/N: Long time no see!

-

-

-

Earth is quite ugly these days. The cracked asphalt was steaming underneath your feet, but you simply sighed, walking alongside broken down cars. Some had weeds curling around their tires, holding them in place. Nature had long overtaken civilization by the ten year mark of humanity’s extinction event. Any survivors had scattered, chased away by slow, blubbering undead. 

Said creatures weren’t hard to relax among once the odor stopped bothering you. Strange, how one of the only senses that stayed with you was smell. They only had mind for the living, no discrimination as long as it had flesh and blood for their teeth to rip to pieces. Otherwise, they just… existed as eyesores. You squinted at a rather unfortunate one, trapped by a seatbelt, doomed to scratch at air until a merciful survivor put it out of its misery. It gnashed its teeth, its jaw uncomfortably visible against gaunt skin. A few steps further and you were met with the edge of a forest, closer than you remembered. The grass didn’t sink when you breached the treeline, nor did sticks prick your arms, and you whistled as loud as your lips would let you.

You brushed your fingers against the bark of trees, seeing the ridges rippled underneath them. Sometimes, if you focused enough, you could almost feel how it would have been if you were alive again. There were some scratches, naturally put and then those which seemed too precise. A bear couldn’t knick away the outer layer to access inside it, straight lines cutting windows in pine. Leaves had been crushed underfoot, meticulous, pressed into the grooves of a boot sole. This only gave you a matter of seconds to flinch back as a breeze whisked past your face– metal glinted in the sun, sharp and sleek. You could practically feel its feathered end tickling your nose. Then, it was gone as quick as it came, hitting its mark with a squeak!

A gruff voice grumbled, “Hello, dinner.”

Years of floating around hadn’t gotten rid of your instincts– hell, you had seen one too many survivors suffer gory deaths to play around. You ducked behind the vandalized pine, watching as a squirrel landed on the dirt, the arrow piercing straight through its eye. Footsteps approached and a hairy, uniquely human hand grasped the corpse. The smell of sweat, blood, and dirt filled your nose; fitting for a survivor. In this world, you supposed you couldn’t judge. Shoulder-length brown hair framed hardened yet passionate eyes, with gray peppering the stubble on his chin. Old for a survivor but still alive and kicking, you noted. 

The man gently pulled the arrow out of his target, blood dripping in crimson rivers as he placed it back in his quiver, reaching down to tie the squirrel to his leather bag. Another, equally sized rodent shared the same fate. Its fur blew in the wind, dull; a simple decoration on a cold corpse. He lifted his crossbow easily, taking his view to the sky above, searching for a new target. 

Thus, an idea sparked in your mind; unexpected and brilliant in the moment. Mischievous, sure, but when have you ever been opposed to some fun? If anything, being nothing but floating air piqued such interests by thousands. It took energy to physically manifest yourself– kind of like working out. The more you did it, the easier it got, you told yourself. Your eyebrows scrunched and your stomach clenched as you stomped your foot down with a crack, splitting a runt of a stick in half. Despite its size, the noise echoed throughout the atmosphere, bouncing off of rocks until it dissipated. 

The aftereffects were immediate, dizziness slamming into you like a freight train. You tried to lean on the tree for support, but you were as solid as smoke, and the wood simply phased through your body. The man whipped his attention towards you, crossbow pointed, but no amount of arrows could get rid of you. Perhaps, that is what started your obsession with Daryl, when you looked back on it. A man that only protruded sharp edges and weight on his back, yet had survived with the burden for so long. You looked down at your dress shirt, bloody, ruined from when a customer had lunged for your neck. It still had your name pinned to the black tie.

 -

 Carol slammed the door shut behind Daryl, crossing her arms in the most private space they could have in the settlement, “Something’s been up with you lately, Daryl.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with me,” he said, shrugging, but his tone held no annoyance.

You floated through the door, watching as a shiver went up Carol’s spine at your passing. She shifted her weight and continued, “I’ve just noticed you’ve been jumpy, that’s all. You know you can talk to me if something’s bothering you, right?”

That bothersome thing, you knew, was obvious. Harmless pranks, some basic and some ingenious, but none that ever harmed the man. Not anything that did more than attract a lone walker, which is what you learned survivors called them now, at any rate. Hiding an arrow, Dog’s toy– why is a dog’s name Dog, anyway– or knocking on the walls occasionally. Sure, Daryl was jumpy, who wouldn’t be in a world like this? However, over time, he got accustomed to your antics, so much so that he did not react to them nearly as satisfying as previously. You had to go bigger, better, each time. 

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” 

“There’s only one in a million things that can scare you these days.”

Mhm, that’s right. You are– were– a one in a million office worker; the sentiment was baffling. If only your boss thought the same, you chuckled.

However, what was once a likely source of pride for the arrogant prick lost in the winds of time… now only cast deep shadows underneath Daryl’s eyes as the man glanced at his feet. His face had permanent wrinkles where his eyebrows touched his nose, ingrained like inked tattoos on his skin. 

It was then, in the swirl of conflicting emotions painting Daryl’s face, that your fingers twitched. It was then, past Carol’s careful exit, that you yearned. Such a strong instinct, akin to fear and overtaking greed, gripped you. Your surroundings felt less dim and you felt more alive than you have in the many, many years prior. For the first time, you had the urge to clasp his cheeks and to comfort the man whom you suspected rarely ever felt a gentle touch. Not to prank, not to scare, not to dance around like a jester for eternity– the desire melted your body like chocolate. As the air gave way to your ghostly form, parting under your fingertips, you realized that the Earth was a little less ugly with Daryl in it.

- 

@cannabrisano @dxrkymxrchy @bedshrooms

Want to be tagged?

[thegratefulsouth]

Alright I have just finished Season 1 of TWD DD and I have thoughts and questions and feelings. And energy!

I am very new to this fandom, and while I've done some searches in places, I'll still just apologise in advance for being repetitive and missing stuff. I will miss stuff every time.

I'll get Laurent out of the way, and even though it's all connected for me, the rest is Caryl.

#1 So Laurent. I have questions about his ability to see into the future. He was convinced Daryl would survive the Gladiator battle, he knew they'd all end up back together. Is this a real thing? Is it coincidence in faith? The drawing I don't care about, I'm not sure how involved he is with the manipulations, but he should definitely be able to feel that this is happening with Isabelle, given his empathic nature. So in that case, does he sense there is a reason to go along with her ways, for a future purpose we don't know about yet.

The empathic thing:

Episode 1, he says to Daryl "You're homesick. I see it in your eyes. I feel things. In my stomach. I feel your sadness." Episode 5, he tells Madame Genet that she isn't angry; her heart is broken.

He can distinguish sadness between heartbreak and homesickness- these are very specific feelings. Are there more examples? Not sure when I'll be able to watch it back. Is this significant? Is there a point to this? Is he going to make the match? Is he going to be overwhelmed by Carol's grief and guilt, though hopefully she'll just be happy and relieved when he meets her (hopefully!!).

"Daryl why don't you just kiss Carol like she wants you to?"

What are the rules around this? I don't know how it works.

#2 Second up! The boats. Is there any evidence that any of the boats have any significance? I know they probably just make sense with the location and the storyline, etc. But when Laurent cuts the boat loose, Daryl is losing his most immediate TANGIBLE lifeline to Carol and that is because a BOAT has drifted. A boat.

Okay, and also, I was thinking about this on my long drive to work this morning and I swear to the husks of dust on my Jim Shore Dorothy and Glinda figurine, Spotify threw THIS song I've never heard before at me. Yes, PIRATE song. Pirate song by mehro. But dear god the lyrics.

"Are you ready to let me in?"

"I've been trying to believe what I said is what I need."

This is such a haunting, beautiful song. I'm so thrilled to discover this artist. I'm not immune to dissolving into a puddle on the side of the road when I hear a new song that spins me out. I feel things so intensely. I'm going to do a post just for this song. This song is Caryl to me.

#3 Daryl's longing for Carol in a ramble:

I like the connection between Daryl saying "I have family back home," and Carol in the teaser clip saying Daryl is the only family she has left. It feels like a string, tying them together. Feels like they're on the same damn boat. Emotionally.

I just want to touch on the name dropping Who Are Your Friends scene with Laurent. Even though I have no idea whether this scene is supposed to have any significance or if it's just supposed to be a simple moment of connection for these two. Regardless, it is significant. Every second beyond about a week just is. So to touch on Laurent again, I'm just wondering is it possible that Daryl's a little guarded here, because he knows the kid's intuitive? Does he feel like he needs to be more careful with his emotions? He's already elevated. But he says Connie's name really easily. It's easy for him to say her name and I think that says a lot. He's trying to connect with the kid, so of course Judith and RJ pop up. Daryl got himself started, and there's a very slight gap, while he's thinking before he offers up Ezekiel. That's where he should say Rosita but she's gone, or Aaron (but too much missage? Their bond), Michonne's not there! Oh, Ezekiel! They were starting to get along? They had a hug and everything? I don't know. I like the link between Connie and Ezekiel though. Anyway Daryl has to say Carol because she is his heartbeat, so he manages to get that out and then he stops. No more names.

Laurent says they sound nice and is Daryl's response a little defensive? Even though Laurent's just a kid, he's a little intense. Daryl says, "Yeah, how do you know?"

I think that's interesting. Like he's shared as much as he's comfortable sharing and then he wants to bundle his family back up again. It's painful to talk about Carol because he misses her and he promised her and she cried when he left and she is his soulmate. She's a little too precious and valuable to be spoken about by someone who hasn't even met her.

Alrighty now I need to go find some gifs for that song post.

[itsgrimeytime]

Magnolia in May (Part Nine) || Rick Grimes (TWD) x Greene!f!reader Regency AU

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8...

Taglist: @loliakeoghan23 @belaballs @curlycarley

AVAILABLE ON AO3

Inspiration (in honor of Speak Now Taylor's Version): Enchanted by Taylor Swift

Summary: Your town was small, not the smallest you knew, but anyone of high fortune was the gossip of the week. Predictably, Richard Grimes was a thing of whispers -rumors of a search for marriage among the grassy hills. You weren't one to buy into town gossip, but something about him... just seemed a little too intriguing.

TWS: secrets, crying, confrontation, insecurities, and yelling (more so emotionally stressed words).

[[A/N: y'all ready for this one? I don't think so besties. Repeat after me, FAMILY DRAMA!!! Confrontation beyond belief in a very regency-accurate way. So... Thanks for reading :)) ]]

You don't know how long you stayed there, by the letters, the notes, the envelopes -staring at them as if their words would change. Their intentions would change.

The notes, the letter- It all seemed too much then, as you detailed each date, trying to confirm that he was still waiting, that you had a chance. That you had a choice.

And you heard the door -it was the only thing that shook you out of your state -rereading each one with a sort of hope that only diminished as you continued to think of it. The dates were haunting your head, as you tried to scour if you'd remembered any noise of Lori leaving the estate, or any news of reconciliation for that matter-

But it was of no consequence, as if any such gossip existed your close companions wouldn't have told you so. You were treated as a rather fragile doll, for good reason, but still, the idea of everyone teetering around you so tediously did not feel good.

You'd found Maggie even hesitant to discuss any of the happenings with Mr. Rhee, you always had to prod them out of her. It wasn't that she wasn't wishing to share, more so it was she didn't want to brag -to hurt you. It was a sweet notion, but made you feel as though you were stuck out like a sore thumb -not as involved with your sisters' lives as you once were. It stung the wound you'd already held.

"Y/N, darling," Headmistress started -loud and arrogant, ready to talk your ear off as she always was, "-you will simply not believe what the Henningtons were wearing out! In broad daylight-"

Suddenly, her eyes landed upon you -in a right state, and her mouth opened to speak, eyebrows furrowed in concern. Something in you bit at the concern she showed, as she had most directly been meddling in your life and now, now you weren't even sure you could fix it.

She stood rather frozen in the entryway, detailing the very chaos you'd slipped onto the table -torn paper and messy stacks. Just before she could speak though, her eyes caught on the envelopes -her own handwriting sticking out brightly for her to see. She was caught, and something in you glowered with the knowledge.

"Beth, dear, go to your room."

Beth, who had peeked her head around the door merely stalled upon the paper -a sort of guilt flickering through her blue eyes that almost made you forgive her for sending the letters right there. And despite the orders, she stayed rather still. Expectant.

"Beth-" Headmistress repeated, but you couldn't let her continue -heart vulnerable, thrown out onto the table, you had to know why.

"How long?"

"Y/N, please-" she echoed rather composed but you saw something shrink underneath her skin -pride maybe, "-don't make this matter so public. Let's wait for Beth to-"

"How long?"

Your Headmistress sighed -a deep, disappointed sigh, and motioned to the mess on the table, "I believe you know that."

"Well," you tilted -voice shaky and cracked but still with power, with feeling, "-let's say I wish to hear it from you. How long?"

"I've rather lost count," she responded, pulling herself into a chair -sort of a deep defeated sort of air around her, "-but I believe since the day you went to his estate. And, every few days since."

"Is this-" you echoed, holding the stack close to your chest (you'd put them in your ribs right next to your heart if you could), "-Is this all of them?"

"Yes," she answered, directly, "-unless we are to receive one today. That is the lot of them."

"You believe," you started -a sort of broken sob in between what you could say, "-You believe he's still sending them?"

"Darling," Headmistress spoke -openly and vulnerably, "-I'd very much doubt those are his last effort."

"How could you know that?" you spoke -incredulously, "You've kept me from even responding, how do I not know that the time has passed that you have rui-"

"He was there," Beth suddenly spoke, eager to help -something in you softened at the effort, "-at the, at the shops. He was there."

You stopped, "What...? Did he-"

She cut you off, rushing up to your side -blue eyes sparkling in a way you found rather endearing (realizing this was her way of fixing something you weren't half as bothered by), "All he spoke of was you, asked if you were well. He was worried, I could tell. Followed us around through the markets. When Headmistress wasn't looking, he... he thanked me for-"

"Sending the letters," you finished, smoothing your face into one of ease -you didn't wish her to worry, "-I know. The courier is a bit of a tattle."

Beth smiled, big and bright, with a sort of natural ease wrapping you in her arms -it was a touch awkward, just because of the height difference. But you found you didn't mind. Something in you clicking back into place, fixed.

"Headmistress," you spoke through a few sniffles and a dry throat, "-did you... did you read them?"

She seemed a bit surprised at the question -face flickering between a few movements, "No, I- I didn't wish to. I thought it was best. If I wouldn't let you, why should I? I'd heard from the papers the story and wasn't going to let smooth words offer your heart on a platter. I suppose I... I supposed I made a rather quick assumption."

"Would you?" you asked -open and genuine, "-Would you read them?"

"I suppose, if you wish me to, I wouldn't have a reason not to."

"Thank you," you answered, simply, before your head got a treacherous idea -a terrible one really, but time was not on your side, "-I... Do you think he's still there? At the markets?"

"Frankly, dear," the Headmistress said rather bluntly -gently carding through the paper you'd ever-so-gently handed her, "-I'm surprised he's not at our front door."

"He is," Beth answered, rather quickly -as the two of you turned to match her, "-I go to the library some evenings to... to gather my new read, and I sit at the rather large window. If no book interests me, I often people watch to pass the time, but I-" she regains focus, "-I've seen him. He stays rather long at the market, particularly at a single stall-"

Something clicked in you then, as you whispered (hope sparking up your soul so fervently it nearly burned), "Mr. Elliotts.'"

"The fruit stall?" Headmistress asked -rather judgementally, "-surely not. That man is-"

She stopped, staring at you -dark eyes broke open, vulnerable, and a sort of understanding smoothing over her features -something of guilt tinged her tone, "It's where you met, isn't it?"

"It is," you exhaled, tears biting at your eyes but something of a smile urging across your lips. You felt as if you'd giggle soon enough, you surely must've looked deranged to anyone else, but Headmistress understood.

"Oh, darling," she echoed -somewhat of happy tears choking up her throat as well, "-you're falling in love with him, aren't you?"

"At this point," you laughed, a sort of unbelievable surge of giddiness brushing along your skin, "-I'm nearly finished."

"Oh, this is surely wonderful," Headmistress stood -fanning desperately at her face, impatiently, "-darling, let's go. Up, up! You cannot greet the man looking as you do. Beth, come. She must be stunning-"

"Headmistress, I really-"

"Nonsense, darling," she interrupted you, already tugging your hair loose, "-let Ms. Elisa do her magic, yes?"

It was a strangely quick process, you found. Merely a few moments were spent tying your hair up and away and the most were spent choosing the dress -she'd been persistent on a casual sort of tone. Something light and airy, one you'd happily wear around the residence - "As if you'd never changed at all." Even going as far as pulling a few framing hairs loose and keeping your frustratingly pink cheeks natural.

After it all, you were essentially shoved out the door -hearing the metal drag of the lock behind you.

You'd felt quite odd as if you were floating -stalled in place, as the evening sun settled across your skin. The idea of approaching him wasn't as disconnected as it was mere seconds ago when it had only been a connection through paper -when it hadn't quite been real.

Even standing here, you could see the bustle of people from the markets -women holding new purses, men brandishing new coats, and children playing with new toys. The flow of the crowd was directly from the center of stalls -a wonderous sort of buzz to and fro.

With a deep breath, you started upon the road -legs guiding you as your heart beat ever so loudly in your chest. It was as if you were the only one on the street, all sound drowning out other than the thrum of your pulse -a sort of sense of calm and anxiety rattling against your skull. Your feet were naturally guided, this path was so in tune with you -it was one you'd harbor you could follow in your sleep, it was so familiar.

Feet paddling against the pavement, you made your way to the stalls -it was rather unfamiliar in the evening light, but somehow far more beautiful than it was in the mornings. The beautiful tinge of orange swallows the wood of each stall and the storefronts reflect the tone wondrously -something you could find ever so slightly put you at ease. Slowing your heart, you trailed to the center of the plaza -watching as groups slid past -eyes peered for someone you yearned to finally see again.

Thoughts echoing in your head, loud and brash, what if I'm too late? What if he had lost hope? What if he wasn't here? Did you have the guts to attend to the estate?

Sure, you were invited but at this point in time, you weren't sure you'd be welcomed. The idea was so far from tangible, much like the idea that he'd ever choose you -you could barely grasp it now, but the idea that you may have missed it? Would leave you more desolate than you think could ever be fixed -especially after the letter, and the notes.

Your eyes swung across the square, feet leading you far ahead than where your mind was -searching desperately, hoping.

What if he was gone? you suddenly thought -a flurry of anxious words, hope snuffing out as you roamed closer and closer, What if this was it? Could you even-

And then, you saw him.

Stood just by Mr. Elliotts' stall -a basket of fruit teetering on his arm, as he seemed focused on the man, lost in one of his stories. You'd imagine you'd already heard it and briefly wondered perhaps which ones he knew now. Mr. Grimes looked casual, curls rather messy against his tanned skin -white button-up rolled up at the sleeves and dirt, actual dirt, stained across the expanse of ivory. Gone were the vests, and instead was a brown coat held by the tips of his fingers as it was thrown over his shoulder -expecting the cold of the sun setting. Far more prepared than you had been.

It was then, the world decided, as you stood -rather aimlessly that Mr. Elliotts startlingly saw you.

You hadn't known exactly why he'd looked your way, you couldn't even guess really but he did. A sort of sweep over you, as if in disbelief, perhaps because you looked rather disheveled. On top of the deliberate moves by your Headmistress, you'd brushed upon crowds of people -so focused that you couldn't quite see what was in front of you. You scrubbed at your cheek, insecurely, fully aware that you looked as though you'd been crying.

Mr. Grimes naturally caught the dispersed attention, and you could swear the world slowed as he seemed to follow Mr. Elliotts' attention -blue eyes landing squarely on you. Properly deranged-looking you without a proper coat for the chill of night, dress crumpled, flushed cheeks for far more than one reason. You were sure you looked rather improper, less than graceful, full of a crowd of women who certainly looked much more composed-

And yet, he stalled -eyes flickering over you like he could hardly believe you were real. Eyes lingering along your hands, you realized just then that you still held his letter -in a sort of death grip between your fingers, the paper crinkling ever so slightly at the pressure.

His eyes hovered there, over the letter of which he knew of the exact context -something so vulnerable there. Even as the blue swam over your face noticeably focused on your eyes -your cheeks, where you could see your lack of composure. The crying-

Before you could even blink, he was making strides toward you -intense eyes settling upon you, gentle, concerned.

"Ms. Greene," he exhaled, breathless -it made your heart thrum against your skin, "-I... Is everythin' alright? Do you need anythin' from-"

Your mind was like a low hum, everything spinning around you so harshly -something warm at him being here, right in front of you. It felt like so many different things had built up until now like a wave pushed past you -your mouth opening before you could properly decide what you wished to say-

"I got your letter."

And your voice was surely broken, and cracked and your cheeks scrubbed pink. Your hair was out of place, your dress crumpled -you were anything but composed.

But he looked at you so carefully still like a gust of wind could blow you away and he'd wished to have you stay-

"You did? Daryl-" he started, slowly, "-Mr. Dixon said you had. I suppose I jus' wasn't sure-"

"If I received it?" you finished, rather directly, "-I did, I've... Despite a few setbacks, I've read them all."

"The invitations?" he echoed -his eyes still echoing a deep sort of wonder that you stood before him, it made your head swirl.

"Yes," you answered, "-everything, I've- everything."

It was silent for a moment, a heavy sort of silence that felt as if it was suffocating -swallowing you whole. And something in your brain ticked, a desperate sort of thought of if you had been too late -if your moment had passed, if you didn't say it now would you ever be able to, if he was truly here for you how much longer-

"I-" you echoed, bursting from your soul -spilling past your lips, "-Forgive me for my frankness, but I can hardly think of anything else. Has the time passed? I've read through your notes, your letter, and I hope... I hate to hope, truly. But I hope to not be too late, Mr. Grimes because I-"

He opened his mouth to speak, but you couldn't let him, not when you had so much to say-

"-I believe I've fallen in love with you. Most completely."

You couldn't bare to look at him, squeezing the letter to your chest -fingers finding solace in its texture. You know you should've stopped there, but it only kept coming to you, like everything you had wanted to say was spilling over.

So, your mouth moved before you could rationalize it, "-And I know the situation is rather complicated, as you've written, and that even though your affections may lie with me, you may still choose differently. I understand that it's a rather complex issue that has been brought upon you and I'm certainly not making it any easier-"

"Ms. Greene-"

"-and your notes were far from today, your feelings may have changed somewhere along the way. In that case, there is nothing for me here. So, I wish to ask you-"

"Ms. Greene-"

"-if you wish to answer, I suppose, am I too late? If those sentiments you've written are no longer true, I must know now, despite the devastation it might cause-"

"Y/N, please," he interrupted, improperly but he spoke softly, trying to gain your attention, gain your focus, "-breathe."

You paused, inhaling a deep sort of breath, and trying desperately to stop the urge of the tears behind your eyes, "I'm sorry, Mr. Grimes, I know this is all rather sudden, and I look dreadful -I've been crying all evening, it's been an unbelievable span of days. But I truly just wished you to know-"

"Ms. Greene," he urged, soft and the low timber of his voice -hand extended forward with a handkerchief (white satin and embroidered), "-please, I ask of ya to not speak of yourself 'at way. You look far from dreadful."

"Oh please," you echoed -gently accepting the handkerchief like it was a sort of priceless gem, "-Mr. Grimes, there is no need to flatter me so, I know-"

"Ms. Greene, you are certainly the finest woman I 'ave ever laid my eyes on. Especially now."

"Mr. Grimes..."

"And to clear somethin' up directly," he added, tone soft and careful like maybe you were a sort of priceless gem, "-there was never a 'too late'. Not- Not for you."

"That's preposterous, truly," you retorted, "-I would not believe so. I'm not- You must have had a limit, and there is no shame in that for I deserve it-"

"Ms. Y/N," he whispered, eyes so blue that you'd nearly forgotten how to breathe, "-if you wished me to, I would've waited forever."

"You-" you started, breathless and a bit in disbelief, "-I'm not asking you to wait forever. I'm... I'm here. And you're at the fruit stall, and I guess I thought- I guess I thought maybe you'd chosen me."

"There was no choosing, Ms. Greene, I-" he paused, flitting over you for a second -thoughtful, fond, "-I'm suddenly not very sure I was clear enough."

"You were," you echoed but it seemed a little hollow. Even now, as you stood here. You couldn't believe it, you weren't sure.

"If there was enough doubt in your mind to break your heart as it did," he spoke -tone serious and unflinching, "-then I certainly was not clear enough."

"Mr. Grimes, your letters-" you started, trying to soothe, to fix, to patch, "-they spoke plenty. You don't-"

"I wish to," he responded, pulling your hands up (letter tucked safely into your palm) to press his lips to them -soft and yet pointed, before smirking, a familiar sort of look settled upon his face, "-Think of it as a gift."

You laughed, pushing through the stuffiness of your nose, "Haven't you had enough of that already?"

He grinned, the kind that crinkled at the eyes before faltering, pulling your hands down to envelope them with his own -all calloused fingertips and tan skin, "Your hands are cold."

"It's a rather chilly night, Mr. Grimes."

He rolled his eyes playfully, but the concern stayed firmly where it was, "And your coat?"

"I... I forgot it," you spoke honestly, "-I didn't want to miss you somehow, I- I wasn't thinking."

He merely smiled, a little teasingly, "But ya remembered my letter?"

"I was-" you groaned but bit back a grin -you had missed this dearly, "-I feel as though I can't say anything right here, Mr. Grimes."

He laughed, out loud -something in you was nearly giddy, and without hesitation, shrugged off his brown coat you'd noticed from earlier. Before you could so much as speak a word, he'd draped it over the back of your shoulders -brown fabric a mere sponge for the woodsy fragrance that seemed to trail him around. You found it to be rather comforting, and rather warm.

"That wasn't necessary," you spoke, softly -fondly at the man in front of you. Something in your heart flipped as he seemed to preen with you wearing his coat -proud.

"It was," he argued with no bite.

"Right, and what's supposed to keep you warm then?"

"You," he answered -simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, wrapping his hand around yours again, "-can I walk ya home, Ms. Greene?"

"Hmm," you hummed, pretending to think about it -tapping your chin in mock thought, "-I suppose."

"You suppose?"

"Only because I believe I have a stalker," you spoke, tone anything but serious. And even still, you felt him stiffen slightly as you took his arm.

"No-" he stressed -dramatically.

"Oh, yes," you continued, tightening your fingertips around his arm -just for the comfort of him being real, being there, "-keeps sending me letters by couriers every day, very, very persistent, he is."

Mr. Grimes smiled, a sort of hazy, fond one, before fully turning to you -eyes focused, "If I summon you, will ya come tomorrow?"

"Yes," you responded -unflinchingly, "-I find I'd do rather anything you'd ask of me, Mr. Grimes."

Mr. Grimes stalled for a moment, blue eyes just staring (as he always was), and with the tiniest of movements, he pushed one of your framing hairs back behind your ear. A deep thrum of his attention laid heavily on you, once again, turned you a rather further crimson.

"Good," he merely smiled at the flush (fond), before stepping back -reasserting your hold on his arm and walking towards your home, "-we 'ave a lot to discuss."

[sayafics]

Just For A Moment - Part 4

I was supposed to be working on a new chapter for my TWD series, but I'm not feeling amazing right now, so I decided to channel all my emotions into angst.

I am still quite new at writing, but I do hope you guys enjoy it. I guess this chapter can be considered a filler chapter, but I think it's an important one all the same.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 5

Part 6

Masterlist

Months had passed since Aurora had left Intelligence. Her absence was a void that couldn't be bridged, and it had gotten to the point where Voight had stopped trying.

There wasn't much left of the Intelligence Aurora had known - Antonio had left shortly after her, and the people that remained held a much different dynamic to when she was there.

The most notable difference was seen in Jay.

There was no other way to describe it. He was a shell of the man he had been when Aurora was in his life. The Jay that existed back then was only a hollow echo now.

The team had tried their best to keep him occupied, keep him distracted, but his mind drowned in the thoughts of her.

After Aurora had left, Jay became reclusive, his presence at Molly's became rarer, his smiles scarce, and his laughs had died the moment he found her resignation letter.

If Aurora was still here, the one thing that might have pleased her would have been how much Jay had distanced himself from Hailey. The thought brought a bitter smile on Jay's face, the realisation that if he had let Hailey go sooner, then he would still have Aurora. It was a thought that had been haunting him every moment he was alone with his thoughts. Which was a lot.

Jay would avoid social gatherings, ignore birthday invitations and victory celebrations, he wouldn't speak to his friends and colleagues unless he had to, and even then, he spoke with short words and only gave what was necessary.

Their worries for him grew as the days passed. He was quick to anger and harder to calm. But most of all, he was quiet.

When Aurora had first joined Intelligence, it was as if someone had struck a match in the dark. She was a glowing light everyone found themselves gravitating to, a light Jay gravitated to in a time where he was lost in darkness.

As their friendship blossomed to love, the Intelligence office was always a lively environment, even when the team was working diligently to file their paperwork Kim could hear the quiet giggles and whispers Jay and Aurora would share from their paired desks on the other side of the room.

So, with Aurora's disappearance and Jay's detached behaviour, the office was condemned with silence, a kind so tense and thick that Kim, Kevin, and Adam found themselves trading excuses to get out of the suffocating environment.

Throughout it all, despite his silence and his reluctance, Hailey tried.

Hailey tried to speak with Jay to reconnect with him and comfort him. She couldn't understand what had changed so quickly, and her heart ached at the idea that Jay didn't love her. And it broke at the thought that perhaps Jay didn't even like her and that she was, as he said that night, just a mistake.

Still, she tried.

During the long months of Aurora's absence, Jay had been religiously investigating ways to find her - he had spoken with Voight, with her old colleagues, he even tried to go undercover and see if any of her old aliases were active. But it seemed, where ever Aurora had left to go, it wasn't in Chicago. It wasn't where Jay could find her.

Still, he tried.

There was never a moment where Jay had given up finding Aurora, but his hope of succeeding dwindled as days grew into weeks, which passed into months. Every failure at finding a lead only succeeded in pushing him further off the edge, causing him to drown further in his guilt and wallow in his misery.

That is, until today.

It had taken hours of convincing, begging even. But Adam had gotten Jay to agree to a round of drinks at Molly's to celebrate their success on a recent case. If Jay was being honest, it was the offer of free alcohol that enticed him most - a favourable way to pass time so he wasn't stuck with his own thoughts.

He was in his car, parked by Molly's when he looked out his window into the bar.

And there she was.

She wore a radiant smile as she spoke to friends and old colleagues. She was dressed in her usual attire, her hair flowing freely down her back. She moved animatedly, excited to be back amongst those she now saw as friends. Her eyes, bright and wide, flickered between those who surrounded her. That is, until they stuck on one person. Her head craned up to meet the eyes of the man who stood over her shoulder, Jay couldn't see either of their faces now, but he could imagine the shy smile they exchanged as the man placed a gentle hand on the small of her back.

His breath caught in his throat, an overwhelming sensation akin to falling festered in his chest. He broke out in a cold sweat as his eyes burned at the realisation - she was here.

Jay wanted to do nothing more than launch out his car and embrace her. He wanted to beg for her forgiveness until she gave him another chance. But most of all, he wanted her to look at him with love instead of the emptiness that welled in her eyes on that night.

But he knew he couldn't.

He couldn't face her. The possibility of being rejected, the thought of Aurora being unable to look at him, let alone speak to him, sent a stroke of fear through him.

No, he couldn't deal with that.

Jay's hands found his keys. He turned the engine on and drove.

He didn't know where he was going, but he could feel hot tears sliding down his cheeks as the guilt that flooded his mind began to devour him.

He couldn't find it in himself to be angry at the prospect she had moved on, and he didn't feel worthy enough to justify feeling sad. Her name was scrawled against his heart, but it seemed that he had torn his own name out of her's.

***

Jay hadn't shown up to work the next day.

The team had met Aurora at Molly's yesterday, her presence taking them by surprise as they greeted her with blossoming smiles and pained eyes.

Adam had turned to the door, wondering if Jay had caught sight of the girl yet. One glance towards the window confirmed his suspicions, seeing Jay's car take off quickly. A sight Aurora had noticed too, causing her eyes to dim as her smile faltered. A heavy hand came to rest on her shoulder, squeezing in comfort, and Aurora placed her hand over the man's who stood behind her in a silent thanks.

When Jay hadn't shown up to work, the team had written his absence down to the fact he was either too heartbroken to work, or he drank too much alcohol that he was unable to leave his bed.

Voight had told the team to give Jay his space, having gotten a text from the man to tell him he won't be coming in. And for the most part, they all adhered.

That is, except one person.

Hailey was nothing, if not stubborn.

She had received the cold shoulder from Jay for months now, and knowing that Aurora was back in Chicago was her last straw.

Hailey showed up at Jay's apartment within the hour, knuckles stinging at the force she rapped the door with.

But no answer.

She didn't relent, choosing to call for him now, too. Hoping to cause enough of a disturbance that he felt urged to answer.

"Jay! Open the door! Come on Jay, I'm not leaving until we talk."

She heard the tell-tale sounds of the door being unlocked and lowered her hand, only taking a step back after she saw the state Jay was in. Her face fell as she regarded him in pity.

She had come here hoping to convince him to choose her, to love her.

It was only now, after months of silence and cold rejection, she felt hesitant she may not succeed.

Jay's eyes were bloodshot. He squinted under the artificial light, a five o'clock shadow blooming on his face as his undereyes were dark and heavy. She could smell the booze on him, and a glance behind him showed bottles of alcohol littering the tables and cabinets. He was in the same clothes he wore yesterday, and at the sight of her, his face twisted into a grimace.

He regarded her silently, waiting for her to speak but Hailey found herself stunned to silence.

"What?" His voice sounded scratchy, but she couldn't miss the venom in his voice, as though he blamed her for what happened between them - like he wasn't an active part.

"Gallo's back."

Jay rolled his eyes in annoyance, stepping back to slam the door in Hailey's face. But she threw her hands against the door, hoping to stop him, "wait, stop. Jay, please."

He gave a suppressed sigh before opening the door again.

"You have spent months ignoring me, Jay. You called me a mistake, and you let me leave."

Jay's eyes lit with anger, "you knew. You knew I love her, and you still came to me and pretended to be my friend - all so you could sleep with me. And I'm the idiot that was dumb enough to do so."

"You didn't seem to care that night," there was something akin to hope in her eyes, as her voice slowly rose, "you wanted me, you needed me that night. What's your excuse for that, Jay? Because clearly, whatever you told Gallo wasn't worth her time."

"I don't have one," Jay lowered his head as shame clouded his thoughts, a harsh laugh escaping him, "you know, I tried to tell myself that, maybe, I was too drunk to know what I was doing, but, I don't know. I knew what I was doing, and the truth is, I don't know why I did it. I just know that it was wrong, and if I ever had to re-do it, I would have never let you in that night. Hell, I never would have done any of it - I wouldn't have been your friend. I was the idiot for letting you come close and for ignoring Rory when she said she was uncomfortable. I just wish she'd for-"

"Are you serious? Jay, she left. She left you, I'm still here. I'm the one that's still trying, after all this time. Not her, me."

"I don't care. I don't want you, Hailey. I never did."

Hailey's eyes stung as they filled with tears, a broken whisper echoed in the space between them, "liar."

But Jay's face was resolute. It was the most sure she had seen him in months - "I don't love you, I never claimed to. What happened between us was a mistake, one I can never take back, but I will spend the rest of my life praying I can. She was your friend too, Hailey. She tried her best to be, to make me happy because I told her that's all you are to me. The truth is, you're nothing more than a colleague now."

With one final look, Jay stepped back and closed the door, ready to drown himself in alcohol as he stewed in his miseries.

Hailey stood on the other side of the door, tears streaming down her face as anger wreaked havoc through her heart.

***

When Aurora had left Chicago, she had cut off everyone she knew and went back to the life she had tried to escape. It wasn't easy going back undercover, pushing her own feelings aside and living a facade.

But it was what she knew. It was a skill she was so well acquainted with that she found herself immersed in her new persona with ease.

Assignment after assignment, she joined gangs and cartels, danced in strip clubs and brothels, played the good guy, and then the bad. Her job was easy, go in, gain their trust, get a confession, or lay a trap, and repeat.

Months had passed since she left Jay, since she left Chicago and yet a moment never went by where she didn't think of him. She saw him in everything she did, from drinking a stale cup of coffee to cleaning her gun. She remembered his eyes, the way they would always find their way back to her, recognising her in any crowd and picking her out in every room.

She missed him.

Of course she did, she ached for him and her heart yearned for him.

She had thrown herself into cases when she re-joined the CIA so quickly after leaving Chicago, barely giving herself time to mourn the relationship she had cared so dearly for.

And if she was being honest, it was something she would've been happy to continue doing - ignore her feelings for Jay and the heartache he caused her - if it hadn't been for Voight.

Voight wasn't blind. He could see how Jay was getting worse, could smell the alcohol on his breath when he came to work, the anger in his eyes as they worked on cases, the cold shoulder he gave to everyone. Jay refused to get help, he refused to take a break too.

Voight had already lost his best officer, he couldn't lose his best detective too.

Voight knew that if he forced Jay to take a break from Intelligence, they would likely never get him back.

Jay was always one drink away from packing up and searching the world to find her.

So, Voight found her instead.

And he had an interesting offer.

What do we think? I know this chapter is much more focused on Jay and his feelings rather than giving an actual play-by-play, but I think Jay's difficulties dealing with his emotions is very important to the story and will play a big role in how Aurora reacts to him when they see each other again.

I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!

Who do we think the mystery guy Aurora was with is?👀 Could it be a fireman or doctor we know? Or someone completely new? I know I have someone in mind!

Don't be afraid to comment ideas below <3

[wolfish-nightmares]

Game of Survival

Pairings: The Group x fem!reader

Era: Season 1-11

Warnings: TWD gore and violence. Bad language. 18+

Category: Fluff. Angst.

Word Count:

Summary: With no other choice, you must learn to play this new game of survival. 

Prologue

Season 1: 

1x1 - Days Gone Bye 1x3 - Tell It to the Frogs 1x4 - Vatos 1x5 - Wildfire 1x6 - TS-19

Season 2:

2x1 - What Lies Ahead 2x2 - Bloodletting  2x3 - Save the Last One 2x4 - Cherokee Rose 2x5 - Chupacabra  2x6 - Secrets 2x7 - Pretty Much 2x8 - Nebraska 2x9 - Triggerfinger  2x10 - 18 Miles Out 2x11 - Judge, Jury, Executioner  2x12 - Better Angels 2x13 - Beside the Dying Fire 

Season 3: 

3x1 - Seed 3x2 - Sick 3x3 - Walk With Me 3x4 - Killer Within 3x5 - Say the Word  3x6 - Hounded  3x7 - When the Dead Come Knocking 3x8 - Made to Suffer  3x9 - The Suicide King 3x10 - Home 3x11 - I Ain’t Judas 3x12 - Clear 3x13 - Arrow on the Doorpost 3x14 - Prey 3x15 - This Sorrowful Life 3x16 - Welcome to the Tombs

Season: 4

4x1 - 30 Days Without an Accident 4x2 - Infected 4x3 - Isolation 4x4 - Indifference  4x5 - Internment 4x6 - Live Bait 4x7 - Dead Weight 4x8 - Too Far Gone 4x9 - After 4x10 - Inmates 4x11 - Claimed 4x12 - Still 4x13 - Alone 4x14 - The Grove 4x15 - Us 4x16 - A

Season 5: 

5x1 - No Sanctuary  5x2 - Strangers 5x3 - Four Walls and a Roof 5x4 - Slabtown 5x6 - Self Help 5x7 - Consumed 5x8 - Coda 5x9 - What Happened and What’s Going On 5x10 - Them 5x11 - The Distance  5x12 - Remember  5x13 - Forget 5x14 - Spend 5x15 - Try 5x16 - Conquer 

Season 6: 

6x1 - First Time Again  6x2 - JSS 6x3 - Thank You 6x4 - Here’s Not Here 6x5 - Now 6x6 - Always Accountable  6x7 - Heads Up 6x8 - Start to FInish 6x9 - No Way Out 6x10 - The Next World 6x11 - Knots Untie 6x12 - Not Tomorrow Yet 6x13- The Same Boat 6x14 - Twice As Far 6x15 - East  6x16 - Last Day on Earth 

Season 7: 

7x1 - The Day Will Come When You Won’t Be 7x2 - The Well 7x3 - The Cell 7x4 - Service 7x5 - Go Getter  7x6 - Swear 7x7 - Sing Me a Song 7x8 - Hearts Still Beating 7x9 - Rock in the Road 7x10 - New Best Friends 7x11 - Hostiles and Calamities  7x12 - Say Yes 7x13 - Bury Me Here 7x14 - The Other Side  7x15 - Something They Need 7x16 - The First Day of the Rest of Your Life 

Season 8: 

8x1 - Mercy 8x2 - The Damned  8x3 - Monsters 8x4 - Some Guy  8x5 - The Big Scary U 8x6 - The King, the Widow, and Rick 8x7 - Time for After  8x8 - How It’s Gotta Be 8x9 - Honor 8x10 - The Lost and the Plunderers  8x11 - Dead or Alive Or 8x12 - The Key 8x13 - Do Not Send Us Astray  8x14 - Still Gotta Mean Something 8x15 - Worth  8x16 - Wrath

Season 9: 

9x1 - A New Beginning 9x2 - The Bridge 9x3 - Warning Signs 9x4 - The Obliged 9x5 - What Comes After 9x6 - Who Are You Now? 9x7 - Stradivarius 9x8 - Evolution 9x9 - Adaptation 9x10 - Omega 9x11 - Bounty 9x12 - Guardians 9x13 - Chokepoint 9x14 - Scars 9x15 - The Calm Before 9x16 - The Storm

Season 10: 

10x0 - Holiday Special 10x1 - Lines We Cross 10x2 - We Are the End of the World 10x3 - Ghost 10x4 - Silence the Whisperers 10x5 - What It Always Is 10x6 - Bonds 10x7 - Open Your Eyes 10x8 - The World Before 10x9 - Squeeze 10x10 - Stalker 10x11 - Morning Star 10x12 - Walk with Us 10x13 - What We Become 10x14 - Look at the Flowers 10x15 - The Tower 10x16 - A Certain Doom 10x17 - Home Sweet Home 10x18 - Find Me 10x19 - One More 10x20 - Splinter 10x21 - Diverged 10x22 - Here's Negan

Season 11: 

11x1 - Acheron: Part 1 11x2 - Acheron: Part 2 11x3 - Hunted 11x4 - Rendition 11x5 - Out of the Ashes 11x6 - On the Inside 11x7 - Promises Broken 11x8 - For Blood 11x9 - No Other Way 11x10 - New Haunts 11x11 - Rogue Element 11x12 - The Lucky Ones 11x13 - Warlords 11x14 - The Rotten Core 11x15 - Trust 11x16 - Acts of God 11x17 - Lockdown 11x18 - A New Deal 11x19 - Variant 11x20 - What's Been Lost 11x21 - Outpost 22

[lucy4242564]

damn shawty, we both not okay…

Chapter 1.

Jesus looking down on earth probably: ‘Start the rapture’

So the first two chapters are lacking Daryl and Rick, but~ if you played in of twd games, then maybe some of this story is familiar and we also get some fun faces making their appearance as well.

August 25th 2010 4:33 pm

—

“Rick Grimes. I’m here to see, Richard Grimes.” Lilah demanded immediately as she entered the emergency room.

 

“I’m sorry m’am, only family right now.”

 

“I’m his little sister!” She all but yelled at the nurse. Tears had begun streaming down her face before she repeated the phrase, quieter this time, “I’m his sister.” Lilah was still in shock from the bloody image burned into her mind of the moment she saw the scene she was supposed to be working on. The realization after being briefed on who the officer was that was down— it was gut wrenching and she felt sick.

 

Another nurse began leading her through a few doors, saying words that weren’t registering fully. 

 

By bidding Rick Grimes goodbye that morning, she could’ve been doing it for the last time. Those few meaningful exchanges were going to haunt her forever. She was holding on by a thread when she saw Shane. Her feet carried her down the blinding white corridor into his arms before she started asking questions a mile a minute. Nothing made sense.

 

—

August 25th 2010 8:12 pm

—

“I got Carl, don’t worry about him. Focus on yourself and Rick.” Lilah leaned in and gave the woman a side hug. “Carl is taken care of.”

 

“She’s right,” Shane stood from Rick’s bedside. “We’ll make sure Carl’s good.”

 

Stepping back to give the couple room, regarding the vulnerability of them both, Lilah sighed in a sort of defeat. There was nothing anyone in the room could do for the man laying comatose in the hospital bed, but she’d be damned if she didn’t at least try to support his wife and son when he couldn’t. It’s what family was for.

 

Between her and Shane, they could handle things while Rick was down. It’s what he would’ve done for either of them if the roles were reversed.

 

They were a family.

 

—

August 27th 2010 2:15pm

—

The scene was grotesque. Lilah had seen a lot in her time as a crime scene investigator, gore wasn’t anything new to her; this was on a different level.

 

A global pandemic had been put into effect recently, warning people of a virus going around that had been mysteriously spreading through human bites. They were essentially turning a healthy human being into no more than a cannibal. It was sick. 

 

This was the first true case that she’d experienced and it was so much more than she had expected; not to mention Shane had been one of the two officers involved.

 

—

August 27th 2010 5:42 pm

—

“I think the best decision right now, would be to pull Carl outta school.” Shane stated after explaining his experience from earlier to Lori and Lilah.

 

Lori looked unsure. The news outlets had been reporting an enormous amount of coverage, but their small town was still in denial. According to their own local sheriff, it was all fake news to distract them from something else that hadn’t been released yet. A big part of Lilah wanted to believe that too. “After what happened today; after what I saw with my own eyes… It would be safer to keep Carl home and to avoid leaving the house as much as possible.” Lilah agreed.

 

“What about Rick?” Lori pinched the bridge of her nose. “He’s in that hospital with all those people. What if something happens to him?”

 

“Hey now, that ain’t gonna happen to him.” Shane assured.

 

“Shane and I can take shifts through the day. Make sure he’s alright.” Lilah suggested.

 

—

September 1st 2010 11:12 am

—

 “Hey daddy.”

 

“Hey- hey sweet pea.” Steve Cabot’s voice was breaking on the other end of the phone.

 

The world was falling apart before her eyes and Lilah desperately wanted a hug from her dad more than anything. She wished she could be wrapped in his arms and things would just go away.

 

“How‘s things up there dad?”

 

“We’re getting prepared to evacuate now actually. I tried calling you a couple days ago.”

 

“I know, I know… There’s been a lot going on in the last week.” She trailed off thinking of Rick.

 

“Sweet pea, we can probably get you on a red eye or you could meet us in D.C., it’s where your mom’s work instructed her to go.”

 

She wanted to.

 

For a moment Lilah wished she’d never developed such an attachment to the Grimes family. She desperately wished Rick’s morals hadn’t slowly changed her own. Rick was there for her when she needed him the most, no questions asked. He selflessly and completely brought her back to life. 

 

Lilah owed him.

 

“No, things are okay here. I’m safe. The department here is taking care of us and Rick has things under control.” She lied.

 

“That’s great news honey!”

 

“Yeah, that’s uh, that’s why I wanted to call and check on y’all. Make sure things were good there too.”

 

“Y’all?” Her father teased.

 

Even in a global pandemic he still had room for jokes.

 

“I’ve only been in Georgia for 6 years, it was bound to warp my accent a little.”

 

“Well.. considering you’re safe where you’re at, it was the best decision we made to send you there.”

 

—

September 6th 2010 9:33 pm

—

Everyone was leaving and everything was falling apart. King County had emptied and it was practically a ghost town at this point.

 

The hospital was thankfully still holding up, as well as the police station and a single pharmacy. Everything else had either been shut down, looted, or abandoned. The station wasn’t far from shutting down honestly. There were only a handful of officers left, everyone else had jumped ship. Lilah hadn’t gone through police training whatsoever, but she was quickly becoming an impromptu trainee under Shane. They needed bodies to help.

 

If she wasn’t keeping an eye on Carl so Lori could get some rest, she was at the hospital or with Shane.

 

—

September 9th 2010 3:38 pm

—

Their town was practically obliterated, but for some reason, Shane Walsh was still carrying out his duties as a deputy. Make no mistake, he wanted to leave; just not without Rick. His loyalty to his best friend and family outweighed his desire to run.

 

They were watching the news when it broke that the hospital Rick was at had become completely full. Soon after, one of Shane’s old girlfriends came in with a suspicious looking wound. She claimed her boyfriend had attacked her and ran off; not knowing her father was actually in a holding cell waiting to be interrogated for killing said boyfriend. When they went to pull him into the interrogation room, another inmate in the shared holding cell mortally wounded a fellow officer, causing a huge commotion and nearly costing the girl’s father his life.

 

“Go to the hospital and wait for me, I’ve got Leon as backup.” Shane ordered, his face flustered.

 

“Shane,” Lilah prepared herself to argue.

 

“Lilah, someone needs to be there with Rick. It ain’t safe for him alone.”

 

With a nod, she reluctantly left the station.

 

—

September 9th 2010 4:40pm

—

When Lilah poked her head out the door to see military personnel shooting civilians in the hallways, she knew things were becoming bad beyond her comprehension. She closed the door quietly, pushing a chair in front of it and hiding away in the bathroom.

 

If she was caught, they would kill her.

 

She had come to far in life to just give up living it right then.


—

September 9th 2010 4:54pm

—

Lilah tensed when she heard the hospital room door open and the chair she placed in front of the door scootch away. Her breathing slowed, almost to a complete stop. “Lilah?” She heard her name being called out by a familiar voice. Letting the breath she was holding go, she opened the bathroom door. “We’re gonna get him outta here.” Shane said looking to Rick, who laid in the bed lifelessly. “Ya hear that bud, we’re gonna get you outta here.”

 

Lilah glanced up at the heart monitor, then at his almost empty bag of fluids. She was frozen to the spot while Shane began trying to lift Rick. Noises from every angle surrounded her. Gunshots outside the door, beeping from the machines her best friend was hooked to, helicopters flying outside; all she could do was watch as Shane squatted beside the bed.

 

When she heard the door handle begin turning she darted back towards the bathroom as carefully as she could. Despite all the chaos that surrounded her, Lilah had almost forgot it wasn’t just her and Shane in the hospital. Almost forgot that the undead were currently not their only threat. She watched from the open doorway as Shane’s body stilled. The only thing between him and whoever had opened the door, was a hospital bed that their best friend had been occupying. It wasn’t clear on what was said, but she could hear commotion outside the room before the door was closed.

 

Lilah waited until Shane moved from his position on the floor to let her body relax again. She zoned out, not knowing what to say; not knowing what to do.

 

Shane was talking to both her and Rick. Nothing registered though, in either of them. She saw him hover over Rick’s chest, tears streaming down his face, his mouth moving when his eyes locked with hers.

 

Nothing.

 

“Lilah, are ya hearing me?” He shook her shoulders. “We gotta go.”

 

An explosion echoed outside.

 

“No.”

 

“It ain’t an option Lilah, we’re goin’” His hand grabbed hers in an attempt to tug her forward, but she finally came to and pulled it away.

 

“Shane, I’m not going.”

 

He exhaled sharply. “I don’t wanna leave him either, but it ain’t safe here anymore. He’s gone Lilah. We gotta get Lori and Carl outta here.”

 

“And go where?”

 

“Atlanta, you know that’s where they’re sending people.”

 

“Then you go; take Lori and Carl.” Lilah looked around the room while Shane shook his head profusely. “I’ll stay for a little while longer. I can hunker down, come in and check on Rick-“

 

“The man ain’t got a heartbeat.”

 

“He’s alive Shane. I’m not leaving him. Not until he comes back as one of those things!” She tried hard not to raise her voice or to let the tears that had clouded her eyes fall. 

 

“And whatchu want me to tell Lori huh? What about Carl?”

 

“Tell them I’ll catch up. I’m staying.”

 

Shane ran his hands over his face in exasperation. She was being unreasonable; but he hated the part of him that understood where she was coming from. Someone had to be responsible for Lori and Carl though. “One month, y’here me? One month, then you come to Atlanta. Leave here and get a walkie from the station, you radio me everyday. Leon’s staying behind to keep up with things, if you need anything; and I mean anything, you go to him.”

 

—

September 19th 2010 5:00 pm

—

There was a knock on the hospital door.

 

There was a knock on the hospital door.

 

Lilah had gone 10 days, relatively alone in King County. She’d been lucky to have Mr. Clayton, the man that saved her life from a car crash, to be her only company. He had no plans to leave the only place he’d called home.

 

Other than him though; she’d not encountered another living soul.

 

There was a knock.

 

She pointed her gun at the doorway and waited for it to open. She wouldn’t hesitate.

 

“Don’t be alarmed.” A soft, womanly voice spoke as the door cracked open. “I’m a doctor here and I’ve seen you come in and out everyday this week. I just want to introduce myself.”

 

“Come in slowly, keep your hands up.” Lilah said, still fixing the gun on the doorway,

 

An aged hand crept from behind the door, followed by its owner. A woman, probably in her fifties, dressed in scrubs. She had a gun in her other hand, pointing down. “My name is Dr. Gale Macones.” The lady said.

 

“Lilah Cabot.” She introduced. “I know you’re just trying to protect yourself, but if you’d just place that gun on the ground I’ll do the same.”

 

The doctor nodded before slowly crouching and gently putting her weapon down. Lilah mirrored her movements, trying her best to give an understanding smile. “You’re his family?” Gale asked.

 

Lilah nodded, looking over at the comatose Rick. It had been almost a month since she’d heard his voice.

 

“I’ve got to wait for him to wake up.” She said, eyes still on Rick. “Dead or alive, I have to wait.”

 

“It’s dangerous to be wandering around, especially this close to nightfall.”

 

“His fluids needed to be changed. I’m heading out in just a few.”

 

“Lilah,” Gale tested the waters, taking a step closer. “I know you don’t know me, but I can take care of him when it gets this late. I’m a doctor and it’s my responsibility.”

 

A breathy laugh escaped the blonde girl, “I don’t think responsibilities exist in this world anymore.”

 

“I took an oath. Until he’s dead, I am responsible to take care of him.”

 

“With all due respect doctor, I don’t trust anyone else to take care of him. Even if it was your job.”

 

“It is my job. There are several other patients here in similar situations that don’t have anyone else to look out for them. Besides, I’ve already checked his vitals each and every time you leave to make sure things are done properly.”

 

Lilah looked at her with question filled eyes. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to give the woman respect for sticking to an oath she made in a completely different world or to ask her to leave because she was crazy for doing it.Nevertheless, Lilah could tell with the tone of her voice and gentleness of her hands, that she was just trying to be a good person.



So Lilah gave her a bone and listened.

 

The pair continued to talk about their positions in this new world. Who they were choosing to be and on what terms they’d give up. Lilah respected the doctor. Gale reminded her of Rick in the way she held her moral values. Even when things went to shit, she stood by an oath she took in a much easier world.

 

Even though Lilah was hesitant, she agreed to take shifts with Dr. Macones.

 

In the morning hours, Lilah would check on what patients were left. Run their vitals, give them medicine, and write it all down before leaving. It would give the doctor time to rest.

 

At night, Gale took over so Lilah didn’t have to risk getting in an unlikely situation as the sun set.

 


—

September 29th 2010 12:12pm

—

“Y’re back here early.” Mr. Clayton commented as Lilah came through the front door.

 

“There’s only three patients left. Not much to check, not much to do.” Lilah mumbled.

 

“Lost another one today?”

 

“He was just a kid.”

 

She was getting sick and tired of all the death that surrounded her. Ten days ago she had twelve people to tend to; in her shifts alone she’d lost five of them. Everything was starting to shut down and there wasn’t much running. There was no way they could all survive without machines.

 

It worried her with Rick. He wasn’t on a breathing machine or anything, but there was no way to check his oxygen levels or his heart rate anymore. If something happened, there was only so much Gale could go off of to fix him.

 

“Darlin’.” The older man called.

 

She hadn’t been called that in a long time. It made her wonder about her former lover and how he was fairing through this mess. “Yeah?”

 

“You’re doin’ more for them sick men and woman than people that were sworn to protect them have. Don’t beat yourself up. You’re giving them a chance.”

 

“Am I? Or am I just prolonging the inevitable?”

 

“All of us are gonna die one day. You’re giving them a chance to decide what terms it’ll be on.”


—

October 15th 2010 9:14pm

—

Lilah let herself think about her ex-fiancé for the first time in a long time as she drifted off to sleep.

 

If anyone was going to survive, it’d be him.

 

He was made for this kind of thing. With how rural of a life he lived, she’d be shocked if the undead had wandered that far into the woods yet. She fiddled with the ring that hung off her necklace. If things had been different, maybe she’d be out there with him.

 

If she would’ve just known this was going to happen, she’d have given up everything for him. Civilization failed; her college degree meant nothing. Her job meant nothing.

 

Maybe when Rick woke, they could find their family and go to the mountains. He might still be there. Might.

 

Lilah liked to believe she left things behind on a somewhat positive note. There was nothing but love in her heart for him..mostly. Regret took up some of the space, but only because she’d grown as a person in her time away from him and had things she wished she could apologize for.

 

It wasn’t worth thinking about for too long though. That path always led her to tears.

 

—

October 21st 2010 8:22 am

—

Lilah’s eyes scrunched up when she noticed Mr. Clayton sitting on the front porch of the house they shared. He was hardly ever up when she left to go to the hospital. “You’re up early.” She commented, softly closing the door as she exited the house.

 

“You didn’t hear the gunshots?” He asked, a shocked look on his face.

 

Lilah shook her head. She was a heavy sleeper, but she didn’t think she was that heavy. “When?”

 

“About half an hour ago.”

 

“Damn. I need to get on the move then, go check out the hospital. You should probably get inside.”

 

“I think I’ll walk with ya today,” he stood from his chair. “A gunshot means there’s another human. It’d be safer for the both of us.”

 

She considered his words; it was a valid point. “Yeah- yeah, you���re right.”

 

—

October 21st 2010 9:09 am

—

“I miss being young like you. You make this walk every morning; I’d of thrown the towel in my second day.” Mr. Clayton laughed as they rounded another block.

 

“No you wouldn’t have, not when you had someone that expected you home.”

 

Lilah came to a sudden halt when she noticed a strange commotion a short distance ahead. A group of the undead were fixated on something in front of them; someone in front of them. It was a boy, about Carl’s age.

 

Without a second to think, Lilah darted in his direction, gun at the ready. It was a decent sized group, definitely more than she’d consider taking on if the circumstances were different. She couldn’t just ignore that kid though.

 

“Duane!” She heard a voice call.

 

Lilah took her focus off the walking dead, searching for another face. Nobody.

 

When her eyes landed back on the boy she was nearing in on, she didn’t have a choice but to shoot and make herself known. A grimy hand reached out for the kid as a shot rang out. It wasn’t hers though; it came from behind her. She turned around to see one of the savages falling to the ground, a few steps to her rear. Mr. Clayton had saved her life while she was busy trying to save another’s.

 

Quickly facing the group in front of her, she let her gun roll. “Kid, get down!” She yelled out. The last thing she wanted was for him to get in the way.

 

More bullets flew from a different direction. A man, that Lilah safely assumed by his skin color, was the kids dad, came from an adjacent house. The undead dropped and the firing stopped.

 

Things were silent for a moment.

 

“Duane, baby!” A woman’s voice, the one Lilah heard from earlier, called out again.

 

The kid, Duane, popped up from his squatting position and ran to the woman. His mom probably.

 

Lilah jumped when a hand grabbed her shoulder. “Told ya I heard gunshots.” Mr. Clayton commented.

 

—

October 21st 2010 9:26 am

—

The deep-toned man eyeballed the pair in front of him, taking short steps forward.

 

“Your kid alright?” Lilah asked, not in the position for introductions.

 

“He is, thanks to you.” The man stated.

 

“Scared me a little bit. Thought he was out here alone; didn’t think I’d be adopting kids so early into the apocalypse.” She tried lightening the mood.

 

“My names Morgan.” He introduced, a soft smile danced on his face.

 

“Lilah.” She smiled back.

 

“Dennis.” The older man said from behind her.

 

—

October 21st 2010 10:02 am

—

Lilah was running late for her shift at the hospital. She hated that Gale was probably wondering where she was, especially with all the gunshots. After meeting the Jones’ though, she didn’t mind being late because of them.

 

They were traveling to Atlanta and had stopped in King County over night. Duane got himself turned around when he went around the block to pee, so Morgan and his wife Jenny had spent the early morning looking for him.

 

Luckily Lilah found him first, saving his life just in time for his parents to find him. It gave Lilah a sense of peace knowing they were the ones that had fired off the shot Mr. Clayton had heard a few hours earlier. She could breathe for the rest of the day without worrying about her only friend being ambushed.

 

“Why haven’t you two left for Atlanta yet?” Jenny asked, walking alongside Lilah.

 

“I’m helping out a doctor at the hospital. There’s still a patient alive there and until he’s well enough to leave, I plan on sticking around.” She explained.

 

“You’re a doctor?” Morgan joined the conversation.

 

“Nah, just helping out. I worked at the sheriff’s department before all this. My friend is the patient, and I can’t leave him behind.”

 

“No man left behind.” Morgan stated. “That’s noble of you.”

 

The discussion died down as the group approached the hospital. Lilah bid the Jones’ goodbye, wishing them a safe trip. “And if you run into a guy named Shane Walsh or a little boy name Carl. Y’all let them know me and Rick are doing just fine.”

 

—

October 21st 2010 12:43 pm

—

The sound of gunshots filled the air and Lilah’s stomach fell into her butt. She looked down at Rick, then to the window, then back at Rick. “Alright Richard,” Lilah leaned down a bit. “I’m heading out. I need to go check on Mr. Clayton.” She kissed his forehead. “Ya know, the worlds gone to hell but I still got morals.”

 

Lilah left the hospital without checking in with Gale, she had more important things on her mind. She pulled out her gun and began jogging down the street.

 

—

October 21st 2010 1:29 pm

—

“Duane!” She called out to the little boy she’d met earlier. He stood behind Mr. Clayton and Lilah could see Morgan rearing back with a bat.

 

“Lilah!” He caught eyes with her and rushed towards her.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“All those gunshots must’ve attracted’em. The bastards are taking over the outer parts of the town.” Mr. Clayton explained, walking up.

 

Lilah wanted to be shocked, but it wasn’t a surprise. They needed to lay low for a while and let them roam away from their area. It had happened once before, a big herd wandered into town; took them 4 days to leave. She could see a handful of the undead in the distance, just as Morgan finished off one a few feet away. “Come on. My house is further in town, we can stay there til things calm down.” Lilah said.

 

“We really need to get to Atlanta.” Morgan started.

 

“Honey, we can go there when it’s safe.” His wife argued.

 

The man nodded, an unsure look on his face.

 

—

October 21st 2010 1:48 pm

—

“I got some guns and ammo stocked up in here. If you don’t mind helping me out, we can bring them back to Rick’s place. I’m sure Shane wiped that safe out.” Mr. Clayton said, entering his home.

 

The home Lilah had become accustomed to in the previous month. 

 

She nodded happily. Morgan offered a hand as well, ordering Jenny to stay outside on watch with Duane.

 

“I can’t thank y’all enough for helping us.” He said, grabbing a backpack and filling it with ammo.

 

“Just because the worlds falling apart doesn’t mean humanity needs to.” Lilah gave him a smile. “If you get the opportunity to help someone, don’t forget when we helped you.”

 

“You got a lot of kindness in your heart Miss Lilah.”

 

“Hey, maybe that kindness will come back as karma for me one day.”

 

A blood-curdling scream echoed outside before the door of the house flung open. “Daddy!” Duane yelled.

 

The boy didn’t even get the words out by the time his father passed right by him, flying out the door. Lilah zipped up the bag Morgan had previously been filling and grabbed Duane’s hand. She asked the boy as quietly as possible to put it on, to which he obliged. Mr. Clayton tossed her a shotgun, then began slowly pushing her towards the door.

 

When she saw the yard ridden with the undead, she couldn’t hold in a gasp. They needed to go.

 

She heard gunshot ring through the air and a quick thought crossed her mind.

 

“Hey, that crossbow on the wall— you got any arrows?”

—

October 21st 2010 2:21 pm

—

The group ran ahead of her, heading to the inner part of town. Mr. Clayton was reluctant on leaving her behind, but she insisted. If they were going to continue to battle those monsters, they needed to do it quietly. Arrows were quiet. She couldn’t shoot a bow to save her life, much less a crossbow; Morgan might though. It could become a useful tool and it was never too late for her to learn.

 

Lilah slipped her hand under the bed, searching for a case that should be holding some bolts. Mr. Clayton had said he hadn’t used them in years due to a shoulder surgery, but unless his late wife had moved them, that’s where they’d be.

 

Nothing was there though.

 

Her heart beat quickened when she realized this all might have been for nothing. She could hear the groans outside the house— there was no way she wasn’t surrounded. Lilah stayed low and began crawling to the front door. Until she was able to assess her surroundings, she needed to double check the locks and make sure every curtain was drawn.

 

—

October 21st 2010 4:01 pm

—

Lilah padded around the house after triple securing everything. If she was quiet, she could stay here until the morning. In the meantime, searching for those arrows was going to be her new job. There was no way she had just risked her life for nothing.

 

—

October 21st 2010 8:55 pm

—

Darkness consumed the house and Lilah Cabot was afraid.

 

She feared what was outside of the walls. The walking dead wandering through a town she loved. A place she called home for several years. Lilah couldn’t help but think she might just not be destined to have a real home.

 

New Jersey was perfect for the greater part of her life, but she wanted more. North Georgia became her own personal form of Paris. King County felt like forever, it’s where she changed and matured into who she was.

 

All three had been her home at one point.

 

All three had left her grasp.

 

—

October 22nd 2010 11:33 am

—

Lilah peered through a crack in the blinds. If there hadn’t been decaying bodies on the ground, she wouldn’t have known there was anything different that morning.

 

Not a single freak in sight.

 

She zipped her book bag up, grabbed the tube that contained exactly eight arrows, and tossed the crossbow on her back. It didn’t take her long to realize that that situation wasn’t going to work. She severely underestimated how heavy it would be. So back to square one she went. This time she stuffed the tube in her backpack, zipping it closed as far as she could with both zippers. The arrows poked out the top, but she needed both hands to support the strap on the crossbow. It might slow her down, but she’d be damned if she walked out that house without the weapon she stayed behind for.

 

—

October 22nd 2010 1:47 pm

—

Lilah decided to do her round at the hospital, then she’d catch up to the group. She hoped they were okay, especially Mr. Clayton.

 

She knew she was later than normal— but it wasn’t the first time she’d been late because of undead predicaments. Today was no different. Lilah took longer routes and paid closer attention to her surroundings. Not to mention the extra luggage she was carrying.

 

As she walked into the hospital though, something was off.

 

The door she typically entered through was blocked, something she had chocked up to be a precaution due to the influx of freaks in town. When she noticed the rolling bed that was routinely placed in front of Rick’s room, moved across the hallway, Lilah quickly but quietly dropped the crossbow to the ground and pulled out her pistol.

 

That bed, was always there. It only moved if the room was occupied.

 

The closer Lilah got, the more things she noticed.

 

His door had remained opened. Another step. Cards that had been on the table by the door were scattered out the door. Another step. Rick Grimes was missing.

[myocsfanfictions]

The Road Ahead of Us - TWD (Season 2)

The Walking Dead Fanfiction

MASTERLIST

They had left Atlanta behind, trying to reach Fort Benning; but during an apocalypse nothing ever goes at it is planned. Sarah and Nicolette will have to face new challenges and dangers. How will they survive?

<< Previous - Next >>

Chapter 27

NICOLETTE

They didn't need that, not so soon.

The plan was perfect; Randall would have survived. Why would he risk everything right now? If they found him, they would kill him. Shane would do it without blinking an eye; he seemed eager to get rid of the guy, and now no one would oppose him.

"It's getting late," Sarah said, folding her hands as she paced the dimly lit room. The sun had disappeared, leaving the sky a deep, unsettling darkness. The familiar view had turned gloomy and creepy, haunted by memories of what had happened just the night before.

"I'm sure they'll be back soon," Patricia reassured her, moving closer and rubbing Sarah's arm in a comforting gesture.

"Maybe we should go find them," Carl suggested, his brow furrowed with concern. But Lori shook her head firmly.

"No, we're not moving," she insisted, pointing towards the stairs. "Go to Maggie's room."

"Mom, they might need our help!" Carl protested, desperation creeping into his voice. But Lori was resolute, her eyes steely.

"Go, Carl! Now!" she exclaimed, her tone leaving no room for argument. Nicki watched as Carl's lip tightened, a mix of frustration and fear flashing across his face before he trudged upstairs, the weight of uncertainty heavy on his shoulders.

Outside, the night deepened, the air thick with tension, as the house fell silent, each creak and whisper amplifying their growing dread.

"It's dark," Sarah said nervously, her voice trembling. "Daryl never follows traces in the dark; he said that!" Nicki stood up, glancing at Andrea, who moved closer to her sister, trying to convince her that they were safe. But deep down, everyone felt the tension. Nicki looked up the stairs again, took a deep breath, and made her way up. She glanced around the dim hallway before heading toward Maggie's room. When she opened the door, she found Carl by the window, poised to climb out.

"You're nothing if not predictable," Nicki said, closing the door quietly behind her.

Carl scoffed, glancing back at her. "What? Are you gonna tell my mom?"

Nicki crossed her arms defiantly. "That her son is playing Spider-Man to sneak out of the window? I'm sure she'd love that." She tilted her head, a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

"What do you want?" he asked, exhaling sharply.

Nicki shrugged. "Preventing you from breaking your neck seems like a good start."

Carl shook his head, determination etched on his face. "I have to help my dad," he insisted. Nicki studied him closely; he had always been the kind of person who wanted to help the group, but there was something different about him tonight.

"What if he'd rather have you here?" she asked, watching his reaction. He seemed more nervous, jumpy, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

"If I'm here and he dies," Carl said finally, his voice heavy with emotion, "I would never forgive myself."

Even Rick would never forgive himself if his son died trying to save him.

Nicki moved closer to Carl. "And what's the plan?" she asked. "Throw rocks at Randall?"

"I don't know yet," Carl replied, his gaze dropping to the floor.

"That doesn't sound like a good plan," she said, frowning as she kept her eyes on him.

"You don't get it," he said, shaking his head. "I have to."

She observed him silently for a moment, his eyes cast down, hidden beneath the brim of his hat, as if he didn't want her to see his pain.

"Why?" Nicki finally asked. Carl took a deep breath, his shoulders tense.

"I can't... let this happen again," he muttered, and Nicki frowned, struggling to grasp what he meant.

"What?" she pressed.

Carl sat down on Maggie's bed with a deep sigh, his frustration evident.

"Dale," he admitted at last, looking up at her. His lips quivered slightly. "It's my fault that Dale died."

How could it be his fault? A walker had killed Dale.

"Yesterday I went outside," he continued, his voice shaky. "I took Daryl's gun and found a walker. I was going to shoot it; it was stuck. But... it got free, and I... ran away." He inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself. "It was the walker that killed Dale." Nicki looked down, absorbing the weight of his words.

"It was my fault," he repeated, anguish flooding his voice. "Because I didn't do anything. I could have ended it there, but I didn't, and now Dale is dead..." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "I won't let this happen again. I want to know that I did everything I could."

Nicki felt a familiar ache in her chest. Whatever they did—or didn't do—would affect the group. She had reminded herself of that over and over since that day on the highway. Every single day. She could understand what he felt.

"Come on," she said, gesturing for him to follow her toward the door.

"What?" He looked up at her, confusion etched on his face.

"Let's be smarter," she replied, glancing into the corridor to ensure no one was watching.

"Where are we going?" he asked as he followed her, curiosity mingling with concern as they made their way toward Hershel's room.

"Out," she said, closing the door behind him. Then she moved to the window, opening it carefully. "But from a place where we won't kill ourselves." From this window, the roof was less steep, and if they were lucky, being on the opposite side of the house from the entrance might mean no one would notice them.

"We?" he asked, disbelief flickering in his eyes.

"Yeah," Nicki answered simply, determination in her voice. "Come on."

Carl stared at her, wide-eyed, and she frowned, sensing his hesitation.

"What's with that face?" she challenged, pointing toward the window. "Get your ass out."

Carl was quick to climb out of the window, making little noise as his feet hit the roof. Nicki glanced at the door before handing Carl her bow. He took it from her hands, then she climbed out the window herself. Once her feet touched the roof, Nicki turned to close the window softly.

"Alright," she said, and the two of them started to run across the roof.

"We could climb down using the porch," Carl suggested, peering over the edge. "I'll go first." Nicki nodded in agreement.

"Give me your hand," she said, reaching out to him.

"I can do it myself," he replied, ready to turn away, but she grabbed him by the hood of his shirt, stopping him in his tracks.

"I meant it when I said I'm not gonna let you break your neck," Nicki insisted. "Now man up and give me that hand."

Carl scoffed but eventually took her hand, allowing her to help him navigate down the roof. When he seemed secure enough against the wood of the porch, she let go. He managed to climb down, and once he was safely on the ground, Nicki slung her bow around her shoulders and began to descend as well. She could see a faint light flickering from inside the house. Sarah would freak out if she figured out they were gone, but maybe they would find Rick before that.

"Alright," she whispered once she was on the ground. "Let's go."

They ran toward the woods, where Rick and the others had disappeared. Surrounded by the trees, the darkness enveloped them; not even the moon helped them see where they needed to go.

"Why are you helping me?" Carl asked, keeping pace beside her.

Nicki took a breath, taking her time to answer. "I understand," she said finally, "what you were talking about..."

"Sophia?" he asked, and she nodded.

"She ran out of my sight," she admitted, her voice heavy with regret. "I didn't run after her, and she died." That moment haunted her every day since it happened, especially after learning that Sophia had turned.

"You were right when you said I'm blaming myself," she continued, her words pouring out. "I can't stop thinking about it."

"Me too," Carl muttered. Nicki glanced over at him, seeing the weight of his sorrow reflected in his eyes.

"I don't think it's your fault what happened to Dale," she said as they walked through the woods. "But it's not a good place to be... the guilt." She took a nervous breath. "It doesn't matter how many people tell me it's not my fault what happened to Sophia. I just don't believe them."

"I know what you mean," Carl replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "Both Dad and Shane said it wasn't me, but... I feel like that." He looked up to meet her gaze, and she could see that the burden of guilt weighed heavily on him, just as it did on her. It wasn't the fault itself that tormented them, but the uncertainty of what could have been if they had acted differently. Maybe nothing would have changed, or maybe everything would have. Those thoughts screamed in her mind, chaotic and relentless.

She groaned, "I hate feeling confused."

That made Carl chuckle softly. "You're a control maniac, that's why," he teased. Nicki shot him a smirk.

"And you're a constant pain in the ass," she fired back, but it only made him laugh more.

"Thank you for helping me," Carl said after a moment, sincerity in his voice. "I appreciate it." Nicki felt her lips turn up into a smile before she nudged his arm playfully.

"Don't be that nice," she said, feigning annoyance. "It creeps me out." Carl chuckled again, and for a moment, the weight of their burdens felt a little lighter.

Suddenly, a gunshot echoed across the field. Nicki brought her right hand to grab an arrow while Carl pulled out his gun.

"Did they find a walker?" Carl asked, his voice tight with tension.

"Or Randall..." she replied, glancing around. "Where did it come from?"

"The fields," Carl said, starting to run. Nicki cursed under her breath before following him. They dashed out of the woods toward the fields where Dale had lost his life. The only thing she could focus on was the silence. Why had there been only a single gunshot? If Randall had attacked, why weren't the others shooting? And if he had ambushed them, they were four people—why fire just once? A walker? Could it be possible? They had checked the perimeter that morning for any gaps in the fence.

"Nicki, do you see that?" Carl called out. In the distance, there was a figure pacing back and forth. As they got closer, they noticed someone else lying on the ground.

Only two people. But the one standing didn't look like a walker.

"That's my dad," Carl said, his voice urgent as they ran.

Nicki squinted to see better; it was indeed Rick. But why was he alone? And who was on the ground?

Nicki stopped when they were just a few meters away from Rick, who was now kneeling next to the figure. As she got closer, she realized it was Shane. Nicolette's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Dad?" Carl exclaimed, his body tense as he looked at the man on the ground. What had happened? Was Shane wounded? Was he dead?

Rick turned to them, his eyes wide with fear and sorrow. He slowly stood up and moved toward them, calling his son's name. But a movement caught Nicki's attention. It was Shane; his hand twitched. That unsettling movement made her frown. It was strange, but what happened next froze the blood in her veins. Shane was slowly getting up, growling. He was no longer Shane; he had turned into a walker.

Nicolette's body went rigid. Shane was dead. Just like Sophia. He had transformed into one of those things. She knew it—he was no longer Shane, and he was dangerous—but for some reason, her body wouldn't move.

Carl aimed his gun at Shane, tears streaming down his face. He was crying, but he still held steady.

"Just... put the gun down," Rick urged, his voice trembling with emotion.

"Rick," Nicki found herself whispering, fear creeping into her chest.

"It's not what it seems, please," Rick pleaded. Nicki frowned at his words, but before she could react, Carl pulled the trigger, hitting Shane squarely in the forehead. Shane immediately went limp, collapsing to the ground. Carl was breathing heavily, and Nicki noticed tears in his eyes as he ran to hug his father. Meanwhile, she moved toward Shane. Why hadn't she taken her arrow? He was no longer Shane; she knew that. But it was still Shane's face, his body...

Why had she hesitated?

Poor bastard, she thought. He must have been bitten while they were outside. But where was the walker? And where were Glenn and Daryl?

"Nicki, come here," Rick's voice broke through her thoughts, prompting her to turn one last time to Shane before walking toward Rick and Carl, who had gotten closer. Rick passed her by, his gaze lingering on the body of his best friend, lying motionless on the ground. Nicki moved to Carl, who looked shell-shocked, his eyes wide with disbelief. Tears streamed down his cheeks. This was the first walker he had put down, and it was someone who had cared for him. It must have been incredibly shocking.

"I'm sorry, Shorty," she muttered, placing a hand on Carl's shoulder.

************************************************************************

If you liked it, please leave a ♥️ and reblog!

[my-mt-heart]

Hi MT, it seems the past year will haunt us forever. I really hoped we could finally move on from the fiasco but a certain someone is always trying to dig a deeper hole for himself and all the old feelings are coming forward again. Especially with the title.

What I'm always asking myself, what is the former cast thinking? I know it's business but some people came forward after shit went down and posted about sweet Melissa and how they appreciated working with her. So, they knew what presumably happened.

Now I'm curious if they register what happens right now in interviews, promotion etc, if they follow it at all. Only hard-core fans and people associated to TWD will know what bs is being told in interviews.

Remember JDM and his post in June? He was the first (and only) famous cast member who wrote about it. Trashing fans and ultimately damaging Melissa's reputation further. (Even after his tweet last year about taking a break and making people believe Melissa fans threatened his best friends family.)

Other cast members didn't get involved anymore. It all went quite. No one came forward. Do you think only the two are allowed to speak publicly and all the other had to sign NDAs. Because it seems those two can say whatever they want.

And now that you can promote shows again, why does someone not hype the second season with 8 million!!!!!!!!!!! follower with the most anticipated cast mate? Excuse me, co lead? Obviously others are allowed to share selfies, as seen today?

The not hyping is bothering me as much as the trash talk.

I don't know about the other cast members. I don't know what they know or what they don't know. As for JDM and Norman, AMC awarded them a level of privilege that's now gotten really out of hand. If a woman or poc said what JDM said last April, they would've been fired immediately. Not only was it unprofessional, but it also could've led to lawsuits since "a break" is not the narrative AMC and Melissa's team legally agreed to. Same goes for Norman's comments about "getting rid of" Angela. As a "boss," he should know better. But what has AMC done about any of it? Clearly not much, since those two still go around saying and doing whatever they want no matter how many people they hurt. I don't think they have any idea who Caryl's fans are, how many challenges a lot of them face in their own lives similar to Daryl's and Carol's. It makes the constant gaslighting even more disgusting.

I think we're all aware Melissa isn't big on promotion herself, which I respect. Like I said before, Norman could easily build hype with new Caryl/McReedus photos or supporting Melissa/Carol/Caryl in interviews, but the way he's currently going about it (Melissa was always involved, Melissa knew about France the whole time) isn't in good faith.

[paintyoureyeswithavividmind]

close to home | chapter forty three

close to home | chapter forty three

plot: the reader is brought to her new life at the Sanctuary, and makes a friend that saves her life

series masterlist

Pairing: Eventual Daryl Dixon x f!reader Word Count: 2,232 Warnings: violence, blood, typical twd A/N: thank you for reading!!!

Darkness consumed you once again for many, many hours. You didn’t move from the spot on the floor, curled up in a ball. Your tears, which once were a never-ending wave, finally dried. You were given food thrice a day, so you assumed it had been two days from the six meals you'd eaten. Negan visited one, but you turned your back to him on the floor and refused to talk or move.

You were in and out of consciousness as you fell out of shock, and there were times when your mind hurt so severely you wished for it again. 

Glenn’s face was all you could picture throughout the day, and Maggie’s screams haunted you. The guilt you felt about Glenn’s death was consuming. You didn’t know Negan would do that; you just wanted to save Daryl. And it came at the cost of Glenn. 

When the door opened, you flinched. You were expecting Negan again, but this time it was someone else. It was a woman. She was carrying a tray of food and sat down on the floor across from you, sliding the tray over. 

The food was similar to what you refused to eat earlier. 

“I’m Sherry,” The woman said. “It’s nice to meet you, (Y/N).”

You glanced at the woman and sat up. “What do you want?”

Sherry glanced outside at the door, at the man on guard. Then she looked back at you and nodded toward the food. “Negan sent me to talk to you. He’s taken a liking to you.”

“Yeah, well, he can go to hell,” You said. 

A ghost of a smile appeared on Sherry’s face before she blinked away the expression. “You need to submit to him. It’s only going to make things worse.”

“Submit?” You said, “What am I, a dog?”

Sherry looked down and slowly shook her head. “No. You’re smart. This favor with him will expire if you don’t use it to your advantage. Come on, I’m going to take you to our room. You can shower and meet everyone.”

You looked at her as if she was crazy, but you could see through the look on her face. She was unhappy. And she was trying to help you. So you took her outstretched hand and stood. 

“She’s not hungry right now. I’ll make sure she eats later,” Sherry told the guard, and he nodded to her. What kind of influence did she have over the men?

You followed Sherry quietly down the hallway, after hallway, up many flights of stairs. The area was still a maze to you, and you knew trying to figure it out was pointless. So you focused on the back of Sherry’s head as you walked. 

Finally, you reached a long corridor with a few rooms, and she led you to the last one. It opened into a sitting room with a few couches and a minibar in the back and was beautifully decorated. It was much nicer than anything you’d seen at the Sanctuary. 

A few women were sitting around the room, all in matching black dresses and heels. They all stared at you as you entered, and you felt out of place. You were grimy and dirty, and you knew the exhaustion and depression were evident on your face. They all looked beautiful. They looked clean. 

“This is Amber, Frankie, and Tanya. There are more of us, but they are probably eating dinner downstairs.” Sherry said to you. 

“I don’t understand,” You said. 

Sherry looked at you, “Follow me." 

You did as she asked and was led out of the room and up the hallway. “Mine is across the hall; this one will be yours,” She explained, pushing open a door and leading you into a room. 

It was small, and it reminded you of a studio apartment. There was a bed, a mini kitchenette, a sage green recliner chair, and a television set. There were even windows that let you look out around the compound. It was the first time that you got a look at the area. 

“What is this?” You asked. 

“This is what could be yours if you submit. If you say that you’re Negan.” Sherry shut the door behind you and sat down on the bed. “He wants you to be one of us.”

“One of what?” You asked, wiping your hand along the counter. There was a toaster oven, a deep sink, and a full-sized refrigerator. 

“One of his wives.”

Your hand stilled, and you turned back to look at her. “His wives?”

“There’s a group of us. The girls you just met, and a few more you’ll meet later. Negan took a liking to you. He likes your attitude and the way you talk to him.”

“You can’t be serious.” You shook your head. “I would rather die.”

“And Daryl?” Sherry asked, “What about him? Are you prepared to let him die? He’s here.”

“What?” Your fingers twitched.

“Negan took him. I overheard him talking to Dwight about wanting Daryl to work for him. He knows you care for him, that he cares for you. That will be a weapon.”

You leaned against the counter and crossed your arms. “He’ll kill Daryl if I don’t marry him?”

A ghosted look crossed Sherry’s features. “It might not be that. But it’ll be something. All of us… we all needed something we couldn’t get, so we married him.” 

Your fingers twitched, and you felt tears burning your eyes. “If I say yes, how will I know he won’t hurt him?”

“Negan’s a man of his word,” Sherry said. “I know it doesn’t seem like it. But he is. (Y/N), I want to help you. I know what you’re going through. When he comes to you tonight and asks you who you are, just say you’re Negan. You’ll be treated good by him.”

Your stomach flipped, and you felt bile rise. You rushed to the garbage and emptied the contents of your stomach. Sherry was by your side instantly, pulling back your hair and rubbing your back. 

“I know, I know.” She whispered to you. “Dwight was my husband before and after. But I had to marry Negan to save him. I live with it. So can you. If he loses interest, he won’t kill you. You’ll be a worker, working for points and barely making it. Just say yes, (Y/N).” 

You were crying as you knelt back, wiping your mouth with your hand. “What are they doing to Daryl?”

“Whatever it takes to break him. Marrying Negan will be the only way you might be able to help him. I'm sorry, (Y/N).”

***

Sherry took you to the bathrooms and waited for you to wash up. She gave you one of her dresses and a matching pair of heels and then helped you get ready to see Negan. You felt sick. You felt like throwing up again and again, but you could only focus on Daryl. 

Of course, you were going to do whatever you needed to do to keep him safe. You would be Negan’s wife if it meant Daryl would live. That was what you could do for him. You knew Daryl wouldn't break. You knew he would rather die standing than submit. So you had to do what little you could to protect him. If he were to die, if you lost him... you'd never recover.  

You were sitting in the wives' room with the others, partially listening as they spoke. They didn’t talk about anything substance, and they all had a drink except Sherry. You knew Negan would be here any minute, and you were anxious. 

When the door opened, he walked in, and all the girls dropped to their knees. You looked at them for a few seconds before slowly doing the same. 

“Ladies,” Negan said, and they all moved to stand up. 

You did the same and glanced at Sherry. She gave you a nod of encouragement. 

“Oh my goodness,” Negan exclaimed as he walked around to the couch toward you. “Did you do all this for me? You shouldn’t have, baby,” Negan said. 

You stayed silent and slowly raised your head, meeting his gaze. Negan stared at you with that smile that made your skin crawl, and you brought your shaking hands together in front of you. 

“Who are you?” 

Your mouth was dry, and you felt dizzy. “I’m-I’m… I’m Negan.” You said, closing your eyes for a moment. The words were ash in your mouth, and you wanted to take them back, but not at the cost of Daryl’s life. 

Negan looked at Sherry for a moment and then turned back to you. “Well, I guess I gotta ask the only other question that matters. Will you be my wife, baby?”

“Yes.”

Your lips trembled as he approached you, and you prepared yourself mentally for the kiss he was heading towards. But at the last second, he changed direction and kissed your cheek. “Welcome to the family, baby,” 

When the doors shut behind him and he was gone, your knees went weak, and you fell back onto the chair, sobbing. Sherry came over to you and wrapped her arm around you. “You did good, (Y/N), you did good. It’ll get better.” 

***

The following day was the first time that you saw Daryl. You’d been pacing your room repeatedly, heels clicking and hurting, when you heard a commotion outside. You had run to your window to see and saw him. 

It looked like he had almost escaped but was caught. And your eyes filled with tears when you saw Negan approach him with the bat. Your hands shook against the glass, and you wanted to scream at him. 

But Negan didn’t kill him. And you knew Sherry was right. 

When Negan left, and the group of saviors advanced, you couldn’t stand watching them beat Daryl. You had to look away for a few minutes and then watched them drag his body back inside to a part of the compound you knew you couldn’t reach. 

***

Later that day, Sherry gave you a tour of the Sanctuary. You knew the floor you were on after walking back and forth, all the rooms belonged to the wives, and Negan was on this floor as well, but you didn’t know where. 

But she showed you other areas. You learned where Negan’s men were mainly housed, but it was spread out, and there were rooms in between that she didn’t show you. 

Sherry took you to the bottom level, where you saw just how many people lived and worked in the building. She showed you the trading post and walked with you around the floor. 

“If you see something you want, just go up to the table and take it. You don’t wait in line,” Sherry told you. 

“What?”

She looked around the room and spotted a table where one of the baker’s tables was. The line wasn’t long, and most workers couldn’t afford the points needed to buy them. But the saviors made the baker do it anyway. 

“Come on,” Sherry said. 

You followed her to the table, hesitantly waiting behind her as she grabbed an entire pie from the table. Without saying anything, she turned to you. “We take what we want when we want.”

You didn’t respond as you followed her to what looked like a cafeteria. There was a mix match of tables, with a few people eating. Sherry made you sit and wait and then came back with two forks. 

“You’re one of Negan’s wives now,” Sherry told you. “We have full access to anything we want. If you want it, you need to take it. We’re untouchable.”

You watched as she started eating, and when your stomach growled, you copied her actions. It wasn’t the best pie you’d ever had, but it was better than anything you’ve eaten since the end of the world. 

“Why do you do it?” You asked, “You see how these people live.”

“Because we can.”

“And what do we do in return? Besides dressing like this.”

Sherry’s eyes glazed over, and she forced herself to eat another piece. “You’re expected to do what wives do.”

You nodded slowly. “I’m going to have to fuck him.”

“He’ll give you an adjustment period. But eventually… we all have to.” Sherry said sadly. 

You shook your head and forced yourself to eat a few more bites. Between the two of you, nearly half of it was eaten in a few minutes. 

Someone sat at the table across from you, and you and Sherry jumped. You could tell from the look on her face that this wasn’t usually for her. “Jake, what do you want?” She asked him. 

The man--Jake--ignored her and stared right at you. “My brother was in that outpost you gunned down.” He said. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat and straightened your back, not allowing him to frighten you. “That sucks,” You said. 

Jake chuckled and shook his head momentarily before standing up and walking away. 

Sherry grabbed your arm and looked at you. “You need to be careful. You’re untouchable now, but that doesn’t mean people won’t try. And stay away from Jake. He’s not someone you wanna be around.”