to dream a little dream

There was no rush in getting up, and the space where she’d just been was still holding some warmth, so you rolled into it. The rain was going to keep the two of you in here for a while longer, so you let the sounds softly call you back into another sleepy haze.

By midday, the weather still hadn’t changed. The storm still raged with the same stubborn fury, trapping the two of you inside the cottage like insects waiting under a rock. Ink had taken up her usual post near the front busying herself with sharpening her weapons with an intensity.

You finally got out of the bed, and it took only an hour of waiting around till you couldn’t sit still any longer. “I’m going out,” you said, already pulling on your damp boots.

That got her attention immediately, her head snapped toward you, expression darkening instantly. “No.”

You paused, brow furrowing. “We need food.”

“We’ll manage.”

“With what?” you shot back, gesturing vaguely. “Dust and mould?” You couldn’t understand why she had an issue with everything you ever suggested doing. It was really taking a toll on you, and after you thought for some miracle that last night was a step forward in coexisting with her, she seemingly didn’t see it as so.

Her jaw tightened, face like stone, “You go out there in this, you won’t see what’s coming.”

You stared at her for a beat longer than necessary, something shifting in your chest as you caught the edge of it. Was she worried about you?

As if reading your mind, she was quick to correct herself, turning away with a scoff. “Do what you want,” she muttered. “You’ve got a habit of it.”

It shouldn’t have stung because her words were nothing new, not really, just another sharp-edged remark thrown carelessly in your direction, the kind you’d learned to deflect long ago. It was frustrating, how easily she could do that, how a single sentence could unravel the fragile steadiness you’d been holding onto. You felt it then, the shift in your expression, the tightening around your eyes, the kind of vulnerability you refused to let her, or anyone else, see so you moved before it could betray you, before she could read it, turning away too quickly, already heading for the door under the flimsy excuse of necessity.

The forest was soaked through, every step sinking into mud, rain clinging to your skin like a second layer. Each step dragged, as if the earth itself meant to keep you there. Cold seeped through your clothes, settled into your bones, but you pushed on anyway because sitting still, waiting, feeling… that had been worse.

It took longer than you liked. Longer than you told yourself it would. Long enough for the echo of her voice to start circling back, replaying in your mind with an edge sharper than before. You’ve got a habit of it.

A habit of what? Leaving? Or coming back?

You exhaled sharply through your nose, shoving the thought aside as your eyes scanned the forest floor again and then finally, something that made you smile. Beneath the remains of a rotting log, half-shielded from the rain, a cluster of oyster mushrooms pushed stubbornly up through decay. Better yet, surrounding them were a thin spread of wild herbs. It wasn’t a 5-star meal, but it was something. You quickly plucked them from the ground and hid them in your small pack.

You felt weirdly giddy on the walk back to the cottage, grinning despite the rain and the inevitable coldness you’d face from within. By the time the cottage came back into view through the rain, that feeling had softened, but it hadn’t disappeared entirely.

You opened the front door, already excited to share “Look what I found-”

Ink was moving before you even finished. She crossed the room from where she’d been watching out the window in two strides, fast enough that something in your chest jolted not fear, not quite, but something close to it.

Her eyes locked onto you immediately. Not on the mushrooms, not on what you were showing her, but on you. Her gaze was almost clinical, sweeping over with precision. Little did you know she was checking for blood, for damage, for anything that meant something had happened to you. At the realisation you were still whole and fine, she was flooded by warmth. The same warmth she felt looking upon your peacefully sleeping face this morning in the moments before you woke up. The feeling that had her up and bolting for that bedroom door before her instincts had her doing something she knew would cause nothing but trouble.

Not that any of this showed on her face. All you saw was a cold calculating look, before she broke the silence“…You were gone too long,” she said flatly.

Your smile faltered, not completely, “Was just trying to-.”

“Decide to wonder again did ya?”

There was no heat in her tone. No raised voice. Just that same dull, unbothered voice that was meant to show you she didn’t actually care.

“That’s not fair.”

She shrugged, already turning away, dismissing it as easily as she always did. “You’ve got a habit of it.”

Did she know more about your habits than you did? Sure, as hell seems like it. You rolled your eyes and moved past her without another word to the remains of the kitchen. You could do your best to ignore her, by focusing on the ingredients you’d found. What you didn’t see was Ink’s gaze falling back to your figure as you went.

She was honestly thrown off, having expected the usual back-and-forth.

You didn’t give it to her. She couldn’t tell if this annoyed her, or made her angry, squashing the disappointment at your seemingly ambivalent reaction. Ink stood for a moment longer, unsure of how to proceed, then she followed your direction. From the doorway of the kitchen her gaze lingered on you as your hands searched through cupboards for anything and everything that might be an addition to your cooking creation.

She told herself she was just irritated. That it was easier when you argued back, when you pushed, when you proved her right about how people always were.

This felt… wrong. You began humming, completely tuning out her cold stare and the presence of hatred that now filled the air. She stopped just short of entering the kitchen fully, leaning against the frame, arms crossing loosely watching the methodical way your hands worked, the slight sway of your hips as you rocked to an imaginary tune. You were acting like she wasn’t even there, like you didn’t have a care in the world.

She didn’t like it, or more so, didn’t like the way it made her feel. Her fingers twitched at her side, a physical want to now be by your side.

Ink’s eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze sharpening as it settled on you and on the quiet rhythm of your movements, her chest tightened.

Stop that. Stop watching. It doesn’t mean anything. She doesn’t mean anything.

But her eyes didn’t move, they didn’t want to move.

Because there was something about it, about you, like this that felt dangerously close to something she’d spent years teaching herself didn’t exist anymore.

Her fingers twitched at her side, a restless, physical urge pulling at her to step forward, close the distance, say something, anything that would put her back into that space with you instead of stranded just outside it. Don’t. You know how this ends. Her jaw clenched, tension pulling tight through her shoulders as she forced herself to look away, breaking the line of sight like it burned. The feeling didn’t stop, if anything, it got worse because now, well now she was aware of it. All those thoughts she’d been ignoring, shoving down, burying beneath routine and irritation and distance they weren’t staying down anymore. They pressed upward, insistent, clawing their way to the surface no matter how hard she tried to force them back.

Her chest tightened again, sharper this time, almost enough to make her wince. “…Idiot,” she muttered under her breath, though it wasn’t clear if she meant you or herself, and with that she abruptly turned and left the space.

The rest of the day passed in something that almost resembled peace.

Neither of you acknowledged the other. Not with words, not with glances that lingered too long, not with anything that might crack whatever fragile balance had taken hold. You existed in the same space, moving around one another like opposing currents, close enough to feel, never quite touching.

You kept yourself occupied. The kitchen offered little, but you searched it anyway, opening cupboards, sifting through remnants of a life that had been abandoned too quickly to pack away properly. You found a dented can, tucked behind a collapsed stack of mould-eaten tins, it was tomatoes. You turned it over in your hands, staring at it like it might disappear if you blinked too long. You didn’t want to think about how long it had been sitting there. Didn’t want to picture the hands that had last placed it on that shelf, or the reason they never came back for it.

Food was food and these would go rather nicely with the mushrooms and herbs.

At the back of a lower cupboard, half-hidden beneath warped wood and debris, sat a bottle of dark glass, sealed, untouched. Red wine. You let out a quiet breath of disbelief, wiping the dust from its surface, turning it slightly in the dim light. Jimmy Crystal’s voice echoing from a memory,“Wine doesn’t spoil, darlin’ - it evolves. Like me. Only gets better with age.”

By the time evening crept in, the storm had softened, the rain no longer a violent assault but a steady, quiet fall gentler, almost rhythmic against the windows. You stood over what you’d managed to piece together, staring down at it longer than necessary.

Unsure if you should separate it into two portions, or one. She’d made it clear, hadn’t she? Didn’t want you near. Didn’t want the conversation. Didn’t want your help. But she still needed to eat. You exhaled slowly, already dishing up that second makeshift serving. It was dished it into a small pot, the closest thing to a plate you had, and poured the wine carefully into a hollowed cup from your pack. Crossing the room, you found her where she’d been most of the day stationed by the front window, gaze fixed outward, ever watchful.

You didn’t speak but just placed the food and drink beside her and turned away.

Returning to your own up at a small table under the window back in the kitchen, you settled and looked out to the now gently pattering rain. The small wooden surface was meant for two and you traced a scuffed marks absently as you ate, your thoughts drifting despite yourself.

Wondering about the people who had lived here, what their days had looked like before everything fell apart. Whether they had sat here like this, sharing meals, filling the space with voices instead of silence. Whether they had left together or not at all.

You were pulled from your thought by the sound of a heavy movement. You looked up just as Ink set her food down across from yours, the scrape of metal against wood loud. She sat opposite you, or rather dropped herself into the chair opposite you, one leg folding up instinctively beneath her, resulting in her signature loose posture but ensured she was constantly on guard. The silence that now enveloped the table felt like a stand-off, almost like some unspoken game neither of you had agreed to but were both playing anyway. The ‘who would speak first’ game.

You ate. She ate. Eyes flicking up occasionally, then away just as quickly.

The 2 glasses of wine didn’t stay full for long. It was rich and strong. Leaving a trail of warmth as it slid down your throat, settling low in your chest like a slow-burning ember. You let out a small sound at the delicacy of it all, an unintentional noise that had your cheeks burning red the second it slipped from your throat. You hid your reaction by taking another few big gulps of the wine.

Ink noticed, eyes avoiding yours, locked now on the bottle up at the kitchen counter. Without a word, she stood and reached for the bottle after you’d finished your glass, standing just long enough to pour another for you first, then herself.

Such a small gesture, but one packed with meaning that neither of you had ever addressed before. You were now the one avoiding her eyes. By the time you were halfway through the second, the edges of the world had softened slightly. Not enough to dull your awareness but enough to make everything feel… closer.

Particularly the space between you. You felt the back of your neck heat up, along with your cheeks. You couldn’t help but notice the way you suddenly felt more aware of Ink, and how your stomach flipped with every movement she made. Her gaze lingered longer now, and the quite tension no longer felt sharp, but rather heavy and warm in a dangerously different way.

“How’d you make it?” Her voice cut through the quiet, low and rough, “it’s bloody delicious.”

Your eyes lifted to hers. For the first time you noticed how she was actually looking at you.

Not past you. Not through you.

At you.

You took a moment to realise she wasn’t insulting your food, but actually complimenting it. What a peculiar person this girl really was. Maybe it was the wine, or the strange comfortability of the situation now at hand, but you proceeded to go into detail around your cooking process, and she listened. Intently.

.

The conversation that followed was an odd thing, both of you were testing unfamiliar ground, but then slowly, unexpectedly, it began to flow. Not easily, not without pauses or glances away, but enough that it felt real.

The bottle between you grew lighter and lighter still, until eventually, there was nothing left. The last drops had long since been poured, and what remained was a quiet that felt different from before not empty, not tense but you were the one to break it. With a quiet sort of finality as you pushed your chair back, the legs scraping softly against the wooden floor.

“I’m going to bed,” you said, voice gentler than you intended, the words carrying a weight that felt heavier than just exhaustion.

The faint light of the sun that filtered through the heavy rain clouds had long since faded, replaced by the dark night.

Ink didn’t respond to you but she didn’t look away either. Your movement had drawn her attention fully, her gaze lifting and then stopping on your lips where it lingered, much longer than it should have.

Long enough for something low and unfamiliar to coil in your chest, tightening as heat spread through you, settling somewhere deeper, heavier. The wine didn’t dull it instead made it much much worse, made you more aware of every shift in the air between you, every unspoken thing hanging there.

Your breath caught slightly, and you turned. The wood creaked softly beneath your steps as you climbed the stairs, each one feeling louder than the last in the quiet house. You didn’t look back.

Didn’t see the way Ink’s gaze followed you. Didn’t see the way her eyes dragged downward, catching on the subtle sway of your hips as you disappeared up the staircase.

You didn’t feel the sharp, sudden pull in her chest. Didn’t hear the Don’t that echoed in her head. But she was already half-risen from her seat before the thought had fully formed.

Upstairs, the room felt smaller than it had before. You quickly stripped down to your singlet and briefs, getting as comfortable as you could as you sank onto the mattress, the familiar creak beneath your weight grounding in a way everything else wasn’t. The events of the day circled your mind in fragments: her voice, her annoyance, the way she’d looked at you, the strange, pleasant dinner, the quiet moments that didn’t fit into anything you understood about her. You pulled the thin blanket over yourself, settling into it, trying to ignore the restless energy still humming beneath your skin.

The mattress dipped. Your breath hitched. The Déjà vu struck hard, but this time, you didn’t stay still. Didn’t pretend. You turned to her before she had a moment to turn away and found her already closer than you expected. The space between you was almost nothing now, the air thick with something heavy and electric, pressing in from all sides. Her eyes were already on you, pupils dark and searching. Then they dropped to your lips again.

It sent something through you like a spark catching dry kindling. The warmth between you wasn’t just body heat anymore. It was something deeper, something that coiled and tightened with every second that passed without either of you pulling away.

Neither of you moved.

It was like standing on the edge of something neither of you had meant to reach and now that you were here, neither of you quite knew how to step back. Or if you even wanted to.

Ink exhaled first, letting out a heavy and shaky breath. It brushed across your skin, warm and uneven, carrying something far more fragile than anything she’d ever let you see before. Something raw. Unsteady. Almost uncertain.

It unravelled something in your chest. Her hand twitched slightly where it rested between you, like she was fighting the instinct to close the distance or maybe to pull away entirely.

Her voice didn’t come, didn’t need to because everything she wasn’t saying was already there, hanging in the space between your mouths, in the way her gaze kept flicking back to your lips like she couldn’t stop herself.

You didn’t want to disrupt the moment, the air between you felt so fragile, but something kept you from jumping on top of her here and now. “You hate me,” you said finally. The words didn’t come out sharp nor did they carry the edge of a challenge or the weight of an accusation. If anything, they felt tired, like something you’d been holding onto for too long, something worn down by repetition until all that was left was the quiet, aching truth of it.

Her expression shifted, just slightly, like a crack forming beneath the surface of something carefully controlled. “I don’t-”

“You do.” You didn’t raise your voice just met her gaze and held it, steady and unflinching, like you were offering her the chance to deny it properly this time.

“I don’t,” she snapped, but the words lacked their usual bite. There was no force behind them, no sharpness to cut you down just a reflex, it was automatic but didn’t quite land the way it was supposed to. Ink’s jaw tightened, her gaze flicking away for half a second before dragging back to yours like she couldn’t quite let it go either. You could see the way the words caught somewhere behind her teeth, the way her throat moved as she swallowed them back once, twice, like forcing them into shape was harder than she’d expected.

“You’re-” she started, only to stop abruptly, frustration flashing across her face. Her hand dragged through her damp wig that was obediently still in place, she pushed the synthetic hair back roughly as she exhaled through her nose. “You make things… complicated.”

A breath left you, a quiet laugh but there was no humour in it. “Complicated how?” The question wasn’t to mock her, it was genuine and honest, your voice showing the clear desperation that you felt searching for a remedy to the distrust between the both of you.

And that more than anything, seemed to undo her.

Her voice dropped, softer now, rougher as it had been worn thin by the effort of holding everything else back, “fuck it” she said, and moved in, closing the distance between you in one abrupt, decisive motion. She knew if she hesitated any longer, she’d lose the nerve entirely. For half a second, it was uncertain, hovering on the edge of hesitation, like she wasn’t entirely sure how to do this, how to cross that final line she’d spent so long refusing to approach.

Ink kissed you the way she did everything else: sudden, fierce, unrelenting in its certainty once she’d made the choice. There was no softness to it at first, no careful testing of boundaries just impact, heat, and something raw breaking free all at once. Her hand gripped your thin shirt tightly, fingers curling into the fabric like she needed something solid to hold onto, like you might disappear if she didn’t anchor you there.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was everything she hadn’t said. Everything she hadn’t allowed herself to feel for years. Everything she’d been holding back finally forcing its way to the surface all at once.

She stilled momentarily, a flicker of hesitation threading through the intensity, like she was bracing herself for you to pull away, to break it, to prove her right.

You didn’t. Instead, you reached your right hand up to cup the side of her face, to bring her assurance that you wanted this too. At the soft touch she let out a sound, and with it, the shift in her was immediate. Mirroring you, both her hands were now gripping the side of your face, pulling you in even closer, the kiss becoming deeper, messier, more desperate.  

Her heart was pounding, loud enough for you to feel it in her kiss. She’d stepped off the edge and instead of falling, she’d found something there to catch her.

.

She flopped down onto the sleeping bag alone in her makeshift tent, turning the bundle slowly in her fingers, memorising the way the colours bled into one another, the way the stems were knotted together with a thin strip of dried grass.

A bow. Her lips parted. “Idiot,” she murmured to herself, though she wasn’t sure who she meant.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, an image rose unbidden: wide eyes brown eyes, soft as anything, the trembling breath, lips against her skin – soft as sin. That night, when she lay down to sleep, she could still smell the flowers faintly on her fingers, and those fingers again found their way below her waist band. Brown eyes the only thing she needed to see.

.

The next morning, Ink tucked the flowers into waistband of her pants, then covered the remaining visible stems with her jacket tied around her waist. The secret thrilled her, and she moved with a spring in her step she had not noticed before. It was a weird giddiness that she didn’t think she’d ever feel, it was kinda embarrassing actually. Each slight brush of the flowers against her skin and waistband brought a small spark amusement and the movement of butterflies in her stomach. It was hers, and hers alone, a mark of attention she could not acknowledge out loud.

The flowers lasted a week before they began wilting, losing the life and colour but it didn’t matter. The bow still sat nicely tied and that was enough. Ink continued the search for her doe, scanning the undergrowth, listening for any sign of movement, interpreting the smallest noises as meaning. It didn’t take long before the others noticed subtle shifts in her behaviour, her slightly lighter step, a strangely pleasant smile on her face when someone cracked a joke, the way she volunteered for night watches and even offered to take the whole night. Crystal praised her diligence, telling her she made Old Nick very happy with her devotion.

Was it selfish? Not really, she allowed herself a strange, tangled rationale: if this doe was in fact a gift from Old Nick, then he would want her to find her again. One night, emboldened and so sure she saw a lingering shadow, she whispered into the shadows, “Come talk… I won’t hurt you.” Her voice was low, hesitant, and the silence that followed pressed against her.

Juliet had listened and ached to take the step out into the clearing. Another voice in her mind warned her to retreat, yet desire battled with caution, curiosity fighting to outweigh fear. She did not know the nature of her feelings but she felt light in the mare presence of Ink.

.

This summer was a particularly hot one. Jackets were stripped to just singlets, and any shelter was hardly doing a thing against the beating sun. One particularly sweltering afternoon, Juliet discovered a small, hidden lake, its water cool below the surface. Not far away, a waterfall provided a small stream of fresh water that also provided a steady noise to ward off unwanted visitors. After delicately stripping her thin, ripped dress, she waded in, letting the chill lap against her skin, the sensation of liquid brushing every curve and hollow of her now naked body.

Somewhere on the far bank, obscured by trees and the distance of careful observation, Ink looked through binoculars in search for a source of shelter for the group. The current deteriorating old supermarket they’d been in for a couple weeks wasn’t doing it anymore, any longer and Jimmima would probably murder Jimmy Shite in a heat driven hallucination. Her eyes scanned the landscape, slowly wondering if they’d ever run out of land to search. They’d been at this for over a decade, collecting strays as they went. She’d been the first Jimmy, closely followed by Jimmy Jimmy. But never the less, she was the first – not found, but the first kept.

Back then she hadn’t been anything, really. The shelter she’d been in for a year and a bit had fallen, and she got out, just a body dragging itself forward out of instinct, split lips and cracking skin, half-blind with dehydration. She remembered the taste of it more than anything, the dryness, thick and choking, like her throat had forgotten how to swallow.

She should have died out there, and she liked the idea of just drifting off more more than being eaten alive. She found a quiet spot to go, hidden and alone underneath a bridge.

And then he appeared. A strange, almost laughable figure at first glance, thin himself to the point of fragility, swallowed in a grey tracksuit too big for his frame, fabric hanging off him like it didn’t belong. There had been nothing weak about the way he stood. Nothing uncertain. He’d watched her for a while before stepping closer. She remembered that, the way he just observed like he was deciding something, like someone was speaking to him and telling him what he should do. He’d crouched beside her, tilting his head, studying her face with that same calm interest.

“You’re still fighting,” he’d said, almost impressed. She hadn’t had the strength to answer but he’d smiled anyway.

Water was soon given, pressed to her lips in careful amounts, as he controlled it. Every sip given was deliberate, an unintentional manipulation. It was a gift, but one that quickly turned into a leash. “You’re lucky,” he told her as she came back to herself. “Ol' Nick’s got his eye on you.”

At the time, she hadn’t questioned it and by the time she was strong enough to stand, she was already his.  At first, it was safety and structure, he gave her a place beside him, not beneath, not yet, no that came much later. Let her think she’d earned it. Through every death, every cut, every blood splatter on her face – she was different from whatever else wandered out there. Jimmy knew it, and so did Old Nick he would say. The group grew, one stray becoming two, then three, and then 7; that’s when the narrative shifted. It was with number 5 that it wasn’t just that Old Nick had guided Jimmy but that he spoke through him.

That he was the closest thing they’d ever have to the lord on earth. Ink never marked the exact moment that change settled. By then, it was already truth. Because what was the alternative? That she’d survived by chance? That the water given to her that day hadn’t meant anything? It had to mean something. She had to mean something.

Now she searched diligently and focused for a new place to call their temporary home. She shifted slightly in her crouched position, the stems in her waistband tickling her ever so slightly. An inch to the left, that’s all she had to move for the lenses of her binoculars to land on that body of water in the middle of a clearing.

She saw the girl immediately.

Inks impulse was to run down, to grab her and take a bite, but she quickly reminded herself of the delicate proximity that she couldn’t waste. Only other decision was to move quietly. Skilfully, like she’d done this before, she made her way down to the water’s edge, using the side with water rushing to mask her approach. She did not want to startle, did not want her to flee. There was a small gap in the shrubs that was clearly how Juliet had got in, from the looks of things, that was the only exit. Ink made her way to the opening, standing cross armed, suddenly strangely subconscious as to her closeness to the body she’d thought about every night the past month.

Juliet’s back was to the water’s edge, but her weak voice bounced off the surface like a skimmed rock, “Those crosses turned, upside-down, and he calls out to his children across the waters. High o'er the billows we are wafted along, Angel wing carry us” The Juliet, blissfully unaware of her predator, muttered to herself in the odd cadence of someone conversing in a story half-remembered. “Mrs Rabita was made of wood, but what could not be seen was though a trunk up top was barren, well her roots were lush and green”, Her words spun through the air, incomprehensible to anyone but her. Words were riddles, and prayers, they were some snippets of a life built on threats, and exorcisms; on the words of the father who had insisted she was a demon.

Juliet’s long, unkempt, hair clung to her back, thick with water, droplets catching the sunlight that slid across her skin. Her arms traced patterns in the water, fingers splayed, palms cupping, releasing. She bent forward, letting her face break the surface, bubbles rising and bursting. She wished to stay in here forever but forever wasn’t an option. John used to have to coax her out of water with the promise of food, it had always been the best bargaining tool. Her stomach twisted faintly now, reminding her she had been stretching time between bites too thin. Even the strange girl who lived inside stories had to eat eventually. She distracted herself, and continued her strange monologue, “All is summer. So in Spring when Mr Hickery saw her blossoms blooming there, he took root despite her bark and now there's seedlings everywhere” She laughed softly.

Unexpectedly, a second laugh accompanied hers. She’d jumped if she hadn’t froze. In the water, everything stilled, the prey suddenly aware of the predator. The predator also froze, knowing that one wrong move and the prey would bolt. Ink hadn’t meant to, but the chuckle slipped out at the strange song, carried with it an edge of curiosity. Juliet’s head tilted, confusion plain on her features. She knew it was her girl in red, but she hadn’t thought they’d meet again so soon.

At her lack of movement, Ink’s brows drew together, disappointment flashing across her face, mentally willing her to turn around. She crouched down, elbows resting loosely on her knees, the binoculars hanging forgotten around her neck. The sun sat high and cruel above them, flattening every shadow, turning the lake’s surface into a sheet of blinding silver. The doe now seemed a statue in the water, the only acknowledgement of Ink was that her voice was now silent and her hands still. Only the faint rise and fall of her shoulders betrayed that she was breathing at all. Ink knew that one wrong movement would send the doe running back into the forest; her heart jolted when the girl began to turn very slowly. The motion was hesitant as though something inside her mind was debating whether she truly wanted to see what waited behind her.

The girl with freckles like constellations and a smile that only came after death. Her girl in red. But her stories hadn’t said they would meet yet. Not today, the song had promised another week at least.

But stories were unreliable things when the storyteller was broken.

She sunk down, and water lapped softly against her collarbone as she rotated, her body remaining half-submerged, as though the lake itself were holding her there. She considered simply sinking under the surface again. For a long moment neither of them moved. Ink studied her the way a hunter studied a skittish animal: patient, deliberate, letting silence do the work. Up close, the girl looked even smaller than she had through the binoculars. All soft angles and fragile bones and wet strands of hair that clung to her cheeks.

Ink tilted her head slightly. “Y’know,” she said casually, “most folk scream when they see me pop out the bushes like that.”

Juliet blinked slowly, as if the sentence had arrived in pieces.

“I thought,” she murmured after a moment, “that perhaps you were a fox.”

Ink let out a short laugh. “Fox? I ain’t fox.”

Juliet seemed to consider this like a puzzle. Her fingers drifted through the water again, absentmindedly drawing circles on the surface. “The fox would’ve waited longer,” she said to herself. “It likes to see the ending before it speaks.”

Ink watched the movement of her hands, the way the water slipped around her wrists then moved to the her shoulders that gleamed with droplets. Juliet’s eyes, dropping every second, kept drifting back to Ink like they were tied together with invisible thread. “You gonna stay in there all day?” Ink asked gently.

Juliet stiffened. Her gaze darted briefly around the reeds, then to the place where she had entered the lake earlier, that was where Ink stood now. Juliet’s brows pinched together. “You’re there,” she said quietly.

“I am.”

“Then the path is closed.”

Ink shrugged. “Guess it is.”

Another long pause stretched between them. Juliet sank a fraction deeper into the water, her eyes now on the water’s surface as she watched a dragonfly dip its feet in then scurry away, only to return seconds later. She began speaking softly under her breath, almost as if Ink were no longer there. “If the hunter mistakes the lamb for the wolf,” she whispered, “does the lamb become the wolf?”

Ink chuckled. “Shit,” she muttered. “You always talk like that?”

Juliet looked up again, startled that she’d been heard. “The father said plain words let demons hide,” she said.

Ink’s brows lifted. “Oh yeah?” where was this girls so called father now then?

Juliet nodded. “So, stories are safer.”

Ink leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on her knees, her hands connecting with an ease of confidence. “And what story are we in right now?” Juliet looked around the lake slowly.

Her eyes moved over the trees. “The one where the hunter meets the strange animal,” she said quietly.

Ink’s grin returned, her eyes brightening with it “And which one are you?” she lifted one hand slowly and gestured toward the shore beside her, not giving the strange girl a moment to answer. “C’mon then,” she said softly. “Animal or not. Get out the water.”

Juliet didn’t move, her shoulders tightened. “I don’t know if I should,” she admitted.

Ink raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

Juliet’s eyes dropped to the water. “You pinned me to the ground last time we met.”

Ink winced slightly, before defensively biting out, “and you’ve been watching me for God knows how long. Why would I hurt you now?” There was another beat of silence, then Ink shifted her weight and slowly sat down fully on the grass, leaning back on her hands, making her posture deliberately relaxed. “Look,” she said. “See? No knives out. No jumpin’ on you. Scout’s honour.”

Juliet stared at her. “You don’t look like a scout.”

Ink watched her, fascinated, every movement of her body, the tilt of her head, the glint of sunlight on water-dampened skin. She coaxed, gentle, patient (a foreign and weird combination for her voice), “C’mon. Hop out. Just… come closer.”

As if a switch had been flipped, Juliet obeyed, the water cascading down her form, sliding off shoulders, arms, ribcage, glinting over scars and freckles. Ink’s gaze lingered, taking in the strange, unashamed openness of her body. Her breath hitched when the girl’s chest broke the water’s surface. Her eyes locked on her as a heat pooled low in her stomach, but her growing desire was halted by the sight of a large scar that decorated her doe’s chest. An upside-down cross was etched into the skin, clearly from rough hands years ago, but the jagged lines still stretched from the top of the sternum down to the bellybutton. Breath was still caught; awe and desire mingled, a dangerous cocktail that she had little intention of controlling. Ink’s mouth parted before she realised it. Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “…bloody hell.”

Juliet stopped abruptly, toes sinking into the mud beneath the surface. “If I come out,” she said slowly, “you must not hurt me.”

Ink’s expression shifted, something almost offended flashing there. “I told you,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Juliet studied her for a long moment, searching. Then she stepped forward. The water peeled away from her body with a quiet slosh as she rose completely from it, sunlight spilling across bare skin and dripping limbs.

Ink’s breath caught before she could stop it. For a moment she simply stared.

The other girl was unaware of the heat her exposure stirred, for she had no concept of desire, only having seen the look on Ink’s face late at night but had never been able to place it to a feeling. She felt now a pull, but also a deeply rooted feeling that this wasn’t right. The song had said another week. With slow, and cautious movements, she wrapped herself back in her loose fitting dress, the white fabric clinging wetly in places that left little to the imagination.

Ink’s eyes lingered and could not be drawn away. Her mouth remained open just an inch, something raw, unspoken, passed through the space between them, crackling like live wire.

“You called me a doe before,” Juliet said, unaware of the sparks flying between them.

Ink nodded slowly but provided no clarity, nor eye contact.

Juliet looked confused by that. “Why?”

Ink hesitated. Then said quietly, “Because you showed up exactly when someone told me one would.”

Juliet blinked, her head tilted again in that strange birdlike way. “Someone told you a deer would show up?”

Ink’s mouth curved slightly. “Somethin’ like that.”

Juliet thought about this, murmured softly to herself, “The forest always keeps its promises.”

Ink’s gaze slid down as Juliet stepped closer again.

Ink forced her eyes back up to Juliet’s face, trying to feign confidence that was slowly deteriorating with every rise of the doe’s chest. She felt, nervous? A feeling she’d not given the time of day for years past, but now, her breath catching in her throat, her legs suddenly weak, Juliet had no idea the power she held in this moment. It was a good thing she was sitting, otherwise she might’ve given it away.

Juliet felt the tension coil low in her belly, a thrill of fear sat heavy as she stood hovering over the other girl. She let herself tremble under Ink’s gaze, she too felt weakened knees, but that could have also been due to the lack of food. Ink’s camp hadn’t left room for a mouse to sneak in for over a week now, but she wasn’t going to stray far from their vicinity. Today had actually been the first she snuck away, the lure of the water far too appealing on the sweltering day.

Ink’s eyes drank her in, possession and awe intertwined. Her gaze slid downward again as Juliet stepped closer, the damp dress brushing softly against her legs.

“How long?” Ink leaned forward slightly, holding back from reaching out to touch. “How long have you been followin’ me?”

Juliet’s lips parted. Instead of answering directly, she murmured, “The girl walked north when the river bent like wire. The stars turned yellow and purple above the trees. The girl in red slept beside the fire, curled up at the knees.”

Ink frowned, confused. “That’s not an answer.”

Juliet tilted her head. “Time is slippery,” she said thoughtfully.

Ink exhaled through her nose. “Alright,” she said, forcing patience into her voice. “Try again.”

Juliet studied her. Then said quietly, “The moon has filled and emptied.” Juliet nodded, the faint smile on her face answered clearly enough.

Ink leaned back slightly, her doe had been watching her for over a month. A strange thrill moved through her chest. Juliet swayed softly, a clear sign of weakness having not the strength to stay standing on guard for must longer.

Ink noticed. “You can sit,” she said gently. “I’m not gonna bite.”

Juliet hesitated.

Ink softened her voice further. “Promise.”

After a long pause, Juliet lowered herself slowly to the ground across from her, though the motion was hesitant, she folded herself down onto the grass,

“Thank you-” Ink began “for the uh, flowers.” Juliet’s smile grew, and Ink liked to see it, “I still have them, see” she lifted her shirt, and the flowers peaked out from her waistband. Juliet’s face was suddenly pink, and Ink couldn’t help but mimic the smile on her face. They now sat facing each other, only a few feet apart. She felt desperate to hear her voice again, so she asked a question she so desperately wanted an answer to, “You ever come close at night?”

Juliet’s eyes brightened slightly, locking her gaze onto Ink’s, “Oh yes.” Ink felt a strange prickle run down her spine. Juliet spoke as if remembering a pleasant dream. “The fire sleeps,” she said softly. “And the girl in red sits alone with her blade. Sometimes she walks away from the others, into the cover of night, or a tent flap.”

Ink swallowed, “And what d’you see then?” she asked carefully.

Juliet tilted her head. “You look at the sky,” she said, Juliet’s voice softened further. “And sometimes…”

Ink leaned forward, aching to hear what else she’d seen.

“…sometimes the girl in red touches herself,” Juliet finished simply.

Ink’s face flushed instantly. “Christ-” she muttered under her breath. For a brief second embarrassment flickered across her expression. Something else replaced it: heat, need and desire. The knowledge that those soft brown eyes had been watching her in those moments. Her doe had seen everything. The very thought had her hot and bothered. She opened her mouth to say something else, something she knew would cause nothing but trouble-

“INKY!” The shout cut through the clearing like a snapped branch. Ink turned her head towards it, instantly bracing herself for the next call, “INKYY!” it was Jimmima’s voice calling from somewhere deeper in the forest. Ink cursed quietly under her breath.

When she looked back, Juliet was already standing with fear that had flooded her face. The doe was about to bolt. Ink lunged up and forward, caught her wrist just as she turned.  “Wait,” Ink said sharply.

Juliet twisted slightly in her grip, eyes wide. “I have to go,” she whispered.

“Just-” Ink’s voice dropped, sudden desperation slipping through the cracks. “Just tell me I’ll see you again.”

Juliet stared at her, jumping at the repeating call approaching from the treeline, “JIMMY INK!” Her eyes went back to the girl holding her wrist, the grip tightening slightly.

“Promise me,” Ink said, or more so pleaded.

Juliet’s strange smile returned. She leaned closer and whispered, “what’s a promise when they’re all already broken”

“I don’t underst-”

“I love my love with an H.” Juliet responded, now with a smile as wide as the cheshire cat.

Ink frowned, nauseated by a simple word. “…what?” But Juliet used the confusion only to slip her wrist free. Another call echoed through the forest, and before Ink could stop her. The doe vanished into the trees

.

By the time the crazed blue suited Jimmima pushed through the brush, something in Ink had already soured. Jimmima blinked, a look of annoyance on her face as she found her, “I was calling you-”

“Yeah, I heard you.” Ink’s tone was clipped, irritated in a way that didn’t quite match the situation. The two of them walked back to Camp, Jimmima talking wildly about a cat she swore she’d seen in the bushes, and that Sir Lord had called for Inks return.

When they arrived back where the others had walked to, Jimmy Crystal stood half-turned away from the others, murmuring to himself under his breath. His fingers twitched slightly at his sides, like he was counting something unseen. “…not yet… no, not yet,” he whispered. “Soon. It has to be soon.”

No one interrupted him. No one ever did.

Off to one side, Jimmy Jones and Jimmy Snake were curled up together on a grass bank, pressed close. Snake’s head rested against Jones’ shoulder, and Jones absentmindedly traced patterns along his arm. Since Snake had joined them, the two had become near inseparable.

Ink couldn’t help but feel pissed off, the others all acted normal and the day continued on, like nothing had happened. But for them, nothing had. For her, everything changed.

When night fell, they all took their designated places around the fire listening to Crystal talk about offerings and promises. When he’d finished with an excuse to go do his nighttime business, the others turned back to their own entertainment. Across the fire, Jimmy Shite snorted at something Jimmy Fox muttered, elbowing him lightly. “Go on,” Fox said under his breath, grin sharp. “Bet she won’t bite.”

Shite didn’t need much encouragement. “Inky,” he called, voice carrying just enough. “All that skulking around… people might start thinking Old Nick’s stopped gracing you with spark.”

Ink didn’t move, face turning to stone.

Shite leaned forward slightly, sensing it and pressing on, “Or maybe he never was, yeah?” he added, tone turning uglier. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone thought they were special.”

Jimmy Fox let out a low laugh. Ink would’ve brushed it off, fired something back, easy and cutting. Tonight, something snapped. Her head turned slowly, eyes locking onto him. “What’re you sayin’?”

Shite grinned, wider now. “Just wondering where you stand, that’s all. Crystal’s got his favourites. The rest of us actually earn our place.”

That landed. If only he knew the things she’d done, the ways she earnt her place. She was so far gone from her past life, she didn’t even know herself anymore.

Shite pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders like he’d been waiting for this. “Just thinkin’, maybe Old Nick’s not whispering in Sir lords’ ear anymore about ya.” He tilted his head, mock curiosity in his expression. “Or worse… maybe he never was.”

Ink moved fast. Her knife was in her hand in a blink, and Shite barely had time to react before he was dragging his own free. Steel clashed without warning. Ink came at him like something feral, the others began hooting and hollering, Jimmima giggling as she watched the dance with excitement.

Shite staggered back under the force of it, blocking, swearing. “Hit a nerve, didn’t I?” he shot back, though there was strain creeping in now.

Ink didn’t answer. She lunged and sliced, it was a clean slice, too close. Shite twisted away, boots skidding, barely recovering before she was on him again. He swung and caught her shoulder. She didn’t even flinch, didn’t seem to feel it or she just didn’t care.

This wasn’t a spar, and the skills were outmatched. Ink caught his wrist mid-strike and twisted hard. The knife dropped from his grip with a dull thud. Before he could react, she drove him down, wrenching him back into a brutal headlock.

Her blade pressed tight against his throat, “Go on,” Ink whispered, breath hot against his ear. “Say it again. Tell me I’m not chosen. Go on,” she hissed, “Give me a reason. You think I need you to believe it?” she continued, voice low, shaking with something dangerous. “You think I don’t know?”

Her grip tightened and for a second, just a second, it looked like she might drag the blade across.

“Down Jimmy Ink.” Jimmy Crystal’s voice growled through the air causing all around to freeze.

He stepped forward, calm as ever, hands loosely clasped behind his back. There was no urgency in him. “Energy like that,” he continued, voice smooth, almost gentle, “should be reserved for something… worthy.” His gaze drifted briefly to Shite, then back to Ink. “Not him. This isn’t how you prove yourself, not against a fellow finger my darlin’, that’s not how it works.”

After a beat, she shoved Shite forward and released him.

“Cool off,” Crystal added lightly, already turning away, flicking his fingers in gesture with little effort. “Now.”

Ink didn’t respond verbally, instead she turned and stalked off into the trees, jaw tight, hands still shaking, grip still tight on the blade in her hand. It took a lot for her to keep walking and to not take her anger out on an innocent tree.

A soft but loud voice called out from the treeline, “Hey, Ink! Wait up.”

She didn’t stop at first, but the footsteps followed anyway, it was Jimmy Jones who soon fell into step beside Ink, hands tucked casually into their pockets. “You planning on sulking all night, or-”

“Piss off.” Ink threw out to the ‘friend’ at her side.

Jones snorted. “There she is. Look, you know Shite just runs his mouth because he’s bored,” they said easily. “He was tryin to get a rise outta ya, and you let him. It’s not like you, something up?” Ink shook her head sharply but Jones kept prying, “Come to think of it, you’ve been weird all week.”

Ink shook her head, pacing now, restless, she wasn’t going to talk about her doe, she exhaled, “…you ever think,” she started, not looking at Jones, “that he, that Old Nick, gives more than just signs?”

Jones glanced at her, curious. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean- Sir Lord talks about his favour like it’s in here.” She tapped her temple lightly. “Or here.” A quick, dismissive gesture to her chest. “Faith and feelings or what’ver. But what if it’s not?”

Jones’s brow lifted slightly.

Ink finally looked at them, something sharper in her eyes now, “What if he gives something real?” she said. “Something you can actually hold. Not just messages or instincts or whatever Sir Lord calls it. You think that’s possible?”

Jones didn’t answer straight away, hummed instead, rocking slightly on their heels, “You mean like Snake?”

Ink frowned. “What?”

Jones smiled faintly, eyes drifting back toward the camp, toward the firelight flickering through the trees. “Crystal told me something was coming,” they said. “Said we’d earned it. A reward. Then the next week… we found him.” There was something fond in their expression now. “Crystal said that was proof. Said Old Nick doesn’t just whisper but he provides. Puts things in your path when you’ve done enough to deserve it. Snake wasn’t just luck.” Jones continued, “What’s all this about then? Why are you bothered about what Shite has to say?”

Ink folded her arms, thinking carefully over Jones’ words of wisdom, “Just been wound up. I just-  Shite said it like he knew and like it was obvious. Like I’m just” She gestured vaguely, angry at the shape of the thought. “Just another one of Crystal’s pets.”

Jones’s expression didn’t change, but something in their posture shifted, “You are one of his,” they said, voice less playful now. Ink’s eyes snapped to them, and Jones continued.  “No?” Jones raised an eyebrow. “You follow him, and you listen, and you bleed when he tells you to bleed. Same as the rest of us, if not better. You follow our Lord Crystal” There was a strange level of admiration in their voice.

Ink stepped closer, something flaring again. “I follow Old Nick.”

“And who speaks for him? His favourite son of course, his only son” Jones shot back, just as quick.

Ink went still, Jones was right, Ink quickly squashed the thoughts for she had no right to question Crystal’s standing. Questioning Crystal meant questioning the voice of Old Nick himself. That that wasn’t just doubt, that was betrayal. And now, the doe, confirmation that he was watching meant that their work must continue. If he was watching, then everything they were doing mattered. Every cut, every offering, every death, they all mattered. 

“Look, if he, Old Nick, can put something in front of you,” they said, “that’s pretty fucking obvious to me. We’re all chosen.”

Ink’s fingers twitched at her sides. “…maybe. I never said we weren’t.” It was clear that whatever moment of Ink opening up was now gone in the way she shifted towards a tree, pulling a knife out to start carving.

Jones looked on confused, but now aching to get back to Snake. “Come back when you’re done brooding,” Jones said, turning.

Ink waved them off vaguely with a soft “Piss off”. The forest stretched quiet around her, shadows deepening as night settled in. She leaned against a tree, eyes scanning the darkness. She knew with this new understanding and confirmation that it was a gift, she waited and hoped for a flicker of movement, for a glimpse of a white dress, for those soft brown eyes.

Minutes passed, they turned into hours, and nothing came. The morning was the only thing that came, and Ink hadn’t got a wink of sleep.

The group were moving again, packs slung, boots crunching over dry ground as they cut through the forest. Each step reminding them of the desperation to be out of the heat. Their prayers were answered only a few kilometres into their journey. The trees thinned out, and then a gothic shape emerged slowly as it was discovered. An old church stood crooked and half-collapsed, the ceiling mostly devoured by time and neglect. It stayed standing only because of the hard stone walls, but they were stained dark with rot and creeping vines that clawed their way up the sides like they were trying to drag it into the ground.

They approached carefully, the group tightening into a formation out of instinct. Once the initial surroundings were clear, it was usual for Crystal and Ink to be the first to look inside. Crystal to assess the worthiness of the space, and Ink as his personal bodyguard of sorts. The large wooden doors opened with a loud creak, that would’ve been enough to signal their arrival to anyone or anything inside. Nothing came for them, so they took another few steps forward. It was the smell that hit them both, Jimmy Crystal gagging dramatically while Ink quickly covered her nose and mouth with her jacket.

It was just general decay, damp and dusty, but an extra layer of death and judging by the pile of bones sitting in front of the altar, the place was long abandoned. The pair continued to look around, Ink looking upwards to see a section of rafters and an attic that were slightly exposed by a hole in the ceiling. She mentally took note of it, she would claim it as her own once they were done with all the checks and Crystal finally declares that this place has been chosen for them.

“So, you wanna tell me why you and Shite were going at its last night?” Jimmy Crystal asked, not caring for the emotional reasons, but wanted in on the gossip per say.

Ink was still irritated, “It’s not important.” She bit back.

Crystal let out a judgement tsk, “It’s not important….”

“oh sorry, It’s not important Sir Lord”, Ink wanted to roll her eyes, but knew that attitude would result in more issues she didn’t have the capacity to deal with right now.

“Better. Your manners have been taking a real dip lately Jimmy Ink. I suggest you get on that, quick, otherwise-” Crystals incoming threat was interrupted, by Jimmima stumbling with force into the church’s door.

“INK!” The shout cut through the growing tension within the stillness.

Jimmy Crystal was gobsmacked by the rude interruption, perhaps he’d been too relaxed with his followers recently, they’re all getting too comfortable “Jimmima. Have you been invited in yet?” He said too kindly, still a stern look in his eyes.

It did make Jimmima shiver slightly, “Sorry, Sir Lord, it’s just – you need to see this.”

“See what?”

Jimmima looked at Jimmy Ink before she started giggling like a madman, turning out the church and running round to the back.

Ink and Crystal shared a confused look, before they headed back out to follow the strange girl. It was Jimmy Jones next that came tearing around the corner of the building, breath uneven, eyes wide in a way that immediately set something on edge. “You-” they started, bending slightly, hands on their knees as they tried to catch their breath. “You need to see this.”

They followed without further question, both drawn by something in Jones’ voice that cut through even Crystal’s quiet control. Rounding the side of the church, the air seemed to shift, thicker somehow, heavier, as though the space itself resisted being witnessed. The others had already gathered there, forming a loose, uncertain semicircle. No one spoke. Even their usual restless movement had stilled into something watchful, uneasy. Jimmima had climbed partway up a collapsed section of wall, one hand braced against the crumbling stone as she leaned forward, her posture tense, her gaze fixed downward, a crooked smile plasted on her face.

Ink stepped past them, brushing shoulders without noticing, her focus pulled forward by something she couldn’t yet name. And then she saw it.

The wall ahead was fractured and split with age, its surface uneven and scarred, but across it, stark and immediate, was something violently new. Written in thick, dragging strokes was her name followed by 1 delicate letter, Jimmy Ink, – H.

The red of it was unmistakable, though uneven in tone, darker where it had pooled, brighter where it had been smeared thin. It hadn’t fully dried and there was no mistaking what it was made from, nor the deliberate care in how it had been placed. It had been written with intention, each letter pressed into the stone as though carved there by force of will alone.

Right beneath the message, a rusted hook had been driven into the wall at an awkward angle, its metal eaten through with age. From it hung a gold chain, the small cross at its centre swaying faintly in the breeze. It looked almost absurd in its fragility against the ruin around it - fine, worn, and clearly once cherished. It caught the light in brief, fractured glints, each movement subtle but impossible to ignore. It did not belong to the church, nor to the decay that surrounded it. It had been placed there. Something coiled low in Inks chest and tightened with each passing second as she dragged her attention downward, and only then did the rest of the scene fully settle into place.

The bodies lay in the grass just below the wall. A man and a woman, though the distinction felt incidental now. Their throats had been opened with intensity, deep cuts that had bled them thoroughly, the surrounding grass darkened with a stain. The blood had soaked deep into the soil, spreading outward in uneven patterns, its metallic scent still thick in the air, it clung to the back of the throat, sharp and unmistakable.

The wounds were not clean, there was a jaggedness to them, as though the blade had been dragged, pressed, worked deeper than necessary. Whatever struggle had taken place here had been brief. There was no chaos in the aftermath, only the unmistakable imprint of intent. Their belongings lay scattered nearby, torn open with little regard for preservation. Bags had been split at the seams, contents dragged out and sifted through, anything of value stripped away.

And the necklace, Ink’s gaze lifted again, drawn back to it, had clearly come from the woman. The faint indentation and tan line at the base of her neck, the absence where something had once rested, made that much certain. It had been removed, separated from the body with purpose, and then lifted, and hung. Not discarded but given.

A murmur passed faintly through the group behind her, low and uncertain. The confusion was palpable. Ink, however, did not share their uncertainty. She moved forward slowly, her eyes remained fixed on the writing, on the final letter, on the simple, undeniable clarity of it.

H. The thought came as recognition. I love my love with an H.

A quiet sound escaped her, something between disbelief and something far more dangerous. The feeling in her chest was now unravelling; any sense of reality lost to the blooming within her. The air felt different, charged in a way that made her skin prickle. She stepped closer to the wall, close enough to see where the blood had gathered in the stone’s cracks, thickened into darker lines that mapped the uneven surface, she could now smell the iron tang. She reached forward and grabbed the golden cross, her fingers closing tightly around the chain that slipped free from the hook with a soft scrape. The world around her seemed to sharpen and blur all at once, the edges of everything pulling inward toward a single, undeniable point: Old Nick had chosen her, and he had sent the strange, beautiful, watching doe to deliver his recognition.

Slowly, her lips parted, her breath catching again, but this time it broke into something else entirely. The beginnings of a smile pulled at her mouth, tentative only for a moment before it spread, widening into something unrestrained, something that twisted beyond anything soft or human. It carved across her face, sharp and gleaming, an expression of pure, unfiltered elation that sat wrong in the context of death and ruin.

Behind her, the others watched in silence, their unease deepening into something closer to alarm. Because Ink was not reacting as she should have been, nor in a way they’d ever seen her act before.

Whatever doubts had existed before were gone and she would not question it again. Old Nick that is, there was still space to question everything else that came along with him.

Hidden above them, peaking out of the ripped open rafters and ceiling of the church, Juliet watched on. Juliet watched as Inks face shifted from the smallest hints of pleasure to a wide, all-consuming grin. Only someone who had learnt her every expression would notice the intensity of the change, so Juliet did. She didn’t know the heat in her own core, she’d never dealt with it before. But she watched, and felt nothing but awe at the sight.

.

It drove you insane in the quiet moments. Your mind would circle the question over and over again, trying to trace back to some moment where you’d said the wrong thing, done the wrong thing, breathed the wrong way near her. But you came up empty every single time.

It must’ve been your very existence. Nothing you said or did ever seemed to change her attitude when it came to you. The sighs, the groans, the eye rolls, each one landed harder than the next until you eventually started hitting back.

If she rolled her eyes, you scoffed louder.

If she sighed, you made sure yours was heavier.

If she snapped, you snapped twice as hard.

It was childish, petty, and honestly pretty fucking exhausting. But hey, at least it stopped you from wondering what you’d done wrong.

Even now, the boots crunched behind you with deliberate heaviness, like the very act of stepping near you was something Ink found deeply offensive.

You didn’t look back.

Branches sagged overhead, dripping from the rain that had fallen earlier that morning, and the path you followed was a deer trail weaving through rotting logs and wild undergrowth. Your step was faster than hers, more agile, and she clearly didn’t like that either.

You could literally feel her irritation building like pressure against your back. She hated being outpaced. The borrowed machete strapped across her back clinked softly against the metal of the hunting knife at her belt as she tried to keep close enough on your heels.

Ink always carried more blades than anyone else in the group. She was the most skilled with them, there was no denying that. In fact, you’d never admit it, but watching her take down the dead and even the living was a show. A beautiful thing to witness, one that you’d had the honour of being front row at for the past 2 years.

“Are you planning to actually find us somewhere,” Ink called from behind you, her voice sharp and bored all at once, “or are we just gonna keep wanderin’ ‘round these bloody trees ‘til you reckon a place is nice enough?”

Crystal had sent the two of you out to find a new place to shelter as the current house, one you’d been camped in for weeks, was suddenly no longer to his liking. His constant upheaval was tiring, but it was just what you all just did. He said that your stealth, and Ink’s brutality was the perfect combination, and thus, you guys were sent out together time and time again. It might’ve just been a sick joke, and the way the others laughed every time the two of you stormed off together pushed you further into annoyance.

“Good to know you’re enjoying the scenery,” you said dryly.

“Scenery?” Ink scoffed, the sound loud behind you. “It’s trees. Just trees. Same trees we passed five minutes ago, if y’ask me.”

“All trees look the same anyway,” you replied calmly, stepping over a fallen branch slick with rain, “if you think we’re walking in circles, you’re more than welcome to lead.”

“Oh, don’t start wi’ that,” she muttered. “You’d hate that. Can’t play the hero scout if I’m the one pickin’ where we go.”

You finally stopped and turned. Ink nearly walked straight into you again, catching herself at the last second with an annoyed jerk of her shoulders. Her eyes narrowed the moment she realised you were looking directly at her.

“What?” she demanded.

You tilted your head slightly. “You know, for someone who hates being near me, you spend a lot of time right behind me.”

Ink’s lip curled. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it looked physically painful, “Sir Lord sends us out t’find a shelter an’ somehow I get stuck followin’ you through the woods like a lost dog,” she grumbled. “It’s stupid.”

“This is stupid. You walk ahead,” you decided for her, quickly becoming bored of the conversation that you’d had dozens of times before.

Ink barked a short laugh. “Yeah, an’ give you the chance t’sneak off somewhere? Not likely.”

Your eyebrow lifted. “Where exactly do you think I’d go?”

“Anywhere that isn’t here, I’d imagine.”

“It’s tempting,” you admitted under your breath, clearly not quiet enough from the huff you received from Ink, now folding her arms firmly.

“Go on then. Anywhere’s waitin for you.” Her voice was firm, but much to your surprise it lacked the bite you’d expected. It was… almost a tone of nervousness?

You only heard it because you’d seen it in her eyes on the rarest occasions before. Every time you got too close. Every time your shoulders brushed when squeezing through a doorway. Every time your eyes held hers for just a little too long during one of your endless arguments. But then, Ink would snap harder, meaner, almost like she needed to shove the moment away before it could settle.

It made absolutely no sense. She made absolutely no sense. Before you had a chance to respond, a low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. You both glanced upward instinctively. You hadn’t even noticed the dark clouds that had begun gathering over the treeline.

Ink clicked her tongue. “Brilliant.” On cue, the rain started.

Within minutes it soaked through your clothes, cold droplets sliding down the back of your neck as the storm built overhead. “Fantastic weather for scouting,” you muttered.

“Y’were the one insistin’ we go this way.”

“Because it leads away from the main roads.”

“And?”

“And the dead gather around those roads.”

“I know that,” she snapped defensively, she hadn’t actually thought about it.

You raised an eyebrow. “Then why ask?”

Then Ink rolled her eyes dramatically and shoved past you. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

You stared after her. “You’re the one who started it!” Instead, you quickened your pace, catching up to her easily. You were testing her, getting closer and closer on her tail that she could feel you creeping up behind her. She pushed down the sudden urge to shiver, locking eyes on the path ahead, ignoring the fact that her vision was being obstructed by rain drops that grew heavier and heavier with each fall. Your voice had to climb over the now pounding rain to reach her, but she kept walking anyway, shoulders set stiff and forward like the very idea of turning around was something she refused to entertain.

“Why won’t you just listen to me!” The frustration finally snapped loose from your chest. You lunged forward, grabbing her arm and wrenching her around to face you.

Ink staggered half a step before catching her balance, boots skidding slightly in the mud. Your breathing had climbed high and sharp in your chest, and hers wasn’t much better, both of you standing too close now, rain running down your faces and dripping from the ridiculous blonde wigs plastered to your heads.

It wasn’t just anger that hung between you. There was something else too, something hotter, tighter, something that made the air feel heavy. Ink’s hand was still caught in your grip, and her eyes dropped to it for half a second before snapping back up to your face.

“Let go,” she muttered.

“You’re being stubborn.”

“And you’re bein’ a pain in the arse,” she shot back instantly, trying to yank her arm free.

You didn’t release her immediately. You opened your mouth to say something more, something you hadn’t planned on saying yet - but a wet, dragging sound echoed through the trees.

Both of you froze instantly, holding your breath tightly. The rain masked most the noise, but the unmistakable shuffling and groaning of the dead still carried through the underbrush.

In flashes of movement the scene played out like it normally did. Ink’s hand fiercely on her knife, yours’s on your own. The decaying people lurched towards the two of you, and Ink moved first. Her knife moved in a vicious arc, splitting the first corpse’s skull with a crack. The second stumbled toward you, arms reaching, jaw slack and snapping uselessly.

You ducked its grasp easily, sliding behind it and driving your knife up beneath its jaw and right up as far as it would go. The body dropped.

Another dead man lunged toward you from the side, somehow this one was unnoticed in the rain. You stepped back but your heel caught on a root, a mass was on top of you and for a second, you thought you were a goner. Suddenly, Ink barreled into it from the side, slamming her shoulder into its chest and sending both of them crashing into the mud. Her blade plunged down. Three times before the corpse stopping moving. One scan and you realised that was the last of them. You were still in shock, feeling a phantom presence of the beast on top of you.

You pushed yourself upright, looked towards Ink and for a brief second, your eyes met.

Ink looked… angry. More than usual. She shoved the body aside and stood, breathing hard. Her chest rose and fell sharply, her knuckles still white around the handle.

“You trying to get yourself killed?” she snapped suddenly, her voice rough.

You blinked. “I slipped-”

“Well don’t!” she barked immediately, dragging a hand through her soaked wig in frustration. “Christ, I can’t be watchin’ you every second!” Ink turned away quickly before you could say anything else, wiping the blood from her blade against her tracksuit with rough, irritated movements. “Get up,” she muttered.

You blinked, scoffed and got up on your own, “Wow. That almost sounded like concern.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

Thunder cracked violently overhead as the storm finally broke into a full downpour. Ink scanned the treeline before jerking her chin toward a crooked shape barely visible through the rain. She began walking, this time leaving you behind like she’d seen something more worthy in the distance.

You followed her gaze, throwing your arms up in frustration before storming after her. You saw what she’d seen, a small wooden house that leaned against the edge of the forest, its roof sagging slightly beneath years of neglect. “Looks abandoned,” you said.

“Everything is abandoned,” Ink replied, continuing forward.

The two of you approached cautiously, the front door creaked open with barely any resistance and inside, you were hit with an air that smelled stale and rotten. A kitchen sat just inside the entrance, the table still set with mould-blackened plates and utensils left exactly where someone had abandoned them years ago. A thin trail of dried blood streaked across the floor toward the back door, disappearing into the rain outside.

Ink studied the room for half a second before speaking.

“Wait here.” She barked

“I can help clear-”

“Wait.” Her tone left no room for argument and with that, she disappeared down the hallway.

You leaned against the wall, listening to the storm hammer the roof and the distant thud of Ink checking doors and corners deeper inside the cottage.

Several minutes later she returned with a simple nod to give the all clear.

You nodded, stepping fully inside. Moving from years of routine together, you shoved a heavy chair against the front door and dragged a narrow table in front of the nearest window.

The tension returned immediately once the work was done. You wiped rainwater from your face, unable to fight the feeling of a heavy heart as you felt the distrust and hate settle back into the room. “I’ll leave you alone,” you said flatly. “Seems like that’s what you want.”

Ink didn’t respond, you don’t know if you wanted her to.

After finding some dry (not so clean) clothes, you tried to reset yourself. Exploring the house, you walked down the hall until you found a small lounge room with a sagging couch and a dusty bookshelf. Some half used candles were quickly lit and you grabbed one of the books that looked mostly intact. You settled onto the couch (which let off a layer of dust with the weight) and opened it, barely made it through two pages when footsteps appeared in the doorway.

You dragged your eyes up and Ink just stood there, clearly trying to look like she wasn’t hovering.

When it grew awkward you finally cracked, “…What?” you asked.

She jerked her chin toward the couch.

“You mind?”

You blinked. “…No?”

Ink sat down beside you, leaving a decent amount of space between your shoulders. For a long moment she didn’t speak. Then she glanced at the book in your hands, ripping it from you without any warning, “This looks terrible.”

You stared at her, “you haven’t even read it.”

“Neither have you.”

You snorted, the sound escaped before you could stop it. An intact book that wasn’t used for firewood was rare so she was right.

Ink looked startled. “…Don’t do that,” she muttered.

“Do what?”

“Laugh.”

Confusion coursed through you, “Why?”

She looked away quickly. “Just don’t.”

You shook your head, she’s never made sense to you so why would she now?

.

The storm raged on outside, seemingly getting worse by the hour. Somewhere on the cottage loose metal clanged intermittently, an old gutter perhaps, it’s sound had settled into the background hours ago, constant and dull, like distant artillery.

Your eyelids had begun drooping, and the words on the page in front of you were slowly losing their meaning. The lines blurred together, slanting sideways no matter how hard you tried to focus on them. The book dipped slightly in your hands and your head followed it.

Then your body jerked upright with a sudden start, heart thumping as you realised you’d nearly nodded off.

Across the couch, Ink sat on the arm, one leg propped up on the cushion while she worked with quiet concentration. A old protractor needle between her fingers as she pressed it into the skin of her forearm, adding another crude line of (believe it or not) ink to the collection of jagged symbols and marks scattered across her skin.

She didn’t even look up when she spoke. “Sleep.”

You shook your head automatically.

Ink clicked her tongue in immediate irritation, “Don’t be a prat,” she muttered. “You’re knackered.”

“I’m fine.”

She finally glanced over and you could feel the weight of the look even before your eyes met hers. “You just fell asleep sittin’ up.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face, quickly admitting defeat but not without compromise, “You should sleep too.”

Her response came instantly, “I’ll watch.”

“We barricaded the door.”

“And?”

“And.... nothing’s getting in.”

Ink scoffed. “Yeah? Tell that to the last place we barricaded.”

Your heavy eyes rolled, “That was different.”

“How?”

“The wall collapsed, that place was like a million years old.”

She raised an eyebrow, shrugging her shoulders like you had a fair point.

You had searched this cottage earlier, there was one bed that seemed relatively intact and put together (beside the dust and dust mite holes). You’d been putting off claiming it for some reason, there was a part of you that knew Ink needed to rest, possibly more than you did.

The words came out before you had a chance to stop them, “Come rest in the room at least.”

There was a pause, “I can hear things out here.”, her answer wasn’t exactly a no.

“If you just came into the room we could both sleep. Or you could just lay down?”

“I’m not sleeping.”

“You don’t have to sleep.”

“Then what’s the point of lying down?”

"Bloody hell. to rest!”

Ink looked deeply offended by the concept. “I don’t needa rest.”

“You absolutely do.”

“No I don’t.”

“You’ve been awake for two days and you can still keep watch from the room if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Ink shrugged. “Nah, it’s too far from the door.”

You stared at her, you don’t know why you wanted to push for a different answer but you did. “That is the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”

“Good,” she said without missing a beat. “Then stop askin’.”

You rubbed your eyes again, exhaustion creeping heavier into your limbs. “You’re literally stabbing yourself to stay awake.”

Her movements paused for a moment, before she let out a heavy sigh and continued. She was somehow more stubborn than you were. Your shoulders dropped in slightly disappointment, before you turned and made your way out of the room, dropping the book carelessly in your wake.

The bedroom was just as you’d left it, and the mattress which had been calling your name creaked under your weight as you collapsed onto it, you even managed to pull the thin blanket over the top of you.

You stared up at the ceiling, mind churning restlessly, thoughts bumping into one another like storm waves crashing against rock. It was frustration and confusion, not at the world but at that girl that sat without care in the other room. Emotion was coiling in your chest now and it was that same tight, hot feeling that always seemed to appear whenever you were too close to her.

Outside, the storm continued raging against the cottage, rain tapping against the windows like restless fingers. Eventually your body began to sink beneath the exhaustion whether you wanted it to or not.

Your breathing and thoughts slowed down, enough that you finally began to drift off.

Then the mattress dipped beside you.

Your body went still instantly, no movement, no breathing. Someone had sat down on the edge of the bed. Ink always carried the faint smell of smoke and metal; a sharp scent of rain-damp fabric and an air of coolness was unmistakeable.

You knew her breathing too. Always low and steady, something you listened to late each night searching for answers to her dislike for you.

You had the strange, irrational fear that if you acknowledged her presence she might disappear again back into the hallway, back into her stubborn silence. So you stayed still. Pretending to sleep. The mattress shifted again. Slowly came a quiet rustle of fabric followed as Ink lay down behind you. You felt the warmth before anything else. A solid, living heat settling just inches from your back.

Closer. Then closer still.

Ink let out a quiet breath, not the irritated huff you were used to hearing, something so much softer. Almost… relieved. The warm air brushed lightly against the back of your neck. You felt your lips betray you before you could stop them, the smallest smile slipping across your face.

Hesitantly, an arm slid around your waist. Ink’s hand settled against your stomach as she pulled you a fraction closer, the space between your bodies disappearing completely.

It was a closeness that neither of you had realised the other was craving quite this much.

.

You woke to the sound of wind moving through dead leaves, one or two of them were pulled from their branches and now floated delicately to the ground. It was the leaf that landed on your nose that woke you up. The strange itch of it that had you scrunching your nose before lifting a hand to brush it away.

For a few slow, disoriented seconds, you forgot where you were.

There was a soft huff of a laugh next to you, you turned and saw those deep brown eyes that belonged to none other than Jimmy Ink. She had one eye open, the other still heavy with the nights sleep. You’d been alone for the past couple days, no sign of anyone. Not that you minded, and certainly not that she minded.

Each night, if not multiple times a day, you were subjected to the bliss of her skill. Her hands, her tongue, her voice, even her eyes had a way of taking you to a level of pleasure you hadn’t even dreamed of. You didn’t want to admit it, but it was slowing down your recovery. Every time you felt you had the energy to walk more than 5 minutes, she took that as a sign that you were ready for another round. Truth was, Ink was enamoured by you. By your sounds, by your voice, even by your eyes which had a way of making her feel dizzy and fulfilled all at once.

Now you lay under a dying tree, on a makeshift mattress in the form of a thin blanket. Not that it brought you any discomfort, Ink ensured you were on top of her each night, using her chest as a pillow, her legs as extra coverage. Even now, her arm was still draped securely over your waist, loose but possessive, her body curved around yours as though she had decided that day she first saw you that this was where you belonged. Her chin moved to be rested lightly against the crown of your head, her breath warm and steady in your hair.

Every part of you seemed suddenly awake at once: the ache in your limbs, the lingering heat in your skin, the way your heart jumped when you realised how close she still was. You’d thought from the past few days you’d be used to it, but apparently not. The first night returned to you in flashes: her voice in your ear, her grip, the way she had looked at you like you were something sacred and dangerous all at once.

You swallowed quietly.

Ink noticed your eyes darting down to her own lips. The cozy morning air was quickly replaced with a breeze of desire. It was subtle at first, a small shift of her shoulder. A deeper breath from you. Her fingers flexed slightly against your side, feathering over your bare hip causing a deep shiver to pulse through you.

Her eyes were fully open now and for a moment, she just looked. Didn’t even breathe as she gazed into your eyes.

“Morning,” she rasped, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning,” you whispered back, your voice thin and faintly broken at the edges, and you saw her notice it immediately in the way her gaze sharpened, concern flickering briefly across her features before she smoothed it away.

Her eyes drifted slowly over you, lingering on your mouth, your lashes, the faint crease between your brows that only appeared when exhaustion weighed too heavily on you.

“You okay?” she asked quietly, her voice gentler now.

You nodded, though the movement felt heavier than it should have. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

A small, knowing smile curved her lips. “Yeah. Me too.”

You let out a quiet huff, something playful and familiar rising instinctively to the surface. “Wonder whose fault that is.”

Something dark and warm flickered behind her eyes. Her memory delighted by the images of you the days before: your head tipped back, your mouth parted in helpless, breathless sounds, your body arching instinctively toward her touch as though drawn by gravity itself. She remembered the way you had clung to her, the way your voice had broken around her name, the way you had trusted her without hesitation.

Her thumb brushed lightly along your jaw, tracing the curve of your skin as if reminding herself that you were real. “Careful,” she murmured, her voice dropping into something slower, rougher. “Keep talking like that and I might not be so nice this time.”

Heat pooled low in your stomach. You swallowed, your breath catching almost imperceptibly. “…Wasn’t asking you to be.”

Her breath hitched before she could stop it.

Slowly, deliberately, she leaned closer, closing the already narrow space between you until her forehead brushed yours, her warmth seeping into you like a slow-burning flame. Her grip tightening and pulling you closer, her thigh now placing itself firmly between yours.

“Oh?” she whispered.

Your pulse thundered in your ears but was halted by the sudden crash of movement in the bushes that shattered the moment.

Leaves rustled violently along with the branches that snapped.

Ink froze and every trace of softness vanished from her in an instant. Her body shifted in front of you on pure instinct, one arm lifting protectively as she positioned herself between you and the sound, her other hand already sliding toward the blade that’d never strayed far from reach.

“Stay behind me,” she muttered, her voice low and sharp.

Your heart lurched painfully in your chest as you obeyed without thinking, shrinking back slightly as adrenaline flooded your system.

The foliage parted and you awaited the danger.

It was Jimmy Fox first, stumbling slightly over exposed roots. Then Jones, laughing their way in behind them. Followed closely by an overly cheerful Sir Lord who was sharing in that laughter. His presence immediately filling the clearing.

Ink’s shoulders loosened by a fraction. Relief that it wasn’t the dead, but disappointment at the fact that your days alone with her ended in an instant.

Ink exhaled slowly, forcing her hand away from her weapon.

Crystal lifted an eyebrow, amusement glinting faintly in his gaze as he looked between the two of you, still unnaturally close.

“Didn’t realise we were interruptin’ somethin’,” he drawled.

Ink stiffened. Her jaw tightened. “No,” she said quickly. “We were just sleepin’. Sir.”

Before anyone could push further, a sudden blue blur of movement burst from the far side of the camp.

“PET!”

Jimmima came barrelling toward you at full speed, shoving Ink out of the way as she did. Her wings were crooked, her tracksuit jacket half-buttoned, her hair tangled wildly from travel and excitement, streaks of blood from whatever they’d encountered hardening some strands.

She nearly knocked you over as she wrapped herself around you, clinging tightly as though afraid you might disappear if she let go. “I missed you,” she blurted. “So much. Like, you don’t even understand. I thought about you every single day and I stole you a rock because it looked like a heart and-”

You laughed softly, hugging her back out of pure instinct, she was the one who’d saved you after all.

Ink watched, the glare in her side-eye palpable. Every muscle in her body tightened as she took in the sight of Jimmima holding you, pressing her face into your shoulder, fussing over you with unrestrained affection.

Something bitter twisted in her chest.

Before she could say anything, before she could step in and steal you away for herself, Crystal cleared his throat. “Ink,” he said. “Walk with me.”

She turned reluctantly.

“Now.” His tone implied it wasn’t a question.

She finally nodded and begrudgingly pulled herself together to walk with Crystal. As they walked, Crystal spoke plainly when there were out of earshot from the others.

“That one, she’ll be up of the fight,” he said. “Tomorrow or the next day.”

Ink stopped short. “She’s not ready.”

He turned sharply. “Not ready?” he scoffed, “What the fuck have you been doin’?”

“Nothing, I-” she replied too quickly. “Just think she needs more time.”

He studied her carefully. “No one gets a free ride Jimmy, you know that better than anyone.”

She said nothing in response, the pain of the past with him was necessary for survival.

.

By the time night fully settled over the camp, the world seemed to shrink to just the people here around the fire with you. The sky darkened into a heavy blanket of darkness and distant stars, barely visible through drifting smoke and dust from the fire at the centre of the clearing which became the only true source of warmth and light.

Voices floated lazily through the air, there was sharp laugher, bickering over food, humming and small discussions of fighting techniques. It was the closest thing to peace the wasteland ever allowed this group of violent bandits.

You sat near the fire with Jimmima, your knees pulled loosely to your chest, fatigue curling through your body like always, today was the first day you’d managed to stay awake the entire day which drained you more than you thought it would’ve.

Across the flames, Ink sat with a few of the others, her posture rigid despite the relaxed atmosphere. She barely spoke. When she did, her answers were short, distracted. Her eyes kept drifting back to you, drawn helplessly, she was tethered to you by something invisible and unbreakable. Every time your gaze met hers, something twisted in her chest.

And every time Jimmima leaned closer to you, it twisted tighter. Jimmima shifted beside you, studying your face with quiet concern. “You look absolutely wiped,” she murmured. “C’mon, pet. Get over ‘ere”

Before you could respond, she gently tugged you toward her and settled closer behind you, your back resting against her front. Her presence was warm, familiar, safe in a way that reminded you of the first days after she’d found you when you’d been nothing but bones and fever and fear and it was her who nurtured you back to some semblance of normality. While you felt a desire to be with Ink, you couldn’t deny the safety you felt with Jimmima.

She reached up and began carefully combing her fingers through your hair, working through knots and tangles with surprising patience.

“There,” she whispered. Her touch was light and tender. Her nails skimmed softly across your scalp as she smoothed your hair back, her fingertips moving in slow, circular patterns meant to soothe rather than excite. She knew that soon this hair would be gone, replaced with a wig like hers once you won the fight, it was your destiny, she knew it.

The tension melted before you could stop it, your shoulders loosened as your head tilted slightly into her hands. Your breathing slowed and a quiet sound slipped from your lips.

It wasn’t intentional, just a small, breathy noise of relief and pleasure, born from exhaustion and comfort and the simple mercy of being cared for.

Jimmima froze. Across the fire, Ink did too.

Jimmima leaned closer, her lips brushing your ear. “…Did you like that?”

You flushed faintly, embarrassed by how obvious your reaction had been, but nodded anyway. “Yeah,” you admitted softly.

She smiled, pleased, and resumed her gentle massage, a little more confident now, her thumbs working along your temples while her fingers threaded through your hair.

You closed your eyes without meaning to.

Another sound escaped you, softer and lower.

Ink’s breath caught painfully in her throat, and a dangerous spark erupted through her entire body. She suddenly felt like she was standing in the fire, but yet she was too far away from you.

That sound. Those sounds. They belonged to her.

That expression.The way your face softened, your lips parting slightly, your body relaxing completely. It was hers.

Not Jimmima’s. Not anyone’s. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.

Jimmima noticed her reaction out of the corner of her eye, honestly it was hard not to. Ink’s glare was frozen on the two of you, and the atmosphere around the fire was suddenly awkward.

Not for Jimmima though, her hands slowed and grew more tender as her confusion was quickly shoved out of the way by means of possession.

Then leaning closer again, her voice barely audible as it touched your ears. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” she whispered. "I know how to make my pet feel good,"

You nodded again, weakly.

Ink felt something dark surge up inside her, and knew she had to leave before she did something stupid. “Sir, I’ll check the area.” She bit out.

“Check the area? Jimmy it’s fucking night time.” He responded, but she just kept walking past the tree line and into the darkness. “Ok, you do that.”

You wanted to follow her, but Jimmima’s grip on you tightened as if she read your thoughts. “Remember my pet, you’re mine. Ok? I saved you. I keep you.”

It sounded sweet from her, and your exhaustion took over again. You sighed, falling into slumber against the girl while thinking of the other.

.

You’d fallen asleep for a couple hours, but since then just been floating in that fragile in-between space where dreams blurred into memories. You noticed Ink wasn’t back, and a part of you couldn’t fully rest till she was. The rest of the group breathed softly around you, a low chorus of sleeping snores and rustling fabric and the sparking of dying embers.

A hand suddenly closed around your wrist, there was nothing gentle in it. But it was firm, and demanding. It pulled you away sharply.

You startled with sharp, silent gasp, heart slamming violently against your ribs as though trying to escape your chest. Unable to quite gain the attention of the sleeping Jimmima next to you, who luckily or unluckily wasn’t currently crowding you with her own body.

You’re eyes adjusted to the dark, “Ink?” you whispered, barely forming the word.

“Come on,” she murmured. Her voice was low and rough, scraped raw by emotion and restraint. “Now.”

Before your mind could catch up, she was already pulling you upright, her fingers tight around your wrist, her movements quick and purposeful, leaving no room for questions or hesitation. You stumbled slightly, disoriented, feet finding the  damp ground by instinct rather than thought.

“Ink, wait-” you whispered urgently.

She didn’t answer, her jaw clenched and shoulders rigid. All softness you’d come to cherish was gone from her stature. She guided you away from the sleeping camp, weaving silently between scattered blankets and half-collapsed tents, past the Jimmy’s bodies curled in exhaustion and weapons laid carelessly at their sides. The fire had burned down to faint embers now, glowing weakly like dying stars, barely strong enough to hold back the darkness.

You glanced back once. Jimmima lay peacefully in her blankets, face soft and unguarded, unaware that you were being pulled away from her side.

Guilt brushed against your chest like a ghost. “Ink,” you whispered again. “You’re hurting me.”

Her grip loosened by just a fraction when you made your way through the clearly of the woods. She didn’t speak but led you beyond the edge of camp, past the reach of firelight, into the deeper stretch of trees. The air was cooler here, sharper, brushing against your skin and raising goosebumps along your arms.

After minutes, she finally stopped. So abruptly in fact that you nearly collided with her.

She turned. In the faint moonlight filtering through tangled branches, her face was carved into sharp planes of shadow and silver. She looked like a ghost, but her eyes were alive, burning darkly while reflecting something dangerously close to desperation.

“What the fuck was that?” she demanded quietly. Her voice trembled despite her effort to control it, her anger subsiding momentarily as it made way for sadness.

You blinked. “What?”

“Don’t,” she snapped softly. “Don’t play dumb.”

She took a step closer. Her lips pressed into a thin line. “She had her hands in your hair,” Ink said, each word measured and restrained, like she was holding herself together by force. “All over you. And you were-” She stopped and swallowed. “You were falling apart for her.”

Heat rushed to your face. “Not like that,” you whispered. “She was just helping me relax. I was tired.”

“Tired?” Ink echoed bitterly.

She laughed once, sharp and humourless. “There you were,” she murmured, voice cracking, “eyes closed, mouth open, leaning into her. Do you have any idea,” she interrupted, her voice suddenly raw, “what that did to me?”

“I walked away,” she said quietly, “because if I hadn’t, I would’ve fucked you right there in front of everyone. Shown them, her, that you’re mine.”

The words struck deep, wetness coating your core within seconds. “Ink…” you breathed.

She stepped forward suddenly and grabbed the front of your shirt, “Maybe you wanted that. I get it now. You were trying to get that rise outta me, weren’t ya?”

You shook your head, too quickly, not sure what the truth was.

One of her hands moved slowly up to your neck, ghosting over that sensitive spot she’d come to know so well, the small inch where your pulse lived. Lingering for a second, her hand then suddenly slipped to your hair grabbing a handful and pulling sharply. The same spot that’d been so tenderly dealt with hours ago by Jimmima was now stinging for Ink. “You make those sounds for me,” she whispered. “You look like that for me. You melt like that for me.”

She pulled a bit tighter, “And seeing you do it for someone else-” She broke off for a second, you could’ve sworn you saw a glimmer of a tear in her eye. “That nearly killed me.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t dare speak, not that you had the words.

Her thumb traced the line of your jaw, and her breath became animalistically unrhythmic. Her sharp gaze dropping to your lips like gravity.

She didn’t give you a chance to pull away, didn’t give you the opportunity to protest. She dove head first to your lips. There was no kindness in it, she forced her tongue past your lips with no resistance. Her teeth quickly found your bottom lip, and she bit, hard. You yelped, which seemed to fuel her more.

Her lips continued to move feverishly against yours, and only when she pulled away for much needed air did you see the blood from your lip painted across her own. You reached up, a finger brushing against it softly – your touch a stark contrast to hers. It looked beautiful on her lips, a part of you that was now a part of her. The air between the both of you was heavy, you stood close and shared breath.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Tell me you don’t want me,” she said, almost pleading you to say it. She wanted you to deny her, she could take you back and learn to despise you. “Say it, and I’ll walk you back right now”

The silence stretched. You opened your mouth, and for a moment her heart shattered at the idea of what you might say.

“…I want you.”

Her breath broke, the coil snapped. That was it, all she needed to hear to completely lose control.

Her hands tightened, pulling you against her. Her lips returned to yours, the jealously that lingered was palpable on her lips. “Then don’t ever look like that for anyone else,” she murmured against your skin. “Ever again. You hear me?”

When you didn’t answer verbally, she growled. Turning you around so that your back was against her chest. It was déjà vu from your first night together, except this time was even more charged. Her hand shoved down, slipping under your tracksuit pants without warning. You were already wet, but there was still a nip of pain when she shoved 2 of her fingers inside without warning. Instinctively you backed into her, your arse curving perfectly into the crease of her hips. She plunged her fingers in at a vicious pace, not so much for pleasure but almost with the purpose of claiming every inch of you.

Her check was against yours, tongue slipping across leaving a trail from your ear to the corner of your lips. “I asked you a fucking question.” Her voice was rough with need. “Do you fucking hear me?” Each word was spat out, the final one punctuated with a sharp pinch on your clit – you hadn’t even realised she’d removed them from inside.

With a pained yelp, you nodded.

She was unsatisfied, “Words pet.” She spat out that nickname, the sound of it from Jimmima’s mouth had made Ink want to throw up. “Use your fuckin words.” She pinched your clit again.

“Yes!” You yelled, not ready for another pinch should you have stayed silent.

She paused all movement, roughly turning your face to look at hers. Deep within her eyes you saw an emotion that you could not place. Was it anger? Fear? Jealousy? Desire? Love? No, a strange mix of all, it was unconditional devotion.

She flipped you around, driving you towards a tree trunk that stood meters behind you. The forest was quickly becoming your sanctuary, the trees open but providing a sense of divine privacy for the two of you. As soon as she had you against the bark, she shoved you again for good measure before attaching those lips to the spot your pulse run under on your neck. The sounds you made were immediate, and there was no question that she was the only one to get them from you. Her tongue moved from one side of your neck to the other in one clean stroke, matching the area on her own neck that was covered in Ink. Her hand was firm on your jaw still, moving your head as she saw fit to not leave any inch unkissed.

Her hands moved fast, stripping you of everything until you stood alone and naked against the tree. She looked over you, and even though she’d seen you bare multiple times, it still left her breathless. Her stomach turned with the thought that she could’ve lost you to another so soon after she got you. That jealously flaring in her again, and you saw it behind her eyes.

You tried to calm your breathing, tried to usher her to slow down, to meet your eyes and just breathe with you. Ink was having none of that.

Quickly biting and nipping down your collarbone, passing by your chest for once, and falling to her knees in front of you. There was no words, no slow easing into it. Her mouth was on you in an instant.

An open mouth to your bundle of nerves, sucking it sharply and cruelly. Again, not so much for pleasure but a staking of claim. It was overwhelming, and not quite right, the sting hadn't yet turned to pleasure but she didn't seem to care. After a minute, Ink pulled away, biting hard into the flesh of your thigh, looking up at your pained expression with a gleam in her eyes. Her head inched closer again to your core, but now she did not move further. Her warm breath colliding with the cold air just inches away from where you needed her most.

Frustration was quickly outgrowing desire, and you let out a small whine.

She just laughed, “You look fucking pathetic.”

“Inky, just-” you tried to think of the best combination of words to ensure she’d keep going. You stood over her, and yet she held all the power.

“You are pathetic.” She said harshly. There was a sting in that, you couldn’t deny it but before you had a chance to overthink it, her mouth was on you again.

That same open mouth kiss planted on your clit, her hands falling to your arse and pulling you impossibly close to her. This time it was pleasure. Her tongue moved ever so skilfully on the area that sparked jolts through the rest of your body. She moved lower, and you felt all composure leave your body, half your weight falling against the tree and the rest onto her face. She let out a sound of approval at this, the hum from her throat amplifying your feeling.

Your hand found her wig, fingers intertwining with the synthetic strands. Soon you’d have one like it, you knew that. Your leg was raised, and without thinking you brought it over her shoulder. Her mouth continued its diligent work; the sounds of wetness and your moans coated the entire surrounding area. You were close, she could see it in the crease of your forehead and the breathlessness of your sounds. Her eyes were locked on your face, relishing in the look of pleasure just incase you changed your mind.

She struggled to be rid of the thought that she’d wake to find you on top of Jimmima, or that you would make these sounds again for anyone else. At the intruding thought she pulled away, roughly pulling you down the ground where she knelt. You had been so close, the sudden lack of warmth on your core had you whine again, this time much more angrily.

“Oh shut up” she spat, pulling you onto her lap with ease that came with her toned arms. You faced her, your legs on either side of her hips, your core awfully close to hers but still too far away. In a moment of courage and desire fuelled strength, you roughly pulled at Ink’s shirt. With her help, you pulled it off, along with the sports bra that’d been keeping her chest a secret from you. You lent down, capturing her nipple in your mouth, taking your time with it before switching to the next. The sounds she made were not as loud as yours, but slightly more breathless.

In a reckless act of revenge for her abandoning your core and leaving you hanging moments before, your teeth latched onto one of her nipples. The hard and sharp movement had her quickly recoiling ever so slightly, before gripping your face with both of her hands and forcing you to look at her. “You fucking cunt.”

You would’ve huffed a laugh, but the sudden danger in her eyes left a flicker of fear dance through your desire. “I… sorry-”

She didn’t let you finish, one hand grabbing your mouth, hooking it with her fingers and forcing it to hers again. The other, moved back down between the two of you, pinching your clit yet again.

Her fingers were inside you within seconds, no longer needing any kind of permission in the way of words, your body gave her all the assurance she needed. She moved more rhymically now, her two fingers skilfully moving in and out, in and out, whole hand moving with them as she pushed her palm to that spot above your slit with every movement. You moaned into her mouth, and she breathed it all in. Her hips moved with the same pace of her hand, as if that would push her further in to you.

Maybe not physically, but spiritually it was working. You both felt as one. She was the bow, you were the arrow. She was the lover and you were the love.

Ink released your mouth, mumbling out a command that if you did not obey, would’ve killed her. “Say you’re mine.”

You didn’t need to think, there was no room for hesitation. You yelled it, “I’m yours. I’m yours.” and it was like you needed to hear it yourself, the waves of pleasure suddenly crushing into you like a train. A blinding light crossed your vision and your entire body went limp. Ink’s hand didn’t stop moving, slowed only slightly, as she watched with twisted delight at the look on your face. She’d seen it before, but with those words it seemed to make this a divine promise.

You shook, trembled even, and tried to crawl away from the now overwhelming sensation. Ink just adjusted her grip to hold your waist even closer. Her fingers moved from your slit, carrying the evidence of your pleasure up to her mouth. You watched intensely as she put those fingers into her mouth, tasting what was now her favourite meal.

Without warning, those same fingers went low again, circling your clit without any sense of mercy. “Prove it. Give me another, then I’ll believe you.”

She moved her fingers around and around, not letting up at the more pained sounds coming from the overstimulation. Your breathing picked up, and now you felt like you were suffocating. Her hand grew tighter, absolutely no relenting in her movements or intentions. Thank God, or Old Nick, or both, that the second high came quicker than the first. Equally as intense, but less satisfying as it was pushed by domination rather than pleasure. “There you are, there you go, good girl.” Her voice was hoarse but layered with a softness that you were worried was gone for good.  

You were spent.

For a long moment after, neither of you moved. Seemingly holding your breath as well. The world hovered in that fragile space between sound and silence, between breath and thought, as though even the night itself were holding still out of respect for what had just passed between you.

Soon you lay boneless against her, chest rising and falling too fast, limbs heavy and uncooperative, every nerve buzzing faintly as the last echoes of sensation slowly faded into warmth and exhaustion. Her movements softened at once. Her hands, which had been relentless only seconds before, gentled as though a switch had been flipped somewhere inside her. She loosened her grip and drew you closer instead, one arm sliding securely around your waist, the other coming up to cradle your shoulders.

Your head lolled slightly against her chest, and she adjusted her position without complaint, shifting so you were more comfortable, so your weight rested fully against her rather than hanging awkwardly between wakefulness and collapse.

She brushed damp hair away from your forehead with slow, deliberate strokes.

“There you are,” she whispered. “Breathe, love. With me.”

She demonstrated, drawing in a slow breath and letting it out deliberately, until you found yourself unconsciously matching her pace, your own breathing gradually evening out beneath her steady guidance. Ink pressed a gentle kiss into your hair.

Her thumb traced slow, absent patterns along your arm, as though reassuring herself that you were still real, still here.

“You fine?” she asked.

“Yeah,” you said honestly. “Tired. But… fine.”

That earned a small, relieved smile. “Why you tired all the time? Something’s seriously wrong with you, love. I’m getting worried.”

You let out a soft laugh, almost a groan, shaking your head. “Ink,” you muttered, voice teasing but low warning.

Ink chuckled, pressing her forehead to yours. She drew a breath and let it settle between you, quiet and intimate, you swore that you would get whip lash from her changing emotions.

She murmured a sound, almost secretively, her lips brushing your temple. Debating whether to say her next words, “You don’t need to call me Ink. My real name… is Kellie.”

You blinked, caught slightly off-guard, letting the sound of her name settle around you like a caress. Her eyes searched yours, calm, soft, and trusting, offering a piece of herself she’d shown to no one else.

“Kellie,” she whispered again, just barely, as if saying it aloud made it more real, made it more hers, and yet only yours to hold.

..............................................................................

He had claimed it in the first year of the apocalypse, draping scripture over desperation and fear, promising protection in exchange for devotion. He told his 30 or so followers that God still spoke to him directly, that heaven had narrowed its attention to this ruined building and the blessed people inside it. When everything people know about the world changes, they tend to listen more to the words of a mad man. And when he announced that God had promised him a son, an heir to carry his divine authority forward, they believed him without hesitation.

Juliet’s mother believed him too.

She was young, malnourished, and hollowed by loss long before she ever lay on the cold church floor in labour. The priest had taken her as proof of his blessing, as evidence that God still worked through flesh and blood. Throughout her pregnancy, he preached relentlessly about the child growing inside her, declaring from the pulpit that it was a boy chosen by heaven, a vessel for righteousness in a world poisoned by sin. He warned that if the child were born female, it would mean corruption had crept into her body, that the Devil himself had wormed his way into her womb. The congregation of 20 murmured prayers and wept and nodded, and the mother, desperate to be good, desperate to be safe, repeated his words until they felt like her own. By the time labour came, she was sobbing and whispering to anyone who would listen that it was a boy, that it had to be a boy, that God would never betray them like that.

But God did not answer her.

Juliet was born small and quiet, her cry thin and fragile in the vast echoing space of the ruined church, her skin flushed and trembling as she was lifted into the candlelight. The moment the priest saw her, something inside him shattered. His face drained of colour, his hands began to shake, and he stumbled backward as though the babe herself had struck him. He stared at her as if she were proof of some terrible cosmic betrayal. He began to pray out loud, then to shout, then to weep. He declared that Satan had deceived them all, that the woman had been corrupted, that the child was a demon wearing human skin.

One of the older women reached forward, face set with grim resolve, ready to take the infant away from the world and end what they all feared had begun but the priest stopped her.

His hand snapped out, gripping her wrist with sudden violence. His breathing slowed, his terror reshaping itself into something colder, more deliberate. He stared at Juliet again, and this time his eyes did not hold fear but calculation. He announced that God had shown him another truth. That it was better to keep the Devil’s daughter alive. That it was better to raise her, to study her, to use her suffering as a weapon against hell itself. Pain, he said, could be holy. And so, Juliet was spared, not out of mercy, but out of usefulness. They didn’t even give her a name, only referring to her as ‘the child’, it was John who gave her the name Juliet, based on the first story she’d shared with him of the old Shakespeare tale. Her mother was often cold, but there were moments of softness in the early mornings, it was during these rare times that stories of times past were shared with the young girl. And she held on to every word as they were the only she’d heard from the woman known as her mother.

Other than those stories, she grew up beneath sermons that dripped with fire and judgement. By the time she was five, she could sit perfectly still for hours on the cracked pews, her small hands folded in her lap, her wide brown eyes fixed on the pulpit. She watched the priest pace back and forth like a restless predator, his voice booming through the empty space, condemning invisible demons, describing evil as something that crawled inside people and hollowed them out from within.

He spoke of vessels and corruption and divine punishment, of souls marked for suffering long before birth. And always, eventually, his gaze would hold on her. It was heavy and accusing, until she felt as though she were being peeled open by it. She didn’t feel the fire and evil that he claimed was within her, she didn’t even know what it could feel like.

There were times when he would stop mid-sermon and point, then call her forward. His voice would utter that God had spoken again, an announcement that she was still impure, that her soul was too corrupt to ever accept salvation. When a sickness broke out within the church and took half the souls with it, he declared it was her doing.

Time was running out, wickedness must be punished, the demon must be gone before it took them all. That’s when the “exorcisms” began. Hands gripping her shoulders too tightly. Prayers shouted inches from her face. Holy water flung against her skin until she shivered. She was made to kneel on stone for hours while he recited scripture over her bowed head, his fingers digging into her scalp, commanding whatever darkness lived inside her to leave. When she cried, he said it was proof of possession. When she went silent, he said it was proof of defiance. There was no correct way to suffer. There was only more suffering.

Fire became part of it. He said flames were God’s purest language. He lit small fires in metal bowls and forced her to watch them until her eyes burned, until the world narrowed into nothing but flickering orange and gold. He made her hold her hands close enough to feel pain but not close enough to blister, telling her that this was mercy, that hell would be worse.

Years later, when she would listen to Jimmy Crystal speak of chosen souls and divine favour and suffering as currency, something in her would recognise the rhythm instantly. The language was slightly different, the deity he preached caused less harm than the one from her youth but the promise was the same. Your pain has meaning. Your devotion will be rewarded.

.

Years later.

It was nothing, that girl was nothing, Jimmy Ink thought. And yet her body did not believe her.

Her stomach twisted every time she remembered it. Heat pooled low in her abdomen, unwelcome and insistent. Her chest tightened with something dangerously close to longing. She hated it. She hated herself for it. A doe, her doe.

Overhead branches knitted together in a ragged canopy that only allowed thin strips of grey afternoon light onto the path. Moss crept over fallen trunks like spilled velvet, and the ground beneath their boots was soft with years of rain, every step accompanied by the scent of damp earth and old leaves. Through this forest the procession of Jimmies - Jimmima, Jimmy Jones, Jimmy Jimmy, Jimmy Shite, Jimmy Fox, and Jimmy Kay – circled their Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal in a strange moving huddle. At the centre was the one and only Crystal.

“Now this bloke,” he was saying, gesturing dramatically with his right hand, “this preacher they used to call Scary, like that singer, Scary Spice, proper fierce she was, anyway he’d stand on the roads screaming about salvation trying to convince people that God was listening … not sure if that fucker was listening as Scary’s neighbour tore open is neck with his bare fucking teeth.”

Laughter rippled through the group, rough and tired but genuine. Jimmima snorted openly. Jimmy Shite shook his head with a loud bark of a laugh and beside him, Jimmy Fox added a comment about Old Nick’s delight. Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal had always thrived on the attention, their eyes bright as he spun his tale, describing snippets of stories that seemed to be exaggerated from memory before the end days.

“Did I tell you all of the one where Po saw Tinky Winky on the scooter? No? Well…”

On the outer edge of the group’s formation, slightly removed from the warmth of shared amusement, walked Jimmy Ink.

She kept to the side where the undergrowth thickened, where thorns brushed her sleeves and low branches occasionally caught in her fake hair. Her steps were steady, practiced, but her mind wandered far from the preacher and his imagined theatrics. Instead, it drifted backward, replaying the memory she could not seem to release.

The doe.

The wide, liquid brownness of her eyes as they had looked frozen between fear and need. The soft, uneven fog of her breath in the cold air. The way the body had trembled beneath her touch; a fragile life. And most of all, the strange, lingering sensation of her lips brushing Inks palm when she had covered her mouth, a ghost of warmth that still seemed to cling to her skin.

She flexed her fingers unconsciously, as though half-expecting to feel that softness again.

The world around her felt distant, muffled and Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal’s voice became a dull rhythm rather than words. Even the crunch of leaves beneath her boots seemed to come from somewhere far away. She wondered, not for the first time, why that moment had lodged itself so deeply inside her, why it returned to her when so many harsher memories had faded into manageable shadow.

.

The group were nearing a clearing when the mood shifted.

The forest began to thin, trees stepping back as though reluctantly making space for something intruding. Smoke drifted lazily between the trunks, thin and grey, carrying the bitter smell of burned scraps and old cooking fat. A fence of uneven wooden stakes had been hammered into the ground, more symbolic than defensive, and beyond it sat a cluster of tents and patched tarps stitched together from plastic sheets and torn fabric.

Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal lifted a hand, and the group slowed instinctively, forming a loose semicircle. Weapons were not raised, but hands drifted closer to belts and straps. Years of wandering had taught them that every other settlement or group was both opportunity and threat.

“I do hear, a call from my father. He says, we will find another Jimmy here, another finger”, With those words from their leader, the group moved with precision. Taking down the settlement was quick work, the few figures that were there were gaunt and hollow-eyed, weak. The 5 adults were brought to their knees, awaiting their fates.

“We come with charity,” Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal called, his voice softening, becoming ceremonial. To any outsider, the word would have sounded merciful. A promise of food, medicine, relief. To the Jimmys, it meant something else entirely. It was a ritual of pain and offering, warped belief they had built around Old Nick. Suffering, they were told, was payment to their lord. The souls, torn loose through agony, were gifts that might one day would be returned as favour. This evening’s charity was the removal of hair (of which had to be cut while attached to the scalp). A couple passed out within minutes of the pain, the others unfortunate enough to endure it while awake. Jimmima made the most mess, Shite took his time while Fox watched him with comments of improvement, Ink was precise, quick, and clean (as clean as scalping could be). 

Then came the second part of the ritual. From behind a torn tarp, a boy was pushed forward by Jimmy Jones, who’d been talking to him of Sir Lord Crystals wisdom while his group screamed out for mercy.

He could not have been more than sixteen. His limbs were too long for his body, as though he had grown too fast for the world to catch up. Dirt streaked his cheeks, and his dark hair hung in uneven clumps around his face. His eyes, however, were painfully bright alive with terror.

Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal studied him with priestly gravity. “Choose,” he said quietly. “Choose a finger to fight, if you survive, you become them.”

The kid understood immediately, no need for further explanation. The boy’s gaze skittered across the group, pausing on weapons, scars, expressions hardened by ritual and repetition. His eyes landed on Jimmy J, a boy who was his exact stature, dressed in a white tracksuit.

“I… him,” the boy whispered, with a confident nod of his head.

Jimmy J stepped forward without complaint, rolling his shoulders once as if loosening stiffness. “Alright, then,” he muttered, offering a thin smile. “Let’s make it quick, yeah?”

They cleared a space between the trees, stamping down leaves into a crude arena. It became a spectacle for the others, all slightly disappointed that they hadn’t been chosen for the opportunity to prove their devotion to Old Nick, but also an instinctive relief at promised survival for another day unable to be stamped out by the younger ones.

Even Jimmy Ink drifted closer. She’d been chosen a handful of times before, but her skill was never outdone, years of consistent practice gave her an edge on those who underestimated her each time. Her gaze seemed uninterested, but deep down the thrill of purpose had her stomach in pleasant knots.

One moment they stood facing each other, breath misting faintly in the cold air, and the next they collided with a violence that felt inevitable. The first blows were brutal and unrestrained. Fists cracked against bone. Elbows drove into ribs. There was no room for hesitation, no space for doubt only survival or execution. Blood slicked their hands within minutes. Dirt smeared across their clothes.

Then, it finished in a short moment. The boy feinted left, drawing Jimmy J’s guard high, then dropped suddenly, folding his body inward like a released spring. In one fluid motion, he slipped beneath Jimmy J’s reach and spun behind him, arms flashing upward.

They wrapped around Jimmy J’s neck and wrenched backward, pressing his weight into the hold with everything he had left. His legs braced against Jimmy J’s back.

Jimmy J stumbled, hands flying to his throat trying to pry the arm away. The boy did not release him, instead he twisted. There was a sharp, wet crack and Jimmy J’s body went slack.

The two collapsed together into the leaves, one still clinging, the other suddenly weightless, emptied of all resistance. For a moment, the boy did not move, as though afraid that letting go might undo what he had done.

Jimmy J lay motionless, eyes staring at nothing, mouth half-open in a final, unfinished breath.

Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal stepped forward, clapping his hands loudly, voice ringing with awe, “Sensational, did you all see it?” he breathed. “Like a serpent you are boy, fucking incredible work.” He spread his arms, addressing both the living and the dead. “Old Nick saw that. He felt it.”

He looked down at the corpse. “Like a snake. Oh it’s just perfect”, he turned to the boy, “Jimmy snake, cracker of a name ain’t it.” He stretched his hand down to the lanky boy, who took it and took the name with the handshake.

.

The sun had set over the broken and patched together tents that had been erected weeks ago by the group that no longer existed, their careful labour now inherited by strangers who had viciously taken their souls.

The group gathered loosely, voices low, exhaustion and adrenaline weaving together into restless energy while they cleaned their weapons out of habit. They drew Jimmy Snake into their orbit, feeding him scraps of stories and laughter, testing his edges, measuring how he might fit among them. Despite the shock still lingering behind his eyes, he adapted quickly, seemingly picking to accept this life as he knew his past one was gone. He listened most closely to Jimmy Jones. Their preaching fascinated him. He absorbed their tales of previous journeys and sacrifices, nodding slowly, memorising every word that came out of their mouth.

Ink watched from a distance for a while, until she got frustrated at her own lack of enthusiasm or care for the group’s jovial conversations. Usually she was right in there, taking the role of second in command in welcoming the new Jimmy to the group but tonight felt different. The whole week had felt different. Just after the sun disappeared, she drifted away without explanation, claiming the tent at the edge of the camp. It was barely worthy of the name, just a slanted piece of material thrown over a branch, weighted down with stones, but it offered privacy of a kind from the group now laughing at Jimmy Crystal’s retelling of today’s events with his perfected dramatic flair.   

The material blocked her from the group, but had gaps where someone, standing far enough away in the woods, might look in. She didn’t think about that.

She shrugged off her pack and sank down onto the thin blanket already spread across the dirt floor. The ground was cold and uneven beneath it, but she barely noticed. Her body went through familiar motions on instinct while her mind remained elsewhere. Jacket off, pants off, the air cool against her skin as she crawled beneath the thin blanket, drawing it up to her chest more for comfort than warmth.

Her mind remained trapped in a loop she could not escape. In fact, for the past week, every time Ink inhaled, the memory surfaced again, uninvited and insistent, layered over the present until it blurred.

She scowled faintly at the makeshift ceiling. Pathetic, she thought. It’d been days that had passed, but those big brown eyes bore into hers every time she blinked.

She wondered, briefly, if that doe was still out there somewhere. Alive. Watching.

She’d been looking with an extra sense of determination into the surrounding woods, keeping her ears open and alert but she hadn’t noticed any extra movement from beyond their group, felt no sense of being observed since the other night. Still, the thought lingered, that her doe was still nearby.

It frustrated her to no end that she couldn’t get the image out of her mind, but it was that frustrated feeling that left a warm bloom in her stomach. As she looked at the ceiling, she saw it again as clearly as if it were unfolding in front of her: the girls startled eyes widening in the dark, the way her body had gone rigid when Ink had dragged her down, the soft, helpless sound she’d made when the ground had knocked the air from her lungs.

Ink’s chest tightened. She remembered her own weight pressing down. The strength in her arms. Their faces, inches apart. Close enough to feel the doe’s breath fluttering against her skin. Close enough to see fear and softness tangled together in her eyes.

Ink shifted under the blanket, turning to her side in an effort to push it from her mind. She should’ve killed her, offered Old Nick the soul right there and then, why didn’t she? Pathetic.

The memory continued, and her pulse quickened. She remembered whispering, A doe?

And remembered how the creature hadn’t answered. How she’d just stared up at her, wide-eyed and trembling, throat exposed beneath Ink’s forearm, lips parted as if she wanted to speak and couldn’t. How fragile she’d looked there, pinned beneath her, utterly at Ink’s mercy. She curled slightly inward, pressing her knees together, trying and failing to quiet the ache building inside her.

That unsettling warmth crept further through her stomach, dancing its way down till she shivered but not from chill. She pressed her thighs together slightly, growing more annoyed at herself.

Without warning, a faint, electric tingle spread from her palm, as though memory of the doe's lips itself had become physical, as though her skin had learned how to remember touch. It started small, barely noticeable, then deepened, sending subtle ripples up her arm and into her chest.

Her breath hitched again, and slowly she lifted her hand, turning her palm upward, studying it in the dim light filtering through the fabric, tracing the place where those thin lips had brushed her days before.

Driven by the heat at her core, Ink brought it to her mouth. She pressed her lips to the exact spot on her palm. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the warmth surged.

It spread through her again, sharper this time, rushing downward, pooling low in her body, coiling tightly around something she had spent years pretending did not exist. Her fingers curled slightly against her own skin, as though she were holding onto someone who was no longer there.

She closed her eyes, this time willingly looking into those brown ones that awaited her. She turned to her back again, legs opening to a memory. Her hand that was not occupied by her mouth went lower, there was no ceremony, no easing into it. Just slipping under the hem of her underwear where she needed it most.

She’d had sex. A few times. Before Jimmy Crystal found her, there was a girl about her age at the shelter she’d found. It was then she realised what it could be like, to be turned on, to be wet for another person. There was no emotion in it (at least that’s what she told herself), which made it easy when said girl got turned to a zombie as the shelter was over run. Ink was young then, too young, and now all that energy was turned to the attack, the fight, to the kill. To her eagerness to prove her worth to Old Nick. Those feelings were secondary to her, never important, never even in her list of priorities. This week however, had sparked that sense of craving she’d neglected for so long. This week, she’d found significant release in the thought of those brown eyes staring back into hers with a fragile promise of devotion.

Her own fingers were not delicate, she circled her clit with feverishness, chasing that release she’d been waiting for all day. Her lips remained on her palm as she attempted to recreate that tingling sensation that’d been left by her doe’s lips. It was not the same, but if she closed her eyes, she could swear it neared the real thing. Her head was thrown back, the lack of pillow would’ve been uncomfortable, but she did not care. She chased her pleasure with an intensity, perfecting the art of staying silent as she let her mind indulge in the memory that’d been pissing her off all day.

She thought beyond it, imagining what would’ve happened had she held on just that bit longer. Had she lowered herself, feasted upon the doe as Jimmy Crystal told her she would.

Just wanderin’ up to camp. Big brown eyes, soft as sin. No fear in it at all. For you, and you alone to feast on.

His words irked her now as she regretted not taking a bite. But the idea brought with it excitement. Had this doe been a gift from Old Nick, then she was sure to come wandering back. This time, Ink would not let her go. She’d feast.

The image of slipping lower on the girl’s body, of opening her legs to take a bite, to savour and devour, that thought had Ink reaching her high. She’d moaned if not for her sudden bite on her palm to keep her own sounds at bay. She’d never hear the end of it if anyone else saw her like this.

Her breathing was heavy, her eye lids too wanting to now shut. Peace from the memory, but now regret turned her belly round in circles. She titled her head to look beyond the tarp, out into the woods. She thought now about if her doe still sat beyond sight. It annoyed her again, she thought touching herself would be enough. She only craved more now.

Pathetic.

.

By morning, exhaustion finally dragged her into a shallow, broken sleep, thick with half-formed dreams and restless heat. Her wig, of which she’d fallen asleep in, stuck to her forehead and refused to let go, her thoughts were equally as tangled.

The sun crept into the camp on thin fingers of pale light. The fires had burned themselves into beds of grey ash but the smoke lingered low to the ground, carrying the stale scent of yesterday’s offerings.

Sleep had not brought Ink peace, that damn doe followed her there as well. Dreams had only softened the edges of her obsession enough for it to seep deeper, threading itself through her subconscious until even unconsciousness could not escape it. When she finally opened her eyes, blinking against the dim light filtering through the tarp, the image of those brown eyes was still there, waiting patiently behind her lids.

You’re so fucking pathetic, she thought again.

She shoved the blanket aside and sat up sharply, as though sudden movement might shake the feeling loose. It didn’t. Her chest still felt tight. Her stomach still carried that low, unsettled warmth that annoyed her almost as much as it unsettled her.

Outside, the camp had long since stirred.

Jimmy Jimmy was crouched by the fire pit, coaxing reluctant flames back into life with practiced patience as an attempt to fight the morning chill. Jimmy Jones paced slowly nearby, murmuring fragments of scripture and improvised theology under their breath, as though rehearsing for an audience that did not yet exist. Jimmy Snake hovered close to them, listening with rapt attention, absorbing every word like doctrine as this was to be his belief now.

Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal, for once, was nowhere near the centre of activity.

Ink spotted him stretched out on a flattened crate beneath a tattered tarp, Jimmima's blue jacket was folded beneath his head like a pillow, his mouth slightly open, sleeping with the unbothered confidence of someone who knew his fingers would not allow him harm.

She snorted quietly. Lazy bastard. She pulled on her stitched together red jacket and stepped out into the chill.

Crystal woke not long after, yawning theatrically and announcing, with the authority of a prophet emerging from divine rest, that they would be staying. “The work’s been done for us,” he declared, gesturing grandly at the tents and cleared ground. “Would be a sin to waste it.”

No one argued.

Orders followed swiftly: Shite, Ink, Fox, and Jimmima would head out on recon. Try find some food for the rest of them. Something that could hopefully last them more than a day. They set off not long after, slipping into the woods in loose formation, boots muffled by damp leaves, weapons resting easily in hands that knew their weight too well.

The forest was quiet in that uneasy way that suggested listening. Shite walked slightly ahead, machete resting across his shoulder, swaggering as though danger itself had learned to step aside for him. Fox stayed close, laughing softly at whatever crude remark Shite muttered under his breath. Jimmima hovered just behind them, eyes darting between their backs and Ink’s profile, giggling at the air every couple of steps as she entertained herself with childish jokes.

Ink brought up the rear. Her gaze swept the undergrowth methodically, her attention fixed on movement, sound, scent. She enjoyed this part, it was the hunt without spectacle, the quiet brutality of awareness. Out here, survival was honest. No sermons. No over the top dramatics that came with Jimmy Crystal’s rituals. It was just instinct and steel, something she was sure Old Nick took joy in witnessing.

“Bet Crystal’s still nappin’,” Shite said loudly, glancing back. “Must be nice, lettin’ the rest of us do the graft.”

Fox snorted. “Our lord is holy. Needs his beauty sleep.”

Jimmima soured immediately, and her head snapped up. “Watch ya mouth, cunt,” she said instantly. “You don’t get to talk about like that.”

Shite just laughed, shaking his head. “Touched a nerve, did I Sweetheart?” Then he tilted his chin toward Ink. “Why be so defensive? Specially when you’re not even his favourite.” He laughed, a hint of bitterness behind it.

Ink shot him a flat look before rolling her eyes. Jimmima suddenly looked like she could cry.

“What? Ain’t wrong,” Shite pressed. “Everyone sees it. She gets the good jobs. The talks. The trust. Rest of us just get barked at.”

“So what?” Ink defensively hit back.

“That’s not true,” Jimmima said, too quickly.

Ink glanced sideways at her, noticing the way her hands were clenched, the way her shoulders had drawn inward, that she seemed to now be shaking with a mix of upset and rage.

“Jimm,” Ink said quietly. “Hey. Don’t listen to him. He’s a windup.”

“Just speakin' truth ladies, we’re never going to live up to queen inky and all her divine rage.”

Those words had in fact come straight from Crystal’s mouth a year or so ago, Shite clearly hadn’t let it go. Ink would’ve laughed at his desperation, but Jimmima let out a shaky breath indicating she was on the verge of tears.

The younger girl stopped, slamming her foot down like a child having a tantrum. “It’s not fair! I do everything, I’m just as vicious, just as strong. I just want him to see that,” she whispered the last line.

Shite’s grin faltered for half a second.

Ink slowed too, turning slightly toward her. “He does see it,” she said, softer. “You’re solid. Everyone knows that.”

“That’s not the same,” Jimmima replied, eyes shining. “That’s not the same as mattering.”

Ink hesitated, then reached out, briefly touching her arm. “You matter to me. To the group. You don’t need to bleed yourself dry for his approval.”

Jimmima stared at her. For a moment, she looked small. Raw. Like everything inside her was shaking.

Then her face hardened. She yanked her arm back. “Don’t patronise me, ya cunt.”

Ink blinked. “I wasn’t-”

“Whatever,” Jimmima cut in sharply, already walking again. “You wouldn’t get it. You’ve never had to try.”

Shite let out a low whistle. “Christ.”

Ink stood there for half a second, stunned, watching Jimmima’s back as she stormed ahead.

Then she exhaled slowly and followed. They spent the next hour circling the perimeter, marking paths, noting abandoned structures, cataloguing potential threats. Nothing unusual revealed itself. No fresh tracks. No signs of nearby settlements.

No sign of a watching doe.

When they returned, camp looked almost peaceful.

Jones and Snake were hunched over a crate, engrossed in some battered deck of cards, murmuring and arguing over rules that changed with every hand. Jimmy Jimmy still fed the fire steadily, his movements slow and methodical. Crystal had shifted positions but remained asleep, a random hat pulled low over his eyes.

Ink paused at the edge of it all. For a moment, she felt strangely detached, like she was observing a performance she no longer fully believed in.

She exhaled sharply and turned away.

Her tent called to her. Not as shelter but as an escape.

She ducked inside and let herself drop onto the makeshift bed without grace, boots still on, jacket half-open, body collapsing as though exhaustion had finally claimed its due.

Something struck her back.

Hard.

She froze.

“What the fuck-?”

She twisted, heart spiking, and reached cautiously beneath the blanket, fingers closing around something smooth and round.

She pulled it free.

An apple.

Red.

Unblemished.

Perfect.

Her breath caught. They hadn’t seen fruit like this in months. When they did, she guarded it viciously, rationing every bite, hiding what she could. She hadn’t brought one back. She knew that.

Then how was it here? Her mind began, slowly, reluctantly, to assemble the pieces.

Her pulse quickened. Her doe-

Before she could finish the thought, the tent flap was yanked open.

Shite loomed in the doorway.

“Oi,” he said. “You seen Jimmima? Can’t find her-”

He stopped and his eyes locked on the apple.

“What’s that?”

Ink barely had time to react. He leaned in and snatched it from her hands.

“Oi-”

Too late. He took a massive bite and juice spilled down his chin.

He laughed, already backing away. “Fuckin’ hell, that’s good.”

Rage flared white-hot within Ink. She was on her feet instantly, knife sliding into her palm as if summoned by instinct. “Give it back.”

He jogged toward the others, chewing obnoxiously. “Where you been hidin’ that, eh? Keepin’ treats for yourself like a fuckin’ dog?”

Fox burst out laughing.

Jones looked up, confused as Snake froze mid-shuffle.

The noise woke Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal. He lifted his head, squinting, just in time to see Shite hand him what remained of the juicy fruit that was meant to be Inks.

Crystal took it without hesitation and bit in. “Mmm,” he murmured. Then, frowning at Ink, “Hiding resources isn’t very communal, darling.”

She stared at him, furious and helpless. Fucking Shite.

The apple disappeared in seconds.

.

Beyond the camp, hidden among roots and shadow, Juliet watched.

She barely blinked.

Her hands were clenched so tightly her nails bit into her palms, enough to draw blood. Her jaw ached from how hard she held it in place. Anger burned hot and sharp in her chest, unfamiliar and frightening in its intensity, curling through her ribs like something alive. It was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

That apple had been her offering. It had been meant for Ink.

She had carried it for 2 days, careful not to bruise it, not to drop it. She had imagined the weight of it in Ink’s hands. The small pause before she took it. The way her mouth might curve, just slightly, in that quiet, private way she never gave to anyone else. She could’ve watched the juice drip down from her mouths corner, onto her fingers.

Juliet had built the moment over and over in her head. She had seen it so clearly.

She had imagined the surprise in her eyes. The brief, soft confusion. Then the quiet pleasure that would follow. Maybe even that look, God, that look, that had coated her face the night before in the tent. The one Juliet had watched in silence, heart hammering, breath caught painfully in her throat.

The look that had made her feel dizzy, that made her squeeze her thighs together in some attempt to alleviate the tension. She’d never felt anything like it, the way she felt when she watched Ink. Something inside her had cracked open and could never be sealed again.

The way Ink’s back arched. The way her breathing had changed. The way her hand had lingered against her own skin.

Juliet could’ve sworn she still tasted the salty skin of Inks palm that covered her lips a week or so ago. She just wanted to see that look again. The way her eyes would close. The way that small, sacred smile would appear. She had wanted to know, she needed to know, that she had caused it.

And now, now they had ruined it.

A sharp, ugly jealousy twisted through her stomach. Possessive and territorial. It startled her with its force. She had never felt anything like it before, this need to claim, to protect, to guard something that wasn’t even hers.

But it felt like it was. It felt like Ink was.

Her gaze stayed fixed on the figures by the fire, on the faint outline of the one she knew belonged to her. Her pulse thudded in her ears. Every laugh from the camp sounded like an insult. Every voice felt like an intrusion.

They didn’t deserve her. They didn’t see her the way Juliet did.

Juliet swallowed hard and made a foolish promise to herself.

Next time, she wouldn’t let the moment be stolen.

Next time, she wouldn’t let anyone touch what was meant for Ink.

By the time Jimmima found you, the world had already been broken for twenty-eight years, and you had been broken for nearly two weeks of hunger, thirst, and wandering delirium, drifting between scorched highways and skeletal forests with nothing but the taste of rust in your mouth and the echo of old songs in your skull, until even those had begun to dissolve into pale, flickering nonsense.

You were lying half-curled against a collapsed billboard when she appeared, or when you thought she appeared, because in your fevered, starving mind, nothing seemed real anymore, and certainly not a lean girl with tangled pink cat ears perched crookedly on her head and fractured fairy wings stitched clumsily to the back of her blue jacket, as though she had escaped from a child’s nightmare and wandered into yours by mistake. You stared at her with unfocused eyes, watching her tilt her head and peer down at you with bright, curious intensity, her upside-down cross carved into her forehead catching the light like a pale scar of devotion, and then, for reasons neither of you could have explained, you began to giggle weakly, breath rattling in your chest, while she giggled back just as helplessly, uncertain and delighted and entirely unaware of what either of you were laughing at.

“Y’alright there, pet?” she murmured in an overly happy voice that was bubbling with strange warmth, as though finding half-dead strangers in the wasteland was merely another charming inconvenience.

Before you could answer, or fade completely into unconsciousness, she slid one wiry arm beneath yours, astonishingly strong for someone so slight, and hauled you upright with determined effort, draping your weight across her shoulder as she muttered encouragements and nonsense under her breath, dragging you across dust and broken glass and twisted roots back toward the distant glow of her campfire, unsure why she was doing this and yet utterly certain that she had to.

By the time you reached their groups encampment, Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal had already gone with Jimmy Sheit and Jimmy Ink to hunt down Pastor New, leaving behind only Jimmimia and the scattered cluster of remaining Jimmies, all of them pale-haired beneath their wigs, all of them marked, all of them watching with narrowed curiosity as she stumbled in like a cat proudly presenting a half-dead rat to its bewildered owners.

“The fuck is that?” Jimmy Fox uttered, mouth half full of the piece of fruit in his hand.

“Charity?” another, Jimmy Jones offered uncertainly. “She might be charity, right?”

Jimmima’s expression hardened instantly, her playful brightness sharpening into something feral and protective as she dragged you closer and sank down onto a threadbare blanket, pulling your limp body into her lap and curling around you like a shield.

“Fuck off,” she snarled. “She’s mine till Sir Lord comes back.”

You drifted in and out of awareness over the following hours, surfacing occasionally to feel cool water pressed to your lips, to taste tiny sips sliding down your throat, to sense gentle fingers breaking off crumbs of a battered snack bar and placing them carefully in your mouth, her voice hovering constantly near your ear.

“Don’t worry ’bout anything, pet. You’ll be okay. Don’t stray. Not now. Not ever.”

When footsteps finally approached and voices carried through the camp, Jimmima stiffened, and moments later Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal strode into the firelight, broad-shouldered and imposing, his Scottish drawl already cutting through the murmurs.

“Fingers,” he barked, and the others snapped to attention, rising instantly, while Jimmima lingered a second longer, arms still curled around you, before reluctantly shifting aside.

It was not like her to be slow. Crystal’s sharp gaze dropped to where you lay bundled in her sleeping bag, eyes hollow, cheeks sunken.

“The fuck’s this?” he demanded.

Jimmima lifted her chin uncharacteristically stubborn, “Found her dyin’. Couldn’t leave her. Can I keep her, Lord?”

Crystal snorted. “We don’t keep people, Jimmima. If she’s here, she earns it. Same as anyone.”

Before Jimmima could argue further, Jimmy Ink stepped forward, her posture rigid, eyes dark and unblinking as they traced every fragile line of your body.

“She’s not fit to fight,” Ink said quietly.

Crystal’s gaze snapped to her, warning flashing behind his eyes. “Did I ask you?”

Ink dipped her head. “Sorry, sir. Just… it’s not much of a charity, fighting someone who’s already at death’s door. No proof of devotion in that.”

You lay there, listening without understanding, words washing over you like foreign rain, unaware that your existence was being weighed against ritual and blood.

After a long, tense pause, Crystal exhaled sharply. “Fine. She stays. For now. Gets stronger, then she picks and can earn her place. Howzat.”

“Howzat” They all responded, with differing volumes. Jimmimia squealed, clapping her hands and practically vibrating with joy as she dropped back beside you, whispering excited promises into your ear as she pulled you into her lap as she would a cat.

Days passed in strange, dreamlike fragments as strength slowly seeped back into your limbs, as food and water and Jimmima's cautious care stitched you together again, and throughout it all, you became increasingly aware of Jimmy Ink’s presence, of her gaze following you wherever you went, sharp and assessing, she tinged with something darker whenever Jimmima laughed too close to you or draped herself across your shoulders. It gave her the realisation that she wanted that to. She realised the hard way that what she felt was Jealousy.

Ink watched you train your balance, watched you learn their rituals, watched you sleep, and with every day, her attention grew heavier, more intense, as though she were memorising you. Jimmima didn’t notice, she was far too busy picking away at your hair, or fretting over ensuring you were fed and hydrated. If she had, she might've taken out Ink in her sleep - or at least tried to.

A day or so later, Crystal led most of the group away on a scavenging pilgrimage, you were ordered to remain behind with Ink, still too weak to travel far.

“Don’t let her wander,” Jimmima warned, hugging you tightly. “She’s fragile.”

Ink only nodded, eyes never leaving you.

With the camp quiet, you found yourself relaxing at the time alone with her. The few nights that passed consisted of you sitting beside dying fires, sharing meagre meals, exchanging hesitant glances.

One evening, as the sky burned red with dust, Ink finally spoke.

“You’ll be called to fight soon,” she said calmly. “It’s an honour. Charity for Old Nick. Proof you belong.”

You swallowed. “I’m not worthy. I can barely stand, let alone fight.”

Her gaze softened, just slightly. “Then I’ll make you worthy.” She didn’t want to admit that she’d grown to crave your presence. That she waited each morning until you woke up, just watching your face with an unknown reverence. She enjoyed your small, softly spoken stories that you shared when you both sat still. She’d much rather you stick around than Jimmy Jack, he was a fucking prick.

She stood and stepped closer towards you, lowering her voice. “I’ll teach you. When Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal calls on you to pick, go for Jimmy Jack – you know the ugly fucker with shit for brains. He looks tough, but it’s all height. Go low, if you sweep him, he’ll crumble, promise ya.”

She held a hand out, offering for you to take it. You looked at it for a couple seconds before reaching up. As you stood, she quickly positioned you, hands firm on your shoulders, guiding your stance, correcting your balance, her touch lingering longer than necessary, her breath warm against your cheek as she leaned in to demonstrate, fingers firm on the base of your collarbone.

“Like this,” she murmured, fingers sliding along your shoulder, down your arm to your wrist, the other hand firmly clamming down to your waist, steadying you. She moved you along with her, creating swift movements of which you tried to focus on. You truly did. But something in the way her breath filtered down your neck had your mind elsewhere entirely.

You practiced again and again, movements growing smoother, bodies drifting closer, arms brushing, chests nearly touching, every correction charged with unspoken tension, every shared breath thick with something dangerous and electric.

At some point, you stopped pretending not to notice how her eyes lingered on your lips, how her hands trembled faintly when they rested against you.

When you stumbled and she caught you, pulling you against her chest, neither of you moved away.

“You’re getting better,” she whispered.

“Thank you.” You whispered back.

Her breath hitched.

“Ok, like I said. Swipe his legs. Fucker ain’t got any control when he’s falling down. Do that, then plunge the blade right in the throat. Don’t give him a chance to get back up.” She said, contemplating her next move. Then she decided, twisting you around and swiping her own leg behind yours causing you to tumble sharply onto your back. She landed on top of you, posing her own blade to your neck, no pressure applied though. Pure demonstration and ease.

Both your breathing became one, and the slight point of the blade on her neck had you gasping at the heat grew in your core. She seemed to notice. Noticed the way your back arched slightly, and noticed how you pressed your neck ever so slightly towards the blade rather than away.

Her own mouth opened, and slowly, hesitantly, she lifted the other hand to your face, thumb brushing your jaw, moving to your lips while she traced the look on your face. Her thumb inched closer and closer inwards, testing the waters, but knowing what she was about to take. It slipped past your lips and into your mouth. Without thought, you instinctively began rolling your tongue over it, tasting dirt and heaven.

She pulled back ever so slightly with a gasp and looked into your eyes. Any trace of brown was gone, and it was replaced by pure dark lust. She moved her knee up between your legs, sliding it to hit your clothed space between. The jolt of pleasure erupted through your body, right to the sound that escaped your lips.

She watched in awe as the pleasure crossed your entire face. For the first time since the end of everything, she felt chosen, and dangerously alive.

Her knee moved again, slow this time, deliberate, testing, as though she were learning the language of your reactions through the rise and fall of your breath and the helpless sounds you failed to contain.

“Look at you,” she murmured softly, voice low and rough, eyes never leaving your face. “Didn’t even know you could sound like that.”

You tried to answer, tried to form something coherent, but all that escaped you was another shaky breath, another quiet, broken noise that made her lips part in something dangerously close to a smile.

“That’s it,” Ink whispered. “you like it?.”

You couldn’t answer with anything other than another soft moan. Her hand slid from your face to your collar, fingers curling into the fabric as she leaned down, her forehead brushing yours, her breath warm and unsteady against your lips.

“Trust me,” she added quietly. “I’ve got you.”

You nodded without thinking, surrendering to the way she held you there, pinned gently but completely, as though the world had narrowed to nothing but her weight, her voice, her presence. She leant down and placed her lips on yours, and you were already all to ready to comply. There was no peck, as she moved her tongue against yours in a short battle that she’d already won. Her mouth moving against yours with growing confidence, as if every sound you made gave her permission to take more, to feel more, to want more.

Her knee kept its slow rhythm, and with every movement, your body responded instinctively, arching slightly, fingers gripping at her red jacket as though she were the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Good,” she whispered between kisses. “You’re doing so good for me.”

Her words wrapped around you like a promise, steadying and intoxicating all at once.

The air between you thickened, charged with heat and longing and something dangerously close to devotion, as though this moment was becoming its own kind of ritual, sacred in its secrecy.

When she finally pulled back, just enough to look at you properly, her pupils were blown wide, her usual composure shattered into something raw and honest.

“You’ve got no idea,” she said quietly, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “What you're doing to me. If the others saw you like this, - no I don’t even want to think about it. This is all mine. You’re all mine.” Her voice grew almost angry by the last word. Her movements became rough. She sat up, throwing her jacket off and forcing your shirt off your chest. You were bare, not much in the way of under garments in the middle of an apocalypse. She moved down quickly, claiming your chest as her own. Taking her time too, the salt from your unwashed skin melting on her tongue.

You wanted more, and so did she.

“Turn around.” She demanded suddenly, “come’re” a mumble as she guided you to sit up between her legs, back against her chest. She watched with focus as the quickly leaving sunlight glimmered through the trees onto your bare chest. Two hands made their way over you, “I don’t want them to come back. We could stay like this forever.”

You wanted to respond, you truly did. But then she pinched one of your nipples. The pain was exciting, it felt good. She did it again, just to see if you’d make another noise. A yelp this time. “Does it hurt?” She asked, curiosity etched in her words.

You nodded, and she did it again. You moaned. “But you like it anyway?” You nodded. She let out a huff of amusement before latching her lips to your neck as though grounding herself.

She exhaled slowly, the air making you shiver as it attached to the wet patches that her lips had just crossed. You whined, the need for her hands to be lower became all consuming. You’d done this a couple times before, a guy from the group you’d been in before your farm got overrun. You’d done it searching for a release, something to make you feel normal. He’d never delivered what you needed most, and you never knew it could feel like heaven.

But the way Ink’s left hand travelled from your breast, down your sternum while feathering across your ribs, her lips nipping at your ear. This felt like you’d arrived at the gates.

You turned your head, looking in her eyes with complete devotion. Her own core flooding at the wordless pleading found within your gaze. She leant in again, lips crashing on yours, clashing of teeth and tongue taking over the small space between you. She bit your lip, and you gasped. She did it again, this time lingering, and pulling your bottom lip outwards. You were too distracted that you missed the way her hand now sat at the waistline of your tracksuit pants. She let your lip go, and pushed her hand under the fabric in the same breath.

The sound you made was inhumane. A growl and moan mixed with an utterance of her name. She smiled wickedly, watching your face become completely overwhelmed with pleasure, “more, please, more”, you managed to get out as her fingertips circled far too lightly over your clit. You felt pathetic, you looked pathetic. Ink liked that, she really did.

“Such good manners.” She said, her voice almost cruel, “and to think, you were left out to die. Old Nick knew to save you, to bring you to us. To me.” With the final word, her hand began picking up its pace. Continuous circles tracing that area that seemed to scream with life at the touch. “That’s it.” She pressed harder, and it didn’t take long for the fire to consume your entire body. Your moans were loud enough that a flicker of fear crossed your mind as you remembered that dead walked around these woods. But a single finger moved down, not yet plunging into the folds that eagerly awaited it. You thoughts turned back to the feeling, to the way your breath was in sync with that of the girl pressed to your back. She’d stopped moving her hand. Why.

You whined again, moving your hips upwards in an awkward movement. Your body begging for more. She just watched, her smile growing even bigger at your squirming. “What’s wrong?” She asked, teasing, “Cat got your tongue?”  

You growled slightly, head rolling onto her shoulder in frustration. “I want-” you stopped yourself, almost testing yourself and how far you would go to avoid begging again. But she needed to hear it, her other hand which had been kneading your breast came to your hair, pulling it sharply backwards.

“Say it.” She whispered in your ear, her grip tightening when you still said nothing.

You couldn’t hold off, “I want to feel you inside me.”

She would’ve laughed, but it felt like an animal took over her. She had no idea how long she’d been waiting to hear those words, and from your lips it was salvation.

Her lips were on yours again, her tongue entering your mouth at the same time 2 of her fingers entered your core. The rhythm was slow, but she couldn’t hold back for long. Curling the 2 digits as her movements sped up. “You feel that?” she kept going, her fingers slipping out for just a second to circle back round your clit before diving into the sea again. “That’s me. That’s us.”

You moaned, looking deep in her eyes as your vision started to blur. Your breath was catching in your throat, you felt like you were suffocating in the most enticing way. Body on fire, every nerve overcome with complete pleasure. She continued her work, whispering prayers in your ear, guiding you through every flick of her fingers, through every breath that caught short. Your eyes locked on hers, and the coil within you grew to breaking point. She saw it, and your vision began to blur. “Let go, for me. Let go, please.” Her voice cracked at the end. The shift in tone had you caught off guard and the coil snapped.

Her hands moved slower, guiding you down from the high like it was her own. Your sounds blurred into strange murmurings, a mixture of cusses as well as her name. Before you’d completely slipped away, she captured your lips again. This time much softer than the last, savouring the taste, breathing in the air you were letting out.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against yours, both of you still catching your breath, the world around you felt impossibly distant.

You shifted weakly in her arms, trying to turn around to face her, it was a struggle as you tried to gather enough strength to return what she had given you.

“Ink,” you murmured, voice hoarse. “I - I wanna… let me…”

You tried to lift yourself, tried to reach around to her properly, but your arms trembled almost immediately, exhaustion rushing in all at once now that the adrenaline had faded, your body reminding you of every day you had spent starving and hurting and surviving.

She noticed instantly.

Before you could even move another inch, her hands were there, firm but gentle, pressing you back around to lay on her chest.

“Hey,” she whispered. “No, don’t, just relax.”

“I’m okay,” you tried to insist weakly. “I just… I wanna do it for you too.”

Her expression softened in a way you had never seen before, all sharp edges melting into something tender and protective. “You already did,” she said quietly. “Just by being here. By trusting me.”

She brushed damp hair back from your forehead, her thumb tracing slow, soothing patterns along your temple. A cross shape that she herself wished to carve there. She would do it gently, perhaps she’d be able to drown out the inevitable pain with more pleasure.  

“Look at you, love” she murmured. “Can barely keep your eyes open.”

You let out a small, embarrassed laugh that faded into a yawn.

Carefully, she shifted her weight and rearranged the both of you to be laying down on the ground. Her movements were slow and deliberate, as though she were handling something precious. “Come here,” she whispered. She drew you against her chest, one arm wrapped securely around your back, the other resting protectively at your waist, her thumb tracing lazy circles through the fabric of your clothes.

You melted into her without thinking, your head settling beneath her chin, your body fitting against hers like it had always belonged there.

“There you go,” she murmured. “That’s better.”

Your breathing gradually slowed, matching hers, the frantic edge easing into something steady and safe.

She pressed a kiss into your hair. You fought terribly to stay awake, but you’d body completely gave out. She kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth, each one unhurried and full of quiet affection. You felt them all as you drifted into a deep slumber.

.

She treated their movements like scripture. They followed routes no map could show. They slipped through hedges where thorns parted like curtains. They crossed ruins using hidden stairwells and fractured floors that never collapsed beneath their feet. They knew which churches were safe, which schools still had intact walls, which petrol stations still whispered of fuel and ghosts. Juliet followed at a careful distance, memorising every turn, every broken signpost, every cracked wall.

When they’d taken short journeys away from their belongings, she’d sneak in – eating small bites of food, it’s what kept her alive, a mouse just following its source of nourishment.

And always, she followed Ink.

Ink walked at the back whenever danger felt close, never announcing it, never making a show of protection. She simply drifted backward like gravity itself, positioning her body between threat and flock. Her knife was always loose in her hand. Her shoulders remained tense, ready.

Mostly, Juliet noticed the way Ink smiled. It was not often. The sharp curve of her mouth appeared only when she killed, when her blade split skull and bone, when blood streaked her hands and arms. In those moments, something distant and luminous flickered behind her eyes, as if she had just fulfilled a commandment. As if she had satisfied something ancient and watching. She laughed when she mocked danger. She grinned when she insulted the others. She smirked when death brushed past them and missed.

  But the truest smile, the one Juliet learned to recognise, always followed a kill. It was the smile of destiny being honoured.

Through weeks of watching, Juliet learned Ink’s private rituals. She learned that Ink folded her sleeping bag with meticulous care, aligning the corners as if arranging an altar cloth when they moved on. She learned that every night, without exception, Ink cleaned her blade slowly and thoroughly, whispering fragments of prayer to Old Nick as she did so. She learned that sometimes, when she thought herself unseen, Ink traced her fingers over her tattoos, counting them, remembering them, revisiting the sermons carved into her skin.

When Juliet found sleep, she dreamed of her constantly. She dreamed of freckles scattered across warm skin like constellations. Of tattoos dark against firelight. Always there were her hands holding, gripping, cutting, blessing. She woke each morning aching and hollow, as if she had been fasting for something she could never consume.

One afternoon, she saw them perform charity. That was what they called it. A gift. A blessing.

They found a man hiding beneath a butcher’s shop, barely alive, thin, still whispering prayers to a god who had long since stopped listening. He cried when they dragged him into the light. He begged. He promised anything.

Ink volunteered immediately, her smile blooming with reverence. She knelt before him, touched his forehead with two fingers, and whispered towards him with Old Nick’s name like a lover’s. Then she worked, slow and precise, while the others watched and learnt. When it was over, Ink was shaking with joy, blood streaked across her arms like sacred paint.

Juliet watched, nauseous and entranced all at once. She noticed the man’s eyes before they dimmed. Wide, brown, and soft. Like hers.

Later, as dusk settled into the trees and the light thinned into long, trembling strands of gold, Ink knelt at the edge of a narrow stream and washed herself. Juliet lay hidden in the undergrowth a short distance away, her body pressed flat against damp leaves and soil, scarcely daring to breathe. From there, she could see everything. The way Ink rolled her sleeves up past her elbows. The way she cupped water in her hands and poured it slowly over her forearms, watching the diluted blood spiral away. The way her fingers worked methodically, scrubbing dried red from beneath her nails, rubbing at her skin until it flushed raw.

Juliet’s gaze followed each motion hungrily. She noticed when Ink’s shoulders stiffened as someone was approaching.

Jimmy Crystal emerged from between the trees, boots crunching softly against gravel and twigs. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never doubted that the world would make room for him. He’d joined the group that Juliet was following a week or so ago, and it didn’t take much to become awed by his control. Juliet shrank further into shadow. She could not hear them clearly from her hiding place, but she could see everything.

Ink did not turn immediately when he stopped beside her. She kept washing. Kept rubbing her hands together beneath the water. Kept her eyes fixed on the stream as if she were afraid to meet his gaze too soon.

Crystal crouched beside her. He rested his elbows on his knees and watched her work for a moment, lips curled into something between a smile and a smirk.

“Fuckin’ hell, Ink,” he said at last, his voice low and rough, thick with his accent. “You were a fuckin’ vision back there.”

Ink’s mouth twitched. She did not look up, “Just doin’ charity,” she muttered.

“Aye, aye,” Crystal replied lightly. “And doin’ it better than anyone else ever could. Old Nick must be grinnin’ his fuckin’ face off every time you lift that blade.”

He reached out without asking and plucked her wrist gently, turning her hand over to inspect it. Juliet’s breath caught at the intimacy of the gesture.

“Look at that,” he went on. “Not even shakin’. Not hesitatin’. Born for it.” Ink pulled her hand back slowly, returning it to the water, a mixture of pride and hesitation in the movement. Crystal laughed under his breath. He leaned closer, his voice lowering. “After all this time, ya think he doesn’t see you? You think he doesn’t notice what you give him?”

Ink finally glanced up at him then. “Sometimes-” she began to admit, wondering if this was even an invitation to talk, “sometimes, I wonder what I’m s’posed to get back. ”

Crystal’s smile widened. “There it is.” He tapped her temple lightly with two fingers. “Doubt’s a wee fucker, that. Creeps in when you’re tired.” He gestured vaguely toward the darkening woods. “But listen to me, yeah? Old Nick always rewards his favourites.”

Ink’s brow furrowed. “With what?” she asked.

Crystal tilted his head, considering “Oh, could be anythin’. Depends what he fancies.” He shrugged. “Maybe he’ll send you a wee doe one day. Just wanderin’ up to camp. Big brown eyes, soft as sin. No fear in it at all. For you, and you alone to feast on.”

Ink huffed quietly. “Right.”

“Or,” he continued, unfazed, “maybe it’ll be signs. Little things. Purple and yellow stars, aye? Up in the sky, markin’ your path. Remindin’ you you’re chosen. That you’re watched.”

Ink stared back at him. “And if I don’t see anythin’?” she asked.

Crystal’s smile softened into something almost tender. “You will,” he said gently. “You just have to keep earnin’ it.” He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “And you are earnin’ it. Every day.”

For a moment, Ink closed her eyes, just briefly, like someone accepting a blessing. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Yeah. I know.”

Crystal straightened. “Good,” he said lightly. “Finish up. We move in ten.” He disappeared back into the trees.

Ink remained kneeling by the stream long after he left, staring at her reflection in the dark water, her hands submerged, her jaw tight. The words tangled together in her mind, rearranging themselves into something terrifying and beautiful. Earn it.

.

Jimmy Crystal had once said that some souls were marked before they were born, chosen to be vessels, offerings, proof of devotion. Ink had been with Jimmy Crystal for nearly ten years. He had found her starving in a motorway tunnel and given her food, purpose, and Old Nick. She believed because she had to. Whenever doubt whispered, she crushed it. Whenever fear rose, she punished it. Her own pain was proof, and the blood of others was devotion. Death became a currency. Old Nick would reward her. She had to just wait.

After that promise from the Sir Lord, things shifted. Ink began to feel watched.

She turned more often now, sometimes so abruptly that it left her dizzy. She listened longer, holding her breath until her lungs burned just to make sure that the sounds around her were real. She checked shadows twice, three times, memorising their shapes and angles. She began setting small traps wherever they stopped - strings tied to cans, stones shifted into false paths, branches bent just enough to snap under careless weight. Campsites were rearranged nightly. Sleeping positions rotated with military precision. Weapons never left her reach, not even when she slept.

And still, the feeling did not fade. It followed her into her dreams.

She dreamed of eyes in the dark, wide and unblinking – those of a doe. Of breath brushing her neck. Of unseen hands hovering just short of her skin, never quite touching, never quite leaving. Sometimes, in those dreams, she turned and found herself staring into familiar brown eyes, soft and unafraid, watching her as though she were something holy.

She always woke with a heavy feeling in her lower half, one she’d never had the experience to place.

.

One night, Juliet walked straight into the trap. Ink was alone, having set off to find food to bring back to their current base. Juliet always ached to be closer, but the feeling on this particular evening became overwhelming. Ink wasn’t close enough, so she stepped closer.

The wire snapped, a can rattled, and a branch cracked.

The sounds sliced through the darkness like a blade, sharp and undeniable, and before Juliet could even draw a full breath, a hand closed around her wrist and wrenched her violently to the ground. The world spun, leaves and firelight blurring together, and suddenly Ink was on top of her, knee pressed hard into her stomach, weight pinning her into dirt and roots, knife hovering at her throat with terrifying steadiness.

Her other hand clamped over Juliet’s mouth. Their eyes locked, neither blinking, both searching for every and all thoughts that lay in the others mind.

Ink couldn’t help her short gasp, “A doe?” Ink whispered.

Their faces were inches apart. Their breath mingled in short, frantic bursts. Heat collided between them, trapped and suffocating. Ink’s freckles burned sharp in the firelight that was ignored just meters behind them, her eyes wild and searching, her hair (the wig) brushing against Juliet’s cheek with every shallow breath.

Electricity flooded the narrow space between them.

Juliet could not answer. She could not move. She felt a warmth erupt in her stomach.

Ink’s forearm pressed against her throat, not enough to choke, not enough to steal her breath entirely, but enough to promise that she could. Enough to remind her who held power. Her lungs burned. Her heart battered against her ribs like it was trying to escape her body. She stared up at Ink with wide, terrified eyes that were somehow still soft, still searching, still unbearably gentle.

Ink stared back. Trying to decide whether this trembling, silent girl was a threat, a blessing, or what was promised to her.

In trying to fix the discomfort in her neck, Juliet’s head moved, and her lips brushed Ink’s palm by accident.

Soft. Warm. Barely there, and yet Ink froze. Not outwardly nor visibly. But inside, something ruptured. For just a second, her breath stuttered. Her grip faltered. Butterflies spiralling violently through her chest. The warmth of Juliet’s mouth lingered against her skin, intimate and unbearable, and suddenly she was acutely aware of how close they were, of how easily she could lean forward, of how easily this could become something else entirely. How easily she could take her breath or give her more.

She loosened her grip without realising.

Only slightly but it was enough.

Juliet shoved. She rolled violently to the side, scrambling over leaves and roots, clawing her way upright. She staggered back, nearly falling again, chest heaving, eyes never leaving Ink’s face.

They faced each other in the firelight. Ink stood rigid, red tracksuit blazing against the darkness, knife raised, freckles stark against her flushed skin, breath ragged and uneven. Juliet trembled in front of her, wild-eyed and silent, hair tangled, lips parted, throat marked faintly where Ink’s arm had pressed.

For a solid half minute, they only stared.

Like prey and hunter who had forgotten which was which.

Then Juliet turned and ran.

Into the vast darkness that surrounded them.

Ink did not follow. She stood there long after the crunch of branched and leaves under footsteps had faded, her hand still tingling where Juliet’s lips had touched it, her breath still uneven, her pulse still racing. Curiosity burned in her chest where anger should have been. Confusion coiled where certainty had once lived.

And for the first time in years, her prayers felt thin.

.

She wasn’t a fighter, he’d seen it first hand, so he made up tasks for her around the farm itself. It sat on the edge of town, half-swallowed by weeds, trees, and time. The barn roof sagged like a tired back, the windows boarded up, and the overwhelming stench of rotting fruit that could never be gotten rid of. The fields had also returned to wilderness, but it had walls, and traps, and a cellar full of tins he had hoarded since the world ended.

He was sick now. Not bitten nor turned, just… fading away, like the civilisation that’d once surrounded them. He wasn’t really her uncle or father, but 15 or so years of hunkering and hiding together allowed for a bond closer than just survival companions. She was only 8 when he’d come across that church. A man, a so called ‘priest’ (who had a few wives alongside him) put up little to no fight when the dead breached the walls of the church. Most of the women fled, only one or two getting past the makeshift gate before infected took their price. Juliet, she’d stayed for a few days, hidden under a body of one too far gone to come back as the undead – her mother, possibly, John asked no questions after checking for wounds, seeing none he gathered her up, placed her on his horse and left. The horrors of that church not needing to be spoken of again.

She was a strange child, young, frail, and fragile; prone to sickness but never fell to the final blow. A survivor in the weakest of ways. While John had no desire to know of what befell that damned church, small prophecies leaked from her mouth, and piece by piece it came together.

Exorcisms, performed by the priest.

He’d conducted them on the dead, of anyone unlucky soul who crossed into the church seeking shelter, even of her. John had seen the restraint marks on her wrist, and the way she flinched when rain water danced on her skin. The impact of it in the years that passed in that church left her mind was scrambled, it wasn’t uncommon for odd snippets of words to fall out before she could stop them, eyes rolling to the back of her head while her entire frame shook uncontrollably. It’d terrified him, as if she really was possessed, in these moments she reminded him of a film last seen so long ago. But she always calmed down, always fell into a deep slumber after her fits of terror, woke up the next morning as if nothing had happened. She did nothing more to suggested she was in fact a vessel for a demon (something she’d been told since she was 4 years old). He’d gotten so used to them; it became a part of the routine.

When she was ok, she shined brighter than any kind of sun he’d ever known in his many 60 years. She held an abundance of stories, ones that reminded John of a simpler time: Greek gods and goddesses, adventurers, journeys and even stories of elves and wizards. Her mother blessed her with knowledge of books and movies that ruled the land before the dead did. Juliet believed them as truth, that this land they walked was all but one part of the world, and that on the other side of the sea there was a world of magic and creatures that was every bit as common as death was in theirs. The way her eyes lit up all times she spoke of these worlds, the way she would skip and dance around when detailing the tales, why would he ever tell her different? Why would he take away what little joy they had?

.

They’d been settled for 5 years or so, in that old apple farm that’d been long since abandoned. Nature prevailed of course, and it took about a month to clear out the years of rotten fruit that littered the field and yet the smell lingered. A year passed since the horses passed, a father and daughter – within a month of each other. A tragedy that John never quite recovered from. That horse was his only link the old world, his only clear reminder that there was a life before this.

Now, his cough rattled in his chest like loose stones. Some mornings, he couldn’t stand without her arm around him. Most nights, he whispered prayers of a religion he’d long since abandoned. He worried, worried that he hadn’t prepared her for this, to be alone. That she was still dreaming of worlds beyond this one, didn’t have the knowledge that this was the only one to survive, that there was not an out from this. The only out was death. He considered taking her with him as a sort of mercy to ensure she wouldn’t come across a more brutal death but the thought alone made him sick to the stomach. He loved her, in a way he would’ve loved a daughter.

He tried to prepare her in those final months. He thought that by experience she’d find out what to do, she listened to every instruction and every word with reverence: where to go, how to avoid the dead, how to slip in the shadows without being seen – to become a mouse. He’d hopped that his soul would slip away while she was gone, save her the pain of watching him go. But he was more stubborn that he realised and had to keep sending her out of the farm, new excuses every time he did. You need to collect more tins, we need more herbs, you need mushrooms for dinner. Each time she went a bit further, obeying his every word as she’d been taught to do in that church 19 years ago.

She just went further into danger, further into the ruins, and further into the unknown.

That was how she found them.

She heard them before she saw them in the form of laughter, real laughter, drifting through the broken square of the long-deserted village. It startled her so badly she nearly dropped her small axe. She slipped behind a collapsed wall and peered through ivy and brick dust.

There were only three of them. All in tracksuits, bright against the grey world: blue, green, and red. All wearing the same strange disguise: scruffy blonde bob wigs, uneven and synthetic, as if they had been cut with kitchen scissors and shared between them. Scars covered them in different arrangements, but one was shared – a cross. No, an upside-down cross that made Juliet gasp in recognition.

The girl in red stood at the centre.

Jimmy Ink, Juliet would learn from the hollering of the girl in the blue suit. She looked about twenty somthing, though life had pressed heavier years into her bones. Her skin was lightly tanned, freckled across her nose and cheeks like scattered dust, soft against the sharper angles of her face. Beneath the wig, her dark red hair was braided tight to her scalp.

Her tracksuit jacket hung open, sleeves shoved up her forearms. Underneath, a white tank top clung to her torso, highlighting the lean, defined muscles of her stomach. She was slim, but unmistakably strong built by running, climbing, fighting, and surviving. Every movement carried readiness. One of her arms was covered in tattoos. Stick-and-poke. Hand-done. Crooked symbols, tallies, half-faded words, blurred patterns layered over each other like memories. Some had bled into her skin unevenly. Some were unfinished. None were decorative. They were records. Marks of time. Proof she had endured.

Juliet was transfixed. Her own doe brown eyes trapped as if caught in headlights, unable to look away from the girl in the red track suit.

She laughed louder than the others. Swore without thinking. Spoke in a low, slightly raspy voice that suggested too many shouted warnings and too many sleepless nights. Her knuckles were scarred. Her shoulders were always tense, as if expecting attack.

And yet, when she looked at the others, her gaze softened.

Juliet didn’t know it yet, but Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal wasn’t there. Without him, Ink became the centre of gravity. She decided when they moved. When they rested. When they watched. When they killed. The other two followed without question, orbiting her quiet authority. She didn’t demand leadership. She carried it.

Juliet stayed hidden for three hours, following them as they moved through buildings in the village. Gathering what little they could, killing a couple infected that were lingering themselves. Juliet kept distance but was watching with a slight sense of obsession as the trio made their way back into the woods, and made camp a bit deeper.

She watched them push and shove, trade insults, laugh at the way the infected twisted and moved as something akin to blood oozed from them. The girl in blue sung fragments of strange hymns about “the Lord” and “Jimmy Crystal.” Juliet then watched on as Ink took first watch when dusk fell, sitting with her back straight and her knife loose in her hand, staring into the hedgerows like she dared the dark to try something.

Ensuring the other two were asleep, Ink pulled something out of her bag and began peeling it with reverence as she spoke softly to herself. An apple. Of which she’d hidden, selfishly not willing to share this slice of heaven with anyone else.

Juliet watched as she cut off a slice, watching it in her hand as the girls’ fingers glazed softly over the fruits inside. She’d pulled it up to her mouth, a couple words whispered out as if in prayer, before delicately placing the piece between her lips. As she took slow bites, her eyes closed, a look of momentary bliss crossing her features as a sliver of juice slipped from her mouths edge. She tore off another piece; Juliet’s eyes were trapped, she ached to be closer – to herself, take a bite of that apple that looked so beautiful in the other girls’ hands. She leant forward in a trance, slipping slightly and her hand falling onto a branch.

Snap.

Inks head whipped towards the sound, apple now abandoned on the ground, and her knife held more defensively. Juliet had only but a second to go and she took it. She ran for an hour straight before she made it back to the gates of their farm. She heaved intently as she locked the barbed wired gate behind her, the night long having begun she couldn’t risk that nothing or no one followed her.

.

It was another couple weeks that John held on. He tried to warn her, but he’d left it too late; what he thought was clear and coherent directions came out as fragmented syllables. Of which she only gathered a few, ‘Jim’, ‘Tiara’, ‘Lord’. While he was trying to tell her of a group to avoid, one he’d crossed paths in this very land a couple years ago, she only heard what she’d later deem a prophecy. He was gone that evening.

She didn’t know sadness, and she didn’t feel it now. More of an emptiness. She was alone. It didn’t stop her from making the bed around him, didn’t stop her from boiling a cup of water each night for his bedside, she even kept clearing out the bedpan – a part of her not even realising the person who’d been filling it had stopped.

His body decayed, she had not the strength to move it, and after a few days the smell was unbearable. One particular night a week or so afterwards, she couldn’t escape it. Even downstairs, on the thin mattress by the boarded-up window, the smell had become permanent. Her eyes refused to close. Every time they did, she saw freckles in firelight. A red jacket. An apple glistening like something holy.

When she finally left the farm, it wasn’t because she was brave. It was because she couldn’t breathe there anymore. She could find a new place, she had to find a new place. She walked for days with only her axe and a bag of apples, talking to herself as if someone followed beside her. It was kind of peaceful, those first few days alone. No coughing, no mutterings, only her herself and her thoughts. She dreamed vividly each night, in the safety of found shelters. Of Ink’s hands. Of juice on her lips. Of the way her face softened when no one had been watching.

Sometimes, Juliet woke with her mouth dry, aching as if she had been the one starving. She thought about her constantly, not even survival plaguing her mind anymore, but pure salvation of a single memory.

She spoke to herself during the days, which wasn’t uncommon. It had started years ago, back when the loneliness first crept in, before John found her and now it was automatic.

She pretended someone was listening. She pretended the girl in red was listening.

Sometimes she told her about the weather. Sometimes about the gods that lived a land or so over. Sometimes about nothing at all. Words spilled out of her because silence was something she was terrified of, and it came all to commonly when you were alone.

At night, she clutched her blanket and replayed that moment in the woods again, and again.

The apple.

The prayer.

The closed eyes.

The bliss.

She imagined herself stepping forward. Sharing it. Letting their fingers touch. In her mind, Ink always smiled. Always let her hands linger near hers, but it was always just a fragment of her imagination.

Then, one evening, she heard it again. The Laughter.

She crept forward, leaving the safety of the fallen tree she’d find a hidden spot in, her heart hammering.

And there she was: red jacket, blonde wig, tattoos dark against her skin.

Taunting two infected with a different pair of people than weeks earlier, still in those similar costumes, only this time white and orange. They were dancing just out of reach of the dead, mocking their twisted movements. Fearless and radiant.

Juliet’s vision swam while her chest tightened. Her heart raced so violently she had to sink to her knees behind a log, pressing a hand to her ribs as if to hold herself together.

It felt like fever. Like sickness. Like worship.

She watched every movement. The tilt of Ink’s head. The way she laughed. The way she signalled the others when it was time to leave.

When they finally moved on, Juliet followed.

Of course she did.

They must’ve had food. Must’ve had shelter. They also had routes she could learn, she was quickly running out of the few John told her about.

That was all. Nothing else.

Not the way her breath steadied when she saw the girl. Not the way her each and every one of her dreams revolved around her.

Not the way her world had quietly, completely rearranged itself around one girl in red.

It was just about survival.