The hush in your bedroom has a body of its own tonight, something warm and close and faintly oppressive, as though the dark settles into the corners hours ago and waits there with patient attention for you to notice it. 

Summer presses itself against the house from every side, laying its damp palms over the roof and the porch and the thin-paned windows until even the air inside feels used, breathed through too many times, heavy with old wood, drying lavender, and the ghost of candle smoke that never fully leaves your room no matter how often you open the sash. 

Beyond the screen, the night stretches wide and black over the fields, full of cicadas and distant frogs and the occasional rustle of something small moving through the grass, yet none of it disturbs the stillness gathered around your bed.

You sit cross-legged atop the quilt with your nightgown loose around your knees and your grandmother’s saucer resting in your lap. Its white glaze crazed with age, its shallow center holding a pinch of rosemary, a few bruised mugwort leaves, and the little stub of candle you press into place with your thumb earlier that evening. 

Wax has already softened beneath the flame and runs in pale streams over the china, pooling around the herbs until the scent rising from it turns sharp and green and just bitter enough to stir old memories from wherever they go when daylight is still around. The candlelight reaches only what lies close enough to claim and leaves the rest to shadow. It glows over your hairbrush on the dresser, your folded stockings on the chair, the Bible on the nightstand with its ribbon marker hanging limp over the edge, and most of all over the photograph you take down from the hallway and bring in here without fully admitting to yourself why.

She looks small in photographs, your great-great-grandmother, though everyone in the family who still speaks of her insists that she carries a presence large enough to fill whatever room she enters. 

Perhaps photographs are poor at carrying certain things across time. They give you the dark dress buttoned high at the throat, the severe line of her mouth, the hard intelligence in her eyes, and the suggestion of a woman who trains herself never to flinch in public, yet they cannot hold the stories clinging to her name, and it is those stories, rather than the image itself, that keep drawing your attention back across the room. 

Your great-great-grandmother, daughter of a woman who read signs in smoke and tea leaves and churchyard dirt; mother of the son she loved until grief hollowed her out after he died; and the woman from whom your own uneasy inheritance comes. 

The gift never belongs to every woman in the family, which only makes it more ominous when it appears. 

It skips daughters and granddaughters, lies quiet in one branch and flares up in another, turning up in children who never ask for it and elders who pray it will pass them by. With your great-great-grandmother, it came strong. With you, it comes stronger than anyone seems comfortable naming out loud.

You have been called touched, blessed, sensitive, and once, by an aunt who does not care whether you cry over it, poorly guarded. None of them are wrong. There has always been something loose at the edge of your sleep, some part of you that does not remain neatly in place once your eyes close. 

When you were little, it was dismissed as imagination, though imagination didn't explain the drowned calf you dreamt of three days before it surfaced in the neighbor’s pond. Nor the image of your cousin’s split lip that arrived an hour before he stumbled up the front walk after a bar fight in town. Nor the morning you woke with your heart beating like a frantic bird and begged your mother not to let your father take the west road because the bridge will give, only for the county men to shut it down by noon. 

By the time you were old enough to understand that other people do not move through sleep the way you do, dream-walking had already become a private fact of your life, something you practiced in secret and spoke of only to the women who shared enough blood with you to believe it.

It was your grandmother who finally gave it a name, and your grandmother who told you that naming a thing never makes it smaller, only easier to recognize when it begins circling your life. 

She was the one who explained that there are ways of settling yourself before a walk, ways of quieting the mind until it loosens from the body without tearing, ways of protecting the doorway you make when you reach too far into memory or grief or longing. 

It was she who told you the story of your great-great-grandmother properly, not the softened Sunday version spoken for children, but the one that had survived because the women in your family had never fully agreed to let it die. 

Your great-great-grandmother had lost her son and never recovered from it, not in any ordinary sense. Grief took up residence in her house and sharpened the gift in her until sorrow and sight became almost the same thing. She began dream-walking farther than she ever should have, searching for the boy she had buried, believing with the stubbornness of a brokenhearted mother that love could reach where death had put its hand. 

Then, one night, she sat down to call for him and opened herself too wide. By dawn the front door stood open, one lamp had burst on the floorboards, the bedclothes were half dragged to the floor, and there was blood dried down the front of her nightdress. Nobody ever made a proper earthly sense of it. 

What remained, passed carefully between kin and spoken low after dark, was the certainty that she had called across the veil and something else had heard first.

You lived with that story so long that it no longer feels like a tale handed down but an inherited bruise, something tender lodged beneath the skin of the family. 

Tonight it tugs at you with more force than usual. 

Perhaps it is curiosity, that reckless urge that has always lived at the center of your gift, the need to look directly at what other people cross themselves and turn away from. Perhaps it is loneliness, or that peculiar ache that sometimes comes over you after sundown, when the house quiets and every unanswered thing in your bloodline seems to draw close. 

Whatever the reason, you find yourself here in your room with the photograph, the saucer, the candle, and the old half-sacred, half-foolish ritual your grandmother warns you never to attempt in a state of longing.

You let your hands settle loose on your knees and lower your eyes until the candlelight turns red through your lashes. Beneath your fingertips, the saucer holds a little heat. The fan overhead moves too slowly to help much, though it lifts a damp strand of hair at your neck and lets it fall again. 

You breathe until the room begins to lose its hard edges, not visibly at first—but inwardly, as though the distinction between one thing and another softens somewhere beneath thought. 

The rosemary smell deepens. The sounds outside stretch thinner and farther apart. Your body remains where it is, cross-legged on the bed in your narrow room with the window cracked and the wick burning low. Though, another part of you—the part that has always proved difficult to keep tethered—begins to slip free with the same familiar yielding that comes whenever you walk too close to the edge.

It never feels like falling in the common sense of the word. There is no drop, no shock, nothing so clumsy. It feels more like stepping backward into dark water and discovering depth already waiting for you, cool and soundless and ready to take your weight the moment you stop insisting on keeping it.

When the vision opens, it does so with such quiet certainty that for a moment you cannot tell whether you have gone elsewhere or whether the world itself has shifted beneath your feet and let an older one rise through. 

Moonlight lies over a yard you have never seen waking and know at once. The house ahead is narrow and weathered, its porch leaning, one weak lantern burning near the window and throwing more shadow than comfort. Oak branches bend over the roof. Tall grass moves in slow dark ripples. 

There’s such exactness in every detail that invention becomes impossible. 

This is not the loose wandering texture of an ordinary dream. This is memory, inheritance, vision—whatever name belongs to the place where what happens refuses to remain buried.

It is your great-great-grandmother’s house, her yard, her last night.

And the knowledge of it settles into you before you can resist.

A pressure comes over you almost at once, low in the body and sharp as warning. 

Before you see another soul in the yard, you feel the presence of something hidden just beyond sight, something patient enough that waiting does not seem like effort to it, only habit. The grass bends. The branches stir. Nothing in the ordinary shape of the night announces danger—but the sense of being watched moves over your skin with terrible intimacy, close as breath against the nape of your neck. 

You turn toward the tree line and find nothing you can name there, though that only makes the certainty worse.

Then the porch boards give a faint groan, and she steps out with a shawl around her shoulders despite the heat, a candle in one hand and a shallow dish in the other. 

Even from where you stand, you can see it in the hollows under her cheekbones, the tension at her mouth, the bruised darkness beneath her eyes. She moves with the steady, exhausted resolve of a woman who spends too many nights arguing with the same pain and finally chooses action over obedience to fear. 

The dream draws you closer without asking permission, and then you’re inside the room with her, standing in a space small enough for sorrow to fill completely.

The bed sits neat against the wall. A washstand holds a basin, a pitcher, a comb. On a hook near the door hangs a man’s coat kept too carefully for a house no longer occupied by the one who wears it. 

She kneels beside the bed and arranges the contents of the dish with reverent, practiced fingers while her mouth moves in a low stream of prayer and plea. Not nonsense or fever talk, but the braided old language of women who learn to ask heaven and memory for the same impossible mercy. 

When she speaks her son’s name, the room seems to draw inward around it.

You want to call out to her then, to tell her to stop before the door opens any wider, but dream-walking never offers intervention, only witness, and witness can be crueler than helplessness because it leaves you standing still long enough to understand what is coming.

The candle flame thins and bows until the wick shines red through its weak gold halo. The curtain at the window stirs though no wind enters. The boards under the bed give a soft complaining sound. 

Your grandmother goes still. 

It’s a small stillness, the held breath of someone who has lived with sight long enough to recognize the moment a thing answers back.

Fear crosses her face then, and not because she lacks faith. Faith never keeps knowledge from entering a woman whole.

The shadow beneath the bed thickens slowly, deepening until it ceases to resemble ordinary dark and begins to suggest an opening, a seam in the room from which a figure might emerge. 

A hand appears first, pale at the knuckles, the fingers long and rough rather than elegant. Then the slope of a shoulder, the line of a bowed head, the full shape of a man easing up out of the shadow with a smoothness so unnatural it makes your stomach draw tight.

He doesn't look like some villain dragged up from a storybook grave. 

That would be easier to understand, easier to set apart from the ordinary world. 

He looks, instead, like a man who might come off a road at dusk and ask after work or water, the danger in him hidden under the plainness of his body until you notice how wrong every stillness around him feels. 

His hair is dark and damp, pushed back in places and fallen over his forehead in others, not arranged so much as roughened by the night. A pale face lifts into the candlelight, open enough in its structure that another expression might make him look almost approachable. A faint rasp of stubble shadows his jaw and upper lip. His mouth is broad and wet at the corners, too soft in shape for what it is about to do. He wears an ordinary shirt with the collar loosened, sleeves rolled to the forearms, the stripped-down plainness of a workingman at the end of a long day, and that plainness makes the sight of him worse, because there is no theatrical distance in him, nothing to warn the eye that it has left the realm of men until you meet those eyes and find the cold, washed blue of them fixed on your great-great-grandmother with patient appetite.

When he smiles, it comes with false warmth, almost companionable, the smile of a stranger too ready to charm himself welcome.

“So that is who you sought,” he says, and his voice is low and lovely and wrong, touched by an accent the dream cannot place cleanly, only old enough to make every syllable sound drawn from someplace far from these fields and older than the church at the crossroads. “Poor grieving thing.”

He bends his face to her with obscene tenderness, inhaling her fear as though it has perfume in it. His mouth brushes her cheek. His spit shines wet on her skin. He turns his head slightly, listening, and in one horrible moment you understand that he hears you too, not just her but you across the years, you in your borrowed witnessing place, blood-bound to the woman beneath him.

You take a step back without meaning to. Not because he sees movement in the ordinary sense, but because recognition has already crossed the distance between you. 

Your grandmother begins to scream in earnest then, and the dream breaks into violence. 

You see his hand knot in her braid and wrench her head back. You see the white baring of his teeth. When he bites into her throat, it is with the closeness of a kiss turned sacrament and slaughter all at once. 

Blood goes everywhere in a rush too fast for the mind to prepare for, sheeting down the front of her nightdress, spattering his cheek, pattering onto the quilt and the floorboards and the overturned dish where rosemary drifts in red. His throat works as he drinks. His eyes close. A sound leaves him then that has no business being so soft, a sigh almost, full of relief so profound it feels blasphemous to witness.

You try to wrench yourself free of the vision, but nothing happens.

Your grandmother’s hands beat weakly against his shoulders. Her legs kick once against the side of the bed. Her face goes slack with shock and pain and some final incomprehension that perhaps this, of all things, is what answers a mother’s call. 

He pulls back only enough to look at her while she dies. Blood slicks his mouth and chin. Saliva and crimson mingle there, stringing from his lower lip to her torn skin. He watches the light leave her with the absorbed fascination of a man studying a sunrise.

Then he turns his head again, and this time there is no mistaking it. He is looking directly at you.

Recognition comes instantly and completely, as though your blood has already spoken your name to him. Across the years, across your great-great-grandmother’s last terror, across the raw passage the vision opens through the family line. He finds you standing there and knows exactly what you are.

You try—again—to pull yourself out of the dream, but it holds long enough for his expression to shift, just slightly, that false warmth deepening into something more terrible. 

The room lurches. Your grandmother’s body sags. The candle flame thins to a furious wire of light.

Then you are coming up out of the vision with your back arched against the mattress and your breath broken in your throat, panic climbing through you faster than waking can settle the world into sense.

The fan moves overhead in its slow, useless turn. The saucer sits crooked on the quilt. The candle has burned nearly to nothing. The photograph leans dark on the dresser. 

Everything ought to be familiar enough to anchor you, yet the weight pressing into your hips reaches you before thought does, and the certainty of another body above your own arrives all at once.

He’s there, braced over you with one hand beside your head and the other around your wrist, not squeezing hard enough to bruise, only holding with easy certainty, and he looks even more dangerously ordinary at close range than he does in the vision. 

Moonlight from the open window slips over one side of his face and catches in the damp disorder of his dark hair. The blue of his eyes looks washed out in the low light, almost gray until they shift and turn colder. Stubble darkens his jaw. The line of his mouth is generous and human and glistening wet. He wears the same plain loosened shirt, sleeves shoved carelessly to the forearms, as though he has come in off some muddy road rather than through the torn edge of a dream. 

He looks like a man somebody might trust too soon.

“You called for me,” he says, and his voice in the close hush of the room carries the same unplaceable oldness you hear before, though now there is something crueler in it. Just a conversational softness that makes the words worse rather than better. 

Fear moves through you so sharply that it clears the last remnants of sleep from your blood. 

You try to pull your wrist free, but his fingers only tighten enough to tell you how little effort it costs him to keep you still. The damp patch on your nightgown cools against your skin. Another thread of drool gathers on his lower lip as he leans closer, breathing you in as though the scent of terror and sweat and rosemary becomes something irresistible.

“I didn’t call you,” you whisper, though the lie comes weak and frayed.

A smile ghosts across his mouth. “Did you not?” His gaze travels over your face with minute attention, lingering at your eyes, your mouth, the pulse moving too quickly at your throat. “You opened yourself. You went wanderin’. You stood in a dead woman’s room and watched with all your little soul laid bare. That is a call, darlin’, whether you mean it as one or not.”

The endearment lands with the intimacy of a trespass. He speaks to you like a man already acquainted with the shape of your fear.

You pull against him harder this time. The bed frame knocks faintly against the wall. He doesn't budge. Up close you can see the fine damp at his temples and the way his nostrils flare each time he breathes you in. His attention keeps slipping to your throat, to the base of it, to the place where the neckline of your nightgown has gone translucent with his saliva.

“I saw what you did to her,” you say, and the words come unsteady.

His expression alters at that with a slow considering pleasure, like he is delighted to discover that the old story reaches you with its horror intact. 

He lowers his face until his mouth hovers near your ear. His breath is cool in a way no living breath should be.

“Yes,” he says quietly, then lowers himself nearer, that cool breath skimming your cheek. “I figured you did.”

The simplicity of it hollows you out. 

He confesses the way he might admit to weather, casual and untroubled, as though what happens to your grandmother long ago ceases to be tragedy and settles into memory so familiar it no longer deserves ceremony.

“You shouldn’t have gone rummaging among the dead,” he goes on, the corners of his mouth tilting just enough to suggest humor. “They answer poorly, more often than not.”

That false ease in him is almost worse than open menace. It is the friendliness of something that does not feel the need to hide its teeth because it already has you under it.

“Why are you here?” The question trembles out of you before pride can stop it.

His tongue slips over his lower lip, collecting what remains there. It is a shockingly human gesture, almost thoughtful. “Because you reach beyond the veil, and I am what answers.” He raises his head again, studying you in the weak moonlight. “Because I remember your blood for a very long time. Because gifts such as yours are bright things, and bright things are visible from very far off when the dark is hungry enough.”

The room seems to draw inward around his words. You feel every place where the old house fails to keep the night outside, the cracked pane at the window, the gap beneath the door, the unlatched world.

You think suddenly, wildly, of your grandmother rising from her ritual too late, finding that grief opens what prayer cannot close.

His eyes drift shut for a moment. He breathes in against your throat, and a shudder goes through him so pronounced you can feel it where his weight rests over your hips. His mouth brushes the damp fabric at your chest, not quite a kiss, not quite a taste. When he speaks again, his voice has roughened.

“You’re sweeter than she was.”

Your stomach turns over.

He must’ve felt the motion beneath him because he gives a low, almost soothing sound that belongs nowhere near a predator’s mouth. “Don’t look so bothered by it. Your terror ain’t all that I smell.”

Humiliation strikes hotter than fear. 

You turn your face sharply toward the wall, but he catches your chin with one cool hand and brings you back. 

“Look at me,” he says softly.

Up close, his features are all the more unsettling for their lack of excess.

“You women,” he says, almost to himself, “always opening doors and then grieving what enters.”

The words send a chill clean through you. “Get off me.”

He smiles again. “I might. In a little while.”

His head dips. The tip of his nose trails slowly along the side of your throat. 

You flinch when his tongue touches the place just beneath your jaw. The sensation is shockingly wet, unhurried, exploratory. He tastes you as though confirming what his hunger already knows. By the time he reaches the pulse at the base of your neck, your breath has gone shallow enough to hurt.

His mouth opens there, not biting yet, merely resting. Drool warms your skin. You feel the shape of his teeth with exquisite clarity.

“Please,” you whisper, though you no longer know what the plea is asking for: mercy, delay, waking, a different lineage, a sealed door two generations back.

He makes that quiet sound again, almost affectionate, and lifts his face enough for you to see the new sheen in his eyes. 

In the blue there’s red now, faint at first, then deepening from the center outward until each iris looks lit from behind by banked coals. 

“You should not have wandered so far tonight,” he says.

His hand releases your chin and travels downward with infuriating patience, over the damp lace at your collar, along the trembling line of your throat, between your breasts, pausing where the nightgown clings. 

Your whole body goes rigid. The old cotton has grown nearly transparent where his drool soaks it.

His palm presses there, broad and cool, over the frantic beat of your heart. He watches your face while he does it, not the movement of his hand. He watches every reaction, every involuntary tremor and tightening breath—your fear itself is a language he intends to master.

“You carry the sight like a fresh wound,” he murmurs. “No one teaches you how to close yourself after.”

You would deny that too if you could think around the path of his hand. 

He glides lower, deliberate enough that anticipation becomes its own injury, and stops just above the knot of your gathered nightgown at the waist. 

Your body betrays you then with a convulsive shiver. 

“There,” he says under his breath, more to your body than to you. “There you are.”

Shame and terror and something darker twist together until you cannot separate them.

He has not done enough to earn the heat rising through you, and yet your flesh begins to answer danger with a confusion older than sense. His pupils widen further. A fresh line of drool slips from the corner of his mouth and falls against your collarbone.

His fingers curl in the fabric at your waist, bunching it slowly. The old nightgown pulls tight over your knees, your thighs, the vulnerable length of you laid out beneath him. He seems to take a dreadful pleasure in each inch of surrender the moment forces from you: each breath you fail to steady, each futile shift beneath the imprisoning weight of him.

“No,” you manage, though it comes out breath-torn.

“Not no,” he says gently. “Not after a call like that.”

Before you can gather enough air to protest again, he bends and puts his mouth to yours.

His lips are cool, wet, and devastatingly slow, parting against yours with such patient certainty that for one stunned instant your body forgets fear in order to register detail, the silk-slick drag of spit, the faint metallic trace of old blood, the shape of his mouth, beautiful and monstrous in equal measure. 

He kisses as if feeding and prayer were once the same art where he comes from. 

When you turn your face away, he follows. When your lips press shut, he tastes the seam of them until panic forces you to gasp and gives him the opening he wants.

The sound that escapes him then is low and hungry enough to make the bed tremble beneath you.

He savors your first helpless breath against his tongue, the involuntary yielding of your mouth, the way your body arches under him only to recoil from its own response. By the time he lifts his head, your lips are wet with him. 

“You see?” he says, not unkindly. “You call for an answer, and now you’re listenin’.”

You hate him for making the room feel altered around the shape of his words, as though everything before this moment is merely the narrow vestibule to some deeper chamber of your life. 

The candle in the dish has long guttered out, but the dark does not feel complete. His eyes provide their own terrible light. Each glance from them brushing over your skin like heat from a hidden coal.

He slips one hand beneath the pillow and finds the little cross you keep there out of habit more than belief. 

When he holds it up between two fingers, the chain dangling, your breath catches. He examines it with interest, then lets it fall onto the bed beside your head.

“That is not what keeps me out,” he says.

Your pulse stumbles harder. “What does?”

He leans close enough that his face is inches from yours, shutting out the rest of the room. “You.”

The answer chills you more than any threat. 

For all the old stories about thresholds and charms and spoken permissions, the truest gate is never the house at all. It is your reaching, your call, your gaze meeting his over a dying woman’s body in the bent shape of a dream. 

The word hangs between you like a hook already sunk, and his mouth returns to yours before the echo of it can fade. 

This kiss is deeper, slower, a purposeful claiming. His tongue slides in with the same unhurried patience he has shown every other inch of you, tasting the faint rosemary still clinging to your lips from the ritual. He licks into you like he is learning the shape of your fear and the first reluctant bloom of heat beneath it. 

His free hand finally moves. It slips beneath the hem of your nightgown and drags up the inside of your thigh, fingertips rough with calluses tracing sweat-damp skin until the thin cotton bunches uselessly around your waist. 

You’re bare underneath—nothing but the humid summer air and the slick heat already gathering between your legs. Panic spikes sharp and sudden in your chest. Your thighs clamp together instinctively, trying to trap his wrist, but he’s stronger—so much stronger—and he simply pries them apart again with a low, amused sound.

“No—wait—” The words tumble out breathy and cracked as his palm cups your cunt fully, two thick fingers gliding through the slick seam of you without warning, parting you open.

The sound that leaves you is half sob, half gasp, and you buck hard under him, one hand shoving at his shoulder, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.

“Shh,” he murmurs into your mouth, swallowing the protest before it can grow. “Let me feel how sweetly you called.”

He strokes you slowly at first, parting your slick lips with the broad pads of his fingers, spreading the shamefully abundant arousal that has leaked out despite every ounce of fear still clawing through you. His middle finger finds your clit—swollen, throbbing—and circles it with lazy  pressure, then presses down just hard enough to make your hips twitch.

Suddenly, two fingers push inside you at once, and your cunt clenches around the sudden stretch and he groans quietly, the sound vibrating against your lips. He curls them slowly, searching, pressing firm against that spongy spot until your hips jerk.

He doesn't thrust yet. He simply holds them deep, scissoring gently, opening you while his thumb keeps working your clit in slow, wet circles.

“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling back just far enough to look at you. “Already drippin’ for the thing that killed your blood. Does that shame taste as good on your tongue as it does on mine?”

You turn your face sharply away, but he follows, licking a broad, filthy stripe up the side of your throat, collecting the salt of your sweat, then does it again, slower, teeth grazing the tendon.

His fingers begin to move—long, dragging strokes in and out, curling each time. 

The wet sounds are loud in the quiet room: the slow squelch of his fingers fucking you open, the slick slide of his thumb over your swollen clit, the helpless little gasps you cannot swallow down.

“Feel that,” he whispers, voice rough and pleased, mouth brushing your ear. “You hate how good it feels, don’t you, sweetheart?”

He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, the burn sharper now as your walls part around the thick intrusion. You gasp, back arching, and he swallows the sound with another deep kiss.

He keeps you pinned like that, one hand still holding your wrist above your head, the other thrusting into you.

His stubble scrapes your jaw as he kisses down your throat, sucking a bruise into the soft skin just below your ear. His eyes stay fixed on your face the whole time, drinking in every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-off whimper, every involuntary roll of your hips as you chase the pressure building low in your belly.

Your thighs are trembling now, spread wide and glistening with your own slick. The muscles in your stomach clench visibly with every curl of his fingers. He watches it all, that smile curving his mouth like he’s proud of the way your body betrays you.

He keeps the rhythm devastatingly slow, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, until your cunt is making wet, filthy noises with every thrust, until the pressure coils so tight you feel like you might shatter. 

Only then does he pull his fingers out completely, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing, a string of your arousal stretching between his fingers and your dripping hole before it breaks.

“You’re trying so hard to stay still. It’s sweet,” he murmurs, wet fingers trailing along the inside of your thigh while you shake your head frantically and try to close your legs again.

You shiver at the contact, eyes squeezing shut as he shifts above you.

He sits back on his heels, eyes dragging over your ruined state: nightgown shoved up around your ribs, breasts heaving with every ragged breath, nipples tight against the thin fabric, thighs spread obscenely wide and shining with slick. 

His own cock strains against his trousers, a thick, heavy bulge that twitches visibly when he finally opens his fly.

He frees himself with one hand, and his cock springs out—thick, flushed dark at the head, veins standing out along the heavy shaft, already leaking a steady bead of pre-cum that drips down the underside. It’s obscenely hard, curving slightly upward, the head glossy and swollen. He strokes himself once, twice, smearing the slick over the entire length while he watches your face, that patient hunger burning in his glowing eyes.

“On your back, just like this,” he says, voice low and rough.

He hooks your knees over his elbows and folds you open wider, spreading your thighs until your cunt is completely exposed—puffy, dripping, clit swollen and glistening. The blunt, leaking head of his cock nudges your entrance, hot and heavy against your cooler, soaked folds. He pushes in with one long, inexorable stroke.

Inch after thick inch sinks into you, stretching your walls wide around his girth. The burn is intense, your cunt fluttering and clenching as he fills you completely, bottoming out with his hips pressed flush against your ass. 

He stays buried deep for a long moment, letting you feel every throb, every vein, the way his cock pulses inside you like it belongs there.

“Fuck,” he groans, the sound low and guttural. 

He starts to move then—slow at first, dragging almost all the way out so you feel the thick head catch on your entrance before slamming back in to the hilt. 

The slap of his hips meeting your ass fills the room, loud and rhythmic. He fucks you deeper, harder, the angle perfect so every stroke drags over that sensitive spot inside you while the base of his cock grinds against your swollen clit.

His hands grip your thighs hard enough to leave marks, holding you open while he pounds into you. Sweat glistens on his chest where his shirt hangs open, dark hair damp at the temples, face catching the moonlight as his head tips back for a moment in pleasure. 

You give weak kicks of your heels against his back—but every movement only drives him deeper and makes your cunt clench tighter around him.

He leans down, mouth finding yours again in a hungry kiss. “You feel that?” he rasps against your lips, voice wrecked. 

The pace turns punishing. Long, brutal strokes that make the bed creak and knock against the wall.

Your thighs shake uncontrollably, cunt clenching and fluttering around his cock as the pressure builds again, hotter and sharper this time. He feels it, and his smile turns feral against your mouth.

“Come on, darlin’. Let me feel you fall apart on my cock. Squeeze me just like that—fuck, yes.”

The orgasm crashes over you without mercy, your cunt clamping down hard around his thick length in rhythmic, pulsing waves. He fucks you through it, never slowing, hips snapping harder while he groans low and filthy at the way your walls milk him.

Only when your shaking starts to ease does he chase his own release. 

His thrusts turn short and brutal as he drives as deep as he can. His cock throbs inside you, swelling even thicker, and with a low, guttural groan that vibrates through your whole body, he comes.

Thick, hot pulses of cum flood your cunt—endless, heavy ropes that you can feel leaking out around his cock with every shallow thrust he gives to push it deeper.

You push weakly at his chest one last time, but he keeps moving through it, slow and lazy now, grinding his hips in circles to fuck every last drop into you, making sure it stays deep inside.

When he finally stills he stays buried to the hilt, chest pressed to yours, cock still twitching with aftershocks inside your cunt. A thick trickle of his release leaks out around where you’re stretched so obscenely around him, dripping down your ass in warm, sticky trails.

His chest stays flush to yours, sweat-slick skin sliding together, the fabric of his shirt rasping against your nipples through the bunched nightgown. His eyes drift half-lidded over your face, a smile deepening as he feels the way your body keeps clenching around him, milking the last drops he’s already given you. 

One of his hands slides up your side, possessive and slow, fingers digging into the soft give of your waist, then higher, until his palm cups the side of your throat. His thumb strokes along the frantic jump of your pulse.

“You feel so good like this,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “All ruined. Full of me.”

He rolls his hips in a slow, lazy grind, stirring his cum deeper inside you. Your breath hitches, a broken little sound you can’t swallow down. He chuckles softly against your skin—warm, almost affectionate—and then his mouth moves lower.

His lips part over the tender spot where your neck meets your shoulder, the same place he tasted earlier with nothing but teasing licks. His breath ghosts hot and cool at once over your skin, and then his jaw opens wider, unhinging just enough to bare his teeth.

You feel the blunt scrape of his teeth first—human enough to feel intimate—then the sharp, serrated points denting the soft flesh, pressing harder until the skin splits with a faint wet pop.

He bites.

The pain is sudden and blinding, a white-hot explosion.

His teeth sink in with a brutal, meaty crunch, punching straight through skin and muscle like a knife through ripe fruit. The jagged edges tear deeper as he clamps down, ripping a ragged, gaping wound that splits muscle fibers and nicks the artery beneath.

Blood explodes into his mouth instantly—hot and coppery—pulsing out in violent, rhythmic jets with every frantic beat of your heart. It floods over his tongue in heavy gushes, spilling from the corners of his lips in bright red rivulets that run down his chin and drip onto your chest in warm, sticky splatters.

He groans deep in his chest, the sound guttural, vibrating straight into the torn meat of your neck as he locks his jaw tighter, grinding his teeth deeper into the wound to widen it.

The pull is savage, greedy, like he’s trying to drink you down to the bone. He sucks hard—violent, rhythmic pulls that make the torn edges of your flesh flutter and gape wider with every tug.

His tongue flattens against the ragged, pulsing hole he’s made, lapping and slurping up the hot rush of blood with wet, filthy sounds that fill the room like an animal feeding.

It pours down your collarbone in thick, glossy sheets, soaking the front of your nightgown instantly, turning the pale cotton dark and heavy as it clings to your breasts. It runs in warm rivers between your bodies, smearing across his chest where his shirt hangs open, mixing with the sweat and the cum still leaking from where he’s buried inside you. The metallic smell is overwhelming, sharp and iron-heavy in the humid air.

Your whole body seizes violently beneath him.

The agony blooms outward in white-hot, shattering waves, radiating down your arm and up into your skull until your vision sparks with black stars. It crashes against the lingering aftershocks of your orgasm, twisting pleasure and pain together so viciously you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins—your cunt still fluttering and milking his cock even as your neck feels like it’s being torn apart.

You convulse, back arching hard off the mattress, legs kicking uselessly against his hips as fresh blood sprays across the pillow and the headboard with every frantic pump of your heart.

He works his mouth against the wound like a starving man, sucking harder, deeper, swallowing loud and greedy with audible, wet gulps that make your stomach turn even as your body betrays you again.

His cock throbs inside you in time with every pull at your throat, like the taste of your blood is making him hard all over again.

You feel your vision starting to tunnel, the edges going dark and fuzzy. Your hands scrabble weakly at his shoulders, nails clawing bloody furrows down his back through his shirt, but he only moans louder into the gaping bite and thrusts once more, grinding the head of his cock against that spot deep inside you while he drinks.

The scream builds in your chest, raw and terrified, clawing its way up your throat past the blood and the pain and the unbearable fullness of him still buried inside you. 

You finally find the air for it, shooting upright in bed with a scream that tears out of you like it’s being ripped from your lungs.

The sound dies in the empty room the instant your eyes fly open. 

Your heart is hammering so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs. Sweat soaks your nightgown, plastering the thin cotton to your breasts and stomach, and between your legs you are shamefully, impossibly wet—thighs slick, the quilt beneath you damp and warm. 

You’re alone. 

The fan turns lazily overhead. The candle in the saucer has burned itself out hours ago, leaving only a stub of blackened wick. Moonlight still spills through the open window, silver and ordinary and completely harmless.

You press both hands over your mouth, trying to muffle the next sob that wants to escape. Tears spill hot and fast down your cheeks, dripping off your chin onto the quilt. Your throat burns like it’s been torn open, but when your trembling fingers fly up to check, the skin is smooth. 

“It was a dream,” you whisper, voice cracked and shaking. “Just a dream. Just a nightmare. He’s not here. None of it was real.”

You repeat it again, slower, like the words might anchor you if you say them enough times. 

Your hands drop to clutch at the quilt, knuckles blanching, trying to steady the wild tremble running through every limb. 

The room smells only of rosemary and old wood and the faint, distant night air drifting through the screen. Nothing else. No cool breath on your skin. No weight pinning you down. No thick, leaking heat still deep inside you.

You draw in a ragged breath, then another, forcing your shoulders to drop, forcing your racing heart to slow. Tears keep slipping down your face anyway, silent now, as you stare at the dark photograph on the dresser across the room.

“It was just a dream,” you tell the empty air one last time, barely more than a breath.

But even as you say it, the phantom ache between your legs refuses to fade—the slick, full feeling of being used and filled still clings to your body like a memory that hasn’t quite realized it was never real.

-

It had been weeks since that night in the attic, and your life had become a dizzying game of emotional and quite literal gymnastics. 

The weather was turning colder, the mud turning thicker and the mist into a biting nuisance. Time had passed, and the roads started to blur together, enough that everyone had settled into their routine and no one talked about them out loud.

Your night with Jimmy Shite did nothing to satisfy the hunger you had for Jimmy, and yet you still entertained Shite's attention when the night took over.

You didn't touch him, not like you had done back in that house, but you still talked - joked even about the way the two of you had fucked like everyone wasn't sleeping downstairs. 

If anyone had heard you, they didn't comment. You knew you could've pinned the noises on Jimmy Jones and Jimmy Snake if need be.

Jimmy Shite didn't push for anything more either, nor did he try to turn it into something it wasn't. You both just needed the release, and you were more than okay with that. 

Still, the two of you became closer. Shared sleeping bags when the frost got too thick, shared food and drink, night watch spent just talking about your time before finding Jimmy.

You were still head over heels for Jimmy through it all, even if his behaviour towards you had changed ever so slightly.

Your night watches used to be shared with Jimmy Shite, but tonight, Jimmy had permanently assigned you to the first watch with Jimmy Ink. Shite would then swap out with Jimmy Fox when your time was up. 

Naively, you chalked up the changes to Jimmy wanting the best of his fingers to be watching over everyone as they slept.

Neither of you minded at the end of the day, the safety of the group was the first priority.

During the days however, Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal started seeking you out more than ever. He used to walk amongst everyone else, but now he'd walk beside you, talking up a storm whenever the moment went quiet.

At night when everyone was asleep, he'd find you in your corner of the camp, keeping you entertained whilst you stood on watch.

You revelled in it. The attention felt unreal, undeserving almost. But you would take anything Jimmy would give you, even if it was advice on weapons and fighting that you didn't need. 

"Did I ever tell ye about Noo-Noo?" He asks you one afternoon as you all walk on a long forgotten trail. His eyes were bright as he kept his hands in his pockets during his stride. "Cannae remember if I have."

"The vacuum thing?" You replied, nodding along as you checked ahead occasionally for any signs of infected. "You have, but you can tell me more if it's not any trouble."

Your leader could talk about The Telletubies for hours if given the chance, and his face had lit up at the opportunity. "Aw hen, you should've seen him. Little blue thing living with the others in their house, always up for a laugh, a classic really.”

"Did he have a tv in his belly too?"

He chuckled instantly at your question, almost finding the innocence of the question cute. "Naw sweetheart - he didn't, he was a vacuum remember?"

You shrug as you walk, looking around again at the vast wasteland. "I don't really know what a vacuum is Jimmy."

Jimmy.

You forgot to add his title.

Instantly your head whips around to correct yourself, your mouth opening for a quick apology when you find Jimmy already looking at you.

He's just smiling, as if the very accident had made his day.

"Ye naw missing much," He sighs almost like he was in a memory, still looking at you as his eyes dart all over. "But s'alright, just means I have to tell you everything I know then eh? Ye should know all about the world we had before the demons came."

He didn't care about the fact you called him Jimmy.

Maybe he didn't hear you properly? 

It's nothing. Just an accident. It can't happen again.

It won’t happen again.

Yes it will.

You beamed at the notion almost instantly, nodding at the man as you smile with teeth. You adored these moments, just being in his orbit and listening to his velvet voice weave story after story about the time before. 

Jimmy Jones had called for him just moments later, having an idea for a place to camp. He seemed reluctant to part ways with you, but excused himself nonetheless.

Jimmy Shite, much to his dismay, took his spot almost instantly as you walked ahead. 

He watched on with narrowed eyes as the dark blue of Shite's tracksuit almost blurred into your pink one, his fists clenched as you and the other Jimmy ran ahead, taking out two runners who were yet to notice your group.

Jimmy knew he was being unreasonable, but he could hear his fathers voice in his head within seconds of seeing you shove your knife into an infected woman’s neck. 

'Resourceful.'

"Aye, she is," Jimmy finds himself saying out loud, and Jimmy Jones looks at him in confusion, having asked if he was happy with the spot they had found on their map. 

The others look at him, but they don't question his actions. Jimmy just blankly stares at them before he shakes himself out of it, looking back down to the map.

"Hm? Oh yes, that’ll do.”

-

That night, you had all set up camp in an abandoned shop due to a sudden burst of rain.

Everyone had already fallen asleep in the back room, Jimmy Ink and yourself sitting on what used to be the register counter.

The windows were already barred and covered by pieces of wood, the only exit to the building being covered by a chest of drawers.

Still, you both kept watch. Runners could break the door down if their numbers were high enough, an Alpha wouldn't even struggle to tear the door down if need be.

The rain was on your side however, the heaviness against the still in tact roof providing enough cover to talk at a normal level.

The two of you shared some apples you had found in the remains of someone’s yard, the only sound being the occasional chuckle at the hefty bites you both took.

It was simple, but the laughs were needed.

You could see though that something was weighing on Ink's mind, so as the two of you now sat on opposite sides of the counter, backs pressed against some columns, you nudged her foot roughly.

"Out with it Inky."

“Ow,” She eyes you, as if thinking if she should speak her mind. You give her a look, and she throws another cut piece of apple in your direction. "Fine, what are you doing with Jimmy Shite?"

You catch the piece of fruit, eyeing her with tight lips before you speak. "What do y'mean?"

"Don't act thick, you're tripping over your feet for Sir Jimmy but bouncing on Jimmy Shite, what's that about?" She snaps, her lopsided wig moving around on her head as she points her knife at you.

It wasn't aggresive by any means, and it was her words that had you sitting up straighter.

"I don't - I'm not," You stammer before slumping against the column again. "I bounced on it once okay? That's literally it, nothing else, s'not like I'm in love with 'em."

Her lip quirks. "Because you're in love with Sir Jimmy." "I didn't say that-."

"Didn't need too," She cuts you off. "Can tell, so why fuck around with Shite then?"

"Is it a crime to fuck someone?" You ask, a scoff on your lips right after. "Jesus, what are you, my ma?"

"Thank Satan I'm not if that's who you choose," She scoffs as well, but the two of you chuckle at each other. "I'm just saying that I don't really get it? Of all people, ye go for Shite?"

"Well I'm not going for Fox," You shrug. "Guess I just wanted to feel what the fuss was about ye know? What Jimmy Jones and Snake do every day, is that so bad?"

Ink gives you a now gentle glance. "S'not the same Pinky and you know it. Those two actually love each other, what you're doing with Shite is just fun." 

"And fun is bad? Besides I’m not doing anythin' with Shite," You correct your friend. "We fooled around back on the last charity night, that was it. Haven't even kissed him since."

"Why? If it's just some fun then, why aren't you still doin' it?"

Her question stops you. 

Why weren't you continuing it all?

It was fun, you can admit that. The orgasm you had was great too, but you weren't in a rush to keep entertaining the other Jimmy. 

You knew why, and so does she.

It's because it wasn't him.

"Because you love Jimmy," Ink says again, smiling as you eventually nod. "You don’t have to worry, I won't say anything."

"I'm a proper idiot, aren't I Inky?" You groan, and Ink immediately shakes her head, moving across the counter until she sits by your feet. "I just don’t get it, when I look at Jimmy, I feel weird. It's like everything is better? It’s stupid because I know tomorrow is never guaranteed but when I'm talking to him? It doesn't matter, I'll take now if that's all I get."

"But?"

"But I cannae have him, so what's the point?" Your voice turns softer, a whisper, and Ink just smiles again, her hand resting on your own as she leans forward. "He doesn't even let me do Charity anymore, s'like he doesn't really need me as a finger these days."

Jimmy Ink stares at you for a long beat, a knowing look in her brown eyes. "Have you… tried talking to Sir Jimmy about all of this?"

You gawk at her, a startled laugh escaping your throat. "Are you mental? He's the Chosen Son, why the fuck would he even entertain all of this? He'd probably laugh and… and I don't know, exile me instantly?"

"Pinky," She cuts you off with a laugh of her own. "You idiot, you don't do charity anymore because Jimmy's doesn't want you getting picked during the Choosing ceremony," She laughs even harder at your widened eyes. "You've no idea how Jimmy feels 'bout you do you?"

"He's just… protective of the group," You counter weakly, mulling her words over. "He said Old Nick picks me to scout to keep everyone safe, that's it."

Ink throws her head back in a soft groan as you try to excuse the mans actions. "I've just told you, it's not Old Nick, it's all Jimmy," She squeezes your hands for emphasis. "Don't get me wrong, you're good with a knife, but Jimmy doesn't want you hurt and neither does Old Nick clearly,”

“You mean something to the both of 'em. If the Father is fond of you, I doubt the Son is far behind."

You sit in stunned silence, your heart thudding against your ribs. You look towards the closed door where the others all sleep, Ink's words taking over your thoughts.

It should've been disappointing - finding out that it wasn't Old Nick forcing you to miss out on Charity, but Jimmy. 

But it didn't, it made you feel warm inside. 

Wanted. Protected. Needed.

The Morning Star didn't want to risk you being taken from him, and it did nothing but ignite that burning heat in your chest. 

-

The rain doesn't stop.

It doesn't soften, the sound slamming against the roof of the sports centre you all now huddled in. Water surprisingly doesn't leak through, the large building providing a decent amount of cover as you all await out the now brewing storm.

A pool lays empty on one side, a large indoor playground on the other. Various rooms and offices had been ransacked to the bone, but you all managed to set up your sleeping bags on some gym matting.

"Doesn't smell as bad," Jimmy Fox looks around at the large playground tunnels that tower over everyone. "All things considered."

Jimmy Snake snorts, nudging Fox with his elbow before he walks ahead. "You probably smell worse mate."

"I had a fuckin' bath back in that house thank you very much," Fox then turns to you with a point of his finger. "A cold one at that." You shrug at him, a half smile on your lips. "And yet you still smell like a bawbag."

The others laugh softly, and Fox just flips everyone off as he follows after Snake. Truthfully you were all in the same boat, but the rain had provided some relief to the usual sweaty and bloodied state the world left you in. 

You pull your wig off and throw it to your sleeping bag, your tracksuit jacket coming off second. It was soaked through completely, and you walk to the edge of the drained pool to wring it out.

Your arms tense as you tighten the jacket, determined to get as much water out as possible when you hear footsteps coming up from beside you.

"Ye gonna catch a cold," Jimmy pipes up and you turn your head, seeing that he's already looking you over. "I've got Ink making a fire, c'mon now."

His hand is out, waving you towards him, but you shake your head. "I'm alright," Turning to face him completely, you nod your head towards the entrance. "I was gonna find something to cover the door before we all settle for the night."

Jimmy hums, his eyes darting noticeably to your chest before back to your eyes. You were just in your track pants and white vest, goosebumps over your uncovered skin. "Ye sure 'bout that?' 

"Pretty sure," You hand Jimmy your jacket, almost testing the waters with your Sir Lord. "Would it be alright if you put this by the fire for me? I'll be over in a tick."

He hesitates, mouth opening as if to ask you again to join the others before he reluctantly grabs your cover. You give him a brief smile before excusing yourself, exhaling roughly the moment you're outside of Jimmy's vicinity. 

Since that night on watch with Jimmy Ink, your head hasn't shut up. Her voice keeps replaying over and over, ruining any chance you had with focusing. 

"You've no idea how Jimmy feels 'bout you do you?"

You feel ridiculous for even thinking about it. 

You're in love with Satan's son. A man who talks about the Teletubbies and the Power Rangers like they were gospel but hands out death like it was second nature.

A man who touches you just enough to make you question everything and then step away like it means nothing. 

Or worse - like it means too much.

When you finally make it back to the others, you sit between Jimmy Jones and Jimmy Jimmy, leaning back on your hands as you soak in the heat from the fire.

The doors were all barricaded, a peace of mind as you heard the thunder in the distance.

Sir Jimmy sits on the bleachers behind you all, elbows on his knees. His tiara was crooked, and you notice your jacket cover was beside him.

He'd kept it close.

You didn't question it. Didn't question him. 

Already you'd back talked on more than one occasion, refused his request to join the others. He looked lost in thought until his eyes look to you. 

Not a long look by any means but as the night progresses, you find him staring more and more. His blue eyes flicker towards you as you lean towards the others, even as you reach for the canned food Jimmima passes over. 

Even as you climb into your sleeping bag, Jimmy just watches with a tensed jaw and a darkened gaze.

He's watching everything.

By the third day of staying in the sports centre, you're crawling out of your skin.

Your thoughts are clouded. Your body feels coiled tight. You keep catching yourself glancing towards Jimmy Shite and then immediately looking away, the memory of that night still lingering.

You didn't seek him out, but the desire and the need for a distraction grew. He was almost an option in your head.

But you didn't want almost.

You just wanted him.

But the man in question seemed distracted himself, and you noticed Jimmy wandering off more and more to have conversations with Old Nick.

He'd seem tense every time he walked back, only occasionally appearing at peace with whatever his dad had told him.

Still, you were losing your mind. You just wanted to know where you stood with him, with everyone. As everyday passed, you felt less and less like a finger.

Despite Jimmy Ink telling you that Jimmy didn't allow you to do charity in case you were picked for the choosing ceremony, you still felt like there was a possibility she was lying.

That maybe she was just telling you what you wanted to hear because you were friends.

Either way, you felt unneeded, that sooner or later you would be exiled. You knew it was just the dread from being cooped up inside that was causing it all.

You want to break something, to sink your knife into anything, but the rain outside didn't relent.

When the supplies started getting low, you're on your feet before anyone else. 

"No, ah ah,” Jimmy's tutting, already pointing at you with a shake of his head. "No, not you - we'll send Fox out."

"He won't find shit," Ink pipes up from where she sits on the bleachers, Jimmy sending her an annoyed glance at being spoken back too. "Pinky's quicker."

Jimmy Fox opens his mouth to defend himself, but stops upon seeing Jimmy's expression.

"It'll be fine," You're reaching for your bag, double checking that your knife was still around your waist. "In and out, I'll head to that charity house again if I don't find anything."

“Eager are we?” Jimmy sits up straighter. "You're just lookin' for a fight out there."

You don't deny it, but you don't ignore it either. "We need the food don't we? It's alright, I'll even take 'Mima."

Jimmima perks up, nodding her head eagerly. "Sounds good to me, Sir?"

He lulls it over, it's obvious he wants to say no and send someone else, but you can see too that he was having some internal conflict.

"Sir Jimmy?" You ask again, noticing the way his eyes close with a soft sigh as you say his name. 

"Fine," He shrugs like he was defeated, waving you both off. "Fine, yes, but I want ye both back before sundown."

Both Jimmima and you grin, the Jimmy in baby blue bumping you with her shoulder as you nod at your leader. "We won't be too long.”

Outside, the rain is pouring harder. It soaks through the two of you in minutes, sticking your pink tracksuit to your skin.

Jimmima jogs beside you, humming something unsettlingly cheerful as you point out which paths you should take.

You're thinking about which house should be checked first when Jimmima stops, hitching her bag over her shoulders tighter. "Is everything okay with you?"

Why was everyone asking you this.

"Yeah?" You answer quickly, pulling her under what used to be a bus stop. Rain still fell through, but didn't drown you completely. "Why?"

"Just," She now fidgets with the straps of her bag. "You've been super quiet, I don't really like it."

Oh.

"I’m okay," You look back towards the street, checking for any movement. As much as the rain provided good cover for infected, there was still the odd runner here and there that didn't care. "Just been busy is all." "Doing what?" She asks again, her own eyes checking the surroundings. "You've not done any charities or anything for awhile, what are you busy with?”

Your head snaps back to hers, your jaw tense. She had a point, even if it did sting. "Cheers for the reminder Jimmima."

"I'm just saying," She giggles through it, not being able to tell that you're annoyed. Or if she did, she chose not to care. "Is it why Sir Jimmy is acting weird too?"

That made your eyes widen just a fraction. "How's he acting?"

"Mm, he's just been quiet too, s'weird," She just shrugs. "Maybe Old Nick's been talking to him more or something."

"Yeah, that could be it," You pass her off, needing to change the subject. "C'mon, we'll check out those lots and that baby place, might even head out to that farm house we passed before."

She beams, already walking to the first house without another word.

The first few buildings are empty, which you weren't exactly shocked by. The next were also stripped of anything worth taking or far too damaged to even enter.

Jimmima finds some fairy wings in the remains of the daycare, holding them up in a silent way of asking if she can have them. She's already wearing some cat ears she had picked up from another room. 

You just shrug at her with a nod. "May as well leave with something."

-

She's skipping ahead now, fairy wings on her back as she runs her hands through the tall blades of grass. The two of you make your way to the old farmhouse you had walked past days prior, bags still empty.

You were quieter now that you were further out into the unknown, knife already out as you kept your eyes on your surroundings. 

The area was empty all things considered, and your grip on your knife only tightened when a deer runs past. Jimmima looks back in excitement, and you match her expression, the both of you watching the animal disappear into the forest. 

"Did you see how big it was?" She keeps her voice low, and you nod at her. "Could feed us for days."

"Massive," You agree, but you put her hand on her shoulder, pressing forward. "But it was probably spooked by somethin', s'keep moving."

Jimmima just continues walking, getting her own knife out as the two of you reach the front door to the rotting farmhouse.

It looked far worse than you thought, but you knew that even the most derelict of places could have supplies hiding amongst them. 

It was a dud.

The place full of nothing but dust. The pair of you had scoured the entire place from top to bottom, finding nothing worth taking and not any type of sustenance.

Jimmima finds though what you knew was a Frisbee, Jimmy having talked about the piece of plastic in the past. It was the only colourful thing in the house, Jimmima turning it over in her hands. "Is this anything useful?"

"It's a toy,” You tell her, looking at the red circle as she looks at you confused. “You uh, throw it around with people and catch it… I think."

"Ooh, like a ball?" She flips it over, eyes narrowing at it. "It bounces?"

"Naw," You laugh, shaking your head. "It flies, Jimmy told us about them a couple of months ago, remember?"

"Jimmy?" She repeats with a raised eyebrow. "Sir Jimmy?"

You clear your throat. "Yeah, Sir Jimmy."

She just giggles, stepping forward to hand you the Frisbee when you hear something creak.

You hear the footsteps before you can comment, Jimmima already whipping around quickly at the intrusion.

A man steps into the doorway. Not infected, standing tall and far dirtier than you. His clothes were ragged, and he sported an unkept beard and wide eyes.

"We'll I'll be damned."

Your hand is on your knife instantly, stepping forward until you're in front of Jimmima. She holds her own knife, the plastic frisbee already on the floor as she raises her weapon.

The man smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes, and his hands raise. "Saw you two walkin' before," He clears his throat, titling his head towards outside with a quick nod. "Thought I might've been seein' things, with the wigs 'n all that."

Your eyes narrow, fingers gripping your knife tighter. The man reeked, his skin caked in dirt and something you couldn't name. "You scared the deer."

"Guilty," He shrugs, his smile never wavering. "Never was good at stayin' quiet."

"Clearly you are if you've made it this long." You retort, and again he shrugs. It was clear the man was older than Jimmy, even under all the muck. He’s been around since before the demons came.

"Observant thing huh? My names Bran-"

"Don't care," You cut him off, noticing the way his eye twitches. "You've got ten seconds to leave, get going.”

"Oh come on," He scoffs, but he makes no effort to move. "Why the hostility? I've not seen people in a while, least none that aren't trying tae tear me apart." 

He laughs at his own joke, you and Jimmima sharing a quick glance to each other.

"Give it time," You say again, and the mans smile finally drops. "Seven seconds."

His foot steps forward, and both you and Jimmima hold your knives up in his direction. He just laughs, his dark eyes looking you up and down before they turn to the woman in baby blue.

"What about her eh? She talk? Or do you just do it all," He winks at Jimmima. "Nice wings bonnie, this your ma here? Sure acts like it, it's quite sweet."

You feel it immediately, that shift in the air. Another predator, but one worse than you. His confidence built on underestimating what you're both capable of. 

Jimmima stiffens and she looks towards you again. You nod, the silent permission all she needed. She runs forward towards him and as suspected, the man pulls a knife out from somewhere in his pants.

She catches him off balance before he can swipe, and Jimmima's reaching for his knife when he kicks his leg out, catching her in the stomach. 

She falls back to the wooden floor with a pained grunt, her hand on her belly. You're already jumping over her, using your own knife to cut at his arm as he yells out.

He drops his knife as he reaches for the bleeding gash on his arm, and your elbow jabs at his throat with as much force as you can muster, your teeth grinding together as you hear him choke. 

His other hand reaches out, pulling at your wig in his desperate need for leverage. He yanks the blond mess off, and you cut at his other arm again, his eyes squeezing shut as he stumbles back.

He gasps for air, and you deliver a sharp blow with the hilt of your knife to his temple, sending him crashing into the already broken staircase. 

His arrogance ignited something in you, a white hot flash of the rage you'd been suppressing for months now. 

"Jimmima," You attempt to catch your breath, quickly kneeling down beside her as she sits up. The man was knocked out, laying against the stairs in an awkward position. "You okay? Where's it hurt?"

She waves you off, just groaning as you help her up to her feet. "Cunt hurt my tummy," She doubles over as she collects her own breath, and her head tilts, seeing the blood on his arms. "He dead?"

"No," You dust off her behind, and she eyes the man with a glare. She searches for her knife, hobbling slightly as she does so. "Not yet, but he should be."

She spins around on the balls of her feet despite the pain in her stomach. Her eyebrows raise. "Charity?"

"Charity," You repeat, your voice low and shaking with adrenaline. "But not without the others, y'think you can head on out and get them?"

"And leave you here with him?"

You wave her off with a pish. "I'll tie him up."

“I don’t know,” Your friend hesitates. "You sure Pinky?"

"Yeah," The man looked like he was out cold. "Go."

She leaves reluctantly, her jelly shoes squelching into the mud as she ventures out into the rain.

Once her blue suit disappears from your line of vision, you turn around, seeing the man twitching from where he lay.

He’s heavy despite his clear lack of food. You're dragging him by his feet when he groans. You've already dropped him roughly, walking back around to quickly grab your rope from your bag when you feel rough hands grasping at your hips.

You curse at yourself for turning your back on him.

Rusty.

Your head snaps up instantly, shooting backwards until it connects with what you assumed was his nose. A faint crunch greets your ears, but he fights back again, his hands gripping at your tracksuit until the material rips in a filthy scramble for dominance.

You didn't scream, didn't shout curse words, you just worked. The top half of your suit is torn off, leaving you in your vest as you throw a punch.

The man grunts again, throwing your jacket to the floor as he makes another attempt to grab your arms. You're pushed against the wall, a pained cry finally leaving your lips as he pins your arms to your side.

His blooded nose is in your neck, inhaling as he shivers. His beard scratches at your skin as you hiss. “Fuckin' right beauty eh?”

He feels your chest rising and falling against him, a smile on his lips as he hears noises out of your mouth. He assumes it’s tears, that you’re sobbing.

It's only when he pulls back to admire his handiwork that he sees you grinning, laughter bubbling from your chest. His eyes squint in confusion before he feels you push your weight against the wall.

Your feet are pressed against his stomach before he can move, and you use the wall as leverage to push with all of your weight. 

The man drops once more, and you're on him in seconds, hitting him in the face until all that was left was a mask of red.

You stop when his grip weakens, and the relief in your chest at hearing his gurgled breathing made you smile.

Blood coats your fists, your vest completely stained and cheeks covered. The floor was stained, some even flicking onto the walls.

He was still alive.

Just, and you peer down at him, arms on the sides of his head as his bruised eyes struggle to stay open. His nose was broken and split, teeth chipped or missing and scattered to the floor. 

Probably why your fists hurt so much.

His lips were swollen, cheeks puffed and beard coated in red. Your mind was spinning, but adrenaline let you keep going.

Your head tilts as you grin, a deep chuckle echoing in the room as you rest your weight further against his chest. He wheezes, and you lean down until your forehead presses against his, eyes bearing down, wide and sharp.

"Charity," You whisper and the man grunts again, one final attempt at fighting back. "Ah ah, none of that now," You reach for your knife that you'd put back in its sheath after the first knockout.

He coughs out a word that resembles please, but the letters were jumbled, muffled with the now lack of teeth. 

"Old Nick forgive me."

-

By the time Jimmy and the others arrive, the scene was gruesome.

The man swings by his ankles from a rafter, swaying gently. Jimmy enters slowly, the others all holding weapons as they check for any other problems.

A plastic bag was cinched over the dangling man’s head, hiding his face but doing nothing to hide the blood. His shirt was long gone, his bare torso telling a whole other story. 

"My my," Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal's voice echoes in the small room. He walks around the man like he was inspecting a piece of art. "You've been busy sweetheart."

Jimmy finds his name carved into the mans skin in deep, jagged capital letters, the blood still weeping down until it drips to the floor below.

A dark, possessive spark lights up in his blue eyes. Jimmy whistles lowly, looking over your handiwork before he sees you sitting against the wall further in the room, knees drawn up, hands sticky with your hunting knife still in hand.

His mouth opens to speak, the others piling into the room as they take in your charity case. The man whimpers from where he hangs, clearly hearing the many footsteps, and you slowly lift your head.

"He's alive?" He says quietly, but moves until he's kneeling down beside you. 

"Barely," You whisper back, letting Jimmy take the knife from your hands. "Waited for you."

Jimmy looks back, eyeing the carvings in the mans flesh, your torn jacket on the floor, until he sees your hands up close. "My brave Pinky," It didn't take a genius. "We'll leave him here," He adds, handing your knife to someone behind him before he helps you to your feet. "Demons will get him eventually,"

No one argues.

"I've got ye sweetheart," Jimmy puts his arm around your waist, noticing the distant look on your face. "Alright? We've all got ye."

You don't comment, just nodding as you let him guide you out. Jimmima grabs your bag from the floor, Jimmy Ink grabbing your wig and Jimmy Shite finding the remains of your tracksuit jacket.

Your friends all look on worryingly, sparing the man strung up a final glance before they follow after you both. Jimmy Fox spits at the floor near him, making sure to leave the doors wide open behind him as he walks over the forgotten frisbee.

-

The group had walked you to a small stream whilst the sun was still up, even if it hid behind the clouds. Jimmy Ink helps clean you up to the best of her ability.

You let her, not out of fear, but because your muscles ached more than you were willing to admit, the adrenaline well and truly gone.

Jimmy watched from the waters edge, his hands in his pockets and eyes never leaving yours. The others all stood around on watch, weapons in hand in case any runners or other unexpected guests decided to show.

The rain still poured down, the clouds dark and grey, but no one rushed you.

By the time you were clean, you'd started talking again, assuring everyone you were just frazzled after such an ordeal. You were smiling, laughing as you were helped out of the water, and everyone seemed content with having you back to normal.

All except Jimmy.

It was as if he was the only one who could tell your smile didn't reach your eyes like usual.

That night, the centre feels wrongfully cheerful.

You were dressed now in one of Jimmy's clean shirts, a pair of someone's pants on your waist. Someone joked that the next mission was to find you a new tracksuit, you chuckled just once in agreement.

Jimmy Jones and Snake had ventured back to the house from days ago for more food, returning with plenty more as everyone cheered.

After eating, most of the gang had started kicking around a football in the drained pool, Jones sitting on the edge as Jimmy Ink and Jimmima sat by the fire talking.

It was a celebration of sorts, a festive way of celebrating the haul of supplies and your charity.

A soul for old Nick was always worth celebrating.

Only you weren't celebrating, wandering off to find somewhere quiet. You just wanted to sleep, but with everyone being loud and proud, you didn’t have many options.

Everything ached, your hands bruised and cut. There were bruises no doubt on your back and hips, and so you just pleaded with the lord below to let you find somewhere soft and safe to sleep in.

You ended up crawling deep into the heart of the padded fort of the indoor playground. Curling up in the dark, your eyes closed for what felt like hours until you hear plastic crinkling nearby.

A silhouette blocks the entrance to the tunnel, but you make no effort to move.

"Bit of a tight squeeze for a man of my stature," Jimmy purrs, crawling in until he sits beside you in the cramped space. "Not the most ideal spot tae sleep in neither, ye want tae tell me why we're hiding in here?"

"I'm not hiding," You retort, shuffling a little in an effort to give him room. "Just… Needed some space, some quiet."

Jimmy looks around with a raised eyebrow. "This is space?"

"Well it was before you got in here."

You waited again for the reprimand, the scolding for talking back to him. But still, it never comes, Jimmy just chuckling as he nods in agreement. "Suppose, ye want tae tell me why we wanted some space and quiet then? You’ve being all… distant. S'not like you at all."

You hesitate.

It felt like a trap, like he already knew what you were thinking and feeling but wanted to hear it from your lips instead.

"I just…" You trail off, picking at a loose thread on your borrowed pants. "I overstepped today and I’m worried.”

"Hm?"

You sigh, eyes squeezing shut before you just think fuck it, the punishment will come anyway.

"I overstepped. I did charity without permission and without Old Nick's approval," The words come out quick and without a breath. "I was angry, at him, at you. He tried touching me and I just couldn't stop, I had to see him bleed and so I did,”

“So I’m… I'm sorry Sir, and I hope Old Nick will forgive me for my wrongdoings."

You're waiting for the laugh, for the insults and for his orders. But Jimmy just leans forward, his face inches from yours. In the confined space, he smells of the rain.

"Cut that Sir shite out, I think we already know ye don't gotta do that anymore," He reaches out, his hand on your knee gently as your heart quickens. "And why say sorry? You were perfect, did exactly what I would’ve done,

“Only I would’ve taken his hands, made sure he knew he couldn't touch what wasn't his. Naw a fan of knowing people have touched you, isn’t that funny?”

"Jimmy?"

"Ye did exactly what you were meant to do," He continues. "Exactly what Old Nick wanted, what I wanted."

It was all too much. His words did nothing to stop the butterflies that ran a muck in your stomach.

The relief at knowing Old Nick wasn’t upset didn't even come close to helping your anxiety, but the praise helped only a little. You looked at him, the blond hair and the tiara, the upside down cross, and you see a man, not the Lord. 

You see the man who talks about the world before and shares it all with you. The man you love so much that it hurts. It wasn’t infatuation, it never was.

Jimmy tilts his head. He reaches out again, his hand surprisingly warm despite the rings on his fingers as he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over a small smear of dry blood that Jimmy Ink had missed.

His voice drops to a gravelly hum. "That's not it though is it? What's really going on in that head of yours?"

Your heart pounds. 

"That… I might have to keep to myself," You whisper, your heart hammering so hard that it feels like it would crack a rib or two. "It’s not right, I… I feel like it's a sin."

Jimmy just grins. "I am His Son," He reminds you, eyes dark and intense. "I think I get to decide what's a sin and what's not, don’t you think? Go on, tell me."

“Ink said you feel the same and I don’t really believe her,” You look at his lips before you look back to his eyes, the silence between you both stretching until it snapped. “But… I can't handle not knowing where I stand with you anymore."

Before he can ask what you meant, you turn your head. It was a clumsy, desperate movement considering the small space. You press your lips against his, your eyes closing with the sudden, terrifying rush of it all.

You expected him to push you away, to cast you out, to scream about sacrilege.

But for a heartbeat, Jimmy just freezes. 

Then, a low guttural sound, half a growl - half a moan, erupts from his throat. His hands fly to your waist, his rings biting into your skin as he pulls you flush against him.

The positioning was awkward given your location, so you adjust yourself, moving until you’re sitting in his lap as he returns the kiss with a savage, starving intensity. 

Jimmy pulls you even closer, hands reaching down until they’re grasping at your ass through your pants in an attempt to leave no space between you.

You move your head on an angle, your own hands around his neck as he deepens the kiss with a soft groan of your name. Your real name, not Jimmy, not Pinky.

-

"It smells like shit."

Jimmy Fox laughs loudly from where he's crouching, his wig slipping sideways as he pokes his knife towards the slow-low half buried in the mud. “That's proper feral that."

The infected answers with a wet, pathetic groan, fingers clawing at the dirt as it's belly drags through the soil beneath. It tries to surge forward and fails, face planting with an even wetter noise.

Your nose turns up at the sight, turning your attention back to the knife in your hand. You sit on a log slick with moss, your pink tracksuit streaked with stains of blood, both infected and non infected.

You drag the edge of your blade across a rock, now hearing Jimmy Jimmy chuckle as he moves, standing behind the slow infected with his bat in his hand.

The two Jimmy's continue teasing the demon, dancing just out of reach, and you shake your head. The others all stand around, sprawled out in your makeshift rest spot as you wait for Sir Jimmy to finish talking with Old Nick in private.

Somewhere far off, something screams, but it's distant enough to ignore. The slow-low reaches again, Fox taking a singular step back as it once again fails at a successful meal.

Jimmy Shite snorts from where he’s perched on his own rock, dark blue tracksuit zipped to his chin. “That thing’s got less fight than you mate."

“Oh fuck off,” Fox lifts his head, his knife pointed at the man, but his smile doesn't waver. “Don't even start.”

You're laughing as you hear the man in blue mutter a nah, the two friends continuing to bicker as if an infected wasn't just a breath away.

“Put that thing out of it's misery already,” Jimmy Ink finally snaps, storming over in her red tracksuit, her hands on her hips. “Ye fuckin' playin' with it now aren't you?"

Fox straightens, mock offended. “What's this thing gonna do? It can barely even lift it's head Inky."

“Neither could you before Sir Jimmy found you,” You finally speak up, a grin across your face as everyone follows suit. "Just kill it already."

That does it. The group all laugh, even Jimmy Fox despite the not so subtle dig at his abilities. You flip your knife, testing the edge with your thumb. It was sharper than before, but there could always be better.

The chuckles still linger, but immediately seize when you hear footsteps from behind. The air shifts, and Jimmy stops beside you, his hands in his pockets.

The conversation dulls, not quite silent but softer, like the woods themselves are listening as they wait for Jimmy's words.

He’s standing close enough that you can hear the faint jingle of his necklaces when he moves.

He looks down at you, his eyebrow raised as he sees you're still grinning. Jimmy Fox finally puts the infected out of it's misery in the background, but you're focused on the man in front of you.

Jimmy doesn't speak, and you're about to ask him if there was something wrong when his hand moves from out of his pocket. Your own hand stills from your sharpening, awaiting his move.

His fingers brush the edge of your badly cut wig, tugging it forward so it sits straighter above your brow. Gentle, careful, a gesture you weren't expecting.

"There," He says quietly, and you just nod at him, your words feeling lost. "Much better."

Your head shakes again as you quickly gather yourself, stuttering over your words before you manage a quick thank you.

Heat crawls up your neck, traitorous and sudden, and you quickly peer down, not wanting to embarrass yourself further. One corner of his mouth twitches, and if anyone notices, they're smart enough not to comment.

You watch as his purple pants leave your peripheral, keeping your head down to avoid your obvious reaction. The wigs were irritating, constantly moving, itching at your scalp. But they were a mere price to pay for the grace of the Chosen One.

Not that Jimmy minded when you took it off.

Out of all of the fingers, you were the one to get your hands dirtier than the rest. You assumed he was okay with it, excused it because he realised it got in the way when dealing with large groups.

The wig spent more time tucked into your waistband than it did on your head, but if Jimmy didn't care, then you wouldn't stop.

You watch as he reprimands Fox and Jimmy Jimmy for letting the slow-low crawl so closely to your little rest stop, and you just sigh. He talks with his hands, the rings shining when the sunlight hits them at the right angle. His blond hair brushes over his shoulders as he stares the other men down, clean and wavy.

He carries himself like a God, and to everyone in your group, he was.

Your eyes watch every little quirk, from the way he jokes about their poor form - to the way he looks back to you, as if making sure you were paying attention.

You always were.

"You good?" Jimmy Shite slides in to sit beside you, shoulder bumping yours.

"I'm good," You say a little too quickly, but you nudge him back gently. "Are you good?"

His eyebrow raises, but he nods all the same. "Ye just look weird,"

Your face goes blank at this, and Shite immediately laughs, his hands up in defence. "Naw like that, like ye staring off into space 'n all that."

"Oh," You exhale from your nose at his quick save. "Yeah, just... wondering where we're heading off too next I guess."

He nods, clearly thinking the same thing. It had been months since you had found any new souls needing saving, and it was getting old rather fast.

You look back to Jimmy, watching again as he speaks with Jimmy Ink, no doubt figuring out the groups next move.

You didn't know what it was with Jimmy exactly. It was clear he treated you differently than the other Fingers. He wasn't as sarcastic with you, often seeking your opinion quickly when times seemed tough.

He valued your skillset, that much was obvious. You just assumed that's all it was. Old Nick needed a strong hand, and that's all you were.

It didn't make you love him any less. If being valuable to Satan's own son was all you were, than you were happy to accept.

But you love him in a quiet way. The dangerous way.

The way you could never say out loud or admit to others.

Because Sir Jimmy is untouchable.

The son of the Morning Star. You couldn't touch the sun without being burned, so you accepted that basking in his heat was all you would be gifted.

It was love right?

Maybe it was infatuation, something sharp and stupid that resided in your chest whenever you heard him laugh. Something warm and dangerous that flares whenever he speaks to you directly and asks for your opinion.

Whatever it was, you wanted it badly. Your time on Earth could be over in the blink of an eye, and so you prayed silently to the dark lord below that he would grant you a companion like your friends.

Speaking of, Jimmy Jones and Jimmy Snake were sitting beside each other on another log, the two pressed into one another as they shared an apple. They would orbit around each other like nothing else exists, always within arms reach of one another.

The shared kisses, the constant cuddling, the tender eyes and sneaky run offs to somewhere private when they think everyones asleep.

It gnaws at you in the same way you were happy for them. Jealousy was an ugly thing, a feeling you never expected to experience after so long of just worrying about survival. You used to worry about your next meal, but now you just felt hungry for something else.

Forbidden fruit.

Jimmy Shite nudges your shoulder again, offering his hand to help you up from where you were seated. You take it, standing with a huff as you slide your knife back into its sheath at your waist.

"Water?" He’s asking, already reaching for the canister he left strapped to his bag.

"Yeah," You nod, having run out of your own just an hour prior. There wasn't a worry, you knew a stream or a group would be found sooner or later. "Fox sculled everythin' I had left."

He shakes his head at his best friends actions, handing you his bottle as he calls the other Jimmy a mean word, the two of you laughing as you see Fox flip you both the bird.

Sir Jimmy clears his throat from where he stands, watching the two of you talk. "Pack up, we move out in ten," His voice carries before he points to you. "I want ye up front."

You nod at the order, and Jimmy gives you one final glance before he turns around, issuing more distant orders for the others.

With a quick drink from the blue Jimmy’s water, you hand it back to him with another thank you, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "Want me up front with ye?" Jimmy Shite questions, and seeing as he was the only Jimmy that hadn't received a direct order, you nod again.

Company was always better when leading. "Yeah, that'd uh, that would be nice actually."

Once everyone was up and ready, you fell into step beside the other Jimmy as the cult gathers itself behind.

-

Days had passed, and once again you had been sent ahead of the group to scout and clear the path. You got a bit ahead of yourself, following a non infected man who you assumed was out hunting.

Much like yourself in a way.

You find them tucked in the woods, a proper home hidden amid the trees. Tall fences, a large gate with a cottage to match, a shed beside it.

Five bodies walk around, alive and organised and in need of charity.

You crouch in the tree line and watch them all for a long minute, counting rotations, exits, checking for any more people that may reside in the compound. Your stomach warms in delight.

"Finally." You whisper to yourself, slipping away before any infected could sneak up on you. It had been months since the last batch of souls had been freed, and you were more than eager to please Old Nick again.

The last offering however, you had missed - being made to run into the dark and deal with a survivor who had made a last bolt for freedom.

It was fine at first, a freed soul was a freed soul after all.

By the time you had dragged the body back however, the Choosing Ceremony was over, charity was well and truly finished, and the chosen fighter had already washed the blood from their hands.

You’d felt hollow for weeks, like you were left behind in a way. It should've been a good time, you should've been pleased, but Jimmy never started charity without you present.

Did you do something wrong?

There was no point in worrying about it - Jimmy had applauded your work with the runaway regardless, taking in the body you had dragged in behind you and your blood covered appearance as a great success.

Today was another day however.

Bursting back into the camp, sweaty and grinning, Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal pauses mid conversation, stopping with a curious glance as he sees your face.

You don’t wait for permission, speaking as you attempt to catch your breath. "I found people, five of 'em. Walls are pretty big but - I think it'll be manageable."

For half a heartbeat, the camp is quiet. Jimmy throws his head back in what looked like a silent prayer before he grins. "Five?" He repeats, delighted. "Oh, Old Nick's feeling generous today, c’mon peeps!”

His joy was infectious, and everyone erupts around him, all getting their belongings ready.

Jimmy steps close, lowering his voice just for you. “You’ve done beautifully,” He places his hand on your shoulder, patting it softly as he nods. “Truly.”

Your chest tightens at the praise. You beam, fierce and proud.

The assault is quick and quiet. The compound’s walls slow you for seconds at most. Jimmy Jones grabs the first person to emerge from the gate. Jimmy Snake gets the second. Screaming breaks out as your friends flood in, bright tracksuits against mute colours.

One of them, a big burly man, charges at you instead of running. His fist meets your face before you get the chance to dodge him, and you snarl.

Pain blooms white hot. Your head snapping sideways. You taste blood and laugh through it, feral and thrilled.

"Ye cunt."

You drop him with your knee in his ribs and your knife resting against his throat, pushing him to the ground before you sit on his chest while he wheezes. Your hands shake as you bind his wrists above his head, with excitement however, not fear.

Jimmy Shite crouches beside you, helping cinch the rope. “Ye good?”

You spit blood into the dirt beside the man’s head. “Aw y'know, just peachy."

The group, all five now bound shaking and crying, are marched back towards the shed, ropes biting into their wrists. You’re buzzing, jaw throbbing, heart hammering in time with the adrenaline already starting up ahead.

Your hand nurses your jaw as you follow after your friends, but Sir Jimmy calls your name and you turn, grin still sharp, but it quickly falters.

"Not ye my sweet Jimmy, not today," Jimmy stops you in your tracks. "Gonna need ye to scout ahead for a few hours, make sure no runners spoil today’s fun."

He's nodding towards the front gate as your mouth opens and closes in disbelief. Again? The walls were high and strong, infected wouldn't be an issue by any means.

"But I found the place?" You almost whine, a little hesitant at talking back to the man. The words tumble out before you can stop them. "Why've I got to miss charity? Again?"

Jimmy's eye raises, one hand in his pocket as the corner of his lips quirk. "Because I said so, off ye go now."

Your stomach drops.

You want to argue back, want to say that it was bullshit, but you just nod instead, looking down at the worn trainers on your feet for a moment before getting your knife from your belt.

“Have I... done something to upset Old Nick? S'that why I’m getting sent off again?”

Jimmy kicks himself off the wall, walking towards you and tutting at you with each step. He stops just inches away, one hand lifting to rest below your chin.

He raises it gently, titling your head to the side to check the bruise that no doubt now resided there. His expression softens in an almost pitying way.

“Oh sweetheart, no no no. You’ve got him all wrong, he’s not upset at all,” He assures you, smiling as you hears you sigh in instant relief. “He just needs you out there keeping us all safe yes? Is that naw a good enough reason?”

Sweetheart.

Of course it was a good enough reason. “He trusts me with that?” You ask, voice almost small, hopeful and in awe, as you peer at him.

His touch is reverent, careful. "You're the most capable we've got."

Your chest fills with warmth. Pride. Relief. Devotion.

“Yeah?” You whisper.

He smiles. “Yeah.”

His eyes were full of something you couldn't decipher, but it didn't matter.

Old Nick himself deemed you worthy.

Your heart hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs. 

Jimmy nods again, his thumb rubbing over the tender skin as you wince. He coos softly, and you feel that familiar feeling in your chest again. “We all trust ye - so go on, maybe you’ll even be back in time for the choosing,”

He knows you won’t. You know you won't. Charity will be done and you’ll be back to see whether or not there’s a new finger. You still don’t argue, just nodding again at his orders.

Jimmy’s hand slides from down your chin, over your neck until it rests on your shoulder. He pats it once, before turning you to face the exit. “Off ye go now pet.”

Pet.

That was new too, but it wasn’t unwelcome.

The sting of disappointment was instantly replaced by a warm, glowing pride. The only one. Old Nick himself had singled you out for protection.

You excuse yourself, ignoring the sting at being excluded once more, choosing to focus on the acknowledgment that Old Nick trusted you the most to do the hard yards.

Jimmy Shite calls your name as you pass the flat, and you wave goodbye, watching as he finishes stringing up the same man who had punched you in the face. He waves back, and it would’ve been a nice moment if it weren’t for the large man wriggling by his wrists beside him.

As you disappeared into the mist of the surrounding forest, you felt ten feet tall, unaware of the way Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal stood perfectly still, watching you go until you were nothing but a flicker of pink amongst the grey.

He was more than aware however of the way one of his own disciples watched you leave as well. His jaw was clenched, and Jimmy tilts his head, waiting for the pinkness of your suit to completely disappear before he followed the others into the shed.

-

The compound gate groans when you swing it shut, metal scraping against metal, and you lock it behind you.

The sun was dipping below the tree line, bleeding into a deep purple as the night took over. You were exhausted, knuckles stained with the dark and tacky blood of the runners you'd struck down in among the trees. 

As you walked towards the house, your mind spiraled back to the hours in the woods. Every time you swung your knife, you imagined him watching.

You'd berate yourself for it, the shame hot in your chest. He was the chosen son, you had to remind yourself that such a man was never going to be yours.

He is the vessel, you are just the weapon.

He is the body, you were just a finger.

But the way he had touched your face earlier? It was a feeling no amount of dead runners or slow-lows could help mask.

The compound was eerily quiet as you walked, the shed doors now closed.

The silence told you everything - charity was over. The souls were freed. You would've thought you had been left behind if it weren't for the colourful trainers and jelly shoes that lay outside the front door.

Inside the main house, the smell of roasted meat hits you, the rich scent immediately making your stomach growl. 

Inside, you hear everyone before seeing them, following the boisterous sounds of your friends until you entered a dining room. Everyone, or nearly everyone sat around a large wooden table, plates in front of them as they ate like it was an earned meal. 

It would've looked like a nightmare to anyone else. Half of the table was drenched in blood, their wigs matted with red, the other half in clothes that didn't belong to them and skin clean despite today's ordeal.

Candles are lit, the room a smell of bland wax and cooked meat. Ink was noticeably missing, but you could hear shuffling from upstairs.

Jimmy looks up from the head of the table, purple tracksuit half zipped, tiara set beside his plate. His face lights up instantly, his hand raised as he spots you. "There ye are," He beams. "Thought I'd have tae send out a search party."

"Never," You shake your head, dropping your pack somewhere behind you. "Well? How did it go?"

Jimmima pulls out a chair beside her with her foot, patting it a few times before she returns to her dinner.

You take it with a huff, seated between the girl who usually wore baby blue and Jimmy Shite. She wore a baggy shirt and some shorts instead, clearly having rummaged through the home's drawers in your absence.

"Old mate chose Jimmy Jimmy," Fox nods sits opposite, nodding towards the Jimmy in green. "Lasted barely a minute too, ye should've seen it."

Jimmy Jimmy mock bows, the others all laughing at his actions. He was clean despite hearing he was today's chosen, and you figured he'd been allowed to bathe first. 

Jimmima, Jones and Snake also appeared clean and dressed in 'borrowed' pajamas, the rest still in their dirty tracksuits.

"You should've been there," Jimmima chirps from beside you. "I missed you a lot, I even thought I’d be picked today."

You give her a half smile and a half arsed shrug. Your heart sank as she continued talking about how the charity had gone. The familiar pang of exclusion twisted in your gut. 

It shouldn't matter. You did what Old Nick asked of you, you protected everyone.

A plate of something hot is pushed towards you, the ringed hand pushing it as far as it could before Jimmy pulled back.

"Deer," He smiles as if he could hear your inner conflict. "Our friends were kind enough to have hunted it this morning for us, isn't that some hospitality?"

Your stomach rumbles almost instantly, and you dig in without a second thought, muttering in mock agreement about the graciousness of the home owners.

Your eyes close at the cooked meat and mixed vegetables, having been weeks since you'd eaten a proper cooked meal. You pull your wig off, throwing it behind you to the floor by your bag. 

"S'good yeah?" Jimmy Shite mutters from beside you. He's still covered in grime and blood. "Don't worry 'bout today either, they didn't put up much of a fight."

"Really?” You ask in between chews. "How bad was it?"

He shrugs, leaning his chin on his hands. "Wasn't bad, just… bit borin'," He nudges your elbow with his. "But I made sure I took my time with the big cunt."

The one who punched you in the face. 

Your mouth quirks. "Yeah?"

He grins, his hand wiping over his mouth as he nods. "Yeah."

The knot in your chest loosens just a touch.

Jimmy's eyes flicker from between you to Shite, his jaw tightening. "How did we go with scouting?" He asks with a call of your name, his voice cutting through the warmth. "Judging by that shite on your hands, ye got busy?" 

"Handful of runners, small little pack," You answer truthfully, noticing the weird way he eyed you and the man beside you. "Couple slow-lows when things got boring."

Jimmy claps quietly, a hand then raised towards you again. "Howzat."

Everyone immediately copies him, raising their glasses of water, mouths full of food as they chant.

A genuine smile breaks through the gloom at the sight, and you raise your own glass that Jimmima had poured without you noticing.

Jimmy Ink nearly jumps downstairs, her skin slick with droplets of water as she greets you warmly. She takes a seat beside Jones, her frame also sporting a borrowed shirt and some underwear. "Hot waters nearly gone, probably enough for one more."

"Fuckin' dibs," Jimmy Fox shouts, already half rising from his chair. "Finally."

"Sit down Fox," Jimmy's voice was like a whip before he points to you with a ringed finger. "She's going next."

Fox sits again despite the look on his face, the others all laughing at him. 

"Naw it's fine," You shake your head, pointing to your plate with your fork. "I'm still eatin' anyway, you can take it."

Fox goes to stand again when Jimmy shoots him a look, the younger man holding his hands up in defence as he slides back into his seat.

You could see that Fox wanted to argue, that he'd been elbow deep in charity, but one look from Jimmy was enough to shut him up.

"Then everyone else can wait," Jimmy shrugs, reaching for his glass again as he smiles towards you. It doesn’t reach his eyes. "You've earned it, it's all yours hen."

"Left a shirt on the counter," Ink waits for Jimmy to be finished as you continue eating. "Some undies too, dunno' if they'll fit your arse but."

The tension was lifted already, everyone breaking into chuckles as you roll your eyes playfully. Ink gives you a knowing nod, small enough just for you to notice, and you return the gesture.

You excuse yourself a couple of minutes after, Jones taking your plate from behind you and throwing it carelessly into the sink. It shatters on impact, more laughs echoing at their actions. 

You thank everyone for dinner and hurry upstairs, finding the bathroom quickly and running yourself a bath with what remained of the hot water.

It wasn't anything grand by any means, but it was enough to feel clean for what felt like forever. Your wig was left downstairs still, and you scrubbed at your head and skin, watching as the blood and dirt disappeared below.

When you finally resembled a human again, you were wearing a stolen oversized shirt with some long forgotten band on the front.

The lace trimmed underwear Ink had found you felt unusual, but soft nonetheless against your skin.

In the hallway, the house was a puzzle of Jimmy's calling dibs on their sleeping arrangements. Jimmy Fox greets you with a gentle shoulder bump, grumbling something about he and Jimmy Jimmy claiming the couches downstairs before he enters the bathroom behind you.

You watch as Jimmy climbs the stairs, pausing at the top, his hand gripping the railing as his eyes travel slowly from your bare legs to your now clean face.

The look was heavy, hungry and unholy, as if the man had forgotten what had been hiding underneath the muck from the world outside.

"Good?" He asks, and you nearly asked what he meant until you realised he was talking about the bath.

Said bath starts again from behind the closed door, Fox having impeccable timing. "Yeah," You swallow, eyeing him almost in the same way he did you. "Was really good actually, thank you for uh - for letting me go first." 

“Nae bother,” He bows his head softly. "Good night sweetheart." 

There it was again.

Jimmy adds a sleep well with your name, his gaze still lingering as he heads for what you assume was the master bedroom. You mutter the same, and he closes the door behind him.

Sweetheart.

Sweetheart.

Sweetheart.

It didn’t mean anything. He was just in a good mood because of today.

Right?

It didn’t help that heat burning in your belly by any means.

Needing sleep, you check each door apart from Jimmy's, finding the bedrooms and couches below all already claimed.

You're coming to terms with another floor and sleeping bag sleep when you find Jimmy Shite resting against the bathroom door, no doubt waiting for Jimmy Fox to finish up.

"There’s a mattress in the attic," He scratches at the back of his neck, his own wig missing. He was still dirty, almost evidently itching to be clean. "Nothing big but, naw gonna sleep downstairs and listen to that fuckin' shite,"

Jimmy Jimmy. His snoring kept almost everyone awake, and you snorted in agreement. "So I don't care 'bout sharing if ye don't."

Thank god. You weren't sure if your bones could handle a sleep on the hardwood after today’s endeavors. 

"Music to my ears," You fake moan, head lolled back at the idea of a mattress. "I’ll catch ye soon then.”

You’d all shared floors and sleeping bags a number of times. Shite chuckles, the door beside him opening to a shirtless and clean Fox.

The Welshman looks taken aback by the two of you standing outside, and he covers his front with his hands. "Pervs."

He was wearing clean boxers, but you all laugh the same. Shite enters after him, pointing to the direction of the attic before closing the door. 

The attic was cramped with what looked like decades of antiques and the old life, the room smelling of decaying wood and dust. You crawled onto the mattress, finding the room too hot to be using the blanket.

When Shite finally joined you, smelling of the same homemade soap you had used and wearing another pair of stolen boxers, the space was pitch black. 

Giggles echoed from downstairs in the hall before Jimmy Shite closes the hatch, the sound evidently coming from Jimmy Jones.

Shite slides in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a long time, there was only the sound of the wind rattling against the roof tiles. "Ye all good?" He whispers, and you can hear his head turn against his pillow. "Feels like ye have been off since ye got sent out."

So it was obvious. 

Your mind runs a mile a minute, thoughts traveling all over. From being excluded again from charity, to the way Jimmy had touched you outside and to the way he had eyed you just before in the hallway.

"I'm okay, no need to worry," You turn your own head with a sigh, feeling his breath on your cheek. "Are you okay?"

“Yeah,” You hear him swallow. “I’m good now."

You weren't sure what he meant exactly, but you didn't question it either.

Silence settles again, and your head moves back to the slanted ceiling above, the room dark and your heart heavy. You wanted something, anything, to fill the hollow longing that constantly sat in your stomach.

If you couldn't have Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal, couldn't touch what you worshipped, then you would settle for what you could touch. "Are ye still awake?"

He was quiet for a moment before he mutters a 'yeah’. 

Your hand drifts in the darkness, finding his. He hadn't gotten under the covers either, and his calloused fingers entwines with yours. “Is… Is this okay?”

You hear him swallow despite the way he confidently grips your own scarred hand. “Definitely.”

As if sensing what you were asking for, you feel him sit up, his other hand slowly but surely reaching for your bare thigh. He curses under his breath.

His touch was gentle, sliding over the soft skin before it slides upwards as you part your legs for him further. They stop at the feel of your underwear.

“Fuckin’ hell,” He sighs your name as you sit upright beside him, finding his scarred cheek in the dark. "Ye sure 'bout this?"

"I’m sure," You whisper as you keep your hand on his jaw and lean forward, your thumb reaches out, finding his lips as he groans out a finally.

You peck his lips softly, awkwardly at the angle, and your nose slides against his, breath mingling with his own as he angles his head to meet yours better. "Just touch me, please.”

You could pretend for one night that his touch belonged to someone else, pretend for one night that it was his lips on yours and his cock twitching in his boxers at the feel of you.

He kisses you harder, his hand darting into your underwear as he pushes you back down into the mattress.

You just wanted to feel what your friends downstairs did.

Wanted. Needed. Desired. 

Even if the touch belonged to someone else. 

-

The attic floorboards were thin, old and weathered. They offered no cover to the sounds above.

As Jimmy Shite thrust inside of you, his hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds of your moans, Jimmy lay on his borrowed king bed.

Every creak of the floor, every muffled whisper and moan echoed into his master suite.

He didn't sleep, he just listened. 

Something hot and dark coils in his chest. He hears your soft sighs, your whimpers, and he tries to tune out the groans that come from the other Jimmy.

A surge of white hot possessiveness flares inside of him, making his fingers curl into the duvet below him.

Only when he hears the way you cry out a hot and heavy Jimmy, does he groan himself. It wasn't meant for him, he knew that - it wasn't uncommon for everyone in the group to call each other by just Jimmy.

His own doing.

It didn't matter. The very sound went straight to his cock.

Satan below, he could die a happy man hearing that.

Jimmy's hand dips into his waistband and into his boxers before he can stop himself, eyes trained on the ceiling as he hears you moan and muffle his name even more.

He feels disgusted in himself, the way he grips his hardened cock and strokes to the squeak of the mattress above.

He pictures it's him touching you, pictures your hand gripping him softly, stroking and sliding all over him. 

Would you cry for him too?

Be absolutely soaking wet and pleading for his touch?

You would peer up at him like he was the only man who existed, bite your lip and run your thumb over his slit. You would say his name softly like you were right now.

As Jimmy closes his eyes, squeezing himself harder as he hears you and just you in his ears, he cums harder than he had in a long time. 

He hears you fall apart, the sound even more muffled, and Jimmy knows that Shite is either covering your mouth or you were hiding yourself. 

You would never have to hide yourself if you were with him. You would be loud, free to let everyone know who you belonged to. 

When Jimmy thinks of you, he hears nothing else. 

Hears no one else. 

When he imagines the way you look when you finish, he imagines the way your cunt would squeeze around him and milk him for everything he had.

And he knows he would give it to you freely.

All of it.

Everything you wanted or needed, he would provide. Because you were his, even if you didn't realise it yet.

Jimmy slides his hand out from his boxers, wiping what had coated his hand onto the part of the bed he didn't lay on.

He heard the muffled giggle from your lips above, and he finds himself smiling, imaging again the way you would grin beneath him, or above him. 

However you'd want him, he would allow.

It was only when he heard Jimmy Shite's deep chuckle follow right after that he frowned, his jaw clenching for what felt like the hundredth time. It wasn't right. 

"Are you going to let that filth continue to touch what's yours?"

"'Course I'm fuckin' not." Jimmy replies aloud, adjusting himself in his pants as he clears his throat. 

"Then do something about it my son."

Yesterday– after charity– he’d gone to sleep in a fairly well kept bedroom. After a while, you decided to go up the stairs with a length of rope.

“I’m going up to see Jimmy,” you told his Fingers, slinging the rope over your shoulder. “And if any of you cunts come in, I’ll cut your cock off.”

“I don’t have a cock,” Jimmima muttered.

“I’ll do something terribly painful then. So stay the fuck out, yeah?”

You’ve been playing with him since sundown and you’ve denied him more orgasms than you can remember. But you can’t remember the last time you tasted the precum leaking from his tip.

Your hand works up and down his cock, achingly slow and mean. You lean down and lick the tip. He’s red and twitching, dying to cum. giving it a soft kiss. It’s that same Jimmy tang. He cries out, his back arching.

“J-just suck it,” he whimpers.

“So rude,” you sneer, digging your nails into the sensitive skin just above his cock.

“Please… su-suck it, please,” he begs you breathlessly.

“Aww… no.”

“No?” he whines.

“How long have we been here?” you murmur, your hot breath fanning on his twitching thigh.

“I-I don’t know… h-hours?”

“Well… it was dark when you woke up, and now the sun’s coming up… I guess time flies when you’re having fun,” you giggle.

A pained sound leaves him when your hand slides up from his cock to trace hearts and stars on his chest.

“You’re all mine,” you whisper. “Every part of you, love.”

Your nails dig in and drag down, leaving raised pink lines on his pale skin.

“Everything on the inside, too…” you trail off with a dreamy sigh, imagining if you really could open him up and crawl inside his chest.

How cosy and warm it would be.

You crawl up the bed, lifting up the hem of your nightgown and hovering over him. You’re soaked from the hours of playing with him. He’s red in the face and about to faint.

“You want it?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, please,” he sobs.

You reach down and swipe a tear away, licking it from your finger.

“So pretty when you cry, Jimmy…”

“Please-”

“Say you’re mine,” you command.

He winces.

“Please, please, just put me i-”

“Say that you’re mine, Jimmy,” you tell him again, the desperation in your voice betraying your control.

There’s a moment of stillness and silence before your hand cracks across his face.

“Say it!” you bark.

“I’m yours! I’m yours, please just fuck me!”

You smile and grip his cock, guiding the tip to your entrance. You sink down. With incredible self control, you go as slow as you can. He’s thick– it’s an intoxicating stretch. He opens you up without even moving, just drooling at the feeling.

“S-so fuckin’ tight, love,” he gasps, his hips rocking up as much as they can.

You push him back down.

“I’ll fucking bite you,” you snap quickly.

He goes stiff, looking up at you with that lost puppy gaze you rarely get to see. You finally sit your weight down, his cock buried deep inside of you. You whine softly, just rolling your hips to adjust, to feel all the spots he can hit.

There’s an illusion of control for his gang. They think you’re the one tied up and begging– but you know they’re listening even though you always tell them not to.

Horny little voyeur cunts.

“I love you,” you breathe, eyes closed while you rock on him steadily.

Jimmy doesn’t say it back, but you don’t care.

“I love you,” you repeat, almost panicked in your seriousness. “Jimmy, it f-feels so good,” you moan, covering your womb with your own hand.

You can hear the dirty sound of him sliding in and out– you’re so wet you’re making a mess everywhere.

“Are you gonna punish me, Jimmy?” you whimper, looking down at him.

He’s completely gone, his face twisted and one eye twitching.

“A-are you gonna give me charity?” you whisper, reaching down to squeeze his balls.

“Ah!” he cries, head turning away from you.

“I want it,” you whine, stopping your movement and pressing your hands on his chest. “I want your charity, Jimmy, please, please…”

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, fuck, fuck! Don’t stop fuckin’ movin’ or I-I-”

“Or what?” you chirp, perking up. “What? What are you gonna do to me? Are you gon-na ta-ke my f-fingernails off?” you suggest excitedly. “O-or fuck me into the dirt…”

You wince thinking about it.

“Fu-ck me until I bleed…”

“Untie me and find out,” he snarls.

“Mm, just try to get out, lovey,” you giggle.

You bounce on his hips, hands braced on his soft tummy.

“Y’so fucking big,” you whine, throwing your head back and reaching up to wrap one hand around his throat.

You squeeze the sides and press down on his windpipe. He whimpers and writhes underneath you. You ride the bucking of his hips until he shouts, his hands curling into fists.

His cock twitches inside of you and you gasp, grinding your clit down on him.

“Give me charity, give it to me, give me charity, give it to me, please,” you beg him, leaning down to hold him close.

He sobs and cums, spilling inside of you and panting.

“S’warm… so warm, Jimmy…”

You kiss his cheek, sighing. You stay like that for a moment, feeling him soften inside of you as you both catch your breath.

“Get the fuck off me,” he snarls.

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