Preview: A Midsummer Love | Hhj

Preview: A Midsummer Love | hhj

Anthony could not do this to you. You would not allow him to do this to you. To marry that detestable man would be the most unthinkable fate—

Just then, you were promptly winded by a force of collision to your chest, solid enough to have you reeling from your feet. Strong arms caught and steadied you, and you soon realised that the fault was all your own— in your distress you had rushed with haste into the broad back of a man you’d never before seen, but that now held you near to him and looked upon you with soft hazel eyes and a grim expression of bewilderment. Light blonde, shoulder-length hair framed his features that, in the ballroom light, seemed almost feminine in their soft curvature, yet the tell of masculinity held in his strong jaw and sharp nose.

“M— My apologies,” you quickly offered, straightening yourself and stepping from him; he released you easily.

“The apology should be mine,” he said in a most pleasingly smooth voice. He bowed courteously. “Curse my foolish body for getting in your way, my lady.”

You laughed lightly, somewhat relieved. “Indeed. Curse my eyes for not seeing your foolish body.”

The man grinned, his perfect white teeth on show. Breathtaking.

“I do not believe I know you, sir,” you said. “You are from the city?”

“Ah. Well, yes. I am not long returned to the ton. My business demands I spend much of the year overseas.”

“And you are back for the social season?”

He cast his eyes over you, a wry smile forming on his plush lips. “At the request of my aunt, yes.”

About to throw yet another question at the man whose name you had yet to even discover (for that was simply how enthralling he was), your endeavour was disturbed by the boom of your brother’s voice.

“Hwang!” He approached quickly and took the man you were hitherto addressing in an embrace that was spiritedly returned. “I had not heard you were back!”

“Then you pay as little attention to the gossipmongers of this city than I, old friend,” he laughed.

“Business allows you the break?” Anthony asked.

“Business flows as busily as ever, Bridgerton.”

“I see. We have the esteemed Lady Danbury to thank, then?”

“My aunt can be...” He flicked a gaze to you. “Persuasive.”

On your congenial smile and the acknowledgement of your presence, Anthony finally turned to you.

“I see you have met my sister,” he said, tone markedly flat.

“Your sister?”

Anthony nodded. The man blinked, his smile disappearing.

“Sister, allow me to introduce you. This is the Duke of Hastings and a personal friend of mine. Hwang Hyunjin.”

A duke. Goodness. Though he himself seemed none taken with the formality, grimacing at the exchange.

“It is wonderful to meet you, your grace,” you said, looking determinedly into those sweet eyes.

“The pleasure is entirely mine, my lady.”

coming tomorrow as my next offering for the skz x romance tropes collab w @yoongihan !

MAROONED.pdf

➠ office_crush!Han x reader

➠ wc: 3.7k

➠ summary: your workplace becomes target to an unfortunate hostage situation. fortunately the assaliants don't seem violent, however unfortunately, you get shoved into a trunk with your office crush.

➠ warnings: smut, fingering, overstimulation, piv, mentions of a hostage situation, bondage

➠ masterlist

➠ a/n: had this for a while haha

“mmmff!!” 

you tried to at least sound assertive, but it was a bit hard with duct tape sealing your lips shut. however, that didn’t stop you from spewing muffled curses at the man who was currently dragging you to his car. you couldn’t do much but flail your zip-tie bound hands and growl unknown obscenities through your closed mouth, but somehow it seemed to have kept your assailant nervous. or maybe he was just like that from the start. 

“i-i’m sorry ma’am,” the masked person stuttered quietly. 

poor kid, you thought. he couldn’t have been older than 19 and it didn’t seem like he wanted to even be here, “w-watch your head…” the kid’s hand gently pushed your head down to try and shove you into the trunk of a small black sedan, but you resisted, easily shoving out of his grasp. you gave the assailant an incredulous look and his shoulders visibly slumped. suddenly, the kid’s eyes widened from under his mask and before you could even tilt your head in question, you felt large hands snatch your body, nearly folding you in half to shove into the trunk. you didn’t have any time to even react before another body was forced into the trunk with you. 

“you can’t do one simple thing, idiot?” you heard a new voice from outside the trunk. you couldn’t see who it was who threw you into the car, but you did hear a loud slap from where the two criminals stood, “get in the damn car and meet me at the location. and you better not fuck up again, hear me?”

the trunk was cramped, various tools and suspiciously full duffel bags crammed into your back and not to mention the body of another unfortunate hostage that was just shoved in blocking your view of your kidnappers. you writhed a bit, trying to shimmy over the person, but to no avail when the hood of the trunk was slammed shut leaving you in pitch darkness. 

you rolled your eyes and slumped back. there was a small sliver of light that peeked through the thin opening of the trunk, but the dim light was enough to finally realize who you were taken with. han jisung. to be trapped with anyone and it just so happened to be your work crush. the two of you had a little back and forth thing going on, one of you saying something mildly flirty and the other might respond with the same energy, but neither of you doubled down. it always ended how it started except for the fact that you both left with bright red blushes burning onto your cheeks. pretty juvenile for a pair of grown adults, many would say, but he was the reason you’d be excited to actually go to work. hell, today you even “unintentionally” brought that candy he had mentioned once, but it also just had to happen that your workplace becomes the target of a now hostage situation.

you glanced over at him and he was already looking at you. neither of you had much fear or anxiety written on your faces, despite the situation, but there weren’t any signs of a weapon on the robbers and they didn’t seem the type to kill anyone. you were just hostages. clearly, it was quiet between the two of you with the duct tape over your lips, but the sound of the engine starting had immediately alerted the two of you. you let out a loud sigh through the tape as you felt the car start to move. 

the both of you endured the drive. it seemed to be a getaway chase by the way the car was recklessly steering, throwing your bodies around with every bump and turn. one bump and you flipped onto your other side. another turn and you heard a loud thump followed by a groan, Han must have hit his head. a third and fourth and the two of you are flying every which way inside the crowded trunk space. the fifth time came around and you felt the car halt to a harsh stop. the momentum sent your body flying forward, groaning as you slammed against the wall of the trunk. not only you were affected of course, but Han’s body followed suit, his front being smashed into your back. it seemed that after the car had slammed on the brakes, the police had finally caught up. blaring sirens were heard from outside the vehicle and the loudspeaker from the cop car spoke, 

“PULL YOUR VEHICLE OVER IMMEDIATELY. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST,” you let out a breath of relief, but the second you did you realized how close Han was as you were able to feel his breath as well, pressed up tightly behind you. you couldn’t move away either, “STEP OUT OF THE VEHICLE WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR.”

moments passed and you vaguely heard the commotions of the arrest being made. though, you couldn’t focus on much that was going on outside due to your mind racing. how could you focus when you felt Han’s toned chest rising shallowly up and down against your back. the warmth from his body radiating through that thin button up shirt he always wore that may be a size too small. you always noticed that. if you were a normal person you could tell him that he might have outgrown his shirt when he started working out, his pecs giving the buttons that kept his shirt together a run for their money. but you never said a thing, drooling over the way the seams would fight for their life every time he would stretch at his desk. he was so close. your bare legs brushed against his slacks and your imagination ran wild. you tried to shuffle in your restraints, there was a dampness to your panties that you realized made you quite uncomfortable and awkward, especially with the man causing it right behind you. unfortunately for you, instead of successfully concealing anything, your pencil skirt began to scrunch up at the waist. right. it comes back to you, the fact that you chose to wear your shortest office skirt today to impress Han now biting you in the ass. you curse to yourself as your choice in outfit now backfires on you, and you were certain, with how close he was pressed up against you, that you were now staining his formerly clean trousers with your shameful arousal. at least you were lucky he couldn’t see the intense blush making your face grow redder than a tomato. for a moment, you had forgotten that your mouth was taped shut as you attempted to offer a quick ‘sorry’ for your tragic situation, but all that came out was a muffle. a muffle that sounded too close to a moan. and to think you didn’t think it could get worse. here you are, struggling against his frontside, dripping wet, and moaning with no way of explaining yourself. to say you were embarrassed couldn’t begin to describe how you felt. maybe you could use this whole hostage situation as an excuse to quit and move far, far away because there was no way you could face him ever again after this. speaking of the hostage situation, it had been way too long for the police to be making this arrest. was there more than just that one teen that was driving? you swear you heard several cops too… what could possibly be taking so long? snapping out of your moment, you tried to listen for anything outside the vehicle. nothing. had they not realized that you two were in the trunk? you listened in again. dead silence. just the sounds of cars driving by. 

‘theres no way,’ you thought, ‘did they seriously leave us here..?’

you tried to turn around, but as you moved it was Han’s turn to let out a loud groan. your eyes widened, worried that you might have unintentionally hurt him, you instinctively shuffled again to check up on him to no avail. however, this time you moved, he let out more of a whine. following that, his head dropped into the crevice of your neck and you could feel the beads of sweat that decorated his forehead. it soaked into your hair. you could smell him now. you could feel his heavy breaths through his nose on your skin. the whine, the groan as well, they weren’t noises in response to pain. you felt it now that he’s shuffling in discomfort. you felt him, rock hard, hidden behind the fabric of his pants. he was just as affected as you. yet again, forgetting you couldn’t move, you squirmed again, this time your back arching a little more to test the waters. your hypothesis had been right as his head that was buried in your neck now craned backwards, hips lightly meeting yours as he let out another muffled groan. 

maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that the cops had forgotten about you. 

spurred on by your hornyness and newfound confidence, you started to grind against him. his head that he threw back now shot back into where it was tucked into the place where your neck and shoulder met, and if his lips weren’t taped, you might have felt his soft lips press against your skin. his warm breath tickled your skin as you continued to move against his body, his hips now mirroring your actions. as you both desperately grinded against each other, you felt and heard his breaths grow more erratic. you could tell he wanted more the way his hips began to thrust at your backside as if he was in you. and how badly you wanted him to be. as time went on, he only grew more greedy and impatient with the way he humped against you. there was a dull thump every time his hips met yours causing you to let out an almost too dramatic whine. you weren’t quite sure what happened, but in that moment you heard a snap from behind you. somehow Han had managed to break the zip-ties that held his hands together and you knew that the way his hands immediately flew to your hips. next came the sound of him ripping the tape from his mouth. it almost sounded painful, but you didn’t have much time to dwell on that fact as you heard his deep voice purr against your ear, 

“you… dirty little thing,” his hands squeezed the flesh of your hips as he pressed his crotch sharply against your butt, “we were taken hostage and you still have it in you to tease me like a slut?” the lange hands that help you started scrunching up the material of your skirt even further, practically making it a belt as it rested around you waist, “look at you… should have known when you came to work in this tiny little thing,” and you were happy that he noticed, “if we hadn’t been taken, maybe i would have had my way with you in the storage closed. god knows how long i’ve wanted to.” he sucks in a breath against the shell of your ear, “sucks that this is how it finally happens, but i’m not complaining. gotta admit it's awfully cute seeing you all tied up like this. was thinking about being a gentleman and helping you out of these, but i think i really like seeing you struggle,” he murmurs, playing with the zip-ties on you. 

his hands wrap around your torso to hold you close, and for a moment, he pauses, “gotta know if you really want this though…,” you couldn’t see him, but you could hear the sincerity in his words, “if you want to keep going nod, but if you want me to stop kick me… or something. we can pretend this never happened if that's the case.”

you barely gave him the time to finish speaking and you were frantically nodding your head, whining desperately at the same time. he chuckled, “i figured. just had to ask, but with how wet you are,” he reaches down to feel your soaking panties, he groans, “i could have easily assumed. felt it through my pants ya know?”

you let out an embarrassed whine, squirming a little in his hold, “aw, don’t be shy. do you not feel how hard you make me? heh, i got pretty embarrassed too. couldn’t help it though… the way your cute little butt felt against me, i was losing my mind. i always lose my mind around you if i’m being honest…" Han didn’t give you much time to process what he just said as his slender fingers peeled the fabric of your panties to the side and plunged two digits into your sopping hole. you moaned out loudly through your nose. you arched against him as han continued to pump his fingers in and out of you, and you could feel the dull ache due to your hands being tied, but the pleasure from han’s fingers made you forget any other sensation. 

“you like that?” he practically moaned into your ear. his hips moved in synchronization with his fingers, every time his rock hard bulge pressed into you, he shoved his fingers deep into you. maybe he was possibly more desperate than you based on the way it seemed he was nearly cumming in his pants just by fingering you. because he was the only one not restrained by tape over his mouth, his throaty whines were loud and clear. and of course he was reaching places deeper in your hole that you have never discovered before, you should have known from all the times you have stared at his long fingers at work, imagining them inside you the way they are now. juices gushed down not just his fingers, but his hand as he sped up his ministrations. the warm, musky smell of it now suffocating the both of you.

“god i want to taste you so bad. eat out all of that cream you’re soaking my hand with,” you moan in response, “always wondered how good you taste. i’ll save it for next time. maybe in the breakroom? eat you instead of that gnarly cafeteria food?”

the thin layer of moisture that coated your skin was not forming little beads of sweat as it began to drip down you. your body jerked against him and he could tell you were getting close. his fingers curled and you let out an impossibly high pitched sound. 

“almost there baby?” he urged. he was now slightly propped up on his elbow as he dug somehow deeper into you. you could see his shoulder flex as he pumped brutally into you. your head craned back into his chest as more sounds released from you, “yeah? yeah? c’mon little thing, wanna see you drench me.” that was about all it took, his filthy yet delicious words, and you jolted. you came almost silently, you couldn’t even warn him as you pulsed around his hand. he held you body tightly to him as you jerked through your orgasm, “mmm there it is… yeah. fuck- god y-you’re so tight…” you sucked in a gasp as he worked you through your release, his fingers now overstimulating you and there was no way of telling him to slow down. you whine, as a way of telling him it was becoming too much, but he didn’t relent.

“is to too much baby? mmh one more please? we got time,” han coaxed in your ear, “one more and i’ll fuck you. please, please baby? wanna feel that little pussy clench one more time around my fingers.”

it wasn’t as if you had much of a choice anyways, but the way his words cooed into your ear and his undeniable skill, you weren’t really complaining much. you melted into him, trying your best to let him have his way with you. you couldn’t help the little jolts from overstimulation every now and then, but han was too blind with lust to even acknowledge it. he simply held you tight and continued to fuck you with his fingers. the way he moaned into your hair was as if he could feel what you were feeling himself. 

“f-fuck… c’mon baby, give it to me before i cream my pants… mmm please…” he was begging you now. his voice drenched in lust and desperation. if you weren’t close already, the way he twisted his hand and pressed against your mound added just the right amount of pressure to clit, to make you see white once again. 

“yes… oh yes baby give it to me,” he let out. your combined breath was shaky as he retracted his hand to lick his fingers clean. once again he moaned loudly as if he just orgasmed just by tasting you, “just as delicious as i imagined,” he chuckled, pulling you close to him and turning you over on your side to face him, “i’ll try not to be greedy and ask for another one.” he smiles at you, his little heart shaped grin melting your heart. to emphasize his statement, he gives you a little tease by pinching your clit, making you jump. your eyes squeeze shut, “heh… sorry, you’re just… so cute.” the last words coming out breathy, “god i just have to-”

with that he begins to peel off the tape covering your lips. it should have been more painful, but it could matter less with the way you were yearning for his mouth. it seemed as if he felt the same way with the way your lips smashed together after not even a moment to breathe. han’s tongue shoved into your throat as he devoured you, hands idly crawling up your body to hold you jaw, large thumbs resting on your cheeks as he maneuvered your head to match his kisses. you wanted to mirror him but you were still restrained behind your back. han looked down at where your hands were struggling and pulled away from the kiss. 

“oh.. heh,” he chuckled, “i uhm… don’t have scissors or anything. guess you gotta stay like that it seems.” 

“oh for sure, han,” you spoke your first words to him since being trapped in this car, “is that how you got out of yours too?” you questioned, incredulously. 

“guess he didn’t tie me well,” he grinned, clearly lying between his teeth. 

there was no response. instead, han pulled you back into him as he lifted your leg to wrap over his waist. all you could do was watch and lick your lips as he unzipped his fly. you wanted to be the one to free his hard cock, finally feel it for yourself, but yet again you were reminded about the stupid zip-ties holding you back. perhaps you’ll get him back for this someday. 

barely pulling his pants down, han finally pulled his cock out. his hands pulled your face again and once more continued to make out with you. your tongues fought hard against each other inside your warm mouths, and without warning you felt han line himself up with your hole. you felt him start to slowly inch in as he pressed his lips on you harder, as if to try to distract you. it felt as if he was never ending as he slowly slid in, already hitting your limit when you look down to see he’s only halfway in. he scoffs, “you can fit the rest in right?” han teases. you both knew you were going to. it was how long he would give you to adjust. you knew he was an impatient man though, so it was no surprise when he pushed the remainder of him a little too quickly. you felt filled to the brim, moaning out a stifled, slightly pained sound.

“alright baby? sorry… i couldn’t wait… had to be inside you,” his stilled, letting you adjust as his hands petting the back of your head as if to sooth you. his lips found your neck and began to bite and suck in the meanwhile, “you’ve been so good to me, baby. take your time, lemme know when you’re ready, yeah?” 

after only a few moments you felt ready. or at least that was what you convinced yourself, growing too impatient as well, the need for him growing too strong. 

“please move,” you sighed into the top of his head as he buried himself into creating dark hickeys across your neck. he smiled at you again. you could never get enough of his little grin. such a sweet smile he had, you couldn’t imagine it was worn by the same man who now started to pound your brains out in the back of a musty sedan after a botched hostage situation. 

han was all over you, his hands and lips roaming all over your body as he fucked you, and you would have reciprocated if you could, but you simple took it, everything he poured out to you through his actions. at this point you were drenched in each other’s sweat, the heat from the tiny space now catching up with you, but you could care less. you couldn’t care less in the same way you began to hear sounds right outside the car in the back of your mind. neither of you paid much attention to it, simply too caught up in each other to hear the loud clank and jolt of the car. han’s moans blocked out all the sounds from the outside world as his hips non-stop thrusted against you. you could deal with whatever was happening outside after you both came. 

“close, han” you mewled

“me too… come with me?” it was almost too easy for you to let go, already far gone from han’s prep barely an hour ago. the two of you hit your highs simultaneously. but in that moment, you felt the vehicle you were in tip upwards. right as han’s load shot into you, the both of you began to slide all the way to the back of the trunk. you landed on him, bodies smushed against each other from the momentum, but at least you both managed to come before it happened. it took you a moment, but you both regained your breathing and returned to normal. you looked at each other, your pupils dilated as you stared into him. 

“did they just…” he blinked, “tow the car with us in it?”

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

🌊 ೃ‧₊◜ sea may rise, sky may fall chapter IV

pairing: lee know x f!reader x han jisung

summary: things between minho and jisung are slowly starting to come to a head as minho makes a bad call. a really bad call.

word count: 6.9k

warnings: violence and swearing!! fighting with fists and guns and big old knives; death (of bad guys only!); jisung is faced with his abuser, so warning for mentions of sexual assault (nothing too graphic, only one little flashback)

author's note: this was one of my favourite chapters and one of the hardest things I've ever written. as someone who comes from just smut and one-shots, building such an intricate action scene was sooo fucking hard. so please go easy on me, we all start somewhere. anyways, do we think things between minho and jisung will finally reach a boiling point soon?

this series is 🔞, so minors, please DNI

series masterlist // skzms masterlist

< chapter III - chapter V (coming: friday, april 5, 3pm CET) >

It’s two weeks later and Jisung is elbow deep in lavender scented laundry suds, giggling about a story Hyunjin is telling him about a time when Seungmin got drunk and tried to climb up to the top, singing a love song at the top of his lungs, trying to get to Jeongin, who was panicking and trying to get down before Seungmin could hurt himself, when he hears it. The distant, but not-distant-enough sound of a cannon. Hyunjin’s smile falls, his head shoots up, and they look at each for a moment. Then another cannon shot rips through the silence, and they shoot to their feet.

By the time they reach the main deck, there’s already mayhem – Jeongin flies down the sails, Seungmin yells something from the quarterdeck, whips the wheel around so fast it sends Hyunjin and Jisung stumbling into each other. Jisung gets shoved to the side as the captain barges out of her quarters, snatches the binoculars out of Jeongin’s hands and flies to the forecastle, Jeongin and Minho on her heels.

“She’s small, no more than 20 on board. Looks like a government ship. We can try outrunning her, but she’s fast and heading straight for us,” Jeongin rattles off.

The words government ship ring through Jisung’s brain louder than any cannon.

Minho turns around and stares straight at him as if he heard it, too.

“They’re aiming for our gun,” the captain mumbles, eyes trained on the ship on the horizon. Her shoulders are pulled taut and her eyes are cold, colder even when she turns around and announces. “We’ll fight them. Everyone, positions. Take no prisoners, it’s time to send a message.”

And as if they were just waiting for those words, the mad scramble on deck gets madder. Hyunjin disappears from his side and Jisung just stands there, blind and dumb, before he gets jostled to the side again, this time by Chan who tells him to stand by, as him, Changbin and two other pirates start lugging up cannonballs from the hold of the ship and load them into the cannons.

Before he can panic any more, Hyunjin is back, his hands full of weapons.

“Okay, I don’t know your preference, but I brought you a number of things. You look like you’d be a good shot, but just in case, I’ve also brought a cutlass …”

Jisung is just about to reach out, to comment that he can hold his own with any of the weapons Hyunjin is holding out to him, when he’s so suddenly and so violently yanked back that he chokes out a yelp. The first cannon shot from their ship rips through the air as Jisung’s hands scrabble at his collar, trying to pull it a little looser, fighting for his breath, but whoever’s dragging him is too strong, pulling him backwards so fast all he can do is try to stay upright. When he finally manages to twist around, he is met with Lee Minho’s side profile, and his confusion evaporates into scalding anger.

Fucking Minho. Lee Minho, the one person on this ship that has steadfastly refused any and all of Jisung’s attempts to become closer. And it’s not like Jisung needs to be friends with everyone on the ship, it’s just that Minho seems to be; despite his abrasive personality, Minho seems to be getting along with absolutely everyone. And what’s worse is that Minho didn’t just reject his advances, no, Minho left him to flounder, blinking at him emptily or just walking away. It was humiliating, and Jisung hates feeling humiliated.

“Hey, what the fuck!” he yells, choking when Minho drags at his collar even harder.

“Clearly your uncle has sent someone to fetch you,” Minho spits out, and Jisung is just about to scoff and tell him that’s very unlikely, when Minho hauls him upright and slams him against the main mast so hard, Jisung’s skull knocks against the wood.

“Fucking OW, you asshole!” Jisung spits, the world spinning in front of his eyes just long enough for Minho to reach behind him, and before he knows it, there’s a rope tightly wrapped around Jisung’s upper body, his arms trapped by his sides. Panic surges through his veins, and he struggles, struggles with all his might, but try as he might, he can’t stop Minho, who winds the rope around him and the mast once, twice, then again and again, before he pulls a tight knot and steps back, grinning a joyless, self-satisfied grin that makes Jisung’s blood boil.

“What the fuck?!” he hisses breathlessly, and Minho’s eyes narrow.

“Who’s to say you didn’t plan this, hm?” Minho growls, scarily calm, and Jisung’s heart drops. “Who says you didn’t plan for us to capture you, to worm your way into our crew, to learn all about us –“

“What?! No!” Jisung stutters out, desperately. He meets Hyunjin’s eyes over Minho’s shoulder and … his friend, who he was gossiping with just ten minutes ago, is now staring at him, eyes wide, doubt shadowing his entire face. A cannon ball hits the water just short of the ship, but it rings hollow.

“I’m not letting you run back to them and sell us out,” Minho yells, his voice so cold it makes Jisung’s skin crawl, his chest constrict with senseless despair. Some men stop, watch, just look on as he is berated for something he has never even thought of doing. So much for the people on this ship being ‘family’. He blinks away the angry tears rising to his eyes, chases the thought and all the pain it brings away, and focuses instead on the boiling pit of rage deep in his belly. He stokes it, feeds it, until there’s bile in his throat.

“What part of ‘my uncle wants me dead’ did you not understand?!” he yells, his voice a colour of rancour and bitterness that he’s never heard from himself before. It makes Hyunjin’s eyebrows furrow in worry, and Jisung tries not to cling onto it.“Could’ve just been a part

of your scheme,” Minho just shrugs, turns, walks away and Jisung nearly screams in frustration. He can feel all their eyes on him, humiliation boiling in his guts.

“I told you I’m not a good liar,” he yells after Minho, catching Hyunjin’s curious gaze and then, finally, turning to the captain, who’s standing on the forecastle, her pretty face a stony, unreadable mask. Chan fires the cannon again, but she doesn’t even flinch. There’s a distant sound of wood splintering.

“Captain, please,” Jisung pleads. God, he sounds pathetic. “Do you think I’ve been lying to you?”

But the captain gives nothing away, watches Jisung’s heart bleed out on the deck of the ship, and just blinks. And when another cannon shot rings over the water, she briefly turns around in the direction of the coming ship, before she gives Jisung a pained smile.

“I’m sorry, Jisung,” she says calmly, and Jisung thinks he can hear a tinge of regret, of uncertainty in her voice. He wishes it wasn’t there.

“But keeping my crew safe is the most important thing. We can’t take any chances. And we’ll keep you safe.”

And then she gestures for everyone to keep preparing and that’s it; Hyunjin gives Jisung one more sad, puzzled look and then follows the motion that breaks out everywhere, hurrying back downstairs to grab more weapons. Chan and Changbin are firing faster now, more frequently, and Hyunjin soon returns with weapons and hands them out. Jeongin is hanging in the sails, his eyes trained on the coming ship, yelling instructions about their approach to Seungmin at the helm, about the number and armaments of their crew to the captain on the forecastle. Jisung is apart from all this, can feel the rope cut into the skin of his hip where his shirt has rucked up, feel his heart thumping in his chest.

As Jisung watches Chan and Changbin load, fire and reload the cannons, he suddenly realises with a shudder that his position against the mast is facing the incoming ship head-on. It’s the side they will board from, the side they will be shooting at – and suddenly, he wonders if Minho is trying to get him killed.

The captain had said they’d keep him safe. She had promised … but maybe Jisung was being naïve again, and it didn’t matter what a pirate promised. His uncle had always said so, said to never trust them because they only worked for their own gain, their own riches. The captain had seemed different, but maybe it was all Jisung’s wishful thinking, his stupidly desperate need for a way out. And then again, he had never trusted Minho. He’d wanted to, had tried so damn hard, only for Minho to shove it back in his face, humiliate him for even trying. Maybe Jisung should’ve taken the hint.When the

cause of all Jisung’s rage suddenly walks past him, Jisung strains against his ties and yells his name. Minho barely stops enough to look at him.

“I’m going to get killed,” Jisung hisses, motioning to the approaching ship with his chin, “I’m going to be right here when they arrive, and I’m going to get fucking killed. You’re going to get me killed.”

Minho stops at that, and walks closer, his eyes as menacing as ever, but Jisung has had enough. He decides right then and there that he will never cower before Lee Minho ever again.

Minho stops so close in front of him, that Jisung has to strain his neck to look up at him. He knows Minho’s doing it on purpose, and the scowl on Jisung’s face deepens, his lips pulling back into a snarl.

Then Minho leans closer, one hand supporting himself on the mast of the ship as he dips down into Jisung’s space so nonchalantly it makes Jisung want to punch him. His body feels like it’s burning up when Minho’s breath fans over his face.

“I won’t let that happen, princess,” Minho purrs with a mean snarl, and the nickname makes something in Jisung’s ribcage crack open. His rage returns with full force, burning deep in his guts in a way he has never felt before.

“I’ll fucking show you ‘princess’, asshole,” he spits and Minho just sizes him up for a second, an infuriating smirk on his face, before he pushes himself away from the mast and Jisung and walks away without another word.

And all Jisung can do is watch, watch him go to the captain who stares at the oncoming ship, eyes flicking to Minho restlessly as he places a calming hand on her shoulder; watch as Chan and Changbin throw him wayward glances every time they pass him to load the cannon, watch everyone on the ship run around, watch Hyunjin handing out weapons to everyone but him because he has been forced to watch and potentially die by the hands of the men he hates the most. Jisung feels thin, sour bile rise in his throat as he watches the enemy ship come closer and closer until it’s finally within boarding distance.

And when it is, the first thing Jisung sees is the face of the man he hoped he would never have to see again. His stomach churns and it’s like the whole world fades for a second, the unbidden memory of the crash of the locks on his door giving way, of the pig’s ugly grimace in the light of the oil lamp next to Jisung’s bed, Jisung’s own panicked breaths ringing through his ears, of thick, dirty fingers wrapped around Jisung’s wrists and then shoved down his pants before Jisung could finally grab hold of the knife underneath his pillow and bury it in the man’s thigh, the rage in his voice when he promised he’d be back ….

The plank hits the wood of the ship and the men, none except the one Jisung knows from ‘his’ ill-fated crew, but all clearly his uncle’s cronies, are ruthless and unhesitating in their assault. One charges at Chan, who can barely get his knife out of its holster before the man’s fist comes flying at his head. Another one heads for the captain, raises his gun to aim at her head, but is interrupted by Minho, cold-blooded murder in his eyes as he rams his knife into the man’s guts and walks him back and overboard.

There’s movement in the corner of Jisung’s eye, and he tries to whip around, but the ropes are cutting just high enough that he can’t, and then he feels a fist collide with his nose. Thankfully, there isn’t a crunch but searing pain and the taste of blood explode on his tongue and he reels back. He tries to blink the world back into focus because his opponent is getting closer and closer and his ears are ringing and his vision swims, but by a lucky break, he manages to land a solid kick to the guy’s groin. The man falters, doubles over, before raising his knife with a grimace of rage and approaching Jisung again, but he gets intercepted by a blur of raven hair.

“Oh no, you don’t” Minho’s voice crackles through the air and then there’s a sickening crunch as Minho’s breaks the man’s arm. Hyunjin is right behind him, whizzing past him and dealing with Jisung’s attacker as Minho approaches Jisung, the eyes that were so full of boiling resentment earlier scanning all over him now with a cold kind of care. Even his demeanour is softer when he approaches and wipes the blood trickling from Jisung’s nose away with his thumb. The touch makes rage and electricity spark all over Jisung’s skin and Jisung jerks away, though he doesn’t know whether it’s the stab of pain or the Minho’s touch he tries to get away from. Minho pulls his hand back as if he’s been burned, blinking at Jisung and throwing a glance towards where the captain is fighting, before he takes a step back.

“Told you I would watch out for you,” he simply says and turns around, bounding away and up the forecastle to cuts off another man approaching his captain. Jisung watches him, how methodically he attacks the man, how he takes him down efficiently and quickly, his eyes on his attackers’ hands and always, always on the captain, and he briefly wonders what it would be like to be defended so fiercely. When he lets his eyes wander, he suddenly makes eye contact with him.

The pig is already staring at Jisung, leering at him when he sees Jisung and a senseless, primal panic shoots through his body, makes his hands claw at the wood of the mast, the rope, anything, trying to escape, but Minho truly outdid himself. The man sneers out a vicious, bilious “hello, princess” and Jisung has to bite back a panicked whimper. The nickname. The voice. Weak, Jisung, his uncle, bellows in his head. Yes, he is, Jisung accepts. He is weak.

“I can’t believe they’ve got you tied up here, for me for the taking,” the man chuckles darkly as he approaches, “not like your uncle wants you back. But I will have my fun with you before I kill you.”

Jisung desperately strains against the rope again, ignores the burn of it breaking the skin on his waist, but he still can’t get out. Fucking Minho. The man comes closer until Jisung can see the dark rot in his teeth, the fetid pink of his cheeks, and his stomach churns.

“I should’ve thought of tying you up first,” the pig goads and a few drops of his drool hit Jisung’s cheek, and it shocks a violent gag from him, “maybe then you wouldn’t have put up such a fight.”

The smell of the man’s breath makes Jisung’s head swim with the memory, and he screws his eyes shut, heaving out another dry gag that makes the man laugh loudly.

“What a pretty sound, princess,” he drawls, and the nausea in Jisung’s belly rises up in one last resistance, like venomous rage. He pries open his eyes, faces him and spits in his face.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Jisung hisses, his voice shaky but laced with hatred.

The pig’s shocked face makes way for a grimace of anger, and he raises his hand and Jisung closes his eyes, braces for impact, hopes he can somehow avoid a concussion so he can still run – but the impact never comes. He blinks his eyes open and blinks at the hand that’s still raised, though there are lithe fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist.

“You put one finger on him and I will gut you alive.”

Minho’s voice is calm and cutting, but the pig doesn’t seem to know what’s good for him because he only guffaws out a laugh.

“Ah, I see you’ve already claimed the little whore. I’m sure we can come to an agreement, share his holes before we dispose of him.”

There’s a second of silence, utter, poisonous silence as Jisung watches the expression on Minho’s face go from disdain to putrid hatred and then his hand is wound around the man’s throat, squeezing so hard the pig retches, fights for air, as Minho pushes him away from Jisung.

He shoves him, makes the man stumble backwards, double over, gasping, but Minho doesn’t stop, places his hands square on the man’s shoulders and rams his knee into his face twice. There’s a sickening crunch, then another, and Jisung thrashes against the mast. The rope cutting into his stomach makes him even more nauseous, but he needs to get out.

“Minho, let me go,” he rasps out, loud enough that he knows Minho heard him, but Minho doesn’t move, only drags the pig up and lands his knee into his guts.

“Minho,” Jisung warns, his whole body burning. This is his revenge. How dare he take this from him. “Minho, I swear, let me go.”

But Minho keeps ignoring him.

“Let me GO!” Jisung screams, the last word piercing the air with such ferocious anger that Minho stops in his tracks. “Let me fucking go, Minho, that fucker is mine, he’s fucking mine to gut, let. me. GO.”

Minho stares at him, his usual scowl nowhere to be seen as he blinks, and then he takes one step closer, raises his knife and cuts through the ropes.

Jisung nearly falls from the sudden lack of support, but he catches himself, and gets up, legs shaky and uneven, but when he meets the guy’s eyes, his rage boils over. He wrenches Minho’s cutlass from his hands, ignoring the weak complaint, and stalks towards the man whose face has been haunting him in his sleep for months.

The pig puts up a fight, but he’s sluggish and slow, and he barely gets a punch in before Jisung socks him in his face so hard he stumbles back. Jisung’s body is no longer his own. It’s controlled by blind hatred, a violence so strong it feels almost cleansing, and before he knows it, his fist hits the side of the guy’s skull and his boot hits his balls. The guy wails and Jisung revels in it, adrenaline cursing through his veins when he finally pulls back and sinks the long blade of his cutlass into the man’s stomach. Then he does it again and there’s blood, so much blood, but he doesn’t care. Only stabs him one more time before dragging him to the side of the ship, propping him up just enough so he can look at the man’s rapidly paling, terrified face.

“Go to hell,” Jisung growls before he shoves him enough so he falls off the side of the ship. He stares into the terrified eyes of the man of his nightmares, watches him flail, red clouding the water as he tries to keep himself but failing to. When the waves close over his head and pull him under, it feels like a weight falls off Jisung’s chest and the first breath he takes, no matter how ragged it is, feels like the first breath of relief.

But he can’t stare into the water forever. He avoids Minho’s gaze when he turns around, focuses instead on Hyunjin, desperately defending himself in an uneven fist fight with one of his uncle’s men that he hadn’t yet had the displeasure of meeting, and he takes the few steps towards them, kicks the guy’s knees out from under him so roughly that he crumbles into the deck with a cry of pain. Hyunjin yelps and jumps to the side just in time to avoid the blood when Jisung’s knife sinks deep into the man’s throat. Jisung can feel it seep through his clothes.

When he looks up at Hyunjin, the latter is staring at him wide-eyed. There’s a dark bruise blooming on Hyunjin’s cheekbone, and Jisung grimaces.

“You okay?” he asks and Hyunjin just stares at him for a second, with something in his eyes that Jisung can’t find it in himself to decode, before he nods. Jisung nods back and stalks off, intercepting another asshole and making quick work of him, the balance of the blade in his hand growing on him as he finally lets his brain turn off and just do.

And it doesn’t take long before the last man has been disposed of, the captain’s crew a bloody, bruised mess, but with no casualties on their side. Jisung watches as Changbin looks at the captain, who’s standing in their midst as tall as ever, her demeanour as calm and collected as before the fight, despite her split and bruised lip, the blood caked into her hair. She makes a terrifying picture like this, eyes so sharp they could cut glass, her chest heaving, the muscles in her arm jumping when she sheathes her cutlass.

“Loot and burn it. Look for another one of those maps. Make sure the governor will never find a trace of this ship.”

Changbin nods, bows almost imperceptibly, waves over some more men, and they set to work, boarding the now hauntingly empty ship with their knives drawn.

Jisung doesn’t stay to watch. When he turns around to go, his eyes catch on Minho. For the first time maybe since they met, Minho doesn’t look at him with a scowl or some mask of disdain. No, for the first time, Minho just looks at him, eyes almost curious in the way they crinkle at the edges, his lips pursed uncertainly. Jisung bites back a bitter laugh at the timing of it all, and the flame in his stomach licks up once more, coiling high into his throat as he takes a step towards him.

The clatter of his blood stained knife falling to the floor echoes sharply in the silence of the whole ship watching them. But nobody moves to stop Jisung as he stalks towards Minho, eyes locked onto his, dark anger in his eyes. Nobody moves even when Minho takes a few steps back, his eyes now the ones widening in fear, lighting a small fire of satisfaction in Jisung’s gut.

Nobody moves when Jisung pulls his fist back and punches Minho square in the jaw, the bones in his hand making contact with Minho’s chiseled jawline with a dull thud.

Jisung half expected all hell to break loose, expected to be intercepted or at least held back, taken captive after the fact. He’d accepted it, even, in return for this one opportunity to stand up to him.

But, nothing. Nobody moves to stop him. The whole crew watches as Minho reels back, stumbles, a hand flying to cradle his face. The look of surprise, of pain on Minho’s face is more satisfying than it should be, but Jisung has stopped caring.

He doesn’t look at anyone when he turns, stalks straight towards the big heavy door leading below deck, stumbles down the stairs and through the empty common area and into Felix and his cabin. He locks the door behind himself and then his legs give out and he finally, finally, cries.

He doesn’t know how much time passes like that, his body crumpled on the hard wooden floor of the cabin, the last rays of sunlight streaming through the porthole virtually mocking him as bone wrenching sobs tear through him, tears streaming down his cheeks and leaving darker spots on the already blood-darkened material of his jacket. But at some point, the sobs subside, his body empty and tired and brittle. When his nose clears, all he can smell is the drying blood, and it nearly makes him gag. So he gets up, one hand on the chest of drawers to help him stay upright, and turns around. When he sees himself in the mirror behind the door, he nearly jumps out of his skin. He’s covered in blood, the least of it is his own. A smear of it across his cheek, pale tear tracks running through it, the rest of it on his clothes, rusty red soaked and dried into the white of his shirt, staining the red of his coat an even darker colour. He briefly wonders if it will come out because … Hyunjin made him that coat. His stomach drops a little, makes the nausea worse. Maybe it all won’t matter any more soon.

He wipes a semi clean part of his sleeve over his face with a scoff, tries to hide the worst evidence of his crying, before he gathers his courage and steps out into the hallway.

But he doesn’t meet anyone as he makes his way to the ship’s baths. It seems odd, but he’s beyond questioning it, his chest an empty pit, his eyes red and raw from the panicked sobs that racked through him for a solid hour. He lights the logs that heat up the water, shrugs off his jacket, gingerly, hesitantly throws it into the corner with the laundry where there are other bloodstained shirts and garments and fills one of the three wooden tubs to the brim.

The water scalds his skin a little as he gets in, but he ignores it, welcomes it almost. Much like the rage earlier, the heat feels cleansing, though also equally soothing, the smell of salt and lavender rising from the suds. He ignores the sharp pain of the soap sinking in the rope burns on his hips.

He sits and listens, waits for a sound to come from the outside, but it’s eerily quiet. There must be about 35 other pirates on this ship, all covered in grime and blood, aching for a bath just like him, so he has no doubts now; he’s sure that someone must have told them not to come down here, to give him space. Maybe Hyunjin or Felix. He wishes he knew why.

He’s dead, he thinks. Then again. He’s dead. A tiny, fragile laugh bubbles out of his chest. He’s finally fucking dead. For good. Forever. Never again.

Jisung thinks about it, wonders why this one’s different, but the answer is simple – because all the other ones who had touched him over the years, the ones who had grabbed his ass in the hallways of his father’s house, forced drunken kisses onto him at his uncle’s banquets, none of them had had that look in their face that the pig had when the hinges had finally given way and the door swung open. None of them had looked so entirely bloodthirsty as they approached him …

He shivers, but it’s okay. He's calm. It’s over now.

When he scrubs at his hair, the water turns red and the smell of iron mixes with the steam, and it’s so putrid it makes his stomach turn, so he slowly lifts himself out of the tub. He dresses quietly, his chest awfully empty. He wonders where they all are. Maybe they’re on the deck, talking about what to do with him. He wonders if Minho’s face will bruise because he almost hopes so. Or maybe he’s already with the captain in her quarters …

The captain. Her betrayal hurts the most. It fills him with a deep, searing sense of shame and hurt. He had expected Minho to be cold, to not trust him, after he had rebuked so many of Jisung’s attempt to bridge the gap. But her?

It’s humiliating, but some part of him thought he was … special to her. She had offered him a spot on her crew on that first night, had instructed her men to treat him well, had taken him on even after he’d put his foot in his mouth more than once. She’d held him through his panic attack, looked at him like she understood him, and he’d thought she had … they had – god, he’s stupid. She’d said it then, it was part of her job. He shouldn’t be getting attached, not to a pirate, not to his captain, not to his captain who was probably fucking …

God, he’s so fucking stupid.

The corridors are still deserted, but through the silence, he hears the clatter of plates from the mess, and he realises how late it must be. He briefly wonders if he can get away with not eating, hiding away in his and Felix’s cabin until Felix comes back later, but his stomach growls loudly. And he hates avoiding things. If they were going to shun him, he’d rather know now.

His feet steadily carry him through the living area, though he falters briefly in front of the two big swinging doors, his heart thundering in his chest. He swallows down the fear, tries to steel himself for the worst, and then he pushes open the doors.

Conversation around the room wavers as the men’s eyes fall on him, but before he can think too hard about it, two lithe arms are thrown over his shoulders and long, and he is pulled into a bone-crushing hug.

“I’m so sorry,” Hyunjin mumbles into his neck, his long black hair tickling Jisung’s cheek and Jisung blinks stupidly, his heart trying to catch up as he wraps his arms around Hyunjin’s waist. He feels himself squeezing him back, his hands trembling where they lie.

Hyunjin squeezes him even harder before he pulls back and looks at him with big, apologetic eyes.

“I’m so sorry. We’re so sorry,” Hyunjin sniffles out and Jisung is speechless, overwhelmed, can only shake his head dumbly.

He lets his eyes flicker over the room and to his surprise, he doesn’t find any hostility or distrust, only … he blinks dumbly. Only awkward regret, hesitant smiles and apologetic looks. Felix comes up to them and peels Hyunjin off Jisung, pulling him closer to their table, where the usual group, except for Chan, is already gathered.

“I’m sorry, Jisung,” Hyunjin rambles, one of his hands latching around Jisung’s arm. “I should’ve known better, I should’ve … said something. But Minho …”

He falters and Felix takes over. Jisung is still frozen in place.

“Minho is … protective of this, of us, of our crew. And usually, his gut feelings are right. But he made a wrong call.”

The scoff claws its way out of Jisung’s chest before he can stop it. The bitterness is noxious.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’ve done to him. Like, I know he hates me for some reason, but I didn’t think he would try to get me killed.”

The doors to the mess swing open and Jisung doesn’t even have to turn around to know who it is when he sees Felix’s face darken, his eyebrows drawing together as he looks over Jisung’s shoulder and tugs him closer. The looks of disapproval and the dead silence around the room should make Jisung feel elated, should make him feel vindicated, but when he turns around sees the look on Minho’s face, he almost feels … bad.

There’s a big, purple bruise on his jaw where Jisung’s fist had landed. He stares back at the room full of scowls with a pale uncertainty that Jisung has never seen on him, hell, never thought he would be capable of. It’s such a far cry from his usual grouchy arrogance that it’s almost scary. When Minho turns and finally makes eye contact with Jisung, still wedged between Hyunjin and Felix, Felix’s arm around his shoulders and Hyunjin’s hand on his arm, his eyes are hazy.

He takes one almost step, before he stops himself, grimacing as he squares his shoulders and fixes Jisung with an uneven look, one that wavers away from him after not even a second. His usually cutting voice floats through the air uncertainly, though Jisung can tell he’s doing his best to keep it steady.

“The captain wants to see you. On the deck.”

And with that, he turns and escapes into the kitchen. Jisung turns back to Hyunjin and Felix with a thousand questions on his face. But Felix only gives Jisung a reassuring squeeze before gesturing to the door. Even Hyunjin only nods at him and pushes him towards the door. And Jisung goes, almost as in a trance, but he throws a glance back before they close behind him. He sees Felix and Hyunjin watching him go, regretful smiles on their faces. Through the windows in the door to the kitchen, he sees Minho’s slumped over form over the kitchen counter. For a brief second, he wonders if this will be the last time he’ll see them. He blinks away the fist closing around his heart and takes the steps up to the deck two at a time before his courage fails him.

The clear night air, the chilly breeze that blows, it nearly knocks him off his feet, rushing into his lungs like a cold drink of water. He looks up at the sky, clear, full of stars. Beautiful, all the way out here, so many bright little glimmers, bunched together and winking at him like they always have, always will. He thinks he can hear Jeongin’s voice somewhere above him, singing softly, and then someone says his name.

The captain is sitting on the railing to Jisung’s left, a dark brown bottle in her hands. As Jisung walks closer, he sees how tired she looks. Her hair is still a little damp from where she presumably had to also wash blood out of it, and instead of her usual heavy coat, she’s wearing some kind of thick knitted jacket. She looks … nice like this, Jisung can’t help but think. Softer.

He stops a few feet in front of her and knits his fingers together in front of him. She just looks at him for a few seconds before she sighs and pats the spot next to her.

He sits gingerly, awkwardly, preoccupied as he is with trying to keep a reasonable distance between them. He doesn’t know how to deal with her touching him today. She offers the bottle to him wordlessly, and he takes it, taking a deep drink, swallowing the burning alcohol down without even flinching. It feels weird on his painfully empty stomach, but in the same theme of things, it also feels cleansing. Jeongin’s voice floats down from above them more clearly now. His voice is soft, full of emotions, a fluttering, beautiful thing in the night.

“Beautiful,” he mumbles to himself before he can stop it.

The captain laughs, small and shy.

“Isn’t it? I come out here a lot at night, just to hear him sing. I don’t even know if he knows.”

There it is again, Jisung thinks, her unwavering love for this, this life, this ship, this crew. He wants so badly to be enveloped by it, too, that it makes him look a fool. Jeongin’s song ends, and Jisung shivers.

“I’m sorry,” the captain says suddenly, and Jisung sucks in a breath. He doesn’t lift his eyes, doesn’t trust himself to. He takes another swig of rum, longer this time. It still burns, but his stomach feels like it’s going numb now.

The captain still hesitates, and Jisung nervously picks at the remnants of the label on the bottle.

“I’m sorry for today. I made … a wrong call. A very wrong call.”

Jisung scoffs.

“Technically, Minho did.” The captain laughs humourlessly, extends her hand towards the bottle and Jisung hands it to her, hates how his heart flutters in his chest when her fingers brush over his. She takes a long drink, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Yeah, but I didn’t stop him,” she says quietly, “because usually, Minho’s gut feelings are right, so I don’t oppose him. But today, I should’ve.”

Jisung shrugs, his heart aching in his chest.

“No, don’t do that,” the captain sighs and Jisung, in his surprise, lifts his head and looks at her. There’s a tortured smile on her face. “Don’t pretend like it’s okay. It’s not. I … I didn’t think you would go back to them, I didn’t think you could’ve lied to us all. And I should’ve said something. I promised you we’d keep you safe, that we’re family, and then I just left you there.”

A traitorous tear spills from Jisung’s eyes before he can stop it, and he wipes it away quickly with a quiet fuck.

The captain reaches out, her fingers wrapping around Jisung’s arm, and Jisung freezes, both from the suddenness and the gentle authority that seems to flow from her hands through a touch as simple as that.

“Don’t do that, either. I like seeing how you feel,” she says quietly and Jisung blinks stupidly, the tears clearing to reveal her face and … god, the softness in her gaze on him, her features bathed in moonlight – the longing hits him square in the chest, takes his breath away for a second.

But it passes, fizzles out into a moment of silence and Jisung weighs his next words for a while, before he decides to just ask. If there’s anyone who can give him an answer, it’s her. A bitter thought.

“Why does he hate me?”

The captain doesn’t ask who.

“I don’t know. I don’t think he hates you, he just … doesn’t understand you, doesn’t know what to do with you.”

Jisung just nods absentmindedly. Not like understands Minho any better.

“He wouldn’t have let you get killed,” the captain adds after a few seconds of silence. She sounds hesitant. “He didn’t want you getting hurt, either. He really beat himself up about that guy punching you when he wasn’t looking. That’s how I know he doesn’t hate you. He wouldn’t have done that for someone he hates.”

Jisung sighs and nods and takes the bottle the captain is holding out in his direction again. He throws his head back and takes a long drink that he swallows without looking at her. After a few more seconds of silence, the captain gets up. Jisung tries not to feel too disappointed. He thinks he could’ve sat with her like this all night.

“I …” she starts and stops, running her hand through her hair nervously. Jisung wishes he could reach out, soothe her nerves, just like she had done with him that day on this very same deck. “I don’t usually do this because, frankly, it’s fucking stupid and could get me and my crew killed, but you seem to keep making me make these decisions …”

She trails off before she gestures over to her left. Jisung follows her eyes.

“I’m giving you an out. There’s a boat. In it, there’s a compass and more than enough rations to last you for the two days it should take you to reach the nearest port. You’ll probably make it just fine.”

Jisung stares from the boat to her, stupidly. He wonders if he would see her blush if it wasn’t so dark.

“I … wish you wouldn’t leave, if I can be honest, but I know it’s too much to ask you to trust us again, after what happened today. And I’d rather take this risk than force you to stay with us if you don’t trust us. So I will take my leave now, and you can make up your mind and if you’re gone in the morning then … well, I hope our paths will cross again. Goodbye, Jisung.”

Jisung watches her turn, wrapping her cardigan closer around herself. It doesn’t take him longer than a few of her steps to know what he wants.

He catches up with her by the heavy door, takes one awkward step forward and grasps the knob before she can. He swings the door open, gives her a sheepish smile, before he motions for her to go through. She breathes out a disbelieving chuckle at his sudden moment of gentlemanly chivalry, and heat rises to his cheeks before he can stop it. But she doesn’t say anything, only walks through the door he holds open and hesitates where the path divides, looking at Jisung with that gaze again, the one that makes him feel like he's paper thin, his soul laid bare.

He gives her the best smile he can muster.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly, but resolutely. “Goodnight, captain.”

And with a little bow, his heart beating in his throat, he turns on his heels and makes his way to the stairs leading to his cabins.

< chapter III - chapter V (coming: friday, april 5, 3pm CET) >

series masterlist // skzms masterlist // kofi

🔖 series taglist and general taglist open! be 18+ and have your age in bio when you ask to be added

taglist part 1: @puppyminnnie @like-a-diamondinthesky @lyramundana @laylasbunbunny @minsflannelwrap148 @caitlyn98s @straystays2345 @3rachasninja @maximumkillshot @sungprotector @stayconnecteed @mellhwang @chlodavids @kookiesbunny @noellllslut @warren-thedarkangel @kidrauhlschik @anyhow-everything @krishastumblernow @cutiespaghetti @hobi-szn @usagi---mochi @stolasisyourparent @steadysuitenthusiast @queen-in-the-shadows

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sleepy cramps | b.c.

summary: your cramps wake you up but channie is there to help.

wc: 1.1k

warnings: i tried to keep it gender neutral, however!! periods and cramps are mentions so read at your own risk.

a/n: omg ash knows how to post at a normal time when she's not sleep deprived *gasp* crazy right? you guys know the drill not proof read too many pet names blah blah. i have realized that i apparently need alot of comfort in my life because that is all i write LMAO. anyway! i hope you guys enjoy and as always, drink water, eat something, and take ur meds. <3

p.s. pls send me some requests i really wanna try and branch out but i have no ideas, okay love u bye. <3

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(pictures are not mine! credit to owners!)

“baby?” you hear a familiar aussie voice call out. “i’m home!” you hear him take off his shoes and set his bag down. “baby?” he yells once more, keys jingling as he places them on a hook by the door.

you let out a grunt, hoping to signal to him where you were. you were currently bundled up half asleep in your shared bed, facing the door. you were exhausted from the day and your period, and barely keeping your eyes open. 

the hall light flicks on before a figure appears in the doorway. you lift up your head a bit, giving him a sleepy smile before settling back into your warm cocoon of soft blankets and plushies.

he smiles before making his way to the side of bed, squatting down to eye level with you. he lifts his hand, lightly stroking your cheek with his thumb. “hi pretty.” your cheeks warm.

“hi bub.” you mumble. “you sleepy bug?” he asks softly. you nod, a yawn escaping you as if emphasizing your drowsiness.

he smiles, leaning forward to place a soft kiss to your forehead. “alright bub, give me 10 minutes to get ready for bed then i’ll come lay down okay?” you nod once more, sleepy smile still present on your face.

he moves,  placing a kiss on your lips before standing to his full height. “i’ll be right back!” he yelled, running into your en-suite. you giggle before relaxing into your cocoon, sleep welcoming you quickly.

once chan finished in the bathroom, he came out to find you curled up, now facing his side of the bed, soft even breathes escaping you.

he coos before making his way to his side of the bed. he lifted the sheets, sliding under them before gently pulling you to him, body melting into his.

he wraps his arms around you, “good night my sleepy baby, i love you.” he whispers, placing a kiss on your temple, before relaxing, letting sleep take over.

this didn’t last long however, chan lightly awoke maybe an hour later, to you stirring in your sleep, light whimpers escaping you. after hearing the first whimpers leave your mouth, he was very alert. he quickly looks over your body trying to determine what’s bringing you distress.

he catches a glimpse of your face, which is contorted in discomfort. he places a hand on your cheek once more, trying to gently wake you. “baby wake up.” he whispers, lightly tapping and stroking your cheek.

after a few seconds you finally wake, only to let out a yelp in pain, curling into the body beside you. “hey hey, baby, what’s going on?” he said kissing your head, rubbing your back.

“period.” you managed to get out, trying to curl further into yourself. one arm wrapped around your lower abdomen, the other one clenched into a fist against your forehead.

you start holding your breath unconsciously, praying the pain will subside. chan notices and gently taking your fist in his.

“breathe baby, breathe,” he says calmly, opening your fist to slot your fingers through his. you let out a jagged breath leaning your forehead against your joined hands, “squeeze my hand if you need to jagi but, you gotta breathe baby.” his thumb stroking the back of your hand.

you take a deep breath, trying to focus on anything over than the stabbing pain in your abdomen. “doing so good bug, just breathe.”  his other hand coming up to smooth the crease between your eyebrows. 

your breathing evens out slightly as the pain lessen a bit. a moment of silence passes before you sit up, hands still entwined. chan follows you, rubbing small circles on your back. “did you take medicine earlier?” you nod your head. “right before you got home.”  he hummed, understanding.

 “i’ll be right back, okay?” he whispers, thumb rubbing the back of your hand. you nod slightly, focusing on your breathing. he leans over, placing a kiss to the side of your head before getting up and making his way into the bathroom.

you grab a pillow behind you hugging it as you wait for him to return. a few moments passed before he reemerges with your heating pad in hand. he rounds the bed, plugging in the pad before sitting next to you.

“i’m gonna move this quick, okay?” you nod, moving your arms. he grabs the pillow, placing the heating pad in it’s place. “thank you.” you mumble, leaning on him, placing your head on his shoulder. “you’re welcome bug.” he kisses the top of your head before placing his there.

you sit there for a moment before you feel the guilt slowly creep up, the lump forming in the back of your throat. you turn your head into his shoulder as tears start to stream down your face.

“hey, hey, jagiya, do you want more medicine? what can i do?” he asks, placing a hand on your thigh, rubbing soothing circles. you shake your head, before moving to put your hand in your hands.

“i’m sorry channie,” you cried. “i know you’re probably exhausted, and shouldn’t have to deal with this.” you feel him move in front of you before placing his hands on your face, lifting it. “i am your boyfriend, it is my job to take care of you when you need me. and right now you’re in pain because of something you can’t control.” he pauses, looking into your eyes, gently wiping the tears running down your cheeks.

“i will always take care of you, doesn’t matter, time, place, if i’m tired or not, i will always help you. understand?” you nod, moving into his lap, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, shoving your face into his neck.

he wraps his arms around your torso pulling you impossibly closer. “i love so much, jagiya. okay?” you nod your head quickly. “i love you too, more than you know.” you say into his neck, placing a kiss on his skin. 

you both stay like that for a moment before chan pulls away slightly. he wipes your tears once more before placing a kiss on your lips. “let’s get you to sleep, hm?” you agree, moving back into the mattress.

you watch him make his way to his side, getting comfortable under the duvet. once settled, he opens his arms for you to lay down. you giggle before quickly laying on him, making sure your heating pad was still in the correct position.

you place a kiss to his jaw before settling into his chest, duvet pulled to cover both of you. “thank you, i love you so much.” he places one last kiss to your head. “ you don’t have to thank me, i love you so much, good night my sleepy baby.” you smile, feeling at peace. “goodnight, channie.” you place a kiss over his heart before both of drift off once more.

do not repost

*feedback is always appreciated as are likes/reblogs!*

A new series for me to read 😀

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐔𝐬 (ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ)

☆ Genre: Slice of Life, Coming of Age, School, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/comfort, Idol au

☆ Warnings: Mentions of depression, anxiety, self-harm (blood, slight gore), domestic abuse/abusive parents, self hatred, panic attacks, anxiety attacks, eating disorders, mentions of weight

☆ Characters: Chan, Y/N (Stray Kids, Y/N's friends)

If you liked this series or if it brought you some comfort, consider leaving me a tip! :)

Prologue

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

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savior complex (pt. 1) | bang chan

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

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | strangers/enemies to lovers + zombie apocalypse au, angst, fluff, smut word count: 19.9K chapter summary: you'd always known the end, and it had always known you. you just didn't know the beginning would be waiting for you when your time finally came. warnings/notes: zombie apocalypse au so . . . blood, guts, gore, sad, sad, sad. beware. lots of inspo from every zombie thing i've literally ever seen (twd, tlou, train to busan, etc.), typos probably, parental death, actions of violence and murder, religious TRAUMA, religious undertones, reader does not believe in god but she's deeply influence by it bc of her childhood and it haunts her, reader comes from a small toen and it's not explicitly stated where she's from but hollows are mentioned, hunting, reader wishes for death multiple times, chan goes by chris, no smut in this chapter but there will be in every chapter after, i think that's it but let me know if i missed anything, and enjoy! <3

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

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

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

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

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

The apocalypse had come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It.

Armageddon.

The Rapture.

The fucking apocalypse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But by eighteen, you knew better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t believe.

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

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

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

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

You remembered the preacher’s voice even now.

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

— Revelation 6:1–2

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

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

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

Only by that time, it was too late.

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

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

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

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

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

Then . . . it all just stopped.

But your town continued to spread its lies.

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

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

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

But you knew better.

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

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

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

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

But you couldn't believe it.

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

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

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

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

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

War will come, she warned.

War will come.

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

And then . . . then he did.

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

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

War will come.

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

This was no man. This was War.

And it all became clear soon after.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But War's ruthless hand still reached your town.

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

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

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

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

(Although, how righteous could he truly be?)

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

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

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

It felt cruel. Perhaps even unreal.

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

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

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

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

— Revelation 6:7–8

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

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

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

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

Now there was no more living, just surviving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you looked at him.

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

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

Your father was a good man.

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

Your father was a good man.

Your father had killed someone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Survival became all that you knew after that.

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

The burden became yours to bear.

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

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

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

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

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

So you kept going, trying to outrun the inevitable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you let yourself turn into a machine.

And a ruthless machine you had watched yourself become.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, killed was too vague.

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

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

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

But you had that night.

And now you paid the consequences.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Were you no better than the dead to her?

You swallowed hard.

Had you become a monster?

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

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

You did what you had to do.

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

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

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

Kind had been rare back then. It still was.

And Felix stayed kind.

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

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

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

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

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

But you?

Well . . .

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

”You’re not."

“Lix."

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

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

”She’s just a kid."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”Sleep, little bird."

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

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

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

You swallowed hard but said nothing.

You're not too far gone.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

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

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

But you already knew the answer.

Your knees had begun to itch once again . . .

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

His face was always there.

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

Sometimes you wondered if you had failed.

And you knew you had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He would still be here if you hadn't—

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

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

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

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

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

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

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

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

Kill or be killed, sure, but . . .

. . . You’d still killed a man.

You’d actually taken a life.

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

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

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

And maybe you had been.

That would’ve been easier to fathom.

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

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

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

And you couldn’t blame them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Had he felt like this, too?

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

Did he ever wonder if—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your father filled your head with lies.”

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

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

There were the tears now.

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

Twist the knife, and she did.

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

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

This was what you deserved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mother remained silent.

And you knew her answer.

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

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

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

Her eyes fluttered, taken back. “What?”

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

Once again, she remained silent.

But you knew the truth.

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

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

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

Beat. Your heart shot to your throat.

It happened too quickly for you to think.

Beat. Beat.

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

Beat.

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

And you knew what to do.

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

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

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

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

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

. . . You were getting worse.

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

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

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

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

Would they make the decision to put you down then?

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

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

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

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

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

So, you listened, but you did not believe.

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

Whatever.

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

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

He’d made sure there was nothing left.

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

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

Survival was all that mattered.

Everything else was fucked.

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

Survive long enough for them.

For your father.

For your sister.

For your mother.

For Felix.

For them.

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

But, just your luck, sleep never found you.

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

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

You didn’t want to see that day come.

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

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

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

Nothing was left.

Truly.

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

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

Your eyes snapped open, heart hammering.

No.

It couldn’t be.

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

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

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

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

You swallowed hard.

Death was near.

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

The man.

Your eyes widened.

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

And his screams . . .

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

And . . . it was all your fault.

You exhaled a shaky breath.

Death was coming.

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

Death was coming. Felix knew this now, too.

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

You swallowed hard.

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

But then you saw it.

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

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

Death was here. So close. Too close.

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

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

Fuck.

You wanted to scream.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

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

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

You could only shake your head.

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

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

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

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

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

You knew what that meant.

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

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

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

This was how you made things right.

You nodded at your thoughts.

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

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

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

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

Still: "Little bird," you whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You knew this.

Felix did, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You don't get to die."

"Neither do you."

"Then I guess we have a predicament."

Your eyes softened. "Lix."

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

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

He shook his head.

You swallowed hard.

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

You gripped his hand. "Protect them."

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

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

But it was. You both knew that.

Felix could only shake his head. “Please.”

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

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

You worked quickly. You had to. For them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're not too far gone.

Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.

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

You have to grow up. No more kid stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

Had that been too loud?

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

You swallowed hard.

Death itself had seen you.

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

And end it you would.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It hit you then.

Beat.

This really was the end.

You couldn’t run.

Beat.

The hoard was gaining on you.

This was the end.

Beat.

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

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

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

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

What was he doing?

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

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

You skipped a beat, not answering.

His eyes were on you instantly, expectantly.

But you only blinked.

You didn’t want to be saved.

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

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

“Run,” he bit out, an order.

And it all happened so fast.

You stayed put.

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

Beat.

Beat.

Be—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck?

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

There it was, you realized.

Your punishment.

You were going to die.

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

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

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

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

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

The warehouse. The man. The shots. The hoard.

This was Death’s doing.

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

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

But . . . why were you still alive?

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

You were alive.

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

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

Was this his way of being kind? Sparing you?

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

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

Him.

The man.

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

You clenched your jaw hard.

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

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

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

But you remained silent, watching.

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

You swallowed thickly.

There was something terrifying about a quiet rage.

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

And you hadn’t.

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

Had your mother been right about you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why aren’t you fighting?

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

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

It was surely daylight by now.

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

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

So . . . where was your fight?

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

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

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

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

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

And you almost laughed.

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

It all felt a little unreal.

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

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

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

There it was.

This was the end you were promised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, why hadn’t he condemned you yet?

Why—

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

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

His stare only unnerved you more.

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

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

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

That only unnerved you further.

Was this truly Death?

Surely he had killed before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows twitched, taken back.

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

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

A heavy beat of silence pounded in your ears.

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

Then . . . you felt it.

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

You nearly gasped.

Another tear trickled down your cheek. Guilt followed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It all hit you then.

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

I won’t kill you.

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

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

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

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

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

taglist:

@amaranth-writing @binchanluvrr @dreamingsmile @eternalrajin

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