Wanthimsobadly

You swallowed as his rough hands continued to move over your back.

He murmured something you couldn’t make out.

You didn’t feel ill. Deep down a part of you knew you should fear him, the others with him. Roy and his gang, had tossed you around like a ball. This man could easily do the same.

Yet, your heart picked up speed just to be near him once again. It had been almost too much when you felt his hand through your shirt. Now on your bare skin you were finding it hard to breathe.

Would he even feel them, you wondered. Would they even make him pause?

There was something telling you to not give in. You should be stronger. The delight he caused in made you feel wonderfully reckless.

You heard a sigh escape his lips.

But then his hand paused.

Inwardly, you stilled.

You heard a coarse utterance of fuck come from him, it was so sharp so sudden it felt like a slap. It brought you away from the morass of your thoughts. And his fiery touch left you, as stumbled towards the small lantern.

He looked back at you. “What the fuck wrong is with yee back?”

Surely, he was disgusted. You reached your shirt and quickly pulled it back on. You could not stop the tears.

“Yee don’t have to look. I covered myself back up.”

The lantern swung in his ringed hand, after closed the small distance. You wiped the tears away, you looked away.

He snapped his fingers, “Listen.” You immediately looked at him. “Tell me the fuck happened?”

“I was in a group. It was good for a wee while. Things went bad, after half of them died during a raid. Not long after I became their plaything for every whim, hitting me or worse.”

“Oh fuck, my wee lass.”

His hand returned to your back, his touch burned through your shirt once more.

“Now, take that off.” His ringed hand gestured to your shirt.

You nodded but you stopped when his hand took ahold of your chin, his rings a cool contrast. All you could see was his face obscured partially in darkness.

“Can yee find them for me?”

You nodded.

“Yee are going to lead me to them and they are going to meet old nick.” A wide, dark crooked grin spread across his face before a sharp chuckle poured from his lips.

Something knotted in your stomach. It felt good.

“Good.”

You managed a reply, breathless. Your heart was practically hurting with fast it was beating.

With ease, his fingers went from cupping your chin to grazing your cheek.

“Jimmy.”

His name poured from your lips before you felt his against yours.

Something snapped within, that you had not even realized had grown taunt.

He parted from you, “Damn lass yee softer than I would’ve ever guessed.”

With an uncertain clanking, he put the lantern down and you found yourself in his arms. His albeit worn but soft track suit barely hid the solid body underneath. He held you firmly to him, distantly you realized that his golden chains and large upside down cross were not hanging from his throat. You almost giggled that he may be concerned you’d use them against him.

“Lass, yee enjoying how I hold yee?” His voice, gravely.

“Aye.”

All you could do was lose yourself in overwhelming body heat and the feel of his rough hands on you. Easily, clinging to the purple fabric. You felt as he wound your hair around one of his large hands, pulling a gasp from you when he tugged backward.

“Good.”

He managed, breath hot like the rest of him on your throat as he dragged his lips against your throat pulling a soft moan from you. The scruff of blonde hair that grew on his face contrasted to the feel of his lips that were much softer than you expected almost too much for you. You felt as they curled into a smile before they were against yours once more.

A fervor took over, lips pressed hard against each other, breaths mingling. There were bites and your tongues, moved against each other like the two of you did. You clung to him, submitting to him. An ache not entirely painful but mixed with pleasure filled you. You kissed him firmer, letting in more of a bite as you felt what you knew to be his hardness pressed against you. Reaching between the two of you, he found his hardened length. You let your hand drift over it, only his worn but still soft pants separated you.

A deep, rough sound came from him. It broke the kiss. Giving the two of you a moment to actually breathe.

“Oh,” He panted. “There is my fiery lass.”

In the muted light from the lantern you saw something in those eyes, his eyes that only heightened the ache you felt. Not looking away from them. You repeated the touch, he twitched under your hand.

He moved, you moved with him. Your back met the mat, the rough slice of worn rug they had given you to sleep on. He hung over you.

“Damn. Look at yee, hen.”

His fingers rough with a determination you had not seen till then, undid the belt, the button and made quick work of the zipper that rasped open of your cargo pants.

He was over you once more, his knee firm between your legs and disappearing in the opening of your pants. He braced himself on his arm beside, not truly realizing that was where most of his body weight had went as he laid partially on you. You bucked, a whimper coming from you as you felt his hand easily sliding under the panties you wore.

He made an incoherent sound, you saw as he swallowed hard. His fingers stilling as he cupped you.

“You’re mine.”

You nodded, whimpering pressing against his hand before realizing what you did.

“Tell me.” Giving you a squeeze.

You licked your lips, distantly tasting him there from the kiss earlier. “I’m yours.”

There was no going back now.

He smiled. “Good. Good.” He practically cooed.

A moan erupted from your lips uncontrollably as you felt his fingers then feel you, prod you. Finding, the soft but between you that had only ever given you any pleasure before being in his mere presence.

“There yee are, good girl.” You writhed under himself. “Already so needy, ready for me.”

The sound of the amusement in his voice, how his fingers didn’t relent, made you gasp. He pulled sounds and sensations from you had not thought possible.

You don’t know how but you reached between you and undid the zipper of his jacket. His toned torso was revealed, only covered with a white tank.

“Needed to see you.” You somehow said, breathlessly.

“Yee, will.”

His fingers moving firmer, faster. You lost yourself in the sensation. You arched under him, pressing into him. He didn’t falter.

As you felt like it all was going to explode, shatter you pulled him close. You needed his solid form. Your lips met, for another hungry kiss.

That’s when everything erupted, you called out against his mouth, arching uncontrollably. His fingers moved through it before felt yourself melt under him.

“Such a good girl.”

The scruff of his cheek grazing against yours as he whispered in your ear.

He dragged his fingers against you before slipping from being in your pants.

A sound came from you as you already missed his touch. His lips curled into a smirk.

“This will not be the last time lass.”

You watched him in the fuzzy warmth he had filled you with as he shrugged free of his jacket. Now you saw his strong arms, that was why he had been able to pull you up.

“Look what you did to me.”

Pulling his pants down, he took himself out. Your eyes grew. He had felt big, but seeing him was something else entirely.

He took a hold of himself.

“You felt so good, lass.”

He groaned, grunted.

“Won’t last long with how you sounded under me. Next time, I will fill you, stretch you.”

“Please.” You breathed.

You couldn’t look away from how his hand moved up and down his length. He towered over you, the ache he had caused in you fluttered over you as you watched.

A deep, guttural sound came from him and moments later, you felt as his spurted on you. Some landed right between your breasts, then the rest erupted onto your stomach. His free hand braced himself on the ground beside you.

“Marked you lass.” He dabbed his tip against you before tucking himself away.

He sat back on his heels, looking pleased with himself. You shared a looked. Both of you feeling good. He pulled off his tank top and rubbed himself off you. Then balling it up he tossed it somewhere behind you.

Then, he did something you would have never expected. He came and laid down, beside you.

He pulled you to him. Any chill that could have taken ahold vanished as him and his body heat that radiated off of him, encircled you.

“Yee mine, me and old nick gonna protect you now.”

You nodded.

“We’re home!” The blonde man, called out beside you. He held out his arms as if to embrace it.

Turning, his head to look at you; he gave you the crooked smile you were becoming familiar with.

“Howzat!” He called out.

There were more cheers from the others. They echoed his, “Howzat!”

You pressed your lips together, attempting a smile and nod. You didn’t really know what this now meant for you. Your stomach churned.

Looking past them, you looked over the terrain that led to the large building. There you spotted an overgrown playground that sat near it. The bright colors had long gone dull, rust having taken root and marring faces of the metal animals kids once rocked on. Not far from it was an equally decayed parking lot, there were the shells of cars, long forgotten.

You followed, you climbed the broken steps. Growth, weather had brought those steps to ruin, you didn’t dare reach out for the broken down railing.

Rainforest Rapids, you read the sign above some double doors. It must have been alot of fun before. You didn’t remember much from those days. A few memories. You lingered, slowing your pace.

He happily, with flourish opened the two main doors. They creaked and clanked. The others, clamored around him and went in. You got somewhat closer but then stopped.

He motioned to you. You lingered where you stood. The one who wore the wings appeared, from behind him.

Her expression looked sour as she looked at you. “Aw, are you scared chicky? We’re offering you something better than the ground.”

“Jimmima.” He rose an eyebrow.

The girl made a face before disappearing into the darkness that looked behind him.

“Now, I said to yee back there lass that yere mine and I meant it.” He gestured once more.

“I could run, right now.” You attempted to hold your ground. Your tongue had felt heavy, you were surprised you were able to reply.

His mouth formed a line, he turned to the pitch black doorway, it was like a cavern. You heard the hiss of words, they were something you couldn’t make out. Then he made his way over to you. You stepped back, the stones crunching under your feet. He appeared taller than before as he easily closed the distance and loomed over you.

“Listen, I easily could have used your own knife of yee, lass.” His eyes narrowed. “I would not have thought twice.”

You swallowed. He spoke the truth there. Others in the past had not hesitated with violence they had unleashed upon you. Your heart squeezed at the memory.

“I chose not too.”

His smile, his voice was razor sharp. His expression was cold.

“Yee smell good, and I like what my hands held.”

He left no space between you when he closed the distance. You bit the inside of your cheek. A knot formed in your belly. It should’ve been unease or fear, it wasn’t.

You tilted your head to one side. “You did?” Inwardly you shook.

You were certain there was something terrifying and possibly violent about this man; but you were enjoying this between the two of you.

“Yes.” His lips curled into a smirk.

“I will follow.” Despite what you had learned from your past. You hoped you were not going to your death. He caused this sense of excitement that made you push away any sense of caution.

“Good. That pleases me.” The smirk never left his lips. “Now give me your knapsack.”

“But, but…Jimmy.” You uttered, feeling a sense of defeat creep in.

“I am not sure if I am relieved, I told you my name or not.” He huffed. “My patience is thinning, don’t make me ask again.”

A tear, you barely felt slid down your cheek as you wiggled it free from your shoulders.

“What is this?”

His hand moved fast, you stilled as his thumb easily brushed aside the solitary tear. He made show of licking it off his thumb, a soft sound came from him.

“You taste good too.”

His fingers easily tilted your face up, all you saw was him. You inhaled.

“There is no reason to cry.”

An edge remained and yet his tone was softer, warmer than before. You trembled, you wondered if he could tell. If he did, he did not let on.

“Everything that is me is in that knapsack.” You managed, sighing. Resigning yourself to whatever would happen next.

“All the more reason for me to have it.” His smile disappeared.

You closed your eyes, pressed your lips together and nodded. Moving just so, it land in your hands, and so you held it out to him.

He took it. “Follow me.”

******

Turning, he pad locked the double doors. Above there was a scattering of lights that were dim, the bulbs crackled and hummed. Shadows darkened the corners, you passed a large desk. The place smelled of dirt and something you couldn’t put your finger on, maybe concrete. It wasn’t unpleasant.

You kept an eye on his ringed hand that held your life. His other hand held a flash light, he smacked into dim life.

Distant laughter and hushed voices, reached the two of you. As they grew louder, the scent of something else reached you, the smell of food in the air. It had only then dawned on you, that you had not ate since the day previously.

Since being on your own, you managed to stash some. Roy and the others had kept it from you as a punishment. You’d rather be struck by them, than go hungry or thirsty.

You were taken aback as you saw just past him that Ink, cooking. It had been food you smelled. They were all gathered around a large table, there was as a few lanterns that lit the space.

Broken plates and cups of different shapes were near them all. The least broken set of sorts was at the head of the table, where an empty seat stood. It was sturdy, it had arm rests and higher back than what you could see of the others. He must sit there you reasoned. Everyone, grew silent as they saw him in the doorway.

Your stomach growled, immediately you wrapped an arm around it, as if that would make them all forget what they heard. You glanced up at him. His lips twitched upward as of he fought a smile. You grimaced, embarrassed.

Jimmima, who had been perched in her seat, hopped down. Her eyes grew, while the rest of her face remained unmoving.

“You have her bag.”

She tried to snatch at it.

He held it away and higher, shaking his head.

“That looks good, Ink.” He remarked, giving her a faint smile

You followed like a puppy, still keeping an eye on your bag. He held up your bag, like the spoils of a mighty victory.

“This is her bag.”

He turned off, and placed the flashlight down. Brushing aisde the plate and cup, your bag took their spot before him. In a move, he effortlessly opened it so quickly you barely realized what he had done, till lay wilted and open. Your broken book and pad of paper stood proudly.

He glanced back at you, his eyes met you. Once again, it caused something you didn’t know.

“I will not have the drive of curiosity to drive yee all to do something that would make me or old nick very angry.”

There were nods, he laid a hand on the pad of paper.

“We have seen what curiosity can do. So I will show you what’s in here then I will close it and give it back to her, if anything goes missing. She will tell me and I will carry out a punishment; we do not tolerate stealing among us.”

You gasped, you went and stood a little closer to him.

He glanced down at you. “You’re welcome.” He pressed his lips together. “Don’t make me regret this.”

All you could do was nod. You were not sure if that was even the right response. But you knew at that moment, you were pleased. Very pleased by this.

Forgetting, your hunger you watched as he slowly took everything out. He gasped and glanced at you when he saw the book. He inhaled sharply as he opened it, a very worn photo of yourself, mum and sister floated out onto the table.

“The Teletummies!” He exclaimed.

You nodded, you didn’t dare correct him.

The others shifted in their seats, glances passed between them as they moved; trying to get a better look. Ink, stopped stirring whatever was in the pot.

He held it closer to him. “Yes!”

A large smile spread across his face, his eyes shone as he looked down at you.

“I knew Old nick had a hand in guiding me to yee.” He chuckled and flipped through the pages.

“I will share with yee all more on their adventures later.”

He glanced at the others. You wondered why it was such a big deal, but you remained silent. As it was, it had almost been lost when Roy had gotten his hands on it. That was why there was no longer a cover. Holding the book to him; he picked up the photo.

You swallowed. “That’s my mum, me and ma wee little sis.”

“You were even smaller then.” He chuckled.

“Of course,” You nodded. “that was before everything.”

He nodded, he put the photo back down. Then, placed the tattered book face down apart from what he had already looked at.

The rest he took out, didn’t capture too much attention. Your worn teddy bear sat beside the drawing pad and pens, your underwear sat atop of the extra socks with your wash cloth and poncho, the few extra shirts that you had wrapped around your flashlight since the night before you had chosen to sleep by a river. When he handled them, your flashlight clanked onto the table. Grabbing it, he pushed the button and a rather strong stream of light came from it.

“This is a nice one.”

You nodded.

Snapping it off and he put it back down on the table, then taking your bowl and spoon, and slid them close to where his sat at the table. Seeing the dent in your water bottle, he paused and chuckled.

“Did you hit one of our fellow demons with it?” He rose an eyebrow; mischievous glint entered his blue eyes.

“Maybe.” You said cheekily.

There were chuckles from the others.

Your worry continued to grow. Why were Teletubbies so dear to him or how did he view the infected. There was something not right. Deep down, you felt that. Though, in a mad world who were you to question. And you had learned long ago, after too many bruises and tears some things you no longer questioned.

A smile curled his lips as he came upon the soaps. He held one up to his nose.

“Ahh.”

He made a sound of recognition, realizing that was what he had smelled. His eyes met yours, you nodded. Picking up your brush he eyed it, there were missing bristles he placed it back down.

“Now, listen. Unless she shares or gives you something; none of you are to have any of this on your person.”

His eyes narrowed as he glanced around the room. There were nods.

With sound that was mixture of a sigh and something else, he finally sat down. You were pleased that he had settled on the chair, you had assumed had been his.

“What are you making Ink?”

Not waiting you put everything back into your knapsack and zipped it up.

“Boiling the vegetables that we retrieved from that farm.”

Looking at the large pot, you watched as steam rose and vegetables bobbed up and down. They looked good.

“Good.”

A hush of them talking among themselves, grew. Ink, with furrowed brow stirred the vegetables and shared a laugh, Jimmima.

Not knowing where you belonged, where you should be. You chewed on your bottom lip. You felt his eyes on you, he beckoned to you. Going over, you lowered your knapsack onto the floor near his chair.

“Come ‘ere lass, take a seat.” He padded his lap.

Memory of his touch, his body heat filled you. You could not give in. Easily, went and perched on the armrest of his chair.

“I think I’ll sit here.”

He shifted where he sat. “Do yee enjoy defying me?” Low enough for only the two of you.

You shrugged.

“I wouldn’t make it a habit.”

*******

In the end, you resigned yourself that you it was easier to sit on his thigh than remaining on the armrest. His arm had wrapped around your middle loosely as his fingers idly tapped your hip. Once more you were enveloped by his heat. A soft chuckle had come from him when he noticed your hand shake as you pulled your bowl and spoon closer.

“Does being near me unnerve you so much?”

His breath warm, the scruffiness of his face brushing against you as he spoke.

You didn’t answer as Ink put a spoon full into your cracked bowl.

“Thank you.” You replied, while pushing the vegetables around with your spoon.

She rose an eyebrow, shrugging. “If ya goin be eating with us, you will have to help us in scavenging.”

“I can hunt.”

Some of the others giggled.

Ink, smiled. “Do you simply wait till til whatever it is dies?”

They all laughed except the man’s lap you are partially occupying and Jimmima, her eyes narrow at you.

“I believe her.” She finally said before stuffing a mouthful of food into her mouth.

You pressed your lips together. “I can fit and climb into interest spots to get what I want.”

His fingers stilled on your hip. “Why aren’t you full of surprises.”

You grimaced at him. “It’s a good thing, you took me as yours.”

He squeezed your side. “We’ll see about that.”

*******

Later, they all walked you to what they called a small room. You were pretty sure it had been closet.

Fox and Snake made quick work of a rolled up mat. Fox, smiled at you. Wasn’t entirely unpleasant but you were not entirely you liked it either.

“They’re comfortable. Better than the ground. Maybe if you hunt us down a good meal,”

A wet sound, you figured to be a laugh came from Snake.

“We can go about finding you a sleeping bag.”

He stopped leaning against the wall and drew close. “We’ll find yee a sleeping bag.”

You went in. You had not your own place in some time. “Thank you.

He nodded, then everyone dispersed along with him. You found yourself all alone.

You plopped down, it was surprising quite soft. Rubbing, your face you sighed, it had been too long of a day. You shook your head. Getting up, your body reminded you of the fall. Biting back a groan, you tried to close or at least lean the door. It scrapped against the floor. Much louder than you liked. You stopped, giving up you went back inside and sat down.

Only this time you with your back to the entrance. Stretching, it wasn’t so much that you felt like you could relax but you felt you didn’t have to be on guard as much. Some of tension that weighing heavily left your shoulders.

Grabbing the frayed edges of your shirt, you pulled off your shirt. Rolling your shoulders, reaching back, bot pulling too hard you freed your hair from that band that had held it in place. So as not to lose it, you placed it on your wrist. You raked your fingers through your fingers. Still a subtle scent from your strands drifted to you. It was a stark, sweet contrast to the smell of this decaying recreational center.

Without much thought, you placed your hand where you had been keeping your knife. It was still empty. You bit your bottom lip at the memory.

A tis-king sound, broke your silence. Covering yourself, you turned to it. You gasped.

A rich chuckle came from him.

“Lass, tis only me.” You could practically imagine the crooked smile splashed across his face.

You couldn’t say who you had been expecting but seeing him there and you let your arms drop.

He made a sound that once again you were unsure of, but it sounded as if it had come from deep within him.

You watched as he looked around before stepping inside. He knelt close.

“There you are.”

You felt the warmth of his rough hand on your bare back before you actually felt it.

You were hanging from the clevis hook, the rope entwined with a too perfect cat-paw knot. Your arms numb, the blood long since settling in the bones of your shoulders.

There's a pitter-patter of rain water escaping through the cracks in the rock above your head, soaking the right breast of your barely there white tank top. A dirty rust red that stained your cheek and neck. A passing glance would mistake you as injured, but He would never hurt you.

To the left, your ear plagued with a thump- your heartbeat. Quick, strong and all consuming. To your right, the barely there sound of people. His people.

The sound of fire crackling and His voice. It carried past the jagged rocks of the cave and swallowed you deeper into the darkness.

Around you, the creaking and scrapping of the hook against stone and the taunt creaks of the rope as it held your weight, just suspended enough for the tips of your toes to balance on the slimy limestone.

You had long since forgotten about your decency. The sticky feel of your urine on the insides of your thighs. The smell of unwashed arm pits and sweat. The damp smell of the cave you were hanging in did nothing to dull the smell of filth.

You noticed, when a quiet wind danced through the small gaps in the rock, a smell of death and decay. The smell of copper and excrement was far more potent than anything you could produce. It brought a fat tear to your eye and stung the raw skin on the inside of your nose.

But the cold. The cold was going to kill you before anything else did. He left you hanging in nothing more than a torn oversized tank top and a pair of oversized panties, discoloured from years of storage and damp.

"It was the least He could do." Was all he said before he tied the knot and left fate to stand in.

Your only wrong doing since meeting him was your rash tongue and your unwillingness to comply.

Simple, really.

The deaths of weary survivors were the only thoughts keeping you alive. You were hanging here because of them. Or more to the point, because of what you wouldn't do to them.

The jagged, blunt switch blade found on the floor in the abandoned cottage 30 miles away had only been used on the infected. Even then, you were so silent in your quest for survival that you had only defended yourself a hand full of times. Until the Jimmies found you.

A footstep. Enough energy to whip your head to the side, you noticed His purple tracksuit in the barely there light reflected from the ambers of a fire behind him. A wide stance, hand on His hip as He watched you dangle like a deer carcass awaiting its skinning.

"Ye learned yer lesson yet?" The echo in the cave made Him sound God-like. Reaching your ears like a baritone singer performing in a grand hall.

"Whit lesson wid that be?" Pulling your weight up with your wrists caused both hips to crack and the trickle of remaining blood to flow through your elbows. Instant pins and needles causing a groan to escape from your chapped lips.

"Ye gonnae listen to me from now on? Or you happy just tae…hing aboot?" He thought He was funny, a slight snigger catching the end of His sentence as He walked a few more steps. Enough for you to see the whites of His eyes and black decay of His incisor.

"I've always listened to ye, Jimmy. I just don't want to murder innocent people."

You remember the red head. She was pretty, survived the hard winters of the Scottish moorlands but still managed to keep a youthful glow on her skin. You watched them take everything from her.

Her dignity. Her fight.

Left nothing but a hollow shell and they weren't even close to finished with her. Years of pent up hormones for the lads, they took turns with the poor soul, while you stood behind Him, arms bound behind your back and gagged with a silken cloth salvaged from the young couple they were abusing.

"It's your life or theirs." He whispered in your ear.

Fleeing during the night, you watched them from you cot as they packed in silence. Huddled round a small backpack, they stuffed cans and water canisters "gifted" to them by Him. They saw the depravity. They saw what savages could do and they didn't survive this long to become a part of it.

So you watched. You lay as still as the grave, eyes open. And when they turned to see if they were in the clear, they met your eyes.

"Please don't tell Him. We'll not tell anyone where you are." Her English accent was soft, but full of terror. A whisper above the crackles from the fire between you.

You nodded. A brisk shunt of your chin into your neck and you turned away. Meeting His fleshy back as He snored into His ringed fingers.

Not even a rustle could be heard when they slipped through the crack in the rock. But you weren't the only one to witness the betrayal.

"You're hingin' there like a bag of potatoes, my love. A quick wee "Sorry" and I'll huv ye doon in nae time." He's in front of you now His nose crinkled at the sight of you. His once prized possession, now a hanging cesspool of dried urine and rock water.

"I've nothing to be sorry about." But you can't look at Him when you say it. Too ashamed that you'll be suckered into His baby blues and His sharp jawline.

You read about it once or someone told you about it, you can't remember. A syndrome that makes beasts of men and cowards of women. How the spoken word can warp the very chemicals in your brain to make you feel warm and protected when in actual fact, it's the opposite. You had a sickness in your core that believed this man could save you.

From the wicked. From the evil. Even from yourself.

"Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength." He whispers, running a finger from your collarbone and over the rusted red of your breast.

"You'll understand, in due course, that my wrath will devour you whole. You hang here, like a beast, but your pride will be your fall." He steps forward and buries His head between your breasts, inhaling the scent He hopes would bring Him the courage to forgive your misfortunes but instead, is met with filth and defiance.

"Bless yer heart, ye need a bath mare than a preacher needs a collection plate. Let's get you down, eh? I'll find somethin' mare inventive fur yer punishment." The crack of a smile looks more sinister from your position. His bottom teeth rotten with neglect, His blonde shines but smells like mildew but His blue eyes still captivate you.

You simply nod, swinging your body back from Him to get some space.

"There's a lass." Stepping around your body, He steps onto a rock just elevated enough to reach your bounds, but far enough away that you couldn't step onto it.

Making quick work with His switch blade, you knew that pain was the next course. You felt it as the rope loosened. Your toes finally settling on the rock below as your knees buckle and sway. Before you could prepare for impact, you hit the ground. Your face mashing with rock as the feeling in your arms were still non-existent to stop the fall but the pain of blood rushing to the tips of your fingers masking the pain in your knee's and face.

You scream. You scream loud and long. Your arms twitching, your knee's shaking and your face throbbing. You roll and flex your arms by your chest as you feel blood pool in your cupids bow. It was nauseating and excruciating and all you could think about was pain. But He stood above you, wrapping the rope around His fists because nothing goes to waste in His palace.

"Ye awrite turtle dove?" His mocking Scottish lilt was enough to turn your stomach. A violent wretch pulling you onto your left side as bile and water brash spilled from your split lip, mixed with the red spilling from your nose.

You rolled onto your back, the whooshing and whirling of your blood settling back into your limbs made you feel floaty as you sighed a relief. But the pain in your nose, lip and jaw replaced it. Blinking and stretching your face to ensure that your jaw wasn't broken and you still had feeling in your cheeks. Still human after all.

"Let's get ye cleaned aff"

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

There was no finery in this place. Surrounded by rock and damp. But the copper bath was a find to be treasured. Enough to fit two people, it sat front and centre of the cavern, a treasure to behold. It took exactly 20 buckets of water to fill. Each time the water sat above the fire to warm.

There was no such thing as a "hot bath" but by God, this was close enough. The Jimmies made light work of it. Each taking turns to heat the water buckets and fill the tub as you sat wrapped in His purple zipper and nursing your aching limbs. You covered a cloth in your bloody snot that leaked from your nose as the boys went back and forth. You sat, salivating at the thought of a bath and any other misdemeanour was an after thought.

You watched the water level rise each time one of the Jimmies brought a pail of water, the hot water casting a purple and green hue across the copper.

Time was not to be wasted.

"That's enough." You said, standing in shaky legs as the last pail was emptied.

"There's three more?" But he was ignored as you cast the zipper aside. They all knew that you were off limits, but even after 6 days of hanging from a hook in the depths of the cave, you were sight for sore eyes. Whatever Jimmy it was, they scuttled out the gap quicker than their legs could carry them.

You were alone again and although this was just the beginning of your punishment, you savoured the solitude. The steam dancing above the water called to you as you stripped the rags from your body and stepped into the copper tub.

Steam curls up from the copper tub, faintly green with age, the metal groaning as it adjusts to the weight of hot water. You lower yourself into it slowly, the surface lapping against your skin, carrying with it the scent of soap and iron.

The heat bites at first. It rushes into your wrists most of all, where the skin is raw and tender, scraped by restraints you’d rather not remember. The sting sharpens, makes you hiss through your teeth — but after a moment, the pain dulls into something steady, almost cleansing.

You take a rough cloth and dip it beneath the surface, wringing it out before dragging it across your forearms. Filth loosens in streaks, clouding the water in faint swirls of gray and brown. The cloth catches against broken skin, and you force yourself to keep going, to scrub gently but firmly until nothing remains but the bright throb of clean flesh.

Your chest rises and falls with each careful stroke, rinsing away the grime of travel, of confinement, of exhaustion. Slowly, layer by layer, the water darkens, and you emerge a little lighter, though your body still carries the memory of weight.

When at last you lean back against the curve of the tub, copper cool against your shoulders, the worst of it has been scoured away. You close your eyes, letting the faint sting at your wrists remind you: you survived.

Not everyone is granted this.

The bath isn’t a luxury for all — it’s a quiet privilege, an indulgence reserved for those who have either clawed their way free or been deemed worthy enough to wash. You know this, sitting there with water biting at your wounds, the copper walls echoing with every drip. Others remain caked in dirt and sweat, carrying the stench of iron and earth because no one thought to offer them what you now claim for yourself.

As you dip the cloth again, dragging it across your ribs, you feel the difference press in on you. This tub is not just for cleansing; it is a mark of survival, of being set apart. Every bruise that softens under warm water, every line of grime that lifts from your skin — they remind you that you are not where you were. That you have earned this moment, even if it wasn’t meant for everyone.

The drip of water in the cavern shifts, replaced by the uneven echo of footsteps. You sit straighter in the tub, the copper biting cold now against your back as the steam wavers.

Jimmy steps through the arch of stone, bottle dangling from one hand, two glasses clinking gently in the other. His shadow stretches long across the cavern wall, bending with the torchlight.

“Ten days,” he says, voice low but carrying, like the confession of a man at church. He sets the glasses on a flat stone shelf, the bottle’s cork squeaking free.

“Ten days hanging in that cave. I’ve been… regretful about it.” He pours, amber liquid catching the light, filling the cavern with the sharp scent of whiskey.

“But you understand, don’t you? Some things—some necessary evils—can’t be avoided.”

His words seem to float on the rising steam, casual, almost gentle, but the weight behind them presses heavier than the water against your skin. He doesn’t look at your wrists at first, though you notice his eyes flicker there, quick and guilty, before settling on your face.

“You’re still here,” Jimmy says finally, raising his glass as if in a toast.

“That counts for something.”

The cavern swallows his chuckle, leaving silence thick between you, broken only by the slow swirl of dirty water around your arms.

Jimmy lowers himself to the stone floor beside the tub, knees creaking as if the weight of what he carries isn’t just in the bottle. The whiskey glass dangles from his fingers, barely touched, while his other hand reaches for the rag you left draped on the edge of the copper.

He dips it into the water, wrings it out slowly, deliberately, the fabric dripping like a second heartbeat in the cavern. Then he leans closer.

“Turn,” he says, but it’s not a command. It’s softer, as though he’s asking a favor.

You don’t answer. You don’t trust your voice, or maybe you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing it. Instead, you shift just enough for your back to face him, the water lapping quietly against the copper.

The rag presses to your shoulder blade — too gentle at first, as though he’s trying to convince himself he’s capable of kindness. He moves it in slow circles, wiping away grime you didn’t realize was still clinging to you. The fabric drags against tender skin, not rough enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who’s holding it.

“I think about it,” Jimmy murmurs, his breath catching faintly with each word.

“What it must’ve been like. Ten days in the dark. Ten days with nothing but stone and silence.” He pauses, rinses the cloth, wrings it again, the water pattering back into the tub.

“You probably hate me for it. And maybe you should. But hate’s lighter to carry than pity.”

The rag moves lower, tracing the curve of your spine, his touch deliberate but never lingering. He talks as though he needs to fill the silence you give him, as though the weight of your wordlessness is heavier than chains.

“You don’t have to speak,” he says finally, almost to himself.

“I already know what you’d say.”

And still, you remain silent, the copper tub groaning faintly beneath you, steam curling between you like a veil.

Jimmy’s voice lowers, smoothing itself into something almost tender, but every word carries a blade beneath it.

“You think I wanted to leave you there?” he murmurs, cloth dragging in slow lines across your back.

“You think I enjoyed it? No. That was on you. You forced my hand.”

The rag slips over your shoulder, warm water trickling down your arm as he leans closer, his breath stirring the damp strands of your hair.

"If you hadn’t fought me… if you’d just listened…” He lets the sentence trail off, as if the silence itself proves his point.

He reaches forward, fingers brushing your skin as he gathers your hair and sweeps it over one shoulder, baring the line of your neck. The gesture is too careful, too practiced — like he wants to believe this is care instead of control.

“I had to do it,” he whispers, so near that the words heat your ear.

“You know that. Anyone else would’ve left you to rot, but not me. I kept you alive. I gave you this.”

The rag travels lower, steady in its path, his movements more intimate than they should be, as though the act of cleaning has become some ritual of ownership.

Then, without warning, he bends down and presses his lips to your shoulder. A kiss, light as the brush of water, but heavy with the weight of his intent.

“You only have me to thank for that,” he breathes against your skin.

And still, you do not answer.

Jimmy’s hand, still damp from the bathwater, presses against your arm and guides you around to face him. The copper groans softly with the shift of weight. He lifts one of the glasses, the whiskey ripples gold, then places it carefully into your hand.

“Drink,” he says, as though it’s a kindness. His own glass catches the torchlight before he swallows deep. The burn of the alcohol fills the cavern with its sour, sharp smell.

“You want to know why?” His eyes lock onto yours, unblinking, voice a low rasp softened by the steam around you.

“Why I left you there. Why I let your skin tear raw on stone and chain. It wasn’t because I wanted to. It was because of them.”

Joan. Craig. Their names hang heavy between you, ghosts on his tongue.

“You thought I didn’t see it,” Jimmy continues, the rag forgotten now, dangling wet at his side.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice the way you just watched as they packed up and crept out. Didn’t lift a finger, did you? Just let them go.” His voice sharpens, a crack of heat under the calm.

“That was betrayal.”

He leans closer, whiskey clinging to his breath, words almost brushing your lips.

“And when I caught them…”

The story unfolds slowly, like he’s savoring each detail.

“Craig fought first — came at me with a rusted pipe. Thought he had a chance.” Jimmy chuckles, low and humourless.

“I took his leg out with the crowbar. Heard the bone snap. Left him crawling in the dirt, howling like an animal, while I went for Joan.”

He pauses to sip, eyes never leaving yours.

“She begged. Tried to make deals. Promised me she’d find supplies, bring back medicine, food. But begging doesn’t work anymore. Not in this world.” His voice lowers, quieter now, deliberate.

“So I tied her. Made Craig watch while the infected came close. Not close enough to kill — just close enough for them to scream at the scent of her. Hours of it. Days. Until Craig stopped shouting.”

Jimmy leans in, his mouth nearly brushing your ear, his words poison whispered in the steam.

“When I finally ended it, I made sure Craig saw her go first. Slow. And then I finished him the same way.”

The copper walls seem to press tighter around you, the bathwater cooling on your skin, his story soaking into the air like blood into cloth.

He tips his glass in your direction, the faintest smile curving his lips.

“And you, sitting there, clean in your copper tub? You only survived because I let you.”

Jimmy sets his glass aside with a hollow clink against the stone shelf. The cavern seems to draw tighter around you as he leans in, his shadow spilling over the copper rim of the tub.

“You see now,” he murmurs, reaching out to take the whiskey glass from your hand, as though you were too fragile to hold it yourself.

“What happens when you forget who keeps you alive. When you forget who decides.”

He places the glass down, then dips his hand into the water. Not with the rag this time, but bare, his fingers dragging slowly up your arm. The touch is careful, deliberate, like he’s rewriting the meaning of the wounds he gave you.

“You don’t need them,” Jimmy continues, voice low, coaxing, the whisper of a confessional.

“Joan, Craig… all the rest. They were weak. Dead weight. You’ve always known it. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’re still breathing while they’re bones in the dirt.”

His hand rises, brushing damp strands of hair from your face, tucking them behind your ear with mock tenderness. The copper tub creaks beneath you as he leans closer, pressing his forehead briefly against yours — an imitation of closeness, of something human, though the whiskey on his breath stings sharp.

“You don’t need anyone but me,” he says, a claim rather than a comfort. His lips graze your temple, then trail down, lingering just at your jaw.

“You belong here. With me.”

The steam swirls between you, thick enough to choke, and his mouth finds your shoulder again, hotter this time, lips pressing as though sealing a pact you never agreed to.

“You’ll see,” Jimmy whispers against your skin.

“The world’s gone, but we… we’ll make it ours.”

And through it all, you stay silent — his words clinging to the cavern air, his touch pressing closer, as if he could shape your silence into consent.

Jimmy doesn’t stop at the edge of your silence. He moves closer still, the copper tub now more cage than refuge. His hand slides down your arm, not to soothe but to remind you of its weight, the unspoken threat behind every gentle movement.

“You think this is bad?” he murmurs, lips just at your ear, his breath hot against your damp skin.

“This is nothing. This is me being kind.”

He traces a finger along your collarbone, almost lazily, like a man drawing a map only he can read.

“But if you ever leave…” The word hangs, heavy and sharp. “…if you ever try to slip out like Joan and Craig, I won’t have to lift a finger.”

Jimmy leans back just enough for you to see the gleam in his eyes.

“The Jimmies,” he says, and you hear the pride in his voice, the warped affection.

“You’ve smelled them in the tunnels, haven’t you? Heard them in the dark?” His mouth curves, almost a smile.

“They’re mine. Loyal, hungry, beautiful. And they’ve got your scent now.”

He dips his hand into the water again, then lifts it to your face, a single droplet running from his finger to your lips.

“They’ll hunt you,” he whispers.

“Run as far as you like. Over the hills, through the rivers, into the cities. It won’t matter. They’ll smell you. They’ll find you. They’ll bring you back to me.”

His voice lowers, intimate and venomous.

“Because that’s what good dogs do.”

Then, like a benediction, he brushes his lips against the side of your neck, a touch as soft as it is chilling.

“And when they do,” he murmurs, “I won’t be kind again.”

The cavern holds its breath around you, the steam now more like fog, Jimmy’s words seeping into it until it feels like the air itself is owned.

Jimmy pulls back abruptly, the warmth of his breath vanishing, leaving only the cool cavern air on your damp skin. For a heartbeat the space between you feels like a release — then he straightens, rolling his shoulders as though shrugging off a mask.

When he speaks again, his voice is different. Higher, rougher, pitched into a mocking cheerfulness. The soft menace of a moment ago twists into something almost playful, but the cruelty underneath it hasn’t gone anywhere.

“Aye, enough o’ the heavy stuff, eh?” he says in a broad Scottish brogue, the words echoing off the stone.

“Look at ye, sulkin’ like a bairn in the bath.” His grin is wide, false, eyes glittering with that same predator’s amusement.

He steps over to the pile of cloth on the rock shelf, fingers closing around the towel you’d left there. He flicks it open with a snap, the sound sharp as a whip crack in the cavern’s stillness.

“C’mon then, lass,” he says brightly, sing-song.

“Out ye come. Can’t be sittin’ there prunin’ like an old codfish, eh?” He holds the towel open with both hands, like a parody of a gentleman waiting for a lady to step ashore.

“Time’s up in the spa. Jimmy’s orders.”

The towel hangs between you like a banner, but there’s nothing courteous about the way he stands — blocking the only exit, shadow looming across the water, his smile still too wide, too sharp.

“C’mon now,” he says again, brogue lilting, tone bright but eyes dark.

“Be a good lass, up ye get.”

The towel snaps open in his hands, steam curling around him like stage smoke. He grins with false warmth, that thick brogue rolling out like a pub song.

“C’mon, lass. Out o’ the tub. Ye’ll catch yer death if ye sit there any longer.” He tilts his head, eyes dancing but sharp.

“Up an’ at ’em, like a good wee soldier.”

You look up at him, your lips parting for the first time since he entered. The smile you give him is all teeth, bright and brittle.

“Why, Jimmy,” you say lightly, voice dripping with sweetness, “such hospitality. A bath, a towel… next thing you’ll be offering me slippers.”

He chuckles, rocking back on his heels, but his fingers tighten on the cloth.

“Och, there’s my girl,” he says, cheer still bright.

“Sarcasm suits ye better than sulkin’. Out ye come then.”

You lean back in the copper, letting the water lap against your skin, keeping the smile in place even as your knuckles go white on the rim.

“I think I’ll stay a little longer,” you say airily.

“Wouldn’t want to disappoint your audience.”

Jimmy’s brow ticks up at the word. Outside the cavern, you hear it again: the low shuffle and snuffle of bodies pressed near the entrance, restless, hungry. The Jimmies.

You tilt your head toward the dark passageway.

“They’re listening, aren’t they? Your good little dogs. Always listening.”

His grin flickers just a moment, but he recovers, his brogue rolling even thicker.

“Aye, they’re listenin’. Loyal as saints, they are. An’ they know who feeds ’em.” He leans closer, towel still held open, but his eyes have hardened.

“They know who keeps you alive, too.”

Your smile doesn’t falter.

“Do they?” you whisper, sweet as poison.

“Or are they just waiting for a new scent?”

The cavern seems to hold its breath. The shuffling outside grows louder, a low growl threading through the stone. Jimmy’s cheer stays painted on his face, but now you can see the muscle in his jaw working.

“Out of the tub,” he says again, voice still sing-song, but lower, tighter.

“Now.”

Without warning, Jimmy grabs you, the hand at your throat tightening for control as the other slips under your shoulders. The water sloshes violently around the copper tub as he hauls you upright, your legs kicking uselessly in the slick, wet stone.

“Up we go, lass!” he snaps in his thick Scottish brogue, voice sharp but mock-cheerful.

“Can’t have ye sittin’ there like a dawdlin’ fish now, can we?”

Before you can react, he yanks you out of the bath completely, dragging you across the cold, wet stone floor.

The copper tub squeals and rocks behind you, water spilling in rivulets as your back hits the stone unevenly. Your skin sticks to him, slippery and vulnerable, and your hair flops over your face as he forces you upright.

The moment he slams you against the cavern wall, his hand clamps around your throat, fingers pressing just enough to warn, to dominate. The other hand braces your back, his weight pinning you in place. The numerous chunky rings on every finger catch the torchlight, each one a tiny glint of menace.

“You’ve got quite the mouth on ye, eh?” he murmurs close to your ear, voice low and dangerous, a whisper that curls like smoke through the steam.

“Better learn when to use it… and when to shut it.”

Outside the cavern, the Jimmies stir. Their low growls and the scrape of weapons against stone reach your ears even over the echo of water dripping and your own ragged breaths. You know they’re watching, drawn by your scent, waiting for a single signal from him.

“You think ye can needle me while I’m bein’… kind?” he hisses, breath hot against your cheek.

“Och, ye’re testing me, lass. Testing my patience.” He leans in closer, lips brushing your temple as his grip tightens imperceptibly.

“And if ye ever think o’ runnin’…”

You don’t speak, but the mock-smile you force is sharp, daring him.

“I’ll find ye,” he continues, voice lower now, a growl threading through the brogue.

“My boys’ll smell ye, hunt ye down, bring ye back to me. And I won’t be… kind again.”

The cavern seems smaller now, filled with the hiss of steam, the slap of water, the glint of his rings, and the low rumble of creatures outside, watching. Jimmy presses his forehead briefly against yours, keeping your body pinned, whispering every threat with measured, intimate cruelty.

“You see ’em?” he whispers, eyes flicking toward the stone mouth.

“Loyal, hungry, ready. They watch. They wait. And if ye try to step away… they’ll bring ye straight back to me.”

The combination of his hand at your throat, the hard stone wall pressing against your back, and the unseen, patient gaze of the Jimmies outside makes it impossible to forget who holds the power here. His rings catch the torchlight again as he flexes his fingers, reminding you of the sharp edge behind every motion.

“And if I catch ye, lass,” he whispers, teeth just grazing your ear,

“I promise ye… ye won’t like it.”

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

The cavern yawns above you, vast and echoing, damp stone walls slick with moisture. You sit slumped in the makeshift throne, chains biting into your wrists and ankles, the cold iron pressing into your skin. Your white cotton shirt clings to your body, wet and chill-laden from the bath hours ago. The edges of your panties feel rough against the stone beneath you. Every shiver wracks your frame, teeth chattering from the cold, the sting of your split lip sharp against your tongue.

Jimmy stands at the center of the cavern, the firelight flickering across his pale vest and dark tracksuit bottoms. His presence dominates the space, the rings on every finger glinting in the torchlight as he gestures, bottle of whiskey in hand.

Around him, the Jimmies gather — gnawing on scraps of food, growling and chittering, some tossing bits toward you without care, eyes gleaming in the firelight.

Perched slightly behind Jimmy, Spike shifts nervously, timid and shrinking into the shadows. Unlike the others, he doesn’t cheer or throw scraps.

His gaze flicks between you and the fire, ears flattening slightly, a low whine escaping him as if trying to protest the show but unable to speak. Jimmy spreads his arms wide, Scottish brogue rolling through the cavern like a drumbeat.

“Lads!” he bellows, voice booming.

“Look upon her!” He gestures to you, chains rattling, forcing your head up.

“See what becomes of disobedience! See the consequence of defying your keeper!”

A chorus of guttural calls and growls rises from the Jimmies. “Aye!” one bellows. “Teach her, Jimmy!” another hisses, teeth flashing in the firelight. A scrap of bread flies from the circle, landing on your shoulder.

Jimmy’s grin stretches, cruel and wide. “And yet,” he continues, voice low, dangerous, leaning closer to the throne, “even in her defiance… I cannot help but love her! Fierce, stubborn, beautiful…” He crouches slightly, eyes glinting, the rings on his fingers catching the firelight like sharp jewels. “…even when she tests me, she commands my admiration.”

The Jimmies roar in response, a mix of cheers and growls.

“Aye! She belongs to you!” one calls.

“Chains teach respect!” their voices echoing, stomping and snapping at the stone floor. Spike pushes backing further against the shadows, clearly uncomfortable with the attention and the aggression.

Jimmy steps closer to your throne, eyes locked on yours.

“See, my girl? Even they understand. Even they know who holds power here. Respect is earned through obedience… and pain.” His fingers flex, the rings flashing as he gestures toward the circle of beasts.

“And they cheer for it!”

“Teach her!” the Jimmies shout. “She must learn!”

Scraps of food fly at you again, cold against your damp shoulders, and the firelight glints off the sweat and grime. Spike shrinks further back, but he does not join the chorus.

You force a smile, brittle but mocking, tilting your head.

“Oh, Jimmy,” you murmur, voice sweet with venom.

“Such poetry from a man so fond of… brutality.”

He freezes for a moment, then laughs low and throaty, letting the cheer of the Jimmies wash over him.

“Aye, she’s clever, that one,” he admits, voice soft but deadly.

Then, louder, he proclaims: “But ye see, lads, she’s mine! Mine to teach, mine to love, mine to command!”

The Jimmies erupt once more, a cacophony of cries:

“She belongs! She belongs to Jimmy!” Spike flinches at the volume, retreating further into the shadows, clearly wishing the scene would end.

Jimmy crouches low again, leaning toward you, voice dropping to a whisper that only you can hear.

“Do ye see them, my girl?” he murmurs, teeth brushing your ear.

“They cheer for me, for us. And if ye think to leave… they’ll hunt ye down. They’ll bring ye back. And I…” His thumb traces along your cheek, almost gentle, almost intimate. “…I will not be kind again.”

The cheer of the Jimmies rises yet again, echoing through the cavern: “She belongs! She belongs to Jimmy!” Spike hisses softly, uncomfortable, clearly wanting to retreat from the show.

You shiver from the cold, from fear, from fury — but your mind clicks into focus. The chains hold your body, but your thoughts are yours alone. Every cheer, every gleam of Jimmy’s rings, every flicker of torchlight is a piece of the puzzle — a map of the danger you will one day have to navigate.

Jimmy straightens, letting his shadow fall over you, and his voice carries to every corner of the cavern, loud, theatrical, and terrifyingly proud.

“Remember this night, my lads. Remember respect. Remember… who holds her. Who owns her. Always.”

The Jimmies erupt once more, voices hoarse and guttural, cheering and stamping around the fire, while Spike cowers in the corner, timid, uneasy, silent but observing.

You sit chained in your damp white shirt, shivering, lips split, and yet inside, your mind sharpens.

The cavern roars with noise — the crackle of the fire, the echo of guttural cheers, the clatter of metal cups. Jimmy stands at the center, swaying slightly as he drinks straight from his whiskey bottle, his voice booming off the slick stone walls. His white vest is streaked with sweat and grime, the track bottoms hanging loose on his hips, and his rings flash with every grand, theatrical gesture.

“Aye, lads!” he bellows, brogue rolling thick through the cavern.

“This is what happens when respect fades! This is what happens when ye forget your place!” He gestures broadly at you, still chained to the jagged throne, wet shirt clinging to your shivering frame.

“Learn from her! She sits here now so you don’t have to!”

The Jimmies howl and cheer, stomping their feet and tossing scraps of food into the firelight. “Show her, Jimmy!” one bellows. “Teach her, show her respect!”

But Spike does not join them. He sits apart from the fire’s circle, shoulders hunched, face partially hidden by a shoulder-length blonde wig, styled to mirror Jimmy’s own wild hair and the shaggy locks of the other Jimmies. The wig is slightly crooked, golden strands catching the firelight, making him look like a child trying to imitate a man he both fears and defies. He shifts nervously, eyes flicking from you to Jimmy, uncertain, uncomfortable with the display.

When Jimmy raises his bottle again, roaring another toast to “loyalty” and “order,” Spike rises silently. He picks up a dented tin plate of bread and small cuts of game, moving carefully like a shadow through the chaos until he reaches your side.

You watch him approach, the wig catching the flickering firelight, shoulder-length strands brushing his face as he kneels in front of you. His gaze darts nervously toward Jimmy — who laughs and hollers, clinking cups and tossing scraps to the Jimmies — before returning to you.

Wordlessly, he offers you the bread, tearing it into small pieces and feeding them to you. Then he lifts a cup of water, tilting it to your lips. His fingers brush yours for a moment — warm, human, almost tender — and the gesture feels like a lifeline amidst the chaos.

It’s silent, but clear. In his eyes: I’m sorry. In yours: I see you.

Across the cavern, Jimmy hoots and roars, arms thrown wide, rings flashing in the firelight.

“Aye! Respect! Power! Order!” he shouts.

“This is what happens when ye forget your place!”

The Jimmies respond with cries, stomps, and scattered cheers, tossing more scraps at the fire and occasionally toward you.

But Spike kneels, awkward in his wig, quietly feeding you, giving you water, refusing to cheer, refusing to join the spectacle. There is no smile exchanged, only a silent understanding.

You shiver from cold, from the sting of your split lip, from fear — yet also, in the presence of this small act, a flicker of something warmer: someone saw you, someone quietly defied the chaos around you.

When Spike is done, he lowers the plate and cup, rising slowly. His wig shifts slightly, golden strands falling across his cheeks as he hesitates for a heartbeat, eyes lingering on you, before retreating to the shadowed edge of the cavern. He melts into the dark, a timid figure in blonde imitation, unseen yet unforgettable.

You remain chained in the throne, damp and shivering, but a spark of recognition burns inside. Someone acknowledged you, silently, gently, in the midst of Jimmy’s triumphant madness.

Jimmy, oblivious, raises his bottle high once more, hollering to the Jimmies about loyalty and power, as their cheers echo against the stone. And somewhere in the shadows, Spike watches, wig glinting, silent, but steadfast.

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

The cavern is silent now, smoke curling faintly from the remnants of the fire, the Jimmies passed out like grotesque dolls around its smoldering heart. Jimmy is nowhere to be seen.

You remain chained to the throne, damp cotton clinging to your skin, the iron cutting into your wrists. The cold presses against your bones, but your mind drifts back, unwillingly, to the first time you met them.

You remember walking through the empty streets of the housing estate, the sun low in the sky, dust and debris coating every cracked pavement. Windows hung like broken teeth in abandoned houses, doors swaying gently on rusted hinges. Your ankle throbbed painfully where you’d twisted it, and the blood streak on your arm stung in the fading light. Each step sent waves of dizziness through you, the world tipping and swaying, the silence of the neighborhood pressing down.

You stumbled around a corner, nearly collapsing against a rusted fence. Your breaths came fast, shallow, and ragged. A sudden cough wracked your chest, forcing you to lean heavily against the fence. You weren’t sure how much longer you could go on. Then came voices. Not growls, not threats, just human voices — rough, warm, curious.

“Oi! Lass! Are ye alright?”

You froze, blinking at the figures emerging from behind the wrecked cars and overgrown hedges. Three men — unmistakable even in the fading light.

The first, Jimmy Shite, stepped forward with purposeful strides, tall and wiry, hair wild but neat enough to keep from falling into his eyes. His jaw was set, serious, but his eyes flicked to yours with quick assessment.

The other two, Jimmy Fox and Jimmy Jimmy, lingered behind him, one grinning impishly, the other slow-moving and awkward, like a giant who hadn’t quite mastered coordination.

“Can ye walk?” Shite asked, voice calm but commanding, scanning you from head to toe.

“I… I think so,” you managed, limping slightly, teeth gritted as your ankle protested. Fox whistled low, sidling up.

“That’s a right mess ye’ve got there. Looks like ye wrestled a car and lost.” His grin made you snort, despite the pain.

Jimmy Jimmy frowned, brow scrunched, muttering something like,

“She’s too small for this,” before Shite gave him a sharp look and the grin tugged at Jimmy Jimmy’s lips anyway.

Shite knelt carefully, crouching so he could examine your ankle.

“Ye’ve twisted it proper. Best we get ye somewhere safe, eh? Can’t have ye hobblin’ around lookin’ like a bloody flamingo.”

You laughed — a sharp, surprising sound even to yourself — the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction.

“I’ll try not to offend your sense of fashion, Jimmy Shite.”

He allowed a small smirk, the sternness never fully leaving his face.

“Aye, consider yerself lucky. I’ve no patience for fools, but I have for those who limp prettily.”

Fox chuckled, elbowing Jimmy Jimmy, who rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small grin creeping onto his face.

“Pretty limp, eh? That’s a first.” Shite rose, offering a steady hand to you.

“C’mon, then. We’ll get ye moved before the sun dips too low. And if ye fall on me, I’ll make ye carry me back — ankle or no.”

You accepted his hand, wincing slightly as he lifted you carefully, guiding you between the three of them. Fox jabbed lightly at your ribs as you walked, grinning.

“Careful, now! Wouldn’t want ye to fall and ruin all this charm we’ve got going here.”

Jimmy Jimmy trudged behind, muttering occasionally,

“She’s tougher than she looks,” which made you laugh again, a quiet, exhausted sound, but it felt like sunlight in the ruins.

Shite led the way through the skeletal streets, checking corners, making sure no threat approached. Despite his stern demeanor, his attention never wavered from you, steady, protective.

“Almost there,” he said, voice low, almost soothing.

“Don’t strain yerself. A little further, lass, and ye’ll be alright.”

You leaned heavily on him, letting his calm, practical presence anchor you. The other two made jokes and quips as you went, but their humor was warm, grounding — it made the fear and pain recede just enough for you to breathe.

Eventually, you reached the small clearing where they’d made a temporary camp: blankets laid over car hoods, a small fire struggling against the chill. Fox immediately fussed over you, fetching a scrap of cloth to dab at the cut on your arm, while Jimmy Jimmy brought water in a dented tin cup.

Shite knelt again, helping you settle onto a blanket, inspecting the ankle, wrapping it carefully in cloth he’d torn from his own shirt.

“Ye’re alright,” he said finally, voice gentle now, almost intimate in its calm.

“No one’s gonna hurt ye here. Not if I have a say in it.”

You glanced up at him, his stern face softened by the small lines of care. There was something about the steadiness of him, the way he consumed the chaos around him, that made you feel… safe. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, you allowed yourself to relax, to let the fear slip a little, replaced with cautious trust.

“You make it sound easy,” you murmured, wincing as he adjusted the bandage.

“Aye,” Shite replied with a grin that was almost shy, almost human.

“Easy is for fools. We make it look easy so ye don’t panic. Works every time.”

Fox snorted, nudging Jimmy Jimmy.

“See? Told ye she’d like us. Told ye she’d laugh.” Jimmy Jimmy shook his head but smiled faintly, muttering,

“Aye, she laughs.”

And in that moment, amidst the ruins and the ragged edges of a dying world, you realized you had come willingly. Drawn to them, drawn to Shite, drawn to the strange warmth they offered. There was nothing threatening in his presence, nothing terrifying — only a gravity that pulled you in, a steadiness that made the chaos of the streets fade away.

You stayed that night, bandaged and cared for, laughing quietly at their jokes, feeling the first real sense of safety you’d had in months. And even though the world outside was crumbling, and the Jimmies were rough and loud, you knew this — this place, this strange trio, and Shite in particular — had captured you completely.

Your gaze drifts to Jimmy Shite, lying a few feet away on the cracked stone, but something stops your eyes from glancing past him. His head is tilted slightly, and though the rest of his body is relaxed, his eyes are wide open, unblinking, locked onto you.

A sickening grin spreads across his face — one part amusement, one part menace — and your stomach twists. He raises a hand slowly, fingers curling into the shape of a gun.

“Bang,” he whispers, mockingly, his hand pointed straight at you. His grin widens as he pretends to fire, then rolls lazily onto his side, still grinning, still staring, as though daring you to react. The gesture is childish, absurd, and yet the underlying menace makes your skin crawl.

You flinch despite yourself, every nerve on edge, heart pounding in the quiet cavern. The grin doesn’t falter, the gaze doesn’t waver. He knows exactly how to unsettle you.

Before you can recover from the tension, the heavy scrape of boots against stone echoes through the cavern. Jimmy steps into the torchlight at the mouth of the cave, his presence instantly commanding. Shadows stretch across his vest and tracksuit bottoms.

Shite’s grin remains, fingers still curled in mock threat, but it’s almost swallowed by the overwhelming force of Jimmy himself entering the space — and you are caught between the grotesque levity of Shite’s mockery and the oppressive, magnetic danger of Jimmy’s presence.

The cave feels smaller suddenly, the shadows deeper, the silence between the sound of Jimmy’s boots and Shite’s grin thick with anticipation. Your pulse hammers in your ears, every muscle tensed, knowing that the game is no longer pretend.

He moves deliberately, slow and measured, each step reverberating off the walls. His gaze finds you instantly, settling on your damp, chained form in the throne, and a low, satisfied hum escapes his throat.

He stops a few feet from you, letting the shadows drape over him, his fingers brushing slowly across his chest, tracing the lines of muscle beneath the fabric. The motion is teasing, deliberate, meant to draw your attention, to make you aware of him, aware of what he wants from your mind before anything else.

“You look… delicious,” he says, voice low and smooth, rolling over every syllable. The word isn’t directed at your body alone, but at your presence, your submission, the way you sit there — helpless, restrained, yet watching him.

“Chains, wet shirt, that shiver running through you… every movement of yours just for me to see.”

His lips curl into a smirk as he tilts his head, letting his gaze roam, lingering on the curve of your shoulders, the slope of your neck.

“Do you feel that?” he whispers, almost mockingly.

“Do you feel how much I want this? Want you. Every inch of you… your scent, your fear, that little thrill running through you as I walk closer.”

You shift in your chains, shivering, partly from cold, partly from the heat of his words. He notices, and the smirk grows.

“Ah… I see it. That heat creeping across your skin. That tightness in your chest. You can’t help it. You’re mine just by being here. Just by letting me look at you like this.”

He steps a fraction closer, slow enough to make every heartbeat count. Fingers still gliding along his chest, teasing the fabric of his vest, as if the motion itself is a message.

“And the best part?” he says, voice dropping lower, almost a growl now. “You haven’t even touched me, and you’re already… undone. Every thought, every shiver… it belongs to me.”

His eyes flick briefly over to Shite, sprawled on the floor, still grinning from his childish gesture, then back to you. He doesn’t comment — Shite’s mock shooting is invisible to him — his full attention fixed on you, making it clear that your chains, your posture, your helplessness are all for his amusement, his control, his desire.

“You’re thinking it, aren’t you?” he murmurs, pacing slowly, each movement deliberate.

“Thinking about how much you want me too… how much it’s already in your mind, crawling through every nerve. And the better you obey, the more… I can make it linger. Make you ache for it without ever touching a finger to you.”

You can feel the weight of his presence pressing down on you, not physical, but inescapable — his gaze, his voice, his slow, deliberate motions all consuming the space around you. The cavern seems smaller now, filled with the hum of your pulse and the subtle, predatory rhythm of his attention.

“You’re mine, even if you don’t speak,” he whispers, stepping a fraction closer, letting the firelight catch the rings on his fingers as he brushes a hand across his chest again.

“And every shiver, every flush of heat, every tremble… I will take. All mine. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

The Jimmies lie passed out, the embers glow faintly behind him, and Jimmy Shite still grins stupidly at the floor, somewhat unaware of what’s truly happening. But you, chained and shivering, know exactly the kind of power that has just fully descended over this cavern.

Jimmy’s boots scrape closer, slow and deliberate, each step echoing off the cavern walls. The smell of smoke and sweat clings to him, but under it all is something sharper, almost feral — his presence crawling into your lungs with every breath. His eyes roam over you like a predator’s, taking in the way you’re chained to the throne, the way your shirt clings to your skin. He inhales through his nose, slow, deliberate, a faint, shuddering sound that makes your stomach tighten.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, dragging the sound out.

“You think I can’t tell? You think I don’t know what’s going on in there?” He tilts his head, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“I can smell your pussy from here, lass. I can smell everything. Fear. Heat. Want. It’s all the same to me. It all belongs to me.”

He moves even closer, until the rings on his fingers gleam just a hand’s breadth from your knees. His voice drops, a low rasp.

“You’re trembling because you’re scared… and because some part of you likes this. Don’t you dare lie about it. I know. I always know.”

Behind him, Jimmy Shite stirs on the floor. His eyes are still open, that awful grin fixed, but now there’s a sound under his breath — a low, involuntary moan, barely audible over the echoing cavern. He doesn’t move, but the sound says enough: he’s listening, taking it in, the power dynamic seeping into him.

Jimmy leans in just enough that his breath brushes your neck.

“I can smell yer fucking want. I can taste it in the air. All that shaking and squirming. I make it happen. You don’t get to hide it from me.”

He straightens slowly, letting the distance stretch between you again, and laughs low in his chest, satisfied at what he’s seeing.

"Aye,” he says softly, almost a growl,

From the floor, Shite’s quiet moan falters into a hiss of breath, eyes flicking between the two of you, face half‑buried in his arm as if he’s ashamed of what’s happening and yet unable to look away.

Jimmy circles you slowly now, the sound of his boots against the cavern stone deliberate, measured, like the pacing of a predator sizing up its prey. His rings glint and flash as his fingers trail lazily over the edge of the throne, each metallic scrape a reminder of his nearness. He isn’t touching you — but the way he moves, the way he looks, makes it feel like he already is.

“You hear that?” he murmurs, voice low and mocking, as he tilts his head towards the embers and the shadows where Shite lies.

“Even he can hear it. Even he can smell it. The air’s thick with it now, lass. You. You fill the whole bloody cavern.”

He pauses behind you, breath close to your ear without ever brushing skin. His voice becomes a velvet snarl. “Tell me, do you think I don’t notice? The way your breath catches? The way your eyes go dark? You can’t hide it. You’re sitting there chained, but I’ve already got you in my head… and you’re already here…” He taps a ringed finger lightly against his temple.

“Inside mine.”

From the floor, Shite shifts again. That soft, involuntary sound comes back — a low, strangled moan, like he’s trying to smother it but can’t. His eyes stay fixed on the two of you, wide and glassy, a sheen of sweat on his brow. It’s unclear if it’s shame, fascination, or both, but it’s there. Jimmy laughs quietly under his breath, a low, intimate sound.

“Aye. He’s learning. They all are. They smell what I smell. They feel what I make you feel. It’s in the air. They can’t help but breathe it in.”

He moves to your front again, crouching just enough to be level with your eyes. His smile is slow, deliberate, all teeth but no warmth. “You’re wet, you’re shaking, you’re scared,” he says softly, voice a rasp now.

“That’s the truth. That’s what makes you perfect for me. And you’re mine whether you fight it or not. Because here…” He gestures around the cavern with one ringed hand.

“There’s no one else. Only me. Only them. And all of us can smell you."

Behind him, Shite’s fingers flex against the stone, a soft hiss leaving his mouth as if he’s trying to swallow whatever’s happening to him. The sound echoes faintly, like a secret confession.

Jimmy straightens slowly, towering over you again, rings catching the dull glow of the embers. His tone drops even lower, more intimate than before, like a man whispering in a lover’s ear, except it’s a performance designed to break you. “Breathe it in, lass. Breathe me in. That’s all you’ve got left. All this…” he gestures at the cavern again, “is what you chose when you came here. And you’ll never hide from me. Not the smell, not the heat, not the way your body betrays you.”

He steps back a fraction, smirk curling at the edge of his mouth, watching you like he’s watching a puzzle he’s already solved.

Jimmy tilts his head, studying you like an artist inspecting a half‑finished painting. His fingers trail idly over the rings on his other hand, the faint metallic click echoing in the cavern. His eyes are bright, fevered, but his voice drops to an almost lazy drawl.

“Say it,” he murmurs. “Say what you are right now. Say what I already know.”

He crouches again in front of you, face level with yours. His smirk deepens.

“Go on. Tell me you’re mine. Say it with your own mouth. I want to hear it from you.”

The silence hangs heavy, punctuated only by the soft hiss of embers and the low, stifled sound from Shite on the floor. He hasn’t moved, still on his side, but you can see his fingers flexing against the stone and his eyes wide, locked on the two of you. A faint moan leaks from him again, shameful and hungry. Jimmy glances over his shoulder with a chuckle.

“Hear that? Even Shite’s learning his place. He’s a good boy, sometimes.” He turns back to you, the smirk sharpening into something colder.

“If he keeps being a good boy… maybe, when I’ve had my fill…” he lets the sentence hang, his eyes flicking deliberately to Shite, “…I’ll let him have a turn.”

The words hang in the air like a blade. Shite makes a sound between a gasp and a groan, muffling his mouth against his arm as if he’s trying to disappear. Jimmy leans in closer, lips almost brushing your ear, but still no contact — just the heat of his breath and the low hiss of his voice.

“Repeat it,” he says softly.

“Repeat what I said. Say it: I’m yours. Say it, lass. Make him hear it. Make all of them hear it.”

The cavern is utterly silent except for the echo of his command and the faint sound of Shite’s uneven breathing. The torches flicker, throwing shadows across Jimmy’s face, making his smirk look carved from stone.

“Louder,” Jimmy whispers. “Say it so even the ones asleep will hear. Say you’re mine. Say it now.”

He leans back slightly, still crouched, eyes burning into yours, waiting. The weight of the moment presses down like a physical force, every inch of the cavern drawn into his orbit. Behind him, Shite’s quiet sound rises again — a moan, a whimper, something dark and involuntary — as Jimmy smiles at you like a wolf waiting for his prey to break.

Jimmy’s smirk freezes for a heartbeat, then shifts. Without breaking eye contact, he slips one ring‑laden hand into the waistband of his track bottoms and draws a blade — not large, but long enough to catch the torchlight in a bright, trembling line. The steel glints as he twirls it lazily between his fingers, the edge whispering against the rings. The air in the cavern thickens. Shite makes a sharp noise in his throat — part groan, part gasp — but doesn’t move. The other Jimmies snore softly in their piles, oblivious.

Jimmy steps forward and presses the blade lightly to your throat. Not enough to cut, but enough that you can feel the cool, deliberate kiss of steel against your skin. His eyes burn with quiet satisfaction.

“Say it,” he whispers, voice low and dangerous now.

“Say you’re mine.”

You hold his gaze, trembling, jaw tight. The chains creak faintly with the movement of your breath. You don’t speak.

His smile fades to something sharper. The blade tilts slightly, just enough to prick a bead of cold against your skin.

“Say it,” he repeats. “Now.”

Your voice falters, cracks, but comes out anyway: “I’m yours.”

Jimmy freezes for a heartbeat, eyes closing as if he’s drinking the sound in. Then his head snaps back and he roars — a guttural, animal noise of triumph that echoes off the stone walls. The cavern shakes with the sound, embers swirling in the air like sparks torn from a forge.

Shite lets out a stifled moan, rolling onto his back, one hand covering his face. The sound of his breath is ragged now, but he doesn’t dare look away.

Jimmy drops the blade to his side, still grinning, still breathing hard. He reaches out suddenly, his hand tangling in your damp hair as he leans in. His mouth crashes against yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and heat and ownership, not tenderness — a violent, passionate seal on the words he’s forced from you. His rings scrape faintly at the back of your neck as he holds you there, his breath hot, the scent of whiskey and sweat filling your senses.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his eyes still burning.

“Aye,” he growls softly, almost a purr now.

“That’s it. That’s what I wanted. All mine. Every inch of you. Every sound. Every breath. Mine.”

He steps back a fraction, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, the roar still echoing faintly through the cavern. Behind him, Shite’s quiet, uneven sound fills the silence — the sound of a man caught between shame and hunger — while Jimmy stands tall, satisfied, a king before his chained prize.

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

The Fourth Night

The days blurred together into a slow ache. Each one began with the dim glow of the torches and ended with the heavy hush of the cavern when the fires burned low. The air was always damp; water trickled somewhere behind the stone walls, and it mixed with the smell of smoke, sweat and iron from the chains. You had started to notice patterns.

Jimmy Fox snored like a saw when he’d had too much whiskey. Jimmy Jimmy muttered in his sleep about dogs he no longer owned. Spike—quiet, blond wig slipping a little more every day—kept himself small, always at the edge of the group like he could vanish if he stayed still enough.

Jimmy himself was the only constant. Sometimes soft and doting, draping his arm around you when he came near the throne, kissing the top of your damp hair, whispering things about “keeping you safe” and “keeping you his.” Sometimes harsh and distant, barking orders, or reminding the others why you were chained. But always there. Always watching.

You learned to be pleasant. You smiled at his jokes, you didn’t flinch when his hand cupped your cheek, you murmured thank‑yous when he pressed bread to your lips. It earned you small privileges. A blanket thrown over your legs at night. Looser cuffs when your wrists blistered. But the chains never left you unless you needed to relieve yourself.

And that was how you found yourself out at the far corner of the cavern one night, bare feet cold on wet stone, your wrists still bound but the long length of chain trailing from Jimmy Shite’s hand like a leash. He stood a few paces away, arms crossed, watching you crouch. The torchlight threw sharp angles across his face, making his grin look like a wound.

“You don’t have to watch,” you muttered, your voice low but even.

He chuckled, leaning against the stone.

“I do though. He’d have my head if you slipped.

‘Spose you’d like that, eh? Catch me slack, run off into the dark?”

You straightened slowly, the chain clinking as you wiped your hands on your thighs.

“You’re braver than you look, Shite,” you said, voice flat. “Watching a woman piss like it’s your nightly treat.”

His grin faltered, just a flicker. “Careful now,” he warned softly.

You turned to him, meeting his eyes. “

I should tell Jimmy you get off on this,” you said. Your voice was low but deliberate, a hiss between your teeth.

“He’d cut your hands off before you could even unbuckle your belt.”

For a moment something like fear crossed his face, a crack in the mask. He straightened, adjusting the chain in his grip, his grin turning brittle.

“You wouldn’t,” he said, but the confidence was gone from his voice.

“I would,” you said simply. “Remember that.”

He didn’t answer. He just tugged the chain sharply, muttering under his breath as he led you back towards the throne.

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

The Fifth Night

Spike came to you after the fire burned down to glowing coals, when the others had slumped into their drunken sleep. He moved like a shadow, the too‑long wig slipping low over his eyes. He held a plate in his hands—bread and a strip of dried meat.

He didn’t speak at first, just knelt near you and held it up. You took the food and ate in silence, glancing at him. His eyes darted to the sleeping figures, then back to you.

“They’re not watching,” you whispered.

His lips parted, then closed again. Finally, in his quiet Geordie lilt, he said, “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“I know,” you said softly.

“I just wanted to get home,” he murmured, eyes on the stone floor.

“They said they’d help me. Now…” He trailed off, looking at the chain around your wrists.

You leaned closer, voice a bare breath.

“Then help me. The lock on this isn’t complicated. You’ve seen how he undoes it.”

Spike swallowed hard, glancing toward the others.

“If he catches me—”

“If he catches you, you tell him I forced you,” you whispered quickly.

“You tell him I threatened you. You tell him I was going to kill you in your sleep. Anything. But you have to try.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck, the wig slipping further down.

“You think I’ve not thought of it?” he muttered.

“I see what he does. I hear what he says to you. I can’t sleep for it. I can’t—”

“Then do something,” you cut in, fierce now but quiet.

“He keeps me chained like a dog. He won’t stop. If you want to leave, then help me. We both go. I'll get you home. I promise."

Spike’s jaw tightened. He looked at you, then at the sleeping men, then back at you. There was a long pause, just the crackle of the dying fire between you.

Finally he whispered,

“Tomorrow night. When the whiskey’s heavy. When they’re all out. I’ll come.”

You reached out as far as the chain allowed and touched his hand briefly.

“Tomorrow,” you echoed.

Spike nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and slipped back into the shadows, leaving you chained to the throne, heart hammering, for the first time in days feeling something like hope spark under your ribs.

The Sixth Day

The dawn seeped weakly through the cavern’s mouth, pale and damp. The smell of stone and stale fire mingled with the faint, lingering odor of the Jimmies’ slumber. You stretched as best you could in the chains, rolling your wrists and letting the tension in your shoulders ease.

The first movement of the day came from the far corner. Jimmy Fox and Jimmy Jimmy were stirring, rustling blankets, grumbling, and stretching. The faint scrape of boots on stone announced Jimmy himself — awake, looming, confident, already thinking about the day ahead.

“Get up, Spike,” Jimmy called sharply.

“We’re heading out. You’ll come too. Can’t have you sitting here while we forage.”

Spike shifted under the blankets, blinking blearily at the torchlight. “I think I might be sick,” he said quietly, voice hoarse.

Jimmy snorted, crossing the cavern.

“Sick? You think I’ll let you miss this? You’re coming. Get up!”

You leaned forward slightly in your chains, tilting your head, lips curling in a faint, playful smile.

“Jimmy,” you said softly, letting your voice drop, “he’s really not well. You wouldn’t leave him behind like that, would you? You’d be cruel to him. He’s just a boy. He needs you… maybe someone to care for him, even if it’s just for today.”

Jimmy’s eyes softened, even if for a fleeting moment. His stern features melted slightly into the warmth of concern, and you pressed the advantage, fluttering your gaze at him.

“I could… take care of him for you. Keep him safe.”

Jimmy Shite, from his corner of the cavern, shifted uneasily, eyes narrowing. His instincts were sharp; he could feel manipulation when it hit, and he did not like this. He muttered something under his breath, tugged at his hair, but did not intervene.

Jimmy himself hesitated, cocking his head. He walked over to you, brushing a stray strand of hair from your damp cheek, lips brushing lightly against your temple in a soft, quick kiss.

“Aye… alright,” he murmured. “Stay here. Watch him, then.”

Shite’s gaze followed Jimmy, sharp and unreadable, as he finally allowed the others — Fox, Jimmy Jimmy, and Jimmy himself — to leave the cavern. The torchlight dimmed behind them.

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

Once the cavern settled into silence, you turned to Spike.

“Now,” you whispered.

The boy’s hands trembled slightly, but he nodded. The plan you had spent days refining unfolded in meticulous detail. You waited until the chains were loose enough — a moment where the lock was partially shifted from its hinge when the damp metal twisted with a torch scrap. Spike held the small sack of provisions: bread, dried meat, a bottle of water, and a few tools you’d hidden beneath the blanket.

Together, you crept through the shadows, stepping softly over stones slick with condensation. The cavern narrowed into smaller tunnels, the air heavy and musty, the faint echo of distant dripping water the only sound. You moved like ghosts, Spike just a few feet behind, bag clutched tightly against his chest.

The first supply cache was just beyond the bend — abandoned backpacks and crates left in storage by the Jimmies. You rifled through quickly, stuffing what you could carry. Spike’s pulse thumped visibly under the fabric of his shirt, but he was steady, trusting you to guide him.

You gave a silent nod, and he followed as you crept toward the cavern mouth. The field of tall grass glinted in early sunlight beyond the stone entrance, promising freedom if you could just reach it. And then — the sound of a step, soft but deliberate, echoed behind you.

You whirled, and Jimmy Shite stood in the shadow, blade glinting faintly in the torchlight you’d left behind. His eyes were narrowed, predatory.

“Thought you could sneak out, did you?” he hissed, muscles coiled like a spring.

Adrenaline surged. You reacted instantly, yanking a nearby pipe from the crate and swinging it at him. He dodged with surprising speed, countering with a shove that sent you stumbling against the wall. You struck again, fists and improvised weapon in sync, your body moving on instinct. Each movement was deliberate — kick, grab, swing — a blur of struggle in the dim light.

Shite pressed, relentless, but you were fast and clever, using your weight and leverage against his. For a heartbeat, it seemed like you might get past him.

Then, just as you ducked low and prepared to strike, your eyes flicked toward the tunnel mouth — and you froze.

Jimmy stood there, his blade pressed firmly against Spike’s throat, eyes flashing with cold amusement.

“Didn’t think I’d find a young lad playing hero, did you?” he said, voice low, cruel.

“Hands where I can see them. Now.”

Spike’s eyes were wide, fear and shock mingling, but he didn’t move. You realized the fight had ended. The carefully plotted escape — every risk, every careful maneuver — was about to come to a terrifying halt.

Shite’s jaw tightened behind you, his own stance frozen in indecision — but Jimmy’s presence, and the silent threat to Spike, made it clear: there would be no free passage without consequences.

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

The journey back to the cavern felt like a march through your own pulse. Your body was slung over Jimmy’s shoulder, pressed lightly against him, the weight of his grip firm and unyielding. Every step he took was deliberate, measured, a silent warning that he controlled every movement. You swung slightly with his stride, the cool stone walls of the tunnel scraping past, but he didn’t let you touch the ground — not until he decided it was time.

A few steps behind, Spike stumbled forward, Shite’s hand gripping his shoulder firmly. His wrists were bound, the rough rope cutting lightly into his skin, and his head ducked instinctively under the torchlight. The blond wig slipped a little more with every step, but he didn’t protest. He knew Shite’s patience was thin.

The cavern opened up slowly ahead of you, shadows stretching across the stone. The torches flickered, illuminating Jimmy’s stance as he placed you down just inside the main chamber. Your feet touched the cold stone for a heartbeat before he straightened, fingers brushing your hair aside, eyes scanning your face like a predator savoring the anticipation.

Spike’s gaze darted nervously between you and Jimmy, silent but pleading. Shite guided him to kneel a few paces away, his grip firm but not crushing.

“Don’t move,” Shite murmured, voice low, sharp.

“One wrong step, and she'll feel it first.”

Jimmy circled slowly, boots scraping on stone, the knife at his side catching the torchlight now and then.

“We’re not here to hurt each other,” he said softly, deliberately.

“But I’ll be honest: I want her. All of her. And you,” — his gaze snapped to Spike — “will walk free only if she agrees.”

Spike flinched, swallowing hard, eyes wide. You tilted your head, letting a small, controlled smile curl at Jimmy’s lips.

“Jimmy,” you said softly, voice warm, almost teasing, “if you let him stay safe, I can make this… much easier for you. I can give you what you want.”

Jimmy Shite’s eyes flicked sharply, suspicion darkening his expression. He didn’t step forward yet, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable. He had seen manipulation before, and he didn’t like it. Still, he kept guiding Spike forward, keeping the boy restrained.

Jimmy’s grin spread, slow and dangerous. “You speak like that, soft and promising… I like it,” he said, brushing a hand over your back lightly, just enough to make you feel the weight of his fingers.

“But let’s make this clear. You give me all of you, completely, if he’s to walk away unharmed.”

You met Spike’s gaze briefly, seeing the fear and trust mingled in his eyes.

“I’ll do it,” you said, voice low but firm.

“I’ll give you that. Now release him.”

Jimmy paused, circling once more, his eyes raking over you, then flicking to Shite, who gave the smallest nod in response.

“Good,” Jimmy murmured, voice low, almost intimate.

“You understand what that means. Every part of you… every thought, every movement, every breath…”

Shite’s grip on Spike’s shoulder tightened faintly, a subtle warning to keep him silent.

“Stay calm,” he murmured under his breath.

“One wrong move…” His voice trailed, the threat hanging in the air like a blade.

Jimmy leaned closer to you, letting the tip of his knife trace a line in the air near your shoulder — not to harm, but to assert presence.

“Do you understand?” he whispered.

“Do you know what will happen if you falter?”

“I understand,” you said softly, meeting his gaze.

“And I will do what you want. Release him now.” Jimmy’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smirk.

“Aye. That’s good.”

Shite loosened his grip just enough to let Spike move forward. The boy stumbled slightly, hands still bound, but finally free to breathe without the constant press of Shite’s shoulder.

He glanced at you, relief washing over his face, but you stayed where you were, pressed lightly against Jimmy, knowing the bargain was struck — but at a cost only Jimmy fully understood.

Jimmy straightened, brushing his fingers through your hair one last time before letting you step back.

“You’ll do nicely,” he murmured, voice low and intimate, eyes glinting with ownership.

“Just remember, this isn’t over.”

Shite guided Spike silently to a corner, letting him kneel and catch his breath, but the tension in the room remained thick. The bargain was complete, for now — but the cavern felt smaller, heavier, charged with the knowledge that every action moving forward would be measured, calculated, and watched.

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

The small cavern echoes with the sharp crack of your voice as you face off against Jimmy, the air heavy with the damp chill of the cave walls closing in around you. You've been his hostage for days, chained loosely to a jagged rock formation, but now it's not just about your freedom—it's about the boy he's got stashed deeper in the tunnels. Your heart pounds as you lunge forward, as far as the chain allows, fists clenched at your sides.

"You said you would let him go, Jimmy. He's just a kid—he's got nothing to do with this!" You whisper, eyes blazing with desperation.

Jimmy stands there, his shoulder-length blonde hair tousled and wild, falling over his broad shoulders. His white tank top clings to his muscled chest, stretched tight across the numerous thick gold chains draped around his neck, the largest one an inverted cross that swings heavily with every breath.

Purple tracksuit bottoms hang low on his hips, and his fingers—adorned with thick rings on every one—flex as he crosses his arms, watching you with those piercing blue eyes.

"Ach, lass, ye think ye can bargain wi' me?" He retorts in his thick Scottish brogue, voice low and rumbling like distant thunder.

He steps closer, your chains jingling softly as you pull back from him.

"The boy's leverage, same as ye. Ye'll no' be tellin' me what tae do."

You press on, voice cracking with fury and fear.

"Please, Jimmy. I'll do anything—anything you want. Just let him go. He doesn't deserve this." Your words hang in the air, a raw plea born of exhaustion and the unyielding grip of captivity.

You stare him down, willing him to see the truth in your offer, your body trembling not just from the cold stone floor but from the weight of what you're proposing.

Jimmy's gaze darkens, his lips curling into a predatory smirk. He doesn't speak at first, just lets the silence stretch, thick and charged, the only sounds the distant drip of water and your ragged breaths.

His rings glint in the candle flicker as he uncrosses his arms, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. The tension coils tighter, and then he's on you, closing the distance in a heartbeat.

His hands shoot out, grabbing your upper arms with bruising force, the cold metal of his rings biting into your skin.

"Anything, eh? Ye mean that, lass?" He growls, yanking you up from the floor and slamming your back against the rough cavern wall.

The stone scrapes your spine, but you barely register it as his mouth crashes onto yours, tongue forcing its way past your lips in a demanding kiss.

He tastes of whiskey and salt, his stubble—wild and golden—scratching your chin as he devours you. You gasp into his mouth, the fight draining from you as heat surges through your veins. His fingers dig in harder, pinning you in place while his other hand rips at your tattered shirt, exposing your breasts to the cool air.

"Fuck, these tits—been dreamin' o' suckin' 'em since I got ye here" He snarls, breaking the kiss to latch onto one nipple, sucking hard and grazing it with his teeth.

His tongue flicks relentlessly, sending jolts straight to your core, while his hand shoves down your pants, rough fingers finding your pussy already slick with unwilling arousal.

"Aye, ye wet slut—offerin' yerself up like this. Ye want my cock bad, dinnae ye?" Jimmy's voice is a guttural roar against your skin, his brogue thickening with lust.

He pumps two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spot that makes your knees buckle. You cry out, hips bucking involuntarily, and he laughs, dark and triumphant.

"That's it, moan for me. Gonna fuck ye senseless right here against this wall."

He doesn't wait for more—pulling the latch if your chains free from the mechanism, his free hand yanks down his purple tracksuit bottoms, freeing his thick cock, hard and veined, the head already leaking.

The gold chains clink as he positions himself, rings scraping your thigh as he hooks your leg over his hip.

"Take it, lass—every fuckin' inch," He grunts, and thrusts in deep, stretching your pussy wide with one brutal shove.

The burn is intense, pleasure-pain ripping through you as he starts pounding, hips snapping forward relentlessly.

Your back grinds against the wall with each slam, his balls slapping your ass, the wet sounds echoing obscenely in the cavern.

"God, yer cunt's so tight, grippin' me like a vice. Fuck, fuck—ye love bein' my whore, dinnae ye?" Jimmy bellows, his blonde hair falling into his eyes as he drives harder, one hand bracing beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to keep you open.

Sweat beads on his tank top, darkening the white fabric, and his chains swing with every thrust, the inverted cross brushing your chest.

You cling to his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle under his shirt, moans spilling from your lips as he rails you.

"Scream louder, ye filthy thing—tell them how good my cock feels buried in ye!" He demands, voice hoarse, biting your neck hard enough to mark.

The pace is punishing, your pussy clenching around him, chasing the building pressure despite the roughness.

But Jimmy's not satisfied yet. With a savage growl, he pulls out, spinning you around and bending you over, your hands splaying against the wall for support.

"On yer knees? Nah—stay bent, arse up for me" He commands, kicking your legs wider.

His hand comes down on your arse with a sharp smack, the rings leaving red imprints, before he lines up and slams back in from behind. Doggy style in the dim light, his cock hits deeper, pounding your g-spot with every rough plunge.

"Ach, look at that—yer pussy swallowin' me whole. Soakin' wet and beggin' for more," He roars, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back, arching your spine.

His other hand snakes around to rub your clit roughly, circles fast and unrelenting. The cavern fills with the slap of skin on skin, his grunts mixing with your cries.

"Ye're mine now, lass—gonna fuck the fight right outta ye. Cum on this cock, squeeze me tight!"

Your body trembles, orgasm hovering, but he slows just enough to pull you down to the cold stone floor.

"Time tae fold ye up proper." He mutters, flipping you onto your back and pushing your knees to your chest in a tight mating press.

The position leaves you exposed, vulnerable, and he thrusts back in, folding you beneath his weight, cock spearing deep. His tank top rides up, gold chains pooling on your skin as he hammers away, eyes locked on yours.

"Fuck, yes—feel that? My cock ownin' this greedy hole. Yer walls flutterin' around me, milkin' me dry." Jimmy pants, voice breaking into moans, his brogue slurring with the intensity.

Sweat drips from his brow onto your breasts, and he leans down to capture your lips in a messy kiss, thrusting erratically now.

"I'm close, lass—cum wi' me, flood my cock wi' yer juices. Aye, that's it—"

The words tip you over, your pussy clamping down as waves of pleasure crash through you, crying out his name.

Jimmy follows with a thunderous bellow, burying himself to the hilt and erupting, hot cum pulsing deep inside you in thick ropes.

"Fuck, fillin' ye up—take it all, my sweet lass!" He groans, body shuddering atop yours.

As the aftershocks fade, he doesn't pull away. Instead, Jimmy stays on top, his weight a comforting press now, cock softening inside you. His blonde hair curtains your face as he brushes his lips softly against your forehead, the roughness gone from his touch.

"Shh, easy now, love." He murmurs in that softened brogue, voice tender and low. One ringed hand strokes your hair gently, the inverted cross resting cool against your collarbone.

"Ye did so good for me. The boy's safe—I'll see tae it. Rest here wi' me, aye? Yer mine, but I'll no' hurt ye more." His breath warms your skin, the cavern's chill forgotten in the quiet intimacy, his body shielding yours as he holds you close.

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

The candlelight has gone soft and low, its flames guttering like breaths in the corners of Jimmy’s small room. Straw shifts under your weight as the mattress sighs; his arm is a heavy band of warmth across your ribs, the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing a metronome you could follow forever if you wanted to.

For a full minute you do nothing but listen — to him, to the little noises of the cavern beyond the thin wall, to the faint clink of metal from somewhere he keeps things. Your chest feels hollow and full all at once, the ache of the past days unspooling into something close to chaos.

You turn your head and watch the ceiling where the candlelight makes little islands of gold on the stone.

The world outside — the dim tunnels, the sleeping Jimmies, the jagged mouths of the caverns — seems momentarily remote, like a bad dream you’ve woken from.

Relief washes through you, slow and honeyed, because for now Spike is safe. Jimmy gave his word; the sound of it still settles in your bones like a promise. You think of the boy’s eyes when he was freed — wide and impossible — and the way he tasted the air like someone who’d been underwater too long and is finally allowed to breathe again.

That image anchors you.

His hand finds yours and squeezes, warm and possessive. You squeeze back with a grit if your teeth, unseen by the satisfied man beside you and then let go, letting your fingers rest palm‑to‑palm on the straw.

Everything about him is paradox: gentle this morning, hard and territorial by necessity; capable of tenderness yet hungry for dominance. You have just shared something private with him, consensual in ways of negotiation. It's strange and fragile, and it leaves a residue of something like complicity. You feel it on your skin, in the hush of the room.

Your eyes wander. A rusted hook on the far wall catches a shard of candlelight. To one side, coiled and heavy, the chain lies where he dropped it earlier — dark metal looped like a sleeping snake.

The sight is ordinary enough; you’ve seen it a dozen times in the cavern. But tonight, half‑drowsy and still full of the adrenaline that comes after intimacy, the chain looks different. It seems suddenly less like an instrument of your captivity and more like an object with a dozen possible uses.

You find your thoughts sliding down the path you have been forcing them away from all these days: plans. Not the naive, pulsing fantasies that belonged to the first nights — running through the grass, breathless and free — but deliberate, cold strategies worked out with the clarity that only danger sharpens.

Spike’s small hand trembling when he’d been freed; the look he gave you when you agreed to the bargain; the way Jimmy’s promise had sounded, absolute as a vow but not unbreakable. You think about promises and what secures them.

You look at the chain again.

It’s only a suggestion at first — a thought that tips and becomes a shape. You imagine waking early, while the cavern still sleeps heavy on its breath, and slipping from the mattress. You see yourself moving silent as shadow, because you have been practicing silence for days. You picture the chain heavy in your hand, its weight both a possibility and a threat. You picture Jimmy’s face when the balance of power tilts, if only for a minute, long enough to get Spike and yourself away. The thought does something fierce in your chest: it steadies you.

You shake it away, at once pragmatic and moral.

The chain is not a magic bullet. You know his men are not that easy to fool; you know what happens when plans are clumsy. You also know something else — that he will watch men he loves, men like Shite, in ways that might make a small rebellion spiral into terrible consequences.

There’s the knife‑edge question that will not let you sleep: if you bind him, even for a minute, will Spike get out or will you simply trade one danger for another?

So you sort the thought, begin to file it instead of throwing it away. You do not sketch how to tie or how to spring the trap; you only begin to list in your head the conditions that would have to be true: the right moment when the others are drunk and the tunnels quiet, a clear path to the caverns’ mouth where the grass hums and hides footprints, Spike awake and ready and not alone in his terror, a way to distract Shite long enough that he does not notice — and above all, a way to make sure that Jimmy’s “word” is not empty because the boy is already gone by the time he wakes.

Practicalities stack up like stones. You think of Spike’s hands — the way they were bound with rough rope — and you picture him here, now, eyes on you. You imagine speaking to him later in a hush and mapping the route with your lips, not your hands.

You work through contingencies, the little fail‑safes that make a foolish plan survivable. You picture leaving a small mark on the wall, something only you and Spike can read in the dark. You picture timing — when the guards’ laughter hits its peak, when their steps grow heavy. You picture getting to the mouth of the cave and already being ten heartbeats ahead of them.

Even thinking in this clinical, measured way, you feel the slow shift inside you: the person forced to endure becomes the person who will act. The afterglow — once only a softened place of safety — hones into focus, turns into resolve. You tell yourself softly that this is not vengeance. This is protection. This is the only kind of tenderness left: the kind you can do for someone else without asking permission.

Jimmy shifts beside you; something soft in his voice urges sleep, a question disguised as concern. He rolls over and draws you as if to cradle you, and for a dizzying second you almost believe the world could be small and kind and quiet. Then your eyes drift back to the chain and you answer him with a small, noncommittal murmur, because you are not ready to tell him anything tonight.

When he sleeps — the sound of his breath deepening, the steady weight heavy and human at your back — you stand, careful not to disturb the straw.

The chain is within reach, but you do not touch it. You move to the little window of time where recklessness and prudence meet: you take with you only what cannot be seen in the dark — memory, a plan, a list of the little cues you and Spike will use, a small cocked ear for the noises that mean the others are drunk enough.

You tuck one silent promise into your palm: you will not risk Spike for the sake of your anger. If you bind a man to get free, it will only be because that is the path that leads to Spike’s breath, unharmed, outside the cave.

You pad back to the mattress and press into the place he made for you, not curling but coiling, a spring. You let your eyes close and feel the afterglow slow, its warmth settling in pockets across your skin.

Outside, the cavern breathes and shifts. Inside, plans rearrange themselves like pieces on a board. The chain awaits, an option you will not yet touch.

For now, you let relief sit next to you like a small, dangerous companion, and you let the promise of escape grow quiet and steady in your bones.

The dawn was blue, purple when you had stirred by the river. It had been a dry, summer night. You were grateful for the river bed, that hung over the steady pace of the water. It gave you a small inlet between water and ground to tuck into. You were small enough. The ground was soft and mossy, when you laid down. Your backpack, that held what possessions and provisions you managed to secure, became your pillow. Your sleep was light, you shifted with the croak of a bullfrog, nearby. If you had been more awake, you would have considered hunting it down. But the need for sleep, rest had held onto you tighter.

Your boot slipped when you climbed up this silent morning. Muttering a curse, you clawed in the firmer earth and managed to pull yourself up.

You don’t know why you had patted at the fresh dirt, grass that clung to the cargo pants that you had managed to find not long ago. You were able to abandon a pair of jeans, that had long since stained and grown dirty. In the past, you always complained you had no pockets now you had too many and would forget where you put what.

Enjoying, the dawn was short lived when you heard, the all too familiar sickening crunch, cracking as necks of rage monsters turned to look at you.

So now you ran. You had not stopped. Your backpack clapped against your back.

An incoherent, animalistic scream came from the alpha.

Your ponytail whipped into your face as you looked back. You didn’t slow your pace.

They were still close, you had to try and find somewhere to climb or something desperation knotted in your stomach.

Then a scream erupted from you before you even realized you had screamed. Your footing was lost, you were tumbling down a hill. Your world then went black.

******

Blinking, you found yourself on your back. Voices, were garbled but close. Pain was searing over your body.

“Is that cat deid?”

In stray rays of light, you saw someone towering over you, man from the sounds of it with stark, ragged blonde hair, a lopsided mouth and ringed fingers that were gesturing, pointing at you. You barely closed your eyes, for him to catch you looking at him with his clear eyes. His mouth twisted into a smirk.

He sighed loudly. “Ye, are alive.” He said loud enough for you to hear.

You wake the next morning to the noisy chattering of birds outside the window and sunlight streaming through the window onto your face. You twist in the sheets, trying to shut out the world for just a little while longer. 

It’s no use.

You sit up in the bed, the ancient springs creaking under the shift of your weight. You rub at one eye, trying to pull yourself out of the sleepy haze that’s still clouding your brain. You know you can’t stay here long; you could never stay in one place too long. Infected were of course always a threat, and now you had to worry about the gang of towheaded weirdos on your trail, too. You decide to make quick use of the resources at the cottage and move on as quickly as you can.

You toss off the duvet and swing your legs out of the bed, landing your boots on the floor. You stand and cross to the old wooden dresser against the wall opposite you. Opening the top drawer, you’re ecstatic: clean clothes. You root around for something that would fit you, checking the other drawers as well. The cottage must have belonged to a man and a woman, because you find a mix of items ransacking through the dresser before turning your attention to the closet. You grab a few things and quickly change, leaving your own clothes on the floor. It feels weird to leave your clothes behind, but you know that they’ll be picturing you in that outfit while they’re looking for you. It was better for your odds to leave it behind.

You dig in the closet for a jacket, finding an old bomber jacket littered with fading patches. You pull it on over your new clothes and shove a few extra things in your rucksack: clean socks, underwear, a t-shirt. Not enough to weigh you down, but enough to get you through for a while.

You shoulder your bag and push past the door back out into the rest of the house, eager to fix yourself something to eat and raid the pantry before you move on. You stand in the small main room of the cottage, silent for a moment. Listening.

Just the birds still chirping.

Still…you know it’s best to keep your time here brief.

Ink trudges ahead, stomping through the leafy groundcover that litters the forest floor.

“Man, there’s no fuckin’ way she got this far, we’re goin’ the wrong way!” Fox shouts.

“Shut up, y’want’er t’hear ye?” Snake snaps.

“Both’a yous, shut up!” Shite barks.

“Shite, there’s no fuckin’ way–” Fox tries again.

“Shut up, Fox! We know she went this way, no one fuckin’ cares that your feet hurt!” Jimmy Jimmy snarks.

“Fuck off,” Fox retorts.

“Ooh clever!”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you!”

“Knock it off,” Shite growls, yanking roughly on Fox’s sleeve to tame him. “He wants us to find ‘er, let’s just fuckin’ find her and be done with it.”

Fox shoots a glance at Jimmy Jimmy before both boys silently agree to let it go. They continue, plodding through the woods. They’ve been walking all morning, having set up camp overnight. 

Jimmy walks behind the group, Jimmima by his side.

“Why’d’ye want ‘er alive?” she asks, trying not to betray her disdain for you.

“Well, she cannae be much of a fuckin’ disciple if she’s dead, now, can she?” he replies gruffly.

“But she’s a doubter…thought all doubters get Charity…”

“Old Nick has given us a precious…gift, Jimmima,” he continues. “The opportunity to offer deliverance to a lost, suffering soul.”

“But she–”

“Go get Ink f’me, yeah?”

“But–”

“Jimmy says go get Ink. Now.”

Jimmima scowls, turning away before he can see her expression. She runs ahead, gracefully jumping over rocks and fallen branches like a deer, like she was raised in the forest. And hell, she sort of was. Jimmy remembers finding her, just 12 years old, face rubbed with dirt, knees scraped and bleeding. He watches as she runs up to Ink, grabbing her shoulder. She says something to her and both girls look back at Jimmy, who flashes them his decaying smile. Ink rolls her eyes and folds her arms, staying put while the others surpass her. When Jimmy finally catches up to where she stands, they fall in step with one another immediately.

“What?” she asks.

“Where’d’ye think she’s gone?”

“How should I know?”

He glances at her. She’s staring at the ground in front of her, purposefully avoiding his eye.

“Yer the best tracker outta all these fuckers,” he grins. It’s a bit of praise, intended to endear her to him, but it’s the truth, too. 

She looks up at him. He grins, for real this time. She returns the smile before glancing away again. 

“Fuck off,” she huffs. 

“You fuck off,” he retorts, knocking her shoulder with his.

They’ve been like this for years; neither of them know exactly how long. The first Finger in his fist, Ink’s been by his side for longer than Jimmy can remember. Most of his mind is scrambled, memories showing up in fragments and jumbled pieces, but he remembers meeting Ink clearer than he remembers anything else. 

She was only 8, he was 18. He’d found an old school building that obviously hadn’t been functional in years. After hopping the fence, he found a door with hinges just rusty enough to force his way inside. Schools–any big buildings, really–were good for supplies. He rooted around in a few empty classrooms, ransacking teachers’ desks and supply closets, looking for anything he could use. The sound of footsteps on linoleum froze him in place. He listened carefully, stepping out into the hallway once more. He pulled his hunting knife out of the makeshift holster he’d tied to his belt and walked down the hall, sticking his head in each room to take a quick sweep.

In a room towards the end of the hall, what looked to be a room that might’ve been used for the year twos, there was a girl, sitting cross-legged on the small carpet in the corner, flipping the pages of a flimsy picture book. Next to her was a small shelf, piled high with books, that she had either already read or was about to read, or perhaps both. Wrappers littered the carpet on her other side– crackers and biscuits and fruit snacks, empty juice pouches and sweets.

“Are ye here to kill me?” she asked in a plain voice.

“No–no, I donnae think so,” he replied, startled by her frankness.

“I’m Kelly.”

“Jimmy.”

“D’ye wanna fruit snack, Jimmy?”

“Sure…thanks.”

He shakes the memory from his mind with a toss of his blond hair. He sees something in her face that tells him she’s doing the same.

“She’s prob’bly found a place to shack up,” Ink finally offers. “Or we’d’ve seen ‘er by now. We’re lookin’ for a buildin’, a house…some place she could stock up and hide out.”

The Jimmys ahead of them start to get louder, shouting and whooping.

“Fuck is it?” Jimmy shouts above the chaos.

“’S a cottage!” Fox shouts back.

Jimmy smiles.

The Fingers linger near the edge of the woods, allowing their leader to catch up to them. When he and Ink finally reach the clearing overlooking the small cottage, he looks down at the building.

Some place she could stock up and hide out.

“Jimmy says…go get ‘er.”

The sound of shouting catches your attention.

“’S a cottage!” you hear faintly in the distance.

Fuck.

You quickly finish pouring water into your water bottle, a nice one you took from a different abandoned house months ago– soft plastic that won’t crinkle like a disposable, with a logo that’s been scratched and scraped off, no doubt eroded by time. You strap the bottle into the side pocket of your rucksack and toss it over your shoulder. You grip the brass handles on the window at the back of the kitchen, overlooking the backyard of the property. It’s stuck, the wood clearly warped with age.

“C’mon, c’mon,” you whisper, begging the window to budge.

The shouting gets louder. They’re heading for the house.

“Fuck…don’t look at the dogs, work the lock,” you remind yourself quietly.

You wiggle the window in the frame, finally throwing it open when it finds its groove. You throw one leg out the window, then the next, landing on the soft grass. Judging by the volume of the voices approaching the front of the house, it’s too late for you to run.

A set of wooden double doors against the base of the house catches your eye. Just the sight of them is enough to make your stomach churn. But desperate times…

You throw the doors open and jump down into the tiny root cellar, pulling the doors closed behind you. You quickly scan the dark space for something, anything, to seal the doors with.

A pitchfork. 

It’s not ideal, but it’ll work.

You put the handle of the tool through the handles on the inside of the doors. If anyone tugs on the doors, they’ll have to break the solid wooden handle of the pitchfork. You’re not entirely sure that those freaks couldn’t do it, but still. Anything you can put between you and them increases your chances of survival.

You hear them knock the door open and rampage through the house upstairs, the fall of their feet on the wooden floorboards pounding above your head. Your knees are digging into the dirt in the back corner of the cellar, dampening your new cargo pants. Around you are crates, boxes, and barrels of food. You shiver at the unmistakable smell of onions and feel yourself start to gag.

It’s cold and damp down here, and you have no idea how long it’s been. The sound of screaming and wailing roars above you. 

Suddenly, it falls silent. You can hear your breath ragged in your throat, and press a hand over your mouth to quiet yourself. You’re shaking and quivering, pressing your back into the corner of the cellar.

The doors of the root cellar rattle above you as someone–something–screeches and wails.

The smell of raw onions stings your nostrils and your eyes, and you squeeze them shut as burning tears streak down your cheeks. The cacophony of rattling and screaming above you pierces your ears. You can feel your heart rapping against your ribcage, keeping time with each savage tug of the cellar doors.

Above you, the Jimmys stomp through the cottage.

“Oi, it’s fuckin’ stocked in ‘ere, check this out!” Fox shouts.

Jimmima pulls open a cupboard and digs around, finding a candy bar. Jimmy Jimmy tries to pluck it from her hand.

“Fuck off, find your own!” she squeals.

Ink rolls her eyes. She sticks her head into the tiny bedroom off the kitchen, noticing the discarded clothes on the floor. She kicks at them. These are the clothes you were wearing yesterday. She crouches down, inspecting the pile. She lifts your panties out of the heap of dirty laundry, grinning. She shoves them into the pocket of her jacket. 

She steps back out into the kitchen, looking around. She’s trying to imagine you here, where you would go, what you would grab. She notices the water splashed on the counter and the giant jugs of water under the sink. You were here, and recently.

She turns her attention to the open window. You hadn’t bothered to close it behind you. She unknowingly copies your movements from just minutes before, tossing one leg over the frame, then the other.

She lands in the grass next to the double doors of the root cellar. Ink turns to the doors slowly.

A good hiding place. Quick, subtle. And shit, none of them would have thought to check out here.

None of them except her.

She places a hand on each handle and gently tugs.

The doors rattle above you, pulled against the handle of the pitchfork. You stop a gasp as it rises in your throat, pressing a hand over your mouth. You can feel the hot tears and snot dripping down your face. Your breath is erratic, but you do everything in your power to keep it silent as it tears through your body.

The doors rattle one more time as Ink pulls a little harder.

Your mind is racing, your heart pounding. 

Ink stands, letting go of the doors.

She’s down there.

Ink remembers the look on your face as Jimmy held your chin and called you Disciple. The terror in your eyes. 

She turns from the root cellar and climbs back into the house through the window.

Jimmy stands outside the cottage, listening to and watching the others romp around. He surveys the grassy area around the cottage; it’s not huge. If Ink was right–and she often was, even he had to admit–and you’d stopped here, it would be pretty easy for you to get lost back into the woods when you were through.

“Father,” he mutters, bringing two fingers on his right hand to rest at his temple. “Are you watching?”

I am here, my son.

“Father, help us find the girl.”

Why do you seek her, my son?

“She is a Disciple to your glory, Father…” Jimmy recalls the ferocious look in your eye as you killed the Infected. “I’ve seen the heat, the anger, the rage that burns in her soul. A quick hand and a fiery heart. She will join me at my side, and exalt your name and execute your vision unto the world of man.”

You are close to what you seek, Jimmy.

Jimmy smiles and walks ahead, into the cottage.

“She ain’t here,” Shite grumbles, noticing their leader standing in the doorway.

“Too bad,” Jimmima adds in a sing-songy voice.

Jones and Snake eye each other. She’s pushing it, even they know.

Jimmy’s face drops slightly, his grin evaporating.

“Aye,” Ink  pipes up. “But she was.”

Jimmy’s eyes dart over to her.

“How d’ye reckon?”

Now they’re speaking only to each other, standing at opposite ends of the small main room of the cabin. They were always like this. Driver and shotgun. 

“Look at all this stuff, ‘s already been gone through,” she reasons. “Prob’ly stopped ‘ere f’the night and got out this mornin’.”

“How’d y’fuckin’ know it’s her?” Jimmy Jimmy.

“Fuck you,” Ink replies. “Not fuckin’ talkin’ t’you, am I?”

“Fingers,” Jimmy chides. They stand up straighter and look at him. He examines Ink’s face. There’s something she’s keeping to herself.

The sound of people in the distance makes Jimmy’s ears perk up. A small group, heading for the cottage.

“It seems Old Nick has delivered us a gift, Fingers,” he grins.

They shuffle and shift excitedly, shooting quick, eager glances at one another. Ink just watches Jimmy.

“Who would like to offer…Charity?”

You had hoped the tracksuits would move on quickly once they realized you weren’t there. As it happened, a group of survivors stumbled on the cottage, and you’d been trapped in the root cellar all day listening to their screams.

“And Old Nick saw that the world of man was corrupt,” Jimmy preaches, his feet falling gently on the wooden floor as he paces back and forth before the captives. Two men and a woman, all tied to chairs and gagged with whatever the Jimmys could find.

“And Old Nick sent forth his demons upon the world of man, that the world of man might be cleansed,” he continues. “And He told me…his favorite son…He told me…Jimmy…”

He grins, glancing around at the others, their faces enraptured with delight as they listen to his gospel.

“Jimmy, you and yer Seven Fingers shall roam the land, cleansing it of the impurities of man. To Me, offer their screams, their suffering, and their souls, and ye shall take yer place at My right hand, and My Kingdom shall be yours.”

He finishes with a flourish.

“Howzat?”

“Howzat,” they all repeat monotonously. 

The woman whimpers around her gag. Jimmy rolls his eyes and roughly tugs on it, pulling it down around her neck.

“Whazzat, love? Yer gonnae have t’speak up.”

“Our Father,” she whispers. “Who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name–”

Jimmy cuts her off with a harsh laugh.

“Ye think that made up cunt’s gonnae save ye? Go on, then, go on,” he laughs. “Beg ‘im. See what he does.”

She stops praying and cries silently.

Jimmy kneels in front of her, examining her face.

“God…doesnae do shite. Look around,” he says softly. “Ye think if he cared so fuckin’ much about us–”

He cuts himself off quickly.

Ink’s eyebrows furrow as she watches him.

“Shall I call on Old Nick? Ask Him what His pleasure is for these three?”

The Jimmys cheer in delight.

“Old Nick, Old Nick,” Jimmima chants in a delighted, breathy voice as she kicks her feet from where she’s sitting on top of the small table.

Jimmy stands and pulls the gag back into the woman’s mouth as she winces and sobs again. He turns on his heel and stalks towards the open door of the cottage. He looks up at the clouds gathering overhead and presses his fingers to his temple again, gently fluttering his eyes shut. He drops his voice.

“Father…Master…Dark Lord…are you with us now?”

I am here, my son.

Jimmy smiles faintly.

“Good.”

The Jimmys snicker and smile, tossing glances to each other.

“Father, what is your command for these three souls we’ve come to offer you?”

He stands in silence for a moment, listening.

“Ah- wise choice, My Lord,” he smiles finally.

Jimmy turns back to his awaiting crowd.

“Old Nick says…baptism.”

The Jimmys snicker and lower their masks– terrifying things, fashioned out of scraps of fabric to match their tracksuits, some of them with human teeth sewn in above the mouth. The captives wriggle and strain against their binds, but it’s no use.

Fox throws open a cabinet and pulls out a large pot. Shite finds a pair of buckets sitting near the back door. Jimmima springs up from the table, brandishing her knife, and hops over to one of the men.

“You’re lucky,” she giggles. “Baptism’s a special one.”

She traces her knife along the inseam of his trousers. The man grunts in a panic around the gag.

“Not there, y’gonna kill ‘im too fast,” Jimmy Jimmy teases.

“I wasn’t gonna cut there first, idiot,” she huffs. She sits on his lap and roughly grabs the man’s sleeve, rolling it up from his forearm. “Bring me the bucket.”

Fox sets the pot beneath the arm she’s inspecting. She smiles sweetly then digs her knife into the man’s skin, pressing firmly until she sees the red liquid flowing from the incision. The man screams in pain, the other prisoners looking over to watch. His blood drips down his arm, a drop landing in the pot with a loud pang. 

It feels like hours pass. And you’re sure they do, but you have no idea how long you’re down in the root cellar, gagging on the stench of onions, listening to the screams above you.

When they finally, finally end, you peek through the slats in the wooden doors above you. The sun is getting low. They’ve been at this all fucking day. 

“Excellent work, Fingers,” Jimmy beams, looking at the bodies in front of him.

Each one, systematically drained of blood, their heads then held under the liquid collected in the buckets and pots until they started to breathe it in and choke on it. Baptism is one of Jimmy’s favorites.

“Take ‘em out,” he commands. “We’ll stay here for the night, but we’ve gottae be movin’ on in the mornin’. We can’t lose the girl.”

The Jimmys lift and drag the bodies out of the house, Jimmima and Snake grabbing the buckets and the pot to dump in the woods. As the others dispose of the mess, Ink lingers in the doorway, watching them, before she turns back into the house.

Jimmy crosses to the bedroom and flops down onto the bed.

“Where’d’ye think she’s gone now?” he calls to Ink.

She walks back through the cottage and leans her shoulder against the doorframe into the bedroom.

“Hard to say,” Ink says. “Into the woods, prob’ly. She’d try to find another house, or another camp. Maybe more people.”

Jimmy smiles, untangling his tiara from his hair.

“Perfect.”

“Got somethin’ for you,” Ink tells him. She pulls your old panties out of her jacket pocket and tosses them to Jimmy with a grin. “Told ya she was here.”

“Fuck off, ye were keepin’ these for yerself?” he chides her jokingly. “Fuckin’ pervert.”

“You’re the fuckin’ pervert, pervert,” she smiles. “Maybe if you don’t want ‘em, I’ll take ‘em back…”

“No–”

Ink chuckles.

“No, fuckin’...” he turns the fabric over in his hand before setting it down on the bed next to him. “We’re fuckin’ outta ‘ere in the mornin’, got it?”

She nods.

“Good. Make sure those cunts don’t fuckin’ kill each other, yeah?”

She chuckles, then turns back towards the front door. She sees the others, still kicking and shoving each other around in the darkness.

“Oi! Shite, Fox!! Just be done with it, yeah?!”

The others sleep on the floor, as usual. Shite had commandeered the couch, though the others found blankets or coats to prop under their heads as makeshift pillows.

Jimmy lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s been a while since he’s had a ceiling above his head. He turns his head to the side, his blond hair rubbing against the pillowcase. He can smell you on the sheets.

He catches a glimpse of your panties from where he’d left them on the small nightstand. He grabs them and brings the garment to his face, inhaling deeply.

“Fuckkkk,” he moans. To any sane person, the fabric would smell disgusting. But all he can smell is you, dancing through his mind and his senses. He pictures your face, beautiful and terrified and angry.

Jimmy traces one hand down his chest and stomach until he reaches the waistband of his trackpants. He slides his hand down, pushing past the waistband of his boxers. He grips himself firmly, tugging once, then twice as he imagines you. He sniffs your panties again, the sudden intake of you making his head swirl. He pulls his hand out of his pants and spits, swiping at the slimy drool dripping from his mouth with his thumb. He returns to his cock and gives himself a few more tugs.

“Thaa’s it, fuckin’ spit on it,” he mumbles, his eyes closed.

He moves his hand up and down, the slick, disgusting sound of flesh on flesh filling the room. He imagines you kneeling before him, staring up at him with those big eyes. 

“Ye want it? Ye fuckin’ want it?” 

Please, Jimmy, please…

“Please wha’, bitch?” he huffs.

Please…save me, Jimmy, save me…

He pumps his hand faster, feeling the heat pooling in his lower stomach.

“Ah, fuck, I’ll fuckin’ save ye, lass, donnae worry…”

He brings your panties down around his cock and uses them to jerk himself off, the idea of you all over him making his cheeks flush.

“Ye gonnae fuckin’ take it all, yeah?” he pants. “Take it all like a good girl?”

You nod your head, sticking your tongue out dutifully.

“Ye need me to save ye, then, huh?”

He imagines your response, foggy and blurry in his mind.

Yes Jimmy…save me…God has forsaken us, Jimmy. It’s only you. It’s only you.

“It’s only me,” he breathes. “Then take this fuckin’ sacrament, bitch.”

He finishes, spilling into your panties with a choked cry, imagining that he’s decorating your face.

You smile up at him through the ropes of cum that paint your skin, swallowing what landed on your tongue and sighing blissfully.

Thank you, Jimmy…thank you, Sir…

He wipes the sticky mess from his cock and brings the fabric back up to his face. He examines them, staring at the mess of his cum along the gusset. He imagines holding onto them and making you wear them when he finds you. He decides against it.

Imagine how disappointed you’d be to find that your gift wasn’t fresh. 

You forced yourself to close your eyes when you realized they were staying the night. You needed to frontload on your sleep if you were going to make it out alive.

When you finally hear silence from the house above, you know you’ve found your opening. You quickly and quietly slide the pitchfork off the double doors of the root cellar, pausing to ensure you haven’t woken any of the animals in the house. Hearing nothing, you push one door up and open, peeking around. Content that the coast is clear, you hoist yourself out of the cellar and gingerly close the door behind you.

Then you run.

You run until you’re at the treeline, then you keep running.

You don’t know what Jimmy has planned for you, and you don’t intend to find out. You don’t know where you’re going. Anywhere.

Anywhere is better than here.

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Jimmy's tongue left a cold, sticky streak up your back, smearing the glossy pearl-white of his cum before lapping it up. He'd finished while pressing his pulsing shaft against the base of your spine, his thighs pressed to the backs of yours, and his shoulders curved forward. His knuckles were blotched as red as his inflamed tip, which kicked up as thick ropes spurted from the slit. He humped the space between his palm and your spine sloppily, with jagged, short thrusts that made the chunky gold chains swing from his neck. His muscles flexed, and his stomach hollowed before a guttural noise tore from so deep in him it choked him.

You felt the splatter of his warmth and buried your face in the stiff, scratchy throws covering the just as stiff and thin mattress beneath you; panting, wishing you could see him. You loved watching him cum--the tightening length of his neck, the visible squiggle of veins, the flush of his cheeks that melted down and splotched his glistening chest, and the clench of his jaw. Your ass arching deeper when his broad palm slid up its dip, you whimpered and dug your nails into his opposite wrist, watching his fingers clench the blankets and the twinkle of their various colored rings.  

Your core ached from how fast he'd been slipping in and out of your heat, and just how quickly he'd abandoned it. It made you want it to cover you all at once, missing his tongue where it once was as soon as it left, just like every other part of him. Its warmth almost stung until then; meanwhile, his breath sent goosebumps across your skin. As soon as his cock left you and his soft lips grazed up the back of your ribs, your knees slipped out from under you and you turned over, blonde spilling over your shoulders and chest while his teeth found the risen bud of one of your nipples. Jimmy hummed when he first latched—it was one of his roots. The rest of his weight settling down on top of your frame, your hips twinged as the insides of your thighs then pressed against the sides of his torso, but you wrapped yourself around him and pushed your chest up into his mouth while he suckled, ignoring it. You felt every one of his breaths melt around you, his muscles lax as bright blonde spilled over your shoulders and chest. Your fingers found their depths, and you tugged when a moan escaped you. 

You didn't know why he'd picked you out of the rest, why he needed your body in ways he didn't need the others'. Nevertheless, you were glad to serve him, elated to please him, honored to be kept within the safety of his princess castle. You let him use you in the ways he needed in the moments he needed you. No matter how much it hurt. 

Jimmy didn’t know why you let him use you in the ways he did. Not only that, but why you didn’t question him— or his needs. Everything he wanted from you, you gave more than willingly. Eagerly.

Your hand finding the gummy silken blush of his softened length, he watched with furrowed brows while you proceeded to stroke his cock slow, the tip still leaking from the aftershocks of his orgasm; only firm enough that trickle of pleasure returned to his pelvis but not enough to get him hard again (although he knew as soon as you did, you would have been climbing onto his lap at the urging of his hands). You stroked him with care, paying attention to the way his breath hitched and his lashes fluttered, and he melted beneath you, tensing occasionally when his balls tightened.

What he really didn’t understand was why he was thinking those things at all. He didn’t question any of the other Jimmy’s loyalties. Or their sources. He didn't care why they did what they did as long as they did what he told them and wanted. Or at least whatever they were doing was for him. With you, he wished to understand why. It was the most infuriating thing, the curiosity, fascination.

He lifted his eyes upward, then closed them, his cheek falling over your head while you nuzzled the side of his throat closer, laying a soft kiss to his pulse.  “C’mere…” he finally whispered a moment later, grunting when you lifted yourself from his side. The knot in his groin growing heavy again as he watched your nakedness, he used his palms to push himself up to a slouched seated position--his gaze never leaving the bruises on your thighs, above the dip of your hips where he loved holding you, around your throat, the indented bite marks on the insides of your thighs and on your breasts--and lifted his hand to guide your hip over his opposite, settling you over his lap. “Yer too far away.” 

His body responded just as obediently to yours, however: his balls clenched harder and his legs widened, and the tender length of his sex hardened with visible veins pumping more blood toward the bulbous head. His jaw dropped when you grabbed the meat of your ass and parted yourself over his tip, rolling your pelvis forward to guide him up into you again. 

Your mouth immediately fell to catch his, your tongue swiping along the curve of his cupid’s bow before he angled his chin and wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you down further onto him. His lips molding to yours, your hands caught the slope of his traps, and your walls flexed and contracted as soon as he pushed past your entrance. Still, he slid back in easily, the heat blooming through your core, and you just as fast flexed your glutes and pulled yourself up his torso as soon as he was halfway before sitting back down, allowing gravity to do most of the work until his hands were at your hips, stroking you on his cock. “Uh-ha-yeah, that’s good… That’s good…” he cooed, “ye’fuckin’ love this cock, ce-nah get enough a’it. Can feel yer cunt flutterin' nervous 'round me like I ain't just been in'er.” 

You shook your head and kissed him again, shuddering at the sensation of your puffy folds swallowing him, molding around his every groove, the nudge of your engorged clit against the tufts of darkened hair, the pressure of his lower belly to yours and the grinding of your hips down into his was enough to make you increase your pace, chasing it; the sensation of his girth stretching you wider and his tip nudging your cervix. "Got m'gettin' stiff again like I'm a little lad again, yeah..." he huffed. "Can't get enough a'ye either, sweetheart."

Jimmy smiled at your desperation. He'd learned what it looked like when you wanted--needed--to cum, how the contractions of your slick walls around him slowed but became stronger, the way your brows quirked and you became overly concentrated on that bubbling feeling, the tension, losing focus on him in the process. "Wait, now-" he panted, settling his grip, firm, on your hips and halting your thrusts, "wait, lass, just wait--don't wanna waste m'self so quick on ye yet, jus' wanna feel ye."

Both breathing heavily, you kept your faces close enough you could still feel his breath on your cheek, then dragged your arms around his neck, playing with the ends of his hair and pressed your front to his; you sunk the rest of the way to his hilt, causing once last twinge of pain to make you flinch, which he soothed with his fingers tracing up and down your sides. You mewled, arching your spine again, trying to adjust your position and ease the pressure, but just like with everything, when you chased him, he pulled away just enough to keep you in pursuit. 

The wind caught the thin material of your jacket. Your knuckles wrapped tight around a janky spear that still had blood dried beneath the splintering wood and crusted around the metal tip, and you pointed it outward. You could feel the weight and nip of the gold chain around your neck, your jacket zipped up to hide it--one of Jimmy's. You spared a single glance upward onto the rocks to find him, staring down at you with his foot propped up, elbow resting atop his thigh, long fingers dangling loose. His other hand gripped his forearm, tight with anticipation, and his expression was laced with the slightest hint of worry. It was time to prove yourself--prove that you would be a useful part of the collective. That you wouldn't be a liability.

"Well, go on, de'nah want more to sniff ye out," Jimmy called out, nodding once with encouragement. He didn't look at the other Jimmys' ways. He didn't care if they glanced back and forth between you or wondered why he wasn't smiling. Why didn't he seem particularly excited, like he usually did, at the prospect of impending violence and mayhem. All he spoke toward them after some time of watching you ready yourself further was, "Ye wait for my command. After that, I see the slightest hint of hesitation, and I string ye up by yer intestines for the crows and infected to have at ye."

Jimmy let you get one hit in. That was enough. You were not meant to be one of his hunters--he knew that already. The last thing you remembered before falling on your ass, scrambling back, and allowing the other Jimmies to take care of the squawking infected was that one hit. The knick of bone, the thrust of the infected weight onto you, and the realization that you were about to die.

You left the spear.

The slick grass slipped under your shoes. You weren't thinking about running, but then you were. You were running away, not only from the infected, but from Jimmy, fleeing the princess castle. Abandoning him at the top of the cliff, watching you with widened eyes and shortened breaths as you disappeared between the trees.

Once the plush, bright green enveloped you, your lungs and quads burning, the tears came, the sobs raking up your shoulders as the fear was released from you. Exploding in waves, then seizing your heart again. You looked over your shoulder, expecting to see the Jimmies chasing after you, glee painted over their faces. They were going to finally be able to capture you, play with you, carve Jimmy's name in you, leave you for the infected, and teach a lesson. That you were never really his.

What happened was worse.

Your legs nearly gave out, and the air tore from your lungs before you registered the impact. You resisted it with an animal shriek, believing you'd just run into an infected, expecting to feel chipped nails scraping down your skin, tearing it from bone with a frenzy of teeth following. But the hands that had grabbed you just held you, firm, with a strength that yanked you back as soon as you started thrashing--and jeweled.

Your fists coming into contact with velvet, the glint of Jimmy's cross forced another sob from you, and you immediately stilled and met his eye. Blonde stuck to his forehead, slightly damp around the quirk of tugged brows. He'd chased after you. Granted, you hadn't actually gone that far; you weren't given the chance to. You couldn't tell if it was because he really wanted to, the hurt and anger sharpening his gaze while also softening it.

"You ran the wrong way."

Your fingers still lifted, you were trembling all over, the aggressiveness of your shivers rattling your teeth, your words unsteady, breathy as a result. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," you tried forcing out.

At first, Jimmy thought your legs had given out, from the way you slumped to your knees. Then, your shaky hands were fumbling with the waistband of his track pants. His hips flinched away. Jimmy smacked your fingers away. "No." He pressed firmly, grabbing your knuckles when you tried again.

"Please-" you whimpered. "I'm sorry."

"No." He squeezed his hands. And when you moved forward, shuffling your knees to push your face to his thigh, nuzzle him, he dropped you and stepped away.

Twisting weeds between your fists, you cried again, this time a horrific, pained laugh escaping you too. You expected him to leave you there, then. That would be his mercy. Jimmy was far too selfish.

"I failed--I failed you, I-" you sniffled, looking down at the ground. You hadn't realized you'd been knocked hard enough to give you a bloody nose, but then you noticed the falling of a final, fat droplet, and tentatively touched your cupid's bow. Your fingertips came back red.

Grabbing you by the jacket, one hand at the back of your neck, twisting the collar, and the other at your shoulder, a second later, he was hauling you back up to your feet. The bite of his rings pinched your jaw, and he angled your face to inspect the only apparent scuff you had. You let him peer into your eyes, checking to make sure you didn't have any other symptoms.

"Are you mad at me?"

You seemed so small to him, then. That was his ultimate power over you--and that was his weakness. You'd never have run away from him, always to. He hurt himself by thinking otherwise.

Jimmy's voice was softer than before, although his response was just as short. "No. Jus' need to do a bit more trainin', is all. Make sure yer body always goes in the right fuckin' direction."

You melted into his front at the feeling of the soft vibration of his words, soaking up the closeness for as long as you could. You felt his slowed breath and the heat of his body through his tracksuit. You memorized the ridge of his Adam's apple to the scruff that shadowed his jaw and around his pink lips; the length of his hair, falling over the tops of his sloping, strong shoulders; the soft curve of his belly, the firmness of his stance.

You wanted to see more of him; despite expecting him to swat you away again, you pinched the zipper of his jacket and dragged its teeth down further, slowly revealing the white wife beater beneath. Careful not to disturb the heavy gold chains hanging from his throat, you barely glanced down toward them before your palm slipped under his jacket and pressed to his chest, feeling his heartbeat, the strap of his tank, the ridge of his traps, the ropes of his neck. You clung to him, and Jimmy didn't push you away this time. Instead, the flat of his tongue slid across your opening lips from your chin, and still cradling your jaw between his fingers, he licked up the blood before kissing you softly. Soft enough, it wrung the fear from the rest of you and replaced it with the familiarity of your need for him.

You kissed him harder, hungrier, and another "please" escaped you, swallowed by his mouth, rolled around on his tongue. You were searching for his comfort. Pressing yourself to him with the after-shocks of fear still tensing your form as he pushed his hand under the hem of your jacket at the small of your back and traced the arch of your spine. Pushing up your own tank top, as soon as his knuckles brushed your skin, his rings snagging on the fabric over them, he pushed his hand further up, causing your jacket and shirt to ride up to your ribs. Your clothes suddenly felt suffocating, the barriers between you, while his other hand left your jaw and fit over the mound of your chest, squeezing your breast.

Your mouth chased Jimmy's as soon as it began to pull away. You sniffled again and watched as he tracked your surroundings, scanning the trees. He swallowed a mix of your saliva and blood, licking his lips of it, then tilted his forehead to meet yours. You pushed yourself to your toes and caught his mouth again, whining when his hand left your chest and traveled further down. You tugged at him and cursed as soon as his fingertips slipped between your thighs, testing your heat. As soon as he felt it, he closed his eyes, not knowing if he would be able to help himself.

There was a delicate balance between punishing and comforting you, and in comforting himself. Giving both of you what you desperately needed, while holding enough back, you would be grateful you were getting anything. Jimmy was a cruel leader in that way, in the fact that sometimes you wished he weren't so merciful; especially toward you, his greed and selfishness getting the best of him as he dug his nails into your thighs and forced your hips open wider before placing his head between them.

"Don't ye fucken dare cum," he exhaled. His hot breath melted against your slick, puffy folds, bitten numb and tingling by his jagged teeth while a mix of your fluids and his saliva smeared against his chin, dripping from it--keeping you connected. The sight made your clit twitch again, needily. Your walls simultaneously tightened around his knuckles; his rings warmed inside you, and they stretched you a little further. He retracted them when you rolled yourself into the stroking of his pads up into the silken tissue, causing that ache in the pit of your belly to return. "Stop." He said, harsher.

The first smack was a warning. The second was pure discipline. A stinging white flash of pain crashed through your hips as soon as he hit the front of your pussy, the hardness of his rings creating a blunt force enough to make you dizzy.

"Yer gon' listen to me, or else I ain't gonna be so nice lickin yer cunt. Might cut yer legs off instead n' keep ye chained up as a proper fuck doll if that's all yer gonna be useful for anyway. Make sure ye ain't running from me ever 'gain."

Your complexion flushed and glistening with the dew of sex, a strangled gasp followed closely when Jimmy plunged his fingers back inside you and hooked his thumb, circling the erect nub of your clit again. You barely had time to register anything he was saying before his other hand returned to your already bruised thigh and he followed his thumb with his tongue, directly unsheathing the sensitive bundle of nerves until you began tensing and fluttering around his fingers again, quicker and quicker each time he purposely overstimulated you, then smacked your pussy and scolded you for it.

You lost count. Tears just as quickly welled in your eyes, spilling over the sides of your face. Your hips twinged with a similar burning pain that throbbed throughout your groin, and the begging came easily.

"Y' like it when Jimmy smacks ye cunt? Treats ye rough? Reminds you--" he smacked it again for good measure. "who it belongs to?"

Your neck lengthened, and with your fists still clenched around the thin, scratchy sheets thrown over his mattress, you arched your spine and rolled your head back, wincing through bared teeth, feeling your pussy weep more for him.

He curved his tongue and scooped the gloss from your entrance, inspecting the contractions of the muscle while smearing what was on his hands over your thighs and cooing mockingly. "She wants m'tongue so fucken bad... squeezin round m'fingers... cryin' for me like a proper slut." He blew cool air onto the delicate tissue, causing you to squirm. "c'naw imagine this insatiable cunt a'yers missin' me if you'd gon any farther."

You cried out the next few little words--ones that broke through the already cracked facade of his frustration toward you. "Always wanna give my-self to you-wanna give you everything. Just wanna make you proud, and-and then I let you down-"

Jimmy licked his lips and tasted you on them. The second time he did so was impulsive. He glanced down at your sex and rolled his hips down in the guise of adjustment.

"You make it so fucking difficult to do anything but wanna worship you... I-I wasn't runnin' away from you, I was running away fr-from my own disappointment, I-I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"You promise?"

When Jimmy left you again, this time he did so completely--but just for a moment.

You sat up on your elbows, one of your legs straightening between you while you watched with a quivering bottom lip and a glimmer of hope and admiration in your gaze. It made Jimmy almost sick, almost pity you. His hand reaching into the front pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a small blade.

"Got ye branded on the inside. Now I need to make my claim on the outside, just in case you lose yer pretty little mind again, lose sight of yer senses. And you'll stay with me..." Jimmy's lips curled up in an excited smile. "Forever. De'nah worry... I'll kiss it better. And if you're a good lass for me with this, I'll let ye cum." His head tilted forward and brows raised, the smile remained as he crawled back over you. "Deal?"

You slumped back and widened your legs for him.

After he was done carving his name across the inside of your thigh, the blood that dripped from the gaping skin lapped up with his kitten licks, Jimmy sat back on his heels between your ankles and keeping your knee pinned with his fist still clenched around the knife, took the agitated bruising of his leaking erection from the strain of his pants and proceeded to jaggedly hump his palm till the pearlesque frosting of his semen coated your new branding. You watched him finish himself off, keeping your hands to yourself all the while wanting to drag your nails down the stained red of his chest and taste the salt of his sweat, taste yourself on his mouth, massage his balls and feel him ramming himself into you like an animal, sounding like one too as he muffled himself by biting your throat as he so often did, the high-pitch of his groans and whines tearing from his chest pathetic and desperate.

Your blood stained the white a faint pink, and it stung, but with your jaw hanging loose and hips wriggling, the pain made you whimper his name. You needed him worse than ever. Your body trembled with the desire, mixing now with the externalized pain. It felt as if he hadn't embedded it, but drawn it out.

You were buzzing all over, even more so when he unzipped his jacket and discarded his wife beater, handing you the knife so you could carve your initials next to his hip bone.

You walk up ahead of Jimmy with a huff, hurried steps taking you further away until you hear his footsteps close behind you. They're lopsided, and he doesn't say anything, but you keep your eyes forward. You can't find the words to voice your distress until you pinch the space between your brows and sigh again. "It's just that--the others are going to think I can't take care of myself because you're always--you're too protective over me, okay? And I can't risk you getting hurt, especially because of m-"

You spin around and the flash of Jimmy's soft face and golden blonde locks, the sparkle of his crown, and the glint of jagged teeth bursts into a gory display of red eyes, green vomit, and blue veins popping through thin skin with rage. You fall back onto your ass and scramble away just as one of the infected lunges at you. Your cry echoes through the trees, and a flock of birds lurch from their branches into the sky just moments before the infected is shoved off of you. Jimmy stands over it, his shoe planted on its chest as he spears it through the head. You shake all over, and go limp when Jimmy hoists you back to your feet--leaving his spear embedded in the infected's skull--by your collar. Your eyes are still shut when he slams you up against the surface of a nearby rock, grabbing your face and opening your eyes.

"Fuckin' look at me. Look at me." He snarls, continuing to wipe your cheeks after you open your eyes. There's only a moment's pause after he confirms you didn't get infected, where your eyes bore into his, and the panic diminishes. Then, he's dragging you back to both of your weapons and past. "There'll be more, let's go," is all he says, basically scruffing you the entire time till you reach an abandoned cabin. He shoves you against the wall next to the door and hisses, "Don't fuckin' move. And keep watch." Before disappearing inside for what feels like forever.

When he comes back out after clearing the rooms, he drags you in through the door frame, closes the door, and locks it behind you, then leaves you trembling in the entryway.

"We'll stay here for the night, let whatever flocks to the sound disperse again before tryna make our way back."

You wring out your hands in front of you and watch him, slowly taking a few steps forward. "I'm sorry." You mutter. You halt when his eyes snap over to you, electric and filled with frustration. There's something in you that flickers, licks up your core from that look--it's the look of control, the control and power he knows he has over you. His authority. It's a look that urges you to comfort and nurture him, to reassure and calm him. That was your authority. But the adrenaline of fear still courses through you, and you feel like pushing and shoving at Jimmy, of surging toward and hitting him. You were embarrassed, angry at yourself, worried about him, and upset that he would put himself in danger for you. It was exactly what you were trying to warn him against before, only you proved yourself wrong. If he hadn't been there--

"You shouldn't have done that." You press. Jimmy glances toward you from where he's positioned himself at the boarded-up window, looking through a chip in the wood to survey your surroundings.

"And what? Let ye get yerself killed?" He scoffs back.

"Yeah! Better me than you!"

Jimmy's ringed hand flies up to shush you, then, he hisses, "better anybody else than ye."

You roll your eyes and begin to turn away when his hand slips around your bicep and yanks you back. You weren't sure where you would have even gone. The other side of the room? The opposite corner? Put yourself in a time out? Jimmy grabs your cheek again with his other hand. You place your arms between you to keep distance, but he's stronger than you, even when he's being gentle. When he fits his mouth against yours, you're still struggling. There have been many times before where you've woken with his lips on your skin, his hands pulling at your body, when he'd pull you aside and steal you from everyone else to get his use from you. That's how you viewed it--you were fulfilling one of his needs. Same as the others. Didn't matter what you thought of it, or how you felt toward him. Didn't matter if he wouldn't let you up from his bed or told you to go rest yourself there even before he joined you. Didn't matter if you'd noticed he played a certain favoritism and had a certain possessiveness over you--nothing mattered, as long as he was safe. And right now, he wasn't, and it was your fault. You turned your face and your knees buckled as he tried to chase your lips.

A second later, he drops you to your knees. Your palms slap against the damaged wooden floors covered in leaves and dirt and splotches of dried blood and you stay there with your head down for a minute, breathing heavy before sniffling and pushing yourself up and reaching for his waistband.

Jimmy smacks your hands away once, then twice when you reach for him again with a hard, "no."

Instead of letting you peel his pants down and get him off as a sort of apology, and despite the clawing desire inside you to please him, no matter when or where, Jimmy unzips his tracksuit, discarding the jacket, his t-shirt, then his shoes and pants and positions himself in front of you lean and pale and hard. His blonde hair falls just over his sloping shoulders and the muscles in his arms and forearms flex as he positions you on your back after yanking your shirt up.

You lift your hips to allow him to pull down your pants and swallow against a dry throat at the same time your head thumps back. Your spread your thighs for Jimmy, and when his palms swipe beneath them, stroking your legs, your core tightens and your brows quirk up, although your breath is soon stolen not by the intrusion of his weeping head between your sensitive folds, but by him grabbing your hips to roll you over to your belly then yanking them back up so you're forced to your knees. Your elbows against the floor, behind you, Jimmy curves his back and meets the plush of your ass with his teeth. He bites you, hard, the radiating, bruising pain making your pussy spasm around nothing before your whole body tenses at the stinging smack of his palm closer to your hip. His hand remains on top of you and slides up the dip of your spine to the back of your neck. You brace yourself for him to align his length with your cunt, then, but he merely tips his head up and lines the gummy softness--wet from the leaking of precum--to your mons, and slides it down.

Your head falls down and you grind yourself back against the sensation of him rubbing his erection into your clit, and moan quietly at the way your heat gushes from inside you and spills over his pulsing girth.

"That's it, ye'r doin' so good… my good lass." You try and reach down to align him with your entrance, but he clicks his tongue and grabs your arm, wrapping it back with a bend in your elbow so he can pin your wrist to your back. "Use yer words, lass."

"Please-"

"Please, what?"

"Fuck me, I need you to fuck me-"

"N'ye want me to fuck you. Say it."

"I want… you to fuck me, I want it-"

"Want me inside you?"

"Yes! Please, please…"

Jimmy releases your hand and angles your hips, then lets out a slow exhale and sinks himself down into your fluttering, tender walls. He winces as they squeeze around his width, and plants his hands on either side of you once he pushes past the initial resistance. You suck him in involuntarily to the hilt, your belly tense and your whole body shaking. His lips meet the back of your shoulder blade, and he rests his forehead forward, nuzzling you. "Anythin' for ye, it's all for ye," he whispers in between slight kisses.

His thrusts aren't so gentle or careful. Once he begins snapping his hips back, he humps you quick and sloppy with one arm wrapping around your middle to keep you from moving too far away. His necklaces dangle and sway between you before his chest pushes down on your back, and soon your arms are crushed between the floor and your breasts, and he's on his forearms, his teeth leaving more marks on your shoulder. He licks at where blood beads and the stain paints his lips a rose tint.

"Yer mine-all mine-" he whimpers, "won' let anythin' happen to ye-" his tiara slides down toward his forehead and he rips it off, tossing it to the floor. The plastic clatters.

You cry out his name and press your cheek to the floor, each thrust and squelch of his balls smacking your cunt with strings of drool connecting them to your seeping lips and the back of your thighs sticking to his making you choke on your breath. When his name escapes you again, he reaches forward to wrap his hand over your mouth, his palm covering your cheeks and chin and muffling your cries.

Laying on top of you, you breath a little easier once his hips still, but everything is hot and sore and when his other fingers push between your splayed legs and he finds the sensitive bud of erect tissue and begins stroking your clit, you kick your hips back up and squirm beneath his weight.

Your first orgasm comes forcefully and quickly, clenching around his girth and milking him nearly to the point of ejaculation. Your vision goes white, each contraction of your insides around him makes your toes curl and your pelvis ache before he falls to his side and carries you with him.

"Hold onto me, lass," he whispers, adjusting one of your arms to sling back around his head and your top leg over his so he can continue fucking himself up into you with his fingers rubbing circles around your clit. His left arm beneath you, his other hand moves from your breasts to cup the front of your throat. "That's it, yeah, that's it."

Your second orgasm comes shortly after his tongue and teeth suction around the peak of your right nipple. He tugs on it and hollows his cheek and swirls his tongue with a neediness that always shocked you, and it's through that cold shock you coil up and spill over him again.

Jimmy's hips still, and a low groan reverberates through your chest, rattling your ribs and buzzing through your heavy heart. You didn't even realize, but you're fingers had found the depths of his blonde and were tugging at his scalp. Your arm falls forward and your shoulder tweaks from the awkward angle, but you don't make any other movements away from him--not that he would let you.

His lips unlatch from your breast, and his hand slips from your sticky sex to your stomach. It's one of his default ways of showing affection, his forehead to the side of your face, and his hand to your stomach. You didn't even think he knew what it was saying, or knew that the day would come where his seed would take, but the two of you lay there for now and basked in the afterglow of his claiming.

Jimmy was thankful you couldn't see his face, and for the sweat, because when he buried his face in your hair and cradled himself around you, he felt a thick wave of overwhelm and a sting of tears in his eyes. The stress melting from his limbs, he could only hope you could feel the sweet burn of his love, and recognized it as that--his love was just as much devotion as yours was. There was nothing else to it--you were his personal savior. He felt the words bubble up from his chest, as if he could have almost said them. Whispered them in your ear and made them known.

His mouth opened, but then you sat up in front of him at the sound of one of the infected nearing the cabin, and he slowly pushed himself up after you, more sluggish with exhaustion and the need for rest. You peeled yourself away from him and turned to grasp your clothing, catching at the same time the last of that look across his face before Jimmy turned away and followed suit in grabbing his clothes and beginning to re-dress.

That day seemed determined to go wrong from the very beginning.

First, you had lost track of the deer you had been following for weeks—vanished into thin air as if it had never existed—and then the herd arrived.

You all had been scouting the outskirts of northern Great Britain, hunting for supplies in what remained of an old, abandoned supermarket. The shelves had already been looted countless times, but sometimes luck hid in the most unlikely places.

Too bad luck wasn’t on your side.

A pair of Jimmies—always goofing around and messing about—managed to knock over an entire pallet. The crash echoed through the building like a cannon shot.

Immediately afterward came the silence.

And then...chaos.

The noise had drawn the infected from every direction. Within moments, the streets filled with moving bodies, a solid wave that made fighting seem not just useless but suicidal.

Sir Jimmy grabbed you by the arm while you were still frozen.

He said nothing. He dragged you with him toward the dense forest nearby, along with the others. Branches lashed at your face, uneven ground tripped you a few times, and your lungs burned with every gasp of air.

The infected seemed to be everywhere.

With the panic, you two inevitably got separated from the rest of the group. A wrong turn, a shove, a stumble narrowly avoided—and suddenly you were alone, forced to head back toward the road.

When you emerged onto the asphalt stretch, a vast car graveyard greeted you: rusted shells, shattered glass, metal eaten away by years of neglect and abandonment.

You didn’t waste a second.

You spotted a car that, at least, seemed to still have all its doors intact and threw yourselves inside without hesitation, slamming the doors with a thud, your hearts hammering full blast.

You reclined the seats to keep your bodies away from the windows and stayed perfectly still, straining to listen.

Silence filled the air.

Then, after a few seconds of unreal quiet—

Sir Jimmy burst out laughing.

A low, hysterical laugh escaped his lips, still tinged with adrenaline. A sound out of place, almost discordant after the terror you had just survived, making you glance at him with a raised eyebrow.

“What’s so funny?” you asked.

“Ah, nothin' at all. Looks like Old Nick still isn’t ready to have me joinin’ his crew down below.”

“If you cared so much,” you snapped, annoyed, “you could have stayed in that supermarket.”

He moved slowly, sliding his whole body onto one side toward you. The car seat creaked under his weight as he approached, invading your space.

“And leave ya wanderin' this world all on yer own?” he said softly, with a poisonous sweetness. “I could never, luv.”

The tiara was still perfectly in place, nestled in his hair as if the run hadn’t moved it an inch. It framed his forehead, highlighting his eyes: a deep, watchful gray that now fixed on you from below with an intensity impossible to ignore.

And, oh, you knew that look.

“C'mere,” he murmured in a drawn-out tone, extending a hand, beckoning you closer.

You swallowed and cast a nervous glance at the fogged-up windows above, beyond which the forest lay in unnatural silence, but you leaned forward anyway, obedient, past the gap between the seats, resting a hand on his broad chest. You felt the heat of his skin beneath the fabric of his suit, the strong, steady beat of his heart.

“Good girl,” he whispered, the grin slowly widening across his lips, revealing rotting teeth in a satisfied wolfish smile. “Ya ran like a proper lioness out there. We’re unstoppable—me an' you.”

He leaned toward you in a languid movement as his hands closed around your back, arching you against him until your body pressed fully against his.

His face drew near yours, his nose brushing along your jawline in an exploratory caress, as if rediscovering your scent, before his warm lips settled on your neck, right where your pulse throbbed strongest.

“S-Sir Jimmy—outside… they-they could…” you stammered, voice shaking, terror still clinging to your bones.

“Shh.” He silenced you with a commanding hiss, taking your jaw in the palm of his calloused hand and forcing your head toward him.

His lips claimed yours in a rough, hungry kiss, sudden, urgent, with no warning or gentleness. His tongue invaded your mouth with need, exploring, sucking, as if he wanted to take a piece of your soul. The cold, heavy chains grazed the sensitive skin of your neck while he held you tighter, making you shiver from head to toe.

Adrenaline must have fried his brain. You felt it in the frantic way his hands roamed, sliding under your hoodie, under your shirt, eagerly seeking bare skin, heat, contact.

“Shit, I need ya,” he growled against your lips. “I need ya, princess. I need to fuck ya right here, righ’ now, to remind meself we’re alive. That we’re still together.”

His melodramatic words hit you like an electric shock, igniting fire in your lower belly as his impatient fingers undid the drawstrings of your sweatpants, yanking them down with quick, almost furious movements.

“We...we can't—”

You were still shaken, heart racing from fear, but his touch… Old Nick, Sir Jimmy had the power to make you lose all rationality, to make you commit the worst kinds of folly.

He pushed you down along the passenger seat, making you lie on your back against the grimy leather. The car was cramped, the seats worn and dusty, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Well, look at that... someone's a bleedin' fuckin' liar,” he grinned, amused, as his fingers slid between your folds, finding you already soaked, ready despite everything.

The contact made your muscles clench and your legs give a small spasm.

“Yer drenched, hen.” He pushed two fingers deep inside you, the cold rings pressing against your warm skin, heightening every sensation as your walls tightened and stretched to take them.

His fingers moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like he wanted to savor every reaction from you, sliding in and out and curling just enough to hit that spot that made you arch your back and grind against him like a desperate cat in heat.

You found yourself rolling your hips without realizing it, driven only by the growing need to feel more—deeper, harder. A trembling sound escaped your lips, something halfway between a whimper and a plea, as heat spread through your stomach and down your thighs.

His mouth settled between your shoulder and neck, alternating bites with soft sucks that would leave fresh bruises alongside the ones already scattered across your body from the night before.

“Always so responsive,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and full of wonder. “A gift straight from fuckin' hell, all for me.”

When his lips closed over a tender bruise, you moaned loudly.

“J-Jimmy... ah... faster.” You pleaded, barely recognizing your own voice.

Your hands instinctively climbed his shoulders, seeking purchase. Your fingers gripped the fabric of his tracksuit, nails digging in as you desperately tried to anchor yourself while the sensations grew overwhelming.

Your breathing turned ragged, broken, and he noticed immediately. His fingers slowed, then stopped completely, leaving you teetering on the edge.

Jimmy lifted his face from your neck, an arrogant grin on his face shadowed by a light blond stubble. His thumb traced a slow, cruel circle over your swollen clit, teasing you.

“Wanna come without me, luv?” he asked, his voice scratched with ruthless amusement. “Yer so bleeldin' rude.”

His hands pulled away from your skin slowly, leaving you feverish, one step from orgasm, and he brought them to his fly to free himself quickly from that annoying barrier.

He was already hard, straining, his body betraying just how turned on he was. He gave himself a few firm strokes, shifting the skin beneath the head, and the friction drew a small bead of pre-cum to the tip, gathering for a moment before sliding slowly down the shaft, leaving a glistening, slick trail.

He didn't undress further.

Usually, Jimmy loved taking his time: stripping you piece by piece with sadistic patience, lingering with hands and mouth until you begged, until you forgot the outside world. But sometimes—like now—he preferred raw urgency, freeing only what was necessary and taking you fast, hard, without restraint.

“Yer lucky today, me love,” he purred, grabbing your legs, fingers sinking into the softness of your thighs and lifting them effortlessly to fold them against your body until your knees nearly touched your chin, forcing you to open completely beneath him.

The cold rings burned against your skin, and his neck chains swung in front of your face, brushing your nose as the tip of his cock rubbed between your folds, spreading his pre-cum mixed with your wetness in a teasing glide.

“I'm not patient either.”

He drove into you with one sharp, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt in a single stroke that forced the air from your lungs and tore an animalistic moan from deep in your throat.

The initial burn of sudden stretch melted instantly into overwhelming pleasure, the deep, consuming feeling of being completely filled—his veins pulsing against your sensitive walls, his heat flooding you, your body welcoming him as it always did.

“There we are,” he growled, pulling back just enough to watch where you were joined, ravenous. “Home again.”

Without delay, he began thrusting hard right away, his hips slamming against yours with wet, loud smacks, every angle calculated to hit the deepest spot inside you.

The car rocked visibly with each thrust, the creaking suspension protesting, the windows fogging more and more from your hot breath and the heat of your bodies.

Outside, the road was wrapped in oppressive silence, but the danger was still there, palpable, forcing you to keep your eyes on clearer patches of glass.

When he noticed your gaze drifting to the windows, he yanked your attention back with his right thumb rubbing your swollen, sensitive clit. The touch pulled you straight back into the vortex of pleasure and onto him.

“Don’t be gettin’ distracted now, sweetheart. Ya know I don’t like it.”

Before you could snap back, his tongue invaded your mouth again. He sucked yours hard, then moved to bite your lower lip until it hurt—all to draw a reaction, to feel you alive and responsive beneath him.

And he got it.

Your hands clutched the back of his blond hair, pulling hard enough to tilt his head into the perfect angle for deepening the kiss, making him growl with pleasure against your mouth.

The pace quickened; his thrusts grew shorter, faster, relentless, hammering that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your closed eyelids. Every movement tore ragged gasps from you, every press brought you closer to the edge. Another finger joined the first on your clit, moving with bold precision and dragging you there—so close, so fast.

“S-Sir...fuck— Jimmy, I'm close—” you gasped against his lips, voice breaking, your free hand clutching his tracksuit without knowing whether you wanted to pull him deeper or push him away.

But right then, the worst happened.

A noise outside: guttural moans, shuffling steps on the debris-strewn asphalt.

Infected.

A small group passed slowly near the car, drawn perhaps by the slight rocking or the scent of sweat and sex. Their shapes loomed against the fogged windows, claws scraping the air, nostrils flaring as they sniffed.

Your moan of pleasure turned into a choked scream of terror—you were about to come, your body trembling uncontrollably.

“Shh, for fuckin' sake!” Jimmy hissed, eyes flicking to the windows. He pulled back just enough for his thick head to almost slip out, dragging against your sensitive entrance and leaving you empty and clenching for a second and waited.

When the infected veered towards a group of more distant cars, he returned to lowering his gaze on you and, with a grin, he slammed back in hard, hitting that deep spot that curled your toes and rolled your eyes.

One hand flew to cover your mouth before the scream could escape, his ringed fingers pressing over your lips, sealing them tight.

The metallic taste of gold flooded your tongue as he kept driving harder, deeper, utterly unfazed—and probably turned on—by the death surrounding you.

He muffled your moans, turning them into desperate whimpers against his palm while outside the Infected growled louder. One even stopped a few meters away, head tilted as if listening.

The danger made everything unbearably intense, and your traitorous body shattered.

The orgasm crashed over you like a violent wave, your walls clamping down around his hot shaft as you whimpered desperately against his hand, tears of terror and pleasure streaking your cheeks while you arched your back and threw your head back.

You felt your fluids gush in a heavy rush, completely soaking his hard cock still moving inside you.

The wet sound filled your ears, followed by Jimmy's familiar needy groans as he neared his limit, while thin rivulets leaked from where you were joined, wetting his tense balls, dripping onto the worn seat beneath you and pooling warm between your intertwined thighs.

“Jaysus, I love when ya do that—”

The word dissolved into a whine as pleasure overtook him, forcing him to lean forward. He bit you hard just below the jaw before giving in to the heat melting from his core.

His hot cum flooded you in powerful jets, mixing with your release that you felt trickling down the curve of your ass, sliding over your skin in a strangely pleasurable sensation.

He let your legs wrap around his waist, easing the strained position, and looked at you with glassy, satisfied eyes, breath still ragged.

You stayed like that for long minutes, panting, while the Infected drifted away from the car. When Jimmy was sure the danger had passed, he leaned over your exhausted body and brushed delicate, almost reverent kisses across your forehead.

You had faced a pandemic, years of isolation, the death of loved ones, nights spent counting breaths out of fear that one of them might be the last before waking up with anger in your eyes and a constant hunger for something. For years, fear had worn only one face: that of the infected, of the blind violence of the virus.

You had never thought you would have to fear the living as well.

The blood-smeared knife in your hand is heavy—too heavy. The handle slips slightly between your sweaty fingers, and for an instant you have the absurd sensation that it doesn’t belong to you, as if it had appeared there without your consent. The blood isn’t cold yet; you see it dripping slowly from the blade, falling onto the packed earth and mixing with the dust, forming a dark stain that spreads little by little.

The young man’s body lies on the ground in front of you in an unnatural position, like a marionette with its strings cut. His eyes are still open, glassy, fixed on a point that no longer exists. His mouth is left slightly open, frozen halfway through a plea that never found a voice. His hands, moments ago reaching toward you, are now stiff, the fingers bent awkwardly against the ground.

His screams keep echoing in your head even though they’ve been gone for a while now. You heard them rise in pitch, break apart, turn into sobbing until they became nothing. Those screams drown out everything else: the crude laughter, the whistles, the comments hurled like stones by the other four members of the cult. You hear them only as a distant, muddled buzz, stripped of meaning. The whole world seems to have shrunk to that precise moment, to the instant when you understood there was no way out.

A life for a life.

Winning meant keeping your place in the sacred circle. Losing meant dying, and the winner was destined to take on the role of one of the Fingers in the great design of Old Nick.

It was the rule that would haunt you for the rest of your days.

You realize you’re trembling only when a strong hand clamps down on your shoulder and yanks you backward, tearing you out of your paralysis. The contact is rough, invasive. You’re pulled into an embrace you didn’t ask for, didn’t want.

“Woah, lass. Ye did good.”

The voice of the blond man—no, not the blond man, but Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal—reaches your ear, thick with excitement. His breath is warm against the shell of your ear, his words drawn out like an intimate whisper that makes your skin prickle.

“And he was one of the best after Jimmy Ink.”

The way he says it is almost proud, as if he were talking about a trophy, a trial successfully passed. His fingers still dig into your shoulder, leaving a mark you know will turn into a bruise.

You force yourself to look away, to fix your gaze elsewhere.

You see her—the girl in the red jumpsuit. She’s sitting on a low wall not far away, one leg bent, the other dangling in the air. She’s cleaning her nails with a knife, as if she were bored. She doesn’t look at you. She doesn’t look at the body on the ground. She doesn’t look at anything that’s just happened. To her, you’re just the newcomer who stole someone else’s place, and who will eventually have to defend her own.

Sir Jimmy turns you between his hands so he can look you over better, as if you were an object to be inspected. Someone behind you throws an orange hoodie over your shoulders. You recognize it immediately: it belonged to the boy lying on the ground, the one who had decided to take it off before fighting you. The fabric is rough, dirty, soaked with smells you can’t quite identify.

Jimmy Crystal adjusts it on you carefully, his knuckles sliding over your stomach and between your chest beneath your T-shirt with excruciating slowness, zipping it all the way up as if he were dressing you for a ceremony. His gray eyes pin you with a look of approval that makes your blood boil.

The knife vibrates in your hand. You feel it as both a promise and a threat. It would take so little. One quick movement, one clean cut. His throat is right there, exposed beneath the weight of those glittering gold chains. For a second you see everything with terrible clarity: the blood splashing your face, his body collapsing, the screams of his followers.

But you don’t do it.

You’re not that brave. Maybe you never were. You understood that the moment you chose to fight instead of die.

So you began to serve Sir Jimmy, unwillingly, day after day, dirtying your hands with a cruelty you didn’t recognize as your own. You learned to carry out orders, to ask no questions, not to look too long into the eyes of those who were given a choice.

In the name of something you didn’t believe in.

Old Nick. Satan. Whatever name they gave him, whatever symbols they drew with blood. To you, he had never been anything more than an excuse, a rotten idea Jimmy Crystal clung to in order to give meaning to violence. To them, though, it was real. To the Fingers.

At first, you’d been lucky. Over time you’d faced a couple of people, and each time you’d won more by chance than by skill—someone else’s misstep.

But how long could that last?

Aside from Jimmy Ink, you were the only woman. Always the most watched, the most tested, and you’d decided not to get involved more than necessary.

You always sat a little apart, your back against something solid, the knife close at hand. You listened to Jimmy Crystal talk, spinning stories about Old Nick whom he praised as his Father. His words hypnotized the others. You let them wash over you.

Sometimes you wondered if any of them realized how much he resembled an Alpha. Not in body, but in mind. In the way he dominated the room, in the way the others moved around him, ready to react to every shift in his tone.

At first you thought you could escape, wait for a moment of distraction. But the cult is organized. The older members never take their eyes off you when you move away; you aren’t even allowed to wash or relieve yourself alone because, even when you don’t see them, you feel their eyes on you.

So you stayed, waiting day by day for when your moment would come—whether it would be your escape… or your death.

The night wraps around you like a foreign skin, taut and uncomfortable. Guard duty has always been the moment you hate and love at the same time: you hate it because it leaves you alone with your thoughts, you love it because it’s the only space where you can pretend you’re still in control of yourself.

The fire a short distance away crackles softly, reduced to embers so as not to draw unwanted attention. Around you, the others’ sleeping bags form motionless shapes, bodies abandoned to a heavy sleep—unaware, or simply resigned.

Jimmy Ink, however, is not asleep. She never is when it’s your turn.

The moon is almost completely swallowed by the clouds. Every now and then a pale slit filters through the compact gray of the sky, but it lasts only an instant, far too little to truly illuminate anything. There isn’t much to watch on the horizon: only twisted trees, gutted buildings, and the perimeter of the camp where you’ve set your rudimentary traps—bottles tied to strings to warn of intruders, living or infected alike.

When you hear footsteps approaching, your body reacts before your mind. Your shoulders tense, your hand instinctively moves closer to where you keep the knife hidden. Then you recognize the gait, the steady rhythm, ostentatiously calm.

Sir Jimmy.

He approaches unhurriedly and sits beside you, close enough to invade your space, far enough away to pretend he isn’t a threat. His profile is intermittently lit by the fire, making his blond hair gleam as it falls over his cheeks, the gold necklaces at his neck and the many rings on his fingers, set with gemstones of every color.

Since the sky offers no distractions, Sir Jimmy soon stops pretending to watch the horizon. He turns toward you, and his gaze pierces straight through you.

“I've a wee feelin' like ye're not entirely sold on this mission of ours, Jimmy.”

The sentence drops between you, heavy with that false geniality he uses during sermons.

You don’t move. You’ve learned to control every muscle, every micro-expression when you’re around him. Inside, though, your heart hammers against your chest with a violence you fear he might hear.

You inhale slowly, letting the cold air fill your lungs.

“Yeah?” you reply, neutral.

Jimmy tilts his head, studying you as if you were a puzzle he can’t quite solve. “Aye. Ye always keep to yerself. Never laugh. Never confess a thin' to the magnanimous Sir Lord Jimmy.” He smiles faintly, but there’s no warmth in it. “Old Nick doesn’t seem too pleased about that.”

A quick glance at the sleeping bags confirms that the others are asleep. All of them. Even Ink’s head seems to be lolling against the tree it’s resting on. The silence is broken only by the fire and the light wind stirring the leaves. Part of you registers how absurd it is that he allows himself to speak to you like this, alone, without his Fingers ready to defend him. He must be stupid. Or incredibly confident.

You’ve never seen him fight. You’ve never seen him do anything that required real strength. The others were always ready to dirty their hands for him. You hated not knowing. You hated not knowing any of his weaknesses, any blind spot in that armor of charisma and insane cruelty.

You stay silent too long. You realize it when Jimmy’s expression darkens, his brows knitting, his jaw tightening.

“Matters of the heart, Sir.” The words come out fast, before you’ve even truly thought them through. An improvised lie to divert him. “I’m sure you understand.”

Jimmy blinks, visibly thrown off. It’s a tiny crack, but you see it. “Matters of the heart?”

You nod, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah, y'know…” You hesitate for a blink, then let your gaze slide toward the blue jacket of the new Jimmy, a short distance away. “You remember the last Jimmy…”

You lied shamelessly, without blushing—but the lie is built on something real. You had formed a clear connection with the boy who used to wear that jacket. He was young, impulsive, with a crush on you that you’d never shut down. You could have used him. You could have escaped.

But you hadn’t had the time.

This bastard had ruined everything by choosing to face a small group a few days earlier. And as always, he’d lost a finger to gain a new one. Better, according to him.

You thought he’d drop the subject, walk away like he always did when a conversation bored him. Instead, he leans slightly toward you.

“What do ye mean?”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised. “What do I mean… about what?”

He clicks his tongue, annoyed. “Ye said there was somethin' between the two of ye. What're ye talkin' about?”

You restrain the urge to roll your eyes. Did you really have to spell it out?

The fire crackles, casting dancing shadows across his face, accentuating the irritation mixed with curiosity in his gray eyes.

“The usual things, Sir. Kisses, touches…”

Inside, a voice screams: God, what did I do to deserve this conversation?

“Touches…” he repeats slowly, as if dredging up old memories.

His hand moves, almost distractedly, brushing your back. His fingers trace a line along your spine through the orange hoodie, and you suppress the instinct to jerk away.

“Like this?” he asks, with a curiosity he doesn’t try to hide.

You blink and turn to look at him. “Well… not exactly…”

“And how, then?” His tone tightens, almost irritated, as if the very idea of getting it wrong bothers him.

Your jaw clenches. He couldn’t be serious. He’s provoking you. It has to be that. He’s playing with you for the sheer pleasure of it, to wring a reaction out of you, to have something new to laugh about with the rest of the lunatics.

But if he wanted to play, then you would play.

“Intimate touches, Sir. Like…” Your hand moves on instinct, touching his neck first—the warm skin, the accelerated pulse under your fingers—and he leans forward, as if made of malleable clay, tilting his head to give you better access, his eyes half-closing in anticipation.

Then, without thinking too much about it but to make the point definitively clear, you press your fingers into his inner thigh, right there, close to his groin, with firm pressure.

It’s brief. Enough.

And you feel him jolt.

Everything happens in a flash.

His hand slaps yours away violently, forcing you to pull back, and immediately afterward he grabs you by the front of your hoodie. He yanks you toward him, so close you almost bang foreheads and his ring-laden fist rises in front of your face, ready to strike.

His eyes are wide, frightened and feverish, pupils blown in the dark. A vivid red has colored his cheeks and ears, spreading fast like a fire down his exposed neck.

He looks… vulnerable, for the first time.

Not the charismatic leader, not the mad preacher, but a man genuinely caught off guard.

“S-Sir…” you try to say.

Your hand slides toward your side, where you keep the knife hidden. You weren’t going to stand there and let yourself be beaten to death—if it ended like this, you’d take him with you.

But as your gaze drops to assess the most lethal place to strike, your eyes catch a detail that’s impossible to ignore. The clear, unmistakable shape of an erection outlined in his dark purple pants, lit by the crackling glow of the nearby fire. A physical response, unequivocal, that has nothing to do with anger.

An absurd, almost comical realization crosses your mind.

Before you can open your mouth, Sir Jimmy shoves you away with force. You fall backward, your back hitting the hard ground, the breath knocked from your lungs as the hoodie gathers dust.

When you lift your head, he’s already walking away. You watch him stride toward his tent at the center of the camp until his rigid, furious silhouette disappears behind the fabric door, pulling it shut behind him without sparing you another glance.

Silence returns, broken only by your ragged breathing and the crackle of the fire. You look toward Ink, who seems to have woken up and now has her brown eyes fixed on you. You ignore her and slowly get to your feet, brushing the dirt from your hoodie, your heart still pounding—but now for a different reason.

Your face splits into a smile—genuine, wide, the first in a long time.

It seems you’ve just found Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal’s weakness. And that weakness might be the only thing capable of guaranteeing your escape.

For a long time, Sir Jimmy doesn’t speak to you.

It isn’t casual silence, nor simple forgetfulness. It’s intentional, meant to distance himself from the thought of that encounter. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t include you, doesn’t provoke you. And you allow it.

You give him the space he needs. You never confront him, never openly seek him out. That would be foolish: you’ve seen what happens to those who challenge his ego.

Instead, you use other ways to understand whether that nocturnal reaction — the flush, the treacherous erection, the embarrassed retreat — was real, or merely an illusion born of your desperation.

Days pass in an oppressive routine, marked by the pale sun filtering through the clouds despite it being summer, and by the constant background of distant howls from the infected. Challenges are rare during this period — no new captives, only patrols returning empty-handed — and tension hangs in the air like fog.

Then, finally, a clear and warm day arrives, one of those rare ones in this God-forsaken place, where the sun shines unobstructed, heating the air until it becomes heavy and sticky.

The heat makes sweat run down spines, soaking clothes with a sharp smell. The group collectively decides to bathe in the nearby river — a deviation from the beaten path, but a necessary one. The infected are far away today, no howls on the horizon, and even Jimmy Crystal nods solemnly: “Old Nick grants us a moment of purification.”

You couldn’t care less what Old Nick said; you would have fought all of them just to scrub that filth off your skin.

You move away from the group of men, reaching a calm, wide, shallow stretch, with a bank covered in smooth pebbles and sparse trees that offer partial shade from their eyes.

You leave all your clothes on the shore, including the irritating golden wigs, and undress without shame.

Jimmy Ink slips out of the red jumpsuit with fluid movements, her lean, tattooed body emerging like shadows against pale skin, and sinks into the river as if she doesn’t feel the cold. You follow immediately after, the icy water biting at your ankles and forcing you to stifle a squeak, until it reaches your thighs — a delicious contrast with the sun burning against your bare back.

The river is clear here, the gravel bed sparkling beneath the rays, the current gentle. You wade in up to your waist, feeling weeks of sweat and dust dissolve and wash away, your skin tingling from the invigorating cold.

Jimmy Ink glides toward you. The water reaches her chest, hiding the curves of her small, firm breasts. Her smile is as sharp and unsettling as ever, even without the wig covering her short, curly hair.

“What do you say? A bit of this in exchange for a few inches of your dental floss?” she offers, showing you a pink bar of soap — a rare relic salvaged from a looted pharmacy.

“Fuck, I’m in,” you sigh with relief. You reach out, and she tosses it to you with precise aim. The soap splashes against the water before landing in your palm.

You let yourself sink completely under, submerging up to your head, but you last only a few seconds before the cold forces you back up, resurfacing with a deep gasp. Water streams down your face, your neck, between your breasts, washing away layers of accumulated grime.

Ink steps out of the river with feline grace, water running along her athletic body, dripping from her muscular thighs. She wraps herself in a towel — also scavenged from a recent raid on a mountain hotel — and settles onto a sheet spread on the bank, lying in the sun to dry more thoroughly.

You keep rubbing the soap over your skin, the sweet scent spreading into the warm air, contrasting with the earthy smell of the river. You start at your neck, fingers massaging the scented foam along your collarbone, slowly moving down over your breasts, your hips, between your thighs.

The water is cool, the sun warm on your wet skin, and for a moment you allow yourself to close your eyes, to forget the cult, the trials, the constant fear.

But then the sun catches something at the edge of your vision — a reflection piercing through your eyelids.

You slowly turn your head and find him: Sir Jimmy Crystal in the distance, leaning back against a tree, his body wrapped in a bathrobe.

He stands there, arms crossed over his chest, his blond hair finally clean, catching the light like a golden aura.

He doesn’t fully hide — or perhaps he doesn’t realize he’s being seen. His gray eyes are fixed on your body, tracing the curves made slick and inviting by the water.

You don’t cover yourself. On the contrary, you lower your arms and rise up, letting the water fall back to mid-thigh, exposing your naked body in its entirety. Your full breasts emerge dripping, nipples hardened by the cold, along with the line of your waist curving into your hips and the dark triangle between your thighs brushed by the water.

You let him look — a silent test — your heart accelerating slightly with the audacity.

The sun lights you like a spotlight, your skin gleaming with water and foam, and for a moment your eyes meet his — that feverish, vulnerable look you remember — but when your gazes lock, he snaps his eyes away. He turns abruptly and heads back toward the others.

You grin in satisfaction, a predatory smile spreading across your lips as you stare at the spot where he vanished.

He was still interested. That weakness hadn’t disappeared — suppressed, perhaps, but alive, throbbing beneath his cult-leader façade.

“Something wrong?” Jimmy Ink asks as she moves back toward the water to wash her red jumpsuit, dunking the blood-stained fabric and scrubbing it with vigorous motions.

Her voice is casual, but her black eyes study you, always alert, always suspicious.

You snap out of it, turning toward her with a deliberately calmer smile as you resume rubbing the soap over your arms.

“No. Everything’s going magnificently.”

You find a house in a small residential complex that’s been abandoned for years, with gardens overrun by tall weeds and rusted cars parked in the driveways like relics of a past life.

You clear the area of a few infected with brutal efficiency — the usual routine work. There are only about ten of them, scattered, and they aren’t particularly fast.

The three male Jimmies take them on first, knives and improvised bats sinking into rotting skulls with wet, sickening cracks, and Jimmy Ink joins in right after.

You contribute with the bow, arrows whistling as they strike heads from a safe distance. Close combat has never been your specialty.

Jimmy Crystal watches from the villa’s porch, arms crossed, without getting his hands dirty — as always. In half an hour it’s over: gurgling bodies left to rot on cracked asphalt, the air soaked with that familiar putrid stench.

You’ll sleep peacefully, at least for a few nights.

The villa Sir Jimmy has chosen has three floors and looks almost untouched by the catastrophic events, as if the owners had stepped out for a vacation and no one had ever returned.

Once the door is opened, you’re welcomed by a hallway that opens into a large living room with a fireplace and bookcases packed with books. Upstairs, there are several spacious bedrooms and two bathrooms. Each Finger chooses their room with childish greed: the men argue over the largest rooms on the second floor, and Jimmy Ink takes one on the first floor near the exit to keep watch; Jimmy Crystal, naturally, claims the master bedroom, with a balcony and a king-size bed on the second floor.

You do the same, picking one at random on the second floor.

The room is feminine, perhaps once belonging to a teenage daughter before the virus: faded pink walls, torn posters of forgotten bands, a wardrobe full of dusty clothes that are still cleaner than your rags.

You let yourself fall onto the double bed for a moment, the mattress creaking softly under your weight, and close your eyes for a brief second of relief.

Absentmindedly, you roll onto your stomach and reach out to open the piece of furniture beside the bed — a dark wooden nightstand with brass knobs.

Among yellowed magazines and a diary, you find two pairs of handcuffs: cold, heavy metal, with pink faux fur lining the edges, hidden there by who knows whom. You pick them up, the familiar weight making you grin inwardly — they don’t seem damaged, and the keys are still attached with a strip of faded tape.

Thanks to them, your plan finally takes on a definitive shape.

It’s late at night, and the air inside the abandoned villa is thick with the lingering scent of the hunt: venison roasted over the improvised fireplace in the living room, a wild, smoky smell mingling with the dying crackle of embers and the heavy breathing of the drowsy Jimmies.

You ate in silence, watching every move, calculating every glance. You only excused yourself once, pretending to go to the bathroom, seizing the chance to make all your preparations. But that had been the easy part. The difficult one was something else entirely.

Seduce the devil.

When you see Sir Jimmy rise from the central couch — his place of honor, piled high with cushions — your heart jumps into your throat for a moment. He stretches his back lazily and steps between the boys sprawled on the floor, kicking one who almost made him trip. He starts up the stairs, making them creak under his weight, and when he turns onto the second flight, you decide to get up.

You exchange a look with Ink when she lifts her eyes to you, but she shrugs almost immediately, going back to flipping through pages with a dirty fingernail as if she didn’t care.

You follow Sir Jimmy silently until you see him enter his bedroom on the second floor. You wait for the door to close behind him before hurrying down the hallway and reaching it yourself.

You step closer, your heart pounding in a steady rhythm, and knock softly: three light taps, almost timid.

Curtain up.

Jimmy — who probably hadn’t gone far from the door — opens it again with a creak. His eyes widen when he sees you, a flash of surprise crossing his face, but you put on the most innocent expression you can manage: eyes lowered, lips parted in a vulnerable pout, hands twisting the hem of the orange hoodie.

“Sir Jimmy, do you think it would be possible to hear a confession?”

He frowns, blond brows drawing together into a hard line. “Now?”

You force your face into a sad expression, eyes darting away as if embarrassed, shoulders hunching slightly. “If it’s a problem, it doesn’t matter…” You look down at the floor, faking a blush you don’t feel, your voice trembling on purpose. “But y'know… I keep having these thoughts about you, and I don’t know how to get rid of them…” You shake your head slowly, a gesture of defeat. “But never mind. It’s probably just exhaustion.”

Your performance works: he grabs your shoulder with a firm but hesitant hand, fingers tightening in the fabric of your hoodie, stopping you before you can pull away.

His touch is steady, and you feel his breathing speed up slightly. “'Tis absolutely not a problem, me Finger. Come in.”

You suppress a victorious smile — an inward grin that warms your chest as you cross the threshold. The room is spacious, the king-size bed ready for use, a few candles on the nightstand casting long shadows across the wallpapered walls.

Everything is exactly as you left it.

He closes the door behind you with a final click and gestures for you to sit on the edge of the bed.

You’re about to speak, but he raises a hand to silence you and lifts two fingers to his temple, the way he always does when calling for the attention of His Father. You have to bite your lip to keep an exasperated groan from slipping out.

“Very well, lass. Speak yer mind freely. Old Nick and I are listenin',” he says, his voice slipping into that paternalistic tone, heavy with false religious empathy.

He sits beside you, not too close but near enough for you to feel the warmth of his body, grey eyes studying you with a mix of curiosity and authority.

“What demons are tormentin' ye?” he adds.

You sit a little straighter, angling your body halfway toward his, and begin.

“I’ve been having impure thoughts lately,” you clear your throat, eyes avoiding his. “Followed by things I do in my dreams. It’s as if someone were asking something of me…”

He stiffens slightly — embarrassed yet excited. You see it in the way he swallows, in his pupils dilating again, in the flush creeping up to his ears. “W-what… what kind o' things?” he asks, his voice cracking just a little, hands clenching on his knees. “Describe 'em. Old Nick often speaks through dreams. It’s his way o' testin' us.”

You lean forward, taking the risk, closing the distance to heighten the sense of intimacy.

“I could show you.”

Your fingers catch the zipper of the hoodie and slowly pull it down, centimeter by centimeter, the metallic sound echoing softly through the silent room.

You’re wearing nothing underneath. Bare skin emerges pale in the candlelight, your breasts exposed to the cool night air, nipples hardened by the cold—or by adrenaline.

He nods dazedly, grey eyes now completely fixed on your body, mouth slightly open in a shallow, unsteady breath.

“I think this is what he’s asking of me,” you continue, your voice now a seductive whisper, commanding beneath its mask of devotion. “To free you from the burden of virginity. An offering to his favored son through me, his humble instrument.”

Jimmy Crystal swallows a little too loudly, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly as he watches the hoodie slide fully onto the bed behind you, leaving your upper body bare.

“Because you are a virgin, aren’t you, my lord?”

He nods stupidly.

You take one of his hands in yours—the calloused fingers, the cold, heavy rings clinking softly—and place it over your left breast, pressing it against the warm flesh. The rings are icy against your skin, a contrast that makes you shiver for real this time.

He lets out a soft moan, a muffled sound, eyes closing for a moment as his fingers stay there, frozen.

“Let me guide you,” you whisper, your hand covering his, pressing it more firmly against your breast until you feel your nipple harden beneath his rough palm. “Explore, Sir Jimmy. Old Nick wants you to know your gift.”

You guide him slowly, your fingers directing his in lazy circles around the nipple, making him brush it, pinch it lightly.

He obeys, eager: his fingers tighten gently, exploring the yielding softness, tracing the underside of your breast as if mapping new territory.

“It’s… so soft,” he pants, his voice cracking, the rings lightly scraping your sensitive skin as he moves to the other breast, taking it with both hands now, kneading with excited clumsiness. His thumb brushes the stiffened nipple on its own this time, making you arch your back slightly—not from pure pleasure, but to heighten his reaction, to make him unravel further.

“You learn quickly, Sir,” you murmur, your voice honeyed as you lean in to brush your lips against his ear. “But there’s more to offer.”

You rise to your feet with slow, sinuous movements, and his hands abandon your breasts, reddened by his touch. You step between his open legs, nudging them apart with your knees to make room. Your body looms over him as he sits on the edge of the bed, forcing him to tilt his head up to keep looking into your eyes.

With fluid, calculated motions, you unfasten your pants and slide them down over your hips, kicking them away along with your boots in a careless gesture.

“Touch me here,” you order softly, taking his trembling hands again and guiding them downward, first over your hips, then along your inner thighs, making them graze sensitive skin.

He gasps, embarrassed to the core—the flush now spreading up his neck—but overstimulated, his fingers obeying eagerly.

He starts at your thighs, tracing hesitant lines upward, brushing your outer lips with feather-light touches, as if afraid he might burn himself.

For a moment you hope the preparation you’d done earlier would be enough to keep you aroused—and the confirmation comes in Jimmy’s awed voice.

“It’s… wet,” he murmurs, fingers sliding slowly between slick folds, exploring the outer lips, then the inner ones, clumsily brushing your swollen clit in a way that makes you tense involuntarily. He see that.

“I know, it’s the effect you have on me, Sir,” you lie shamelessly.

You place one knee beside him on the soft mattress, then the other, straddling him to give him better access.

Beneath the inside of your left thigh, you immediately feel his cock twitch angrily, a desperate pulse against the fabric of his pants, searching for attention he himself doesn’t seem to know how to ask for.

You guide him again, your hand over his, directing him with calculated precision.

“Here, harder,” you whisper, pressing his middle finger against your entrance, making it slide in slowly.

Tight, wet heat envelops him instantly, your walls instinctively clenching around the intrusion, and he opens his mouth on a broken breath.

Your faces hover close, only inches apart, his warm, uneven breath brushing your parted lips set in a carefully practiced expression of ecstasy.

His fingers begin to move on their own now, exploring with growing confidence—two fingers inside, curling gently, his thumb playing with your clit in uneven circles.

You want to hate it, to tell yourself it’s doing nothing for you—that he’s only a means to an end—but the man is a fast learner, startlingly intuitive.

"Ye like it, don't ye?" he grins under you.

The movements grow smoother, his fingers pumping slowly inside you in a rhythm that makes you wetter still, a traitorous heat building low in your belly despite your mental detachment.

“Undress me,” he orders, his voice rough and commanding for the first time, catching you off guard. A flicker of residual authority sparks in his gaze.

The surprise lasts only a second before you comply. Naked or not, he wouldn’t obstruct the plan.

You keep rocking slowly against his hand, hips rolling to maintain friction while your fingers pull down his zipper, shrugging his robe off his shoulders. His white shirt and gold necklaces follow, leaving him bare above the waist. Only the rings remain.

Jimmy moans loudly when your nails lightly rake his nipples, and his fingers inside you still, overwhelmed by pleasure and thought colliding at once. But you don’t stop.

You slip your hand into his pants and grasp his cock—hot, skin smooth and taut over swollen veins, the head already slick.

He falls back with a blissed-out sigh, landing against the mattress, and you take advantage of it to free him with a sharp tug, his pants sliding down his thighs.

You begin to stroke him slowly, your hand pumping from base to tip with firm pressure, your thumb rubbing the sensitive head in slow circles.

His reaction to pleasure is ecstatic, pure, almost childlike: eyes fluttering shut, head sinking back into the pillow with a long moan pitched curiously high, his body arching toward your hand as if it’s the first time he’s ever felt something like this—and maybe it is.

“Father… fuck, thank you for yer blessing…” he babbles, the words spilling out in a garbled stream.

You take advantage of his dizziness to shove his shoulders further into the mattress, his body stretching out, obedient. You were so close…

Your eyes flick to the glint of the handcuffs hooked to the bedframe and half-hidden by pillows, and you speed up your strokes, your hand pumping faster as you feel his cock swell even more.

He’s about to come—you can feel it in the way his hips jerk upward, in the moans turning into pathetic whimpers, in the tremor running through his thighs.

Suddenly, his hands grab your ass, fingers digging desperately into soft flesh, and he thrusts upward, forcing your groin against his rigid cock. The shaft, still wrapped in your hand, rubs against your wet folds, sliding between them without entering.

A frightened moan escapes you, and you freeze in that position for a moment before he speaks.

“I need more,” he pants, his voice a begging growl, eyes boring into you. “Old Nick… he demands more from me. Let me inside ye, sweet pea.”

Like hell Old Nick wants more from you, you think.

Disgust twists your stomach as he shifts his body to gain better access to your deepest parts.

“Sir… maybe we should take it slow—” you try, attempting to regain control, to slow the pace that’s slipping from your grasp.

“Are ye contradictin' me?!” he snarls instantly, his face darkening, his grip on your ass tightening painfully, eyes flashing with wounded authority.

You bite your tongue, the metallic taste of blood filling your mouth as you swallow pride and fear alike.

“No… no, Sir,” you murmur submissively, feigning devotion in a thin voice. “Your desire is my command.”

You make the sacrifice.

You lift yourself slightly onto your knees, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance with one hand, and slowly lower yourself onto him, centimeter by centimeter.

He’s thick, hot, long—he fills you in a way that makes you moan for real, your walls tightening around his shaft.

He cries out softly, ecstatic, his hands forcing you down faster, not giving you time to adjust to his size.

When your hips finally collide, a violent jolt shoots up your spine and you bow your head forward slightly.

Your wig slips from your head, but Jimmy grabs it quickly and tosses it aside onto the mattress.

“Is this paradise, Father? Or the warm, pleasant hell ye’re keepin' for me at yer side?” he asks the air, but you don’t have the strength to analyze his bullshit.

He rolls his hips upward just enough to grind against a deep spot inside you that makes your toes curl with pleasure—and snaps you back to yourself.

You force a deliberately slow rhythm, lifting yourself until only the head remains inside before slamming fully back down, biting into your cheek against the pain. He’d lose his mind soon enough—but you could still save yourself.

You think only of the handcuffs as you pick up the pace, denying yourself the angle that would bring pleasure and dull your focus.

You hover over him, ready to snatch one of his wrists the moment he tips over the edge—

But something goes wrong.

His face, once blissed-out, hardens at the too-slow rhythm, and in a feral flash he grabs you and flips your positions.

The world spins for a second before you realize your back is against the mattress, sheets tangled around you, a crushing weight pinning you down in a sudden prison.

You’re restrained, trapped—his knees force your thighs apart violently, one of his hand pin your wrists above your head in an iron grip, his face hovering inches from yours with a satisfied smirk.

You try to lift your arms, but it’s useless. You don’t have the strength to fight him; his body is stronger than yours.

Panic clamps around your throat as you realize the plan is slipping away, that you can’t reach the handcuffs, that you’re beneath him, exposed and vulnerable. Tears fill your eyes and you’re forced to close them so he won’t see you break.

He doesn’t give a literal fuck.

He thrusts back into you with a sharp, deep, brutal drive—no slowness now, no virgin hesitation. Just fast, punishing thrusts, hips slamming into yours with wet, obscene sounds. His cock filling you completely with every shove, scraping your inner walls hard enough to tear moans from you despite everything.

You try to resist—clench your teeth, shut your eyes, tell yourself it’s just flesh, that you feel nothing, that you’re enduring this for the plan—but the traitorous pleasure builds again, your thighs trembling as they lock around his hips.

“Me good girl, good lass,” he growls over you, his voice low and possessive, grey eyes piercing you with a mad triumph as he speeds up, his blond hair brushing your face. His free hand caresses your face in a twisted way, then his thumb forces your parted lips to open wider. “Ye make such lovely sounds. Give me more.”

You try to hold back the moans, to bite your tongue, to remain stoic—you won’t give him this satisfaction, you won’t show weakness—but he releases your wrists and your mouth only to shove your thighs downward, spreading you completely, and thrusts into you at an angle that makes you scream.

You feel drained, pinned beneath his weight despite your arms now being free, your body responding even as your mind screams for resistance.

“J-Jimmy…” his name slips out of you in a strangled moan, your nails digging into his back either from pain or to anchor yourself.

He lets out a guttural, deep moan, his body trembling over yours as he slows for a moment, savoring your involuntary surrender.

“God, I do love me name when ye say it like that,” he pants.

His hand rises to your face again, gripping it firmly and forces your mouth open as he crashes his lips onto yours without warning. His tongue plunges in immediately, probing your palate with desperate, consuming hunger, as if he wants to devour you.

His unkempt beard scrapes your face—hard, bristly stubble irritating the delicate skin of your cheeks, your chin, your upper lip, a sharp burn that makes your eyes water as you try to turn your head, to resist.

But he holds you still, his grip unyielding.

You moan into his mouth—you can’t stop it—a muffled sound he drinks greedily as he keeps driving into you, his rhythm turning erratic, feral.

He pulls back just enough to take in the wreck you’ve become, then moans “Do it again. Say me name and make yer lord happy.”

“J-Jimmy…” you moan again to feed him, and this time you let the tears fall.

He resumes the brutal rhythm, his cock stretching and filling you with violence, while one hand slips between your bodies to rub your clitoris with his rough thumb, making you contract and tremble.

“I bet I fuck ye better than old Jimmy, don’t I?” he adds against your lips with furious jealousy, biting you until you bleed slightly, the metallic taste mixing with saliva as he thrusts harder, as if to erase something that never even existed.

You don’t answer—you can’t, your breath shattered—but inside, you boil.

“I’ll keep ye on this bed night an' day—fuck, night an' day,” he repeats like a mantra at your ear as he buries his face against your shoulder, pushed to the edge. His moans and whimpers brush your neck.

You try to hold out to the end, not to give him the orgasm he’s trying to wrench from you—but you can’t. His thrusts take you right there and you come before him, clenching around his shaft with your walls and burying your hand in his blond hair, yanking the strands.

That seems to make him lose control too.

A couple more thrusts and he cums inside you with a strangled cry. His body stiffens over yours, hot and heavy waves filling you, his hands crushing your hips as hard as he can.

Jimmy wobbles, hips shifting side to side, his weight pinning you for a moment of post-orgasmic vulnerability, his body shaking from the intensity of his first time.

And that’s the moment you seize.

With one last reserve of strength, you shove him away. You use the force of your legs and your hips, your hands against his sweaty chest—a desperate movement that flips him back onto the mattress with a thud.

He gasps, shocked and confused, his arms falling limp beside his head.

You feel the semen dripping between your thighs —warm, sticky, trailing down the inside of your legs in slow, obscene rivulets— but you don't care. The sensation is distant, irrelevant, like the ache between your hips or the burn where his fingers and rings burned your skin.

You reach for the headboard with a quick motion, even before he can understand what’s happening. Your fingers grip the cold metal of the first handcuff and snap it shut around his wrist. The click echoes through the room like a gunshot.

He reacts instinctively, trying to pull the other arm back, but the second cuff slides onto his other wrist and locks with the same cruel precision.

“What—” He tugs, struggles, growls. The chains jingle as he thrashes like a trapped animal, muscles taut to the point of spasm. The bed creaks under the violence of his movements, but fortunately, the cuffs hold.

In the end, he’s forced to collapse back onto the mattress, eyes blazing with anger and disbelief.

You spot your wig a short distance away…

“You little—”

…and shove it into his mouth.

He gags, eyes wide, and his protests turn into muffled, hate-filled sounds. You press your palm against his lips to hold him, feeling the hot, frantic puffs of his breath on your skin, then you lean forward and grab the knife hidden between the mattress and the headboard.

The blade catches the faint candlelight in a silver flash, and you hear him mutter behind your hand.

You lift it high, point aimed straight at his forehead and he freezes.

For the first time since you’ve known him, genuine fear flashes in those grey eyes.

You want to do it. You have to do it. One clean strike and the cult leader dies, the spell breaks, the nightmare ends.

But your hand trembles.

Images flash before your eyes: the boy you killed in the yard, the old man begging for his grandchildren, the Charity you enforced with your own hands.

Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal is a horrible person… but so were you. You had a choice, every single time, and you chose to serve this unbalanced man. Your hands were stained with the same blood that stained his.

You let out a harsh breath and let the blade fall.

The knife sinks into the pillow, just inches from his stupid, terrified face. Feathers explode around like snow.

He jerks violently, cuffs jingling with your face hovering over his, noses almost touching.

“Hope you never run into me again, bitch,” you whisper, voice low and sharp. “Never again.”

You yank the knife free with a snap and stand. He watches you, chest still heaving, eyes wide and glassy from shock and lingering lust.

You dress quickly: grab your pants, slip on Jimmy’s white t-shirt, fasten your boots with swift fingers. The orange sweatshirt watches you, still abandoned on the floor, but you leave it there. You don’t need it, and you’ve always hated that color.

You don’t look back as you exit the room.

The hallway is dark, and you let the light from downstairs guide you.

On the lower floor, the living room is still lit by the orange glow of the dying fire and candles. You can see the figures of the three men still scattered across the floor in the most absurd positions.

You cross the hallway—silent, alert—and reach the kitchen.

The window has already been prepared, cracked just enough. You fling it open, lower yourself out in one fluid motion, and land in the damp darkness of the garden.

And there you stop.

Jimmy Ink is leaning against the fence, arms crossed. She doesn’t look surprised. Her eyes immediately drop to the blade still clutched in your hand.

“Is he dead?” she asks, no preamble.

You don’t answer. The silence weighs on your tongue heavier than any lie.

Your body reacts: shoulders tense, knees bend slightly, your center of gravity lowers instinctively. You’re ready to spring, to strike if necessary, even though you know—you know all too well—that it would be a terrible idea.

Jimmy Ink is different from all the others.

You’ve seen her move. You’ve seen her fight. You’ve seen her take down a man twice the size of two Jimmies combined without effort.

You, against her, wouldn’t last a second.

Fear runs down your spine like cold sweat, snaking between your shoulder blades, tightening your stomach. You grip the knife harder than necessary, knuckles whitening—but you know it’s useless.

“No,” she tells to herself. “I don’t think so.”

Ink tilts her head slightly, studying you. You feel a hundred times more exposed under that gaze than you ever did with Sir Jimmy Crystal. You’ve always wondered why someone like her would follow someone like him.

She takes a step toward you.

The ground creaks under her boots, and the sound shocks you like an electric jolt. For a moment, you’re certain she’s going to attack. You prepare for the worst: you imagine her weight pinning you down, her hand snatching the knife, the sharp strike that would steal your breath. You know where she would hit. You know she wouldn’t give you time to react.

You realize, with ruthless clarity, that if she decided to kill you right there, you couldn’t stop her.

Instead, she veers toward the porch.

Your breath catches, and for a moment you fear your legs will give out.

Ink climbs the small steps, hands in her pockets as if she hadn’t just left behind an armed woman ready to strike. As if she knew, with absolute certainty, that you wouldn’t.

You spin around, confused, heart hammering against your ribs.

She stops in front of the door, one hand already on the handle and turns for only a moment.

“I’ll give you ten minutes,” she says. “Use them well.”

Ten minutes.

You smile as you turn to run.

Everyone else always got only five.

The church was always quiet – abandoned years ago from everyone fleeing your small town to find refuge elsewhere. So now it's just you and two other families, living simple and quiet. You were one of the youngest in the group, leading you to be in charge of gathering supplies.

You only took one sack of belongings, really, they weren’t even worth it.

A bread knife and a pair of old sweat pants with rips down the sides. Two mostly empty bottles of lotion, which contents have long been separated and liquefied after the years of them laying untouched. A set of two dolls, one male and female, of which their torso have been melted together and a small can of sardines. No more. No less. Nothing important.

But it was important to HIM.

Or rather, you stealing from him was important, and he would never not make you regret it.

So now he has you tossed over the back of a pew, hips pressed achingly into the sharp edges of wood lining the backrest. Your hands are tied behind you, wrapped tight with your rosary. The edges of the silver ornaments lining the chain embed in your flesh with every movement, breaking the skin, spreading blood over the holiness of it.

You cried. You begged and prayed. But the more you talked to Jesus, the happier he became.

“That’s it, wee pigeon. Pray to yer God. Let him bask in the way yer holes ache for me,” he thrusts in hard, nails biting into the flesh of your hips. The wood of the pew breaks open your skin the more he thrusts and causes you to bleed, spreading the red liquid over your stomach and thighs.

The truth of it was, your body begged for it. The second his strength forced you over the pew, when his mouth leaked acid heat into your ear, your body shook with need.

And he knew it. Fuck he knew it.

His team stood outside, carving apples with their knives and telling jokes like their leader wasn’t inside defiling someone. You could hear their laughs through the thin beams supporting the church. You could hear snickering as one of them stands at a window, watching closely as you get claimed.

His nails drag down the flesh on your back, staining your skin with red lines as his thrusts become more rugged, hips swaying and loose. He’s already cum once, deep and hot inside your cunt. But he was only using that hole for storage – not pleasure.

You cry deeper, tears puddling on the seat below you as his cock nestles painfully within your walls, stretching, burning, claiming.

“Another, daughter of God. Gonna impregnate that womb so heavy, you’ll be leaking me for weeks. Achy inside, remindin' ya just how filthy you were for me, beggin' till that belly was swollen.” He hisses as his cock leaves your asshole with a suctioned ‘pop’. His breath is broken, rugged as he pants through his ecstasy. He grips the base of his cock, smacking it over your pussy folds once, twice, savoring the slick slap it makes throughout the church walls. “Fuck,” he groans before he forces the tip into your cunt, diving in deep with no remorse.

You cry out, legs kicking but finding no purchase behind you. The more you move, the deeper the bones in your hips dig into the wood and the more you bleed. And fuck he loved a good bloody show.

He thrusts into your slickness, into the mixture of the cum he’d left just minutes ago when he came in there last.

“So wet, so pathetic. You stole from me on purpose, didn’t ye, Little Bitch? Just ta get fucked raw and hard? Begging for Sir Jimmy’s dick like a prayer. That’s right, I’m your God now,” Stilling, he spills into you a second time. His black mud capped nails dig into your hips as he moans wet.

He chuckles, a deep, wicked noise. You can hear his smile as your cunt greedily takes in what he gives you. Humiliation sits heavy inside your chest, all you can do is weep.

You pray it’s over, you pray he’s done. You feel raw, stretched and bleeding from your ass. You’d never been fucked there before and you were by no means ready to accept anything. So you gave to his cock in pain, being ripped open as his width spread you tight.

“Say my name, an’ I’ll give ya some lube.” he had said, savoring the sobs that exited you as he inched his way into your unyielding hole, surprisingly slow, waiting to hear your pretty voice beg for him.

You would fight, but the pain was hot and sickening. So you pleaded his name like he was god himself, blessing you with a miracle.

Chuckling deep, enough to vibrate into your ass as you bend over the pew, he pulled his cock back, just enough to expose the base, keeping the tip nestled inside you. He snorted, coughing up a thick ball of phlegm, then he spat it onto his cock, using his thumb to crudely smear the liquid around your hole.

“Ach, ye're soundin' awful pretty pleadin' like that. I might just keep ye awhile while you grow my seed in that cunt.” He thrusted all the way in with no regard after that.

After he cums your cunt the second time, he pulls out, watching the milky white seed shutter from your hole.

“That won’t do,” he clicks his tongue, using two fingers to scoop up the liquid dripping down to your clit. He pinches the aching nub between his fingers, briefly, just quick enough to feel your body jerk in response before he pushes the liquid back into your cunt. The bite of his rings threatening your entrance makes your hips buck, not away though, but toward them and you whimper in disgust at how your body NEEDS more. He laughs again, loosely, like he were winning at a card game or listening to a pathetic joke. A laugh that demeans you, it’s meant to, this whole thing is.

“Let’s lift yer hips a little further. Can’t have my cum leaking out, leave that cunt in the air for me, let everything sink in.” He lifts your hips in a quick movement, his fingers spreading into the cuts there before he drops you back onto the wood. You scream, loud and quick at the white-hot pain that shoots into your hips from your weight bearing down on the cuts, baring down on his mangy fingers. He takes no heed and forces you further over the pew, enough that your ass is fully in the air and all your weight is balanced on your thighs now.

His fingers leave your cunt, only long enough to ensure no more of his cum leaks out. He takes a moment to admire his work. The blood that mixes so pretty with your wet all around your ass and cunt. The way your ass is puckered and red and raw, quivering for more. The way your pretty little pussy holds his cum so nicely, tight and obedient like it should be.

“Well, this has been a blast,” he says, pulling from you completely – the lack of contact reminds you just the situation you are in.

All the pain, the cuts on your hips, the metal that’s ripped open the skin on your wrists, the throbbing sting inside your ass, and the warm ache in your cunt – it all hits you at once as soon as he pulls away and you sob heavy. The angle he has you at makes it almost impossible for you to maneuver yourself off. So you rock back and forth pathetically, with nothing helping you get loose of the position.

“Ye steal from me. I steal yer virginity. Only fair, Pet.” He reminds you, before the back of his hand connects with your ass, searing hot into the flesh with a hard smack. “Ta Ta, until we meet again.” He leaves with a wave of his hand, calling to his group as he opens the door and exits. As if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just abuse you and breed you and leave.

He will be back. He always comes back. When you feel like you have gotten rid of him, when the town is just settling into quiet. He will be back. Especially now that his seed is inside you, leaking from you as you cry.

No matter how you move, you can not dislodge yourself from this humiliating position. So you lay there and cry – begging for a relief that would never come soon enough.

At some point, you’d lost track of the amount of time that you had known Jimmy. For a while, you tried mentally taking note of the seasons as they passed. When you realized that you were starting to feel as though everything was blending together, you tried finding a notebook in which you could write everything down. But it didn’t feel worth it.

What was the point in taking up limited backpack room for something so inconsequential? Some part of your mind would have been comforted by the prospect of keeping track of dates and months as people did before, like the civilized people tended to do. But what good was that when nothing else that you did in life was similar to what a traditionally civilized person would be doing?

It was difficult, really, to think of a good argument for documenting the passage of time and celebrating birthdays when you were watching people be skinned, gutted, and hung up to be eaten alive on a regular basis. It wasn’t really that you had an issue with the violence, because after a while, any issue that you had with it was forgotten. It became normal. Seeing people with their intestines hanging out of their bodies became just as typical as seeing a paper boy may have been back in the days before the infection took over.

For almost a year, you had to rationalize it. There were traditions that were normal in any society. In a typical society, skinning people wasn’t considered normal. But what was typical about living in a world where humans consumed by a Rage virus did the same thing regardless? What was normalcy besides what the people who had survived and rebuilt their lives in the ruins? You weren’t sure, and it wasn’t the violence that often bothered you.

The issue wasn’t the violence. You were never the one perpetrating it, anyway. Jimmy, once your relationship was defined, made it clear that you were different from the others in the sense that you belonged to each other - you were the same. On the same level, for differing reasons. You weren’t some Hell-sent mystery, just like him, and given the same individuality and treatment as him because you were promised to the Jimmies by Old Nick himself.

But because you were his girlfriend. It was perhaps the most normal decree that he had ever made to his ever-rotating group of followers. You wore a tracksuit like his - not a beat-up, athletic one like the others wore. You wore a pristine, velour tracksuit that you’d managed to find in the closet of someone who had clearly been a large collector of Juicy Couture when they were still alive. You didn’t have your own tiara, but Jimmy let you wear his sometimes. You were like him in the physical sense of how you dressed, but you were like him in more ways than that.

Jimmy tended not to get his hands dirty. He had people to do his dirty work for him. People who would do the torturing while he watched. People who would fight while he watched to proclaim the victor or the loser. He had a presence, a power. He controlled everything and pulled the strings, but he was never entirely in on the action. That was what the fingers were for, afterall. A fist didn’t do much of anything unless it absolutely needed to; fingers did the hard work.

So it couldn’t be the violence or the death or the pain that got to you. Because, at some point, you became desensitized to it, and at some point, you stopped noticing it. It helped that you never had to get your hands dirty. The only times it happened were when someone was threatening Jimmy. He often scolded you for being the first to jump to his defense. He was especially distraught when you took a knife for him and ended up with a jagged scar on your stomach.

It had been so fast when it happened. One moment, a disgruntled Charity survivor had revealed themselves to you all while you were preparing to leave. The next moment, he was lunging at Jimmy, and you were jumping in to stop it. You were injured, pretty badly. But you recovered, and Jimmy was a lot more careful after that because the prospect of something happening to you deeply, deeply disturbed him more than he would admit in front of the rest of the group.

So it really wasn’t even the danger that bothered you. Sure, you were often very worried about something happening to Jimmy. Often, you were more worried about something happening to Jimmy than you were about something happening to yourself. But that was exactly why your issues were with something else entirely. Something not as physical, but still ever-present in your lives.

The first night that Jimmy had opened up as much as he could about his past, about the fact that his memories were starting to blur together as a result of the trauma associated with them, you figured that you would try to help. Try to help him figure out which one was true. At some point, you surmised what story you believed to be true because it seemed to be the most plausible.

The story that he shared when he was half-asleep. That he had been with his sisters and his mother in the house when everything happened. That his attachment to the Teletubbies comes from the fact that they had been watching it when it happened, perhaps because he was trying to reinvent it into something better. To reclaim the memory. But he proceeded. Telling you that he had run to the church because his mother let him, because he had watched everyone he cared about die. That he had seven sisters, which would ultimately explain why he had seven fingers, all bore the same haircut that his sisters probably had.

It all culminated in his father. His father, the Vicar, and not Satan himself come to bring Hell’s wrath upon the world. You were a sensible person. You had a head on your shoulders. And you knew that Jimmy fully believed most of what he said. You knew that he fully believed the things that he said to you, and that he remembered this because it was the truth of what happened. But that moment of clarity didn’t last.

It wasn’t even a week later before Jimmy all but forgot what he told you. Going back to the same story that he told the fingers. That he had hid in the church, that his father was leading the demons. To him, there was no other plausible explanation. But you had seen the way that the slight glaze in his eyes faded when he spoke to you that night. When he told you the truth.

The worst part, for you, and the main reason for your concern, was that you believed that he believed that he was telling you the truth. Jimmy believed the things that he told you because he had no reason to lie to you. He loved you and told you as much once a day. But the voices in his head were real. And sometimes he did abuse that just to get the others off his back. Sometimes, to get out of things, he would make it seem like he was hearing something when he wasn’t because he knew that they would believe him. But after a while, you learned the difference.

Jimmy never seemed to lie to you, and it brought him some comfort, you surmised. He liked that he liked you. He liked that he had someone he had no desire to be dishonest with at any point. But you hated that he was clearly struggling to cope with his grief. You hated it when he got those flashes of clarity and then forgot himself. He was still human, still that little boy who watched his entire family die. But it was difficult for him to remember that. You wanted to help him. Not to ‘better the world’ or some nonsense that you didn’t much care for, but because you loved him. Because he deserved to have some semblance of peace rather than what he had now.

But if that peace was going to come, it certainly wasn’t going to come in the form of what had transpired tonight.

You were lying beside him, propped up on one elbow as your fingers brushed softly through his hair. But Jimmy seemed just as angry as he did sad and upset. He had lost two of his fingers tonight. Most importantly, he had lost Jimmima. Even though he often claimed not to have favorites, you knew that he was upset about losing Jimmima. You were, too. He had lost Jimmy Jimmy when he was already upset, and it was clear that there was a lot weighing on him.

People were dying. Three fingers had been killed within the past few days, and you knew that it was upsetting him. But what was there to really do about it? It was the nature of what you all did, of what he did. But he had never been so exposed before, so vulnerable and susceptible to danger. You weren’t sure how to comfort him, because it was difficult to know what he needed.

“I can’t believe that woman is still out there.”

His voice was tense and quiet. The others were asleep, and he didn’t want to wake them up. He turned his head to look at you, and you could see the vulnerability that he didn’t often show shining in his pretty blue eyes.

“How did we not see her? She was up there the whole time, and we didn’t see her.”

Your eyes followed his, and you knew he was right. You were both sitting there, doing nothing other than watching. You should have done more; you should have prevented the loss tonight. “It’s on me, I was… I was facing you, I was facing the loft. I should’ve seen her.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It is. Physically, I should’ve-” You knew it was technically on both of you. All of you. All of you should have been able to notice that someone was up above you for hours; you should have been more careful. But you also knew that Jimmy’s mental health was fragile and deteriorating. That he certainly blamed himself for his sisters. Or, he did. Before he stopped thinking that memory was real. You would take the blame; you couldn’t let him blame himself. “It’s not on you, Jimmy.

“It is on me. I’m the leader, I’m supposed to protect you.”

“Well, funny enough, I feel the same way.”

Stubborn. You were both painfully stubborn. It almost made him crack a smile, but his mind was elsewhere.

“Hey, it’s not like last time, okay?” You let your hand press against his cheek. There was one ring on one of your fingers, as opposed to how he had at least one on every finger. Jimmy had given it to you a while ago, probably the summer after you first met him. You were pretty sure it was just so you matched. Neither of you ever talked about it, and the only title you’d heard him utter was ‘girlfriend’ (granted, that was said before he gave you the ring), so you chose not to think too deeply about it.

“Yeah, because someone fucking died.”

“Okay, I can see… that.” Your voice trailed off, thinking of a way to respond, to comfort him. But Jimmy had already moved on to the next topic before you had the chance, as though he was already compartmentalizing what had happened the same way that he did everything else that hurt him in the past.

“I’m nervous.”

A pause. “Of the pregnant woman?” You asked, your eyebrows furrowing.

“No, not that.” He let out a huff that sounded so similar to a laugh that you went back to brushing your fingers through his hair. Finding that old man tomorrow. What if… what if it is him? What if it’s him and he rejects me?”

Old Nick. The orange-skinned old man that you were looking for tomorrow. Jimmy, you knew, genuinely believed by now that his father was Old Nick. But he seemed to be latching onto his idea because he seemed to think it would be good for him. Relieving, saving. Like he needed this, like it had been an empty part of his soul for a long time.

“And what if it’s not, Jimmy?” Your voice was quiet, but it was important, so you spoke firmly. “I’m gonna be with you, no matter what. And if he fucks you over, we’ll deal with it together.”

Jimmy didn’t speak for a moment, rustling around for a second before leaning up to kiss you. It was soft and slow. But it felt like he needed it, and you could admit that you craved his affection just as much.

“And if it is him,” You knew it wasn’t, but you would humor him. You always did. “Then he’s gonna be really pleased that you found a girlfriend that puts up with a diva of a man who can’t get his special velour tracksuit dirty.”

He did laugh at that, but he shook his head. “You think you’re my girlfriend?”

“The fuck else would I be?”

He tapped at the ring on your finger, the only one you had. But he tapped with his mirroring ring finger. You both wore a very similar one; you just figured that it was more like a promise ring or something, claiming his property. Did Satanists believe in marriage? You supposed it didn’t matter; Jimmy was raised Catholic, you doubted he would know regardless.

“Did I never ask?”

“You sort of just said that you liked this ring because it looked like yours and gave it to me.”

“Well, now I feel like a right cunt.” His voice was soft now, not just quiet. “I’ve been telling all these fuckers that you’re my wife and I didn’t even ask?”

You shook your head, affirming his words. But a smile crossed your lips as you pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Guess we’re married, then.”

“Yeah, yeah. Lot’s changed since we got married.”

“Mm. So many more responsibilities. And the ceremony. Sheesh, you spent so much money on that, I can’t believe it.”

His smile was sweet, even with the teeth that he probably stopped brushing the moment the world went to shit rather than trying to maintain them for even a week. But it was natural. It was all so natural. You felt comfortable with him like this. And whatever had been plaguing his mind was pushed to the back burner as Jimmy finally let you cuddle up to him so you could both go to sleep for the evening. After all, you were apparently meeting his father the next day - you both needed as much rest as you could get.

The next morning was tenser than any morning had been, typically. You were used to Jimmima and her antics. You were used to having seven fingers surrounding you. Nobody really lingered to do much other than eat and leave the makeshift campsite. The only people really talking were you and Jimmy. The others listened. Jimmy Ink led the way to where she had found the man whom she believed to be Old Nick. But nobody was in a talkative or chipper mood. Two of their own were dead from one night alone, and it was enough to bring the mood down.

Things changed when you were all looking through some trees at a man that Jimmy, your now husband, was claiming was certainly his father. But you saw through it. You knew him. You knew that he was lying out of his ass. You knew that he didn’t believe a single word that he was saying. He had never seen these bones before. He had never seen this man before. He had no idea that this place was here, and nothing that he said was going to change that inalienable truth.

But it was often only you who could palpably see through it. Not this time.

You saw the look in Jimmy Ink’s eyes when he spoke. When he claimed that this was a ‘new’ palace of bones that he simply had never seen before. There were a few of them in the Highlands. He spoke about them like he was describing a chain restaurant that had just made its way to the UK for the first time, and not temples made of human bones by Satan himself. He said it like he was lying. And it seemed that you weren’t the only one who noticed.

That fact alone was dangerous. But it was compounded by the fact that Jimmy Ink was often willing to call him on his shit. If he said something she disagreed with, she was often the only one to speak up and say something about it. He respected her, deferred to her. But she talked back to him more than anyone else had the guts to do, and she did it while being the strongest fighter in a group of strong fighters.

It put a bad feeling in your gut, but you figured you would bring it up with Jimmy when he wasn’t insisting that you both get going. When he wasn’t using his slightly trembling hand to lace your fingers together as you walked toward the man.

By all means, he just looked like an old man. Covered in some sort of strange substance for some odd reason, but an old man nevertheless. The bones were strange, though. And while Jimmy had trepidation because he was walking toward someone who may be his father in his mind, your worries were elsewhere. A palace of human bones. What if this man was a serial killer? What if he added you both to his collection of human bones? If he was communicating with an Alpha, what if the Alpha was bringing him his victims or something?

Both of you were trembling as you held onto each other tightly, but for entirely different reasons. Perhaps both were illogical, but your theory felt more logical in your mind.

Realistically, it didn’t take you more than one minute of watching the interaction unfold to know that the man in front of you wasn’t Old Nick and definitely wasn’t a serial killer. It was an interesting memorial, unlike anything that you had ever seen before, but you supposed that it made sense. Just bones. No decay. It allowed more room for people to be memorialized. It made it impossible to tell which bones remained to someone who was infected and which bones didn’t. It made it safer to be around, as well.

But Jimmy didn’t make that connection for a few more minutes, and when you were sitting beside the two of them and listening to them talk, you couldn’t help the way that your mind wandered as you watched. Kelson seemed to look at Jimmy with the same knowing look that you came to look at him with as he told the story that he told the fingers, and eventually you, about his family. How he lost them, how his father had been leading them.

But you noticed his slip.

Or, his two slips.

The first being when Kelson asked him about where he lived, and if his father was the Vicar. He answered like it was second nature, like it was something that he didn’t have to consider. Because that young Preacher’s Son was still inside of him. That young, tortured boy who had lost everything when he was too young to have to deal with something like that was still there. It almost seemed like he was having a normal, human conversation.

His second slip was when he called them infected, when he claimed that his father was leading the infected. But he quickly caught himself, pivoted back to calling them Demons. Like he knew. Like he knew, underneath all of the haze in his brain, that he wasn’t dealing with Demons and that he wasn’t the son of Satan. But rather the son of a catholic man who worked in a church, and flew too close to the sun with his beliefs. A man who should have protected his son when he was in danger and going through the loss of the rest of his family, but chose to be foolish and die in front of him. Leaving him alone, far, far too young in a world that wasn’t kind to people who were weak.

You cuddled up to him a bit closer, Jimmy glancing at you for a moment as he spoke. He gave Kelson his ultimatum, the problem that he needed help with. He spoke to him like a human because he liked him, he said as much. Even claimed that the only other person he liked was the one halfway to sitting on his lap right now.

It couldn’t have been more than an hour that they spent discussing logistics about it. And you noticed that it was perhaps the most normal hour that Jimmy had around other people and not just you alone in the time that you had known him. But even with his arm around your waist and your face pressed into his shoulder, it was your turn for your eyes to glaze over as your mind went elsewhere.

This man was a doctor. A real, living medical doctor. And when he looked at Jimmy, he had the same understanding that you did. You knew that Jimmy was getting worse. You knew that his mental health was deteriorating. And you also knew that you would do anything within your power to protect him. He was your husband, wasn’t he? It was your duty to protect each other, in sickness and in health. And that was what you were going to do, even if you had to go behind his back to do it.

Last night was horrible. Dangerous. He had been in danger, and he was still left vulnerable with only five fingers and one finger who seemed terrified of him and another one who looked at the one who was terrified of him like he wanted to take him out himself; if Jimmy Snake’s offer to give Spike Charity the night before had been any indication, he did.

Jimmy was more vulnerable than normal, and part of that was being made worse by the fact that his mental health was getting worse. Now he was concocting a lie with a man he had only just met, when you had seen the disbelieving way that Jimmy Ink had looked at him before. You knew that you needed to do what you had to in order to keep him safe, and you figured that this might be your only opportunity to do just that.

Right before you were supposed to leave, your head perked up.

“Wait, wait-” The two men turned to look at you, though Jimmy didn’t have to look far since you were right next to him. “I, uh-you’re like a medical doctor, right?”

“Yeah-”

“Do you have… um… birth control?”

“Birth control?”

“Yes.”

“I believe… so-”

“Great, you should take me to it. You can wait here, Jimmy.”

Both men looked at you like you had grown a second head, but there was almost an understanding in Kelson’s eyes. He was the one who convinced Jimmy that it wouldn’t take long, that he should take some time inspecting the area in case there was anything that he might want removed before his fingers show up anyway. Jimmy, reluctantly, agreed. It had been decided a long time ago that both of you didn’t like leaving each other’s sides.

Once you were alone with Kelson, you watched as he pulled out what looked like… a pregnancy test?

“This may have expired-”

“I think you misunderstand, that’s not why I wanted you alone.” You explained, your voice coming out quickly. Nervously. You were shaky, but you knew that you needed to calm down. “You helped with his problem, and I need help with mine.”

“So you didn’t want me alone because you’re pregnant?”

“Of course not, I’m not pregnant. I’d know, probably. Wait, do  I look pregnant?”

“Well, that’s what the test was for.”

“No, no.” You shook your head. You were both careful; you were quite positive that you weren’t pregnant. “That’s not-look, I saw the way you looked at him when he spoke. He has psychosis. You know he has psychosis, I know he has psychosis. We all know it, and sometimes I think he knows it, but the second that fog lifts in his brain, it covers it right back up.”

“He certainly has some form of psychosis, I agree with that assessment.”

“I just… I know you probably don’t want to do me any favors. We lead a Satanic murder-cult together, and you don’t know us.” He nodded at that, his brows furrowed as he watched the way you paced, the way that you seemed quite clearly stressed out. “But I love him. I love him more than anything in the world. He means everything to me, and I just-I know know what it would be like if he were better, but I know he’s in some form of pain and I know he pushes it down. I know he’s not at peace. He’s unwell. And I’m-well, apparently I’m his wife, so I need to be the one to protect him. I just-please. I’ll do anything. Medicine, or something. Anything. I just want to give him peace.”

Kelson was silent once the word-vomit stopped, watching as your pacing came to a stop. But you were still worried, distressed. He glanced behind you, somewhere. Jimmy was inspecting something, but he was watching you when he figured you weren’t looking. Keeping an eye on you. Worried. Like a good husband would be.

“If I gave you medicine for him, there would be… variables to consider.”

You nodded, sitting down as he fiddled with the stick that he was carrying. There was something inside of it that he was taking out, a dart that glinted in the sunlight but was kept out of direct eyeshot of Jimmy.

“How would you get him to take it?”

“I… you were planning on drugging us tonight, right? Give him something stronger.”

“Okay… and when he takes it, there can be side effects. Depression, hunger, mood swings, anything, really. And someone that far into it, there could be major side effects that I can’t even figure out. Especially without a proper diagnosis. There are a lot of variables. Are you able to… I suppose you can help him. I’ve doubted a lot of things he’s said, but you do both seem to care for each other.” He considered for a moment before wrapping the dart in a white cloth. “I’m going to help you, but you need to follow the instructions that I give you without a hint of variation. Do you understand?”

“Mhm. Instruct away.”

So Kelson told you exactly what you needed to do. He gave you the dart, wrapped in the white cloth. He let you know that it was a medical cocktail mainly comprised of morphine, that he was running out of it, and that you were very, very lucky that he was being recently reminded that it felt good to help people who needed it. He explained that you were going to need to give it to Jimmy somehow, though it would be easiest to drip it into his water.

It would relax him and probably put him to sleep, but it would also give him some momentary clarity. Alongside what he would give him the next night, it would help. But there would be more. More medicine that he would give you the following night. He had a finite amount. He couldn’t give you the world; he had other needs for it, and he really didn’t owe you anything, considering the fact that he was quite worried that Jimmy would kill him. But he could give you enough that you could hopefully get through to him, help him.

Truthfully, you knew that you were in a precarious situation. Even if this worked. Jimmy had the fingers to worry about. The fingers that could fight. The fingers who believed every word that Jimmy said and hung off of it like he put the moon and stars in the sky just for them. And you knew that you would do anything for him. That if they threatened him in some way, if they impeded, you’d have no other choice but to kill them.

You were also well aware that Jimmy was never going to be absolved of what he did. This might not take away his violent tendencies. He still may enjoy torturing people and things of that nature. But that was never the issue for you, so it wasn’t something that bothered you. You loved him, and you were going to help him because you wanted him to have some sort of peace and some sort of ability to cope with what had happened - not voices in his head dictating everything he did like he was some sort of puppet on a string.

So you agreed. Knowing fully well that it was going to be difficult, that you were going to have to be the one to bring him back. But that was what you were there for. That was why you were with him. Not for his sanity, but because you adored each other, because you would do anything for each other. Regardless of how unorthodox you both were, you knew it was quite traditional for you to try to bring your husband peace.

And so, the plan was in motion.

The moment you were back with him, your fingers were intertwined with his. The sun was getting lower; you’d managed to lose track of time while you were there. Maybe because you were planning, maybe because you were so very stressed out about this that nothing felt real. But whatever look of worry was on your face seemed to disappear when Jimmy pulled you closer to him.

His feet carried you both away from the direction of the rest of the Jimmies, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion as you followed him toward where he was leading you. A stream, quiet. It was peaceful over here, like the one that you’d been sitting in front of when you kissed him for the first time.

“I think they’re going to be looking for us.”

“They can wait a little while longer.”

Jimmy’s hand left yours, the knuckle of his pointer finger angled under your chin so he could get you to look at him rather than back toward where you had come from. You’d seen the stream vaguely from where you were sitting with the rest of them when you had the binoculars on, but it wasn’t something that you would have been able to see without them.

The area looked safe, from what you had noted. There may have been infected here or there, but there was nothing here right now.

“I just want to bathe,” He explained after a moment. And you understood it. Bathing was a basic, human necessity, but he seemed to want to wash away the weight of everything that had happened. To forget about it. “And you seem stressed.”

“It’s hard to not be stressed right now.” You admitted, but you watched with perhaps more intense curiosity than you should have as he undressed.

It had been years since you first saw Jimmy undressed; it was nothing new for you. So there was no reason for you to be enraptured with him like you were, as though it was something that you were seeing for the very first time instead of something that you had seen a million times by now. But his smile made your gaze move upwards. Knowing, smug.

Jimmy didn’t give you much time to linger on his body before he was in the water.

“Are you coming?”

“Hmm?”

“Into the water.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.”

Jimmy laughed, and whatever worries you had in your brain before were fading away for at least the time being as you stripped out of your own clothing. But for a man who found it deeply amusing that you had been in a trance when he took off his clothes, he seemed rather keen on ogling you when you removed yours. Like he hadn’t seen it a million times. Like any of this was something new between the two of you.

The moment your feet dipped into the water, inspecting like there was something below that was just waiting for the opportunity to nip at your ankles, Jimmy had his arms around your waist and you as close to him as physically possible. You yelped at the harsh tug, but turned around to glare at him the moment you collected your bearings.

“All these years, and you still think I’m going to attack you.”

“You do bite, to be fair.”

His movements were gentle as he washed you, as best as he could. Soap was difficult to come by, but there were a few things that you had managed to bring in your bag. Enough, enough that you didn’t feel like you just sat in a dirty stream and felt like you’d gotten clean when you hadn’t. Enough that you felt somewhat washed by the time that you were running your fingers through his hair. Normal. It felt normal to wash his hair, normal to be this close.

“Why are you so nervous?” Jimmy’s voice broke the silence, your eyes leaving the back of his head so you could look at him. He turned his head so he could somewhat make eye contact with you behind him.

“I just have a bad feeling, that’s all.”

“Don’t be, he looked like he was pissing himself when I made that intestine joke.”

He didn’t, not really. He looked perturbed, surprised. But not all that nervous. Or, maybe you just didn’t read into things right.

Kelson didn’t seem overtly dangerous, but he also didn’t seem like the type to appease someone like Jimmy. And even then, it didn’t make anything better. Something felt off. something that you couldn’t explain, something that didn’t make any sense to you. There was no reason for everything to feel off like it did. No reason for you to be so nervous about something happening. But you were.

“Call it a gut-feeling.”

Jimmy did turn around, then. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders on instinct, but he just held your hips in his hands. He’d taken the rings off, not wanting them to get caught in anyone’s hair while you were both in here. Sometimes it felt strange to feel just his fingers. But even then, he always kept the cross on, the chain. The flashy piece of metal that the setting sun glinted off when he turned to look at you.

“Nothing is going to happen to you, okay? Stop being so worried about it.” Jimmy almost seemed offended by the prospect of something happening to you. But you understood why. He’d lost Jimmima the night before; he was down three Jimmies and had done who didn’t really want to be there at all. He didn’t have the normal number of fingers that he typically had, and he didn’t want to lose anyone else. Least of all you.

That knowledge didn’t bring you much comfort. If anything, it made it worse. What if he did something stupid to keep you safe? Your stomach lurched at the idea of that. “I’m not worried about me.” You finally admitted, your voice low.

“What-you’re worried about me?” His eyebrows knitted together, like the idea of you being worried about him was shocking or strange. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, either. You know that.”

Sometimes it seemed like Jimmy felt like he was immune to dying. You wondered if that had something to do with the voices in his head. You knew that he genuinely believed them. You knew that he heard what seemed to be a higher power calling to him. If he had Old Nick in his brain telling him that he was invaluable to his mission, then how could he possibly expect that something bad would ever happen to him?

Even if he believed that, it didn’t make it true.

Deflect. You needed to deflect. It was easier that way. You knew that you couldn’t really convince him otherwise; there was no need. And you also knew that nothing in his head that was wrong or off-putting was actually something that would make you love him any less. There was nothing that he could do that could make you love him any less, and that was something that you both knew above all else.

So you kissed him. And he kissed back. And he let you pull him closer under the water, let your tongue trace his lips. One of Jimmy’s hands found the back of your head, his fingers lacing through your hair as your body pressed into his. He was warm. His heart was beating quicker than it normally did. But Jimmy typically had a more erratic heartbeat than most.

“It’s getting dark.” His voice was a little hoarse. But he, despite his words, trailed his fingers down your body. It was difficult to see underneath the water, but you could feel his middle finger press against your clit, just as he could hear the way you gasped. “We’ll have to go back soon.” Jimmy still didn’t match his words with his actions.

His fingers moved lower, pressing two of them inside of you while his thumb traced circles over your clit. You moaned softly, quietly. You needed to be quiet. You had to keep the volume down to make sure that you didn’t attract any unwanted visitors. But sometimes it was difficult when he knew just how to touch you to make your mind go blank.

“I’ll be quiet,” You responded, your eyes wandering across his face. His pretty blue eyes, his soft lips, and the slight scattering of birthmarks that he had on his cheeks. All things that most people didn’t look at for too long, because most people were a little bit afraid of Jimmy. But you weren’t. You could never bring yourself to be afraid of someone whom you loved more than anything. Someone who made you feel whole in a world in which feeling whole wasn’t possible for most people.

Jimmy, who was realistically never going to heed his own concerns about sunset, was satisfied with that answer. He kept going. Contentedly listened to you moan for him as his fingers pushed in and out of you. It was easy for him to do this. For him to curl his fingers just so. For him to laugh when you whined too sharply and lean forward to bite at your neck because you weren’t lying earlier, he enjoyed biting you.

He covered your lips with his, kissing you to keep your voice down when you got a little bit too loud. It was difficult for you to keep up with his kisses when your mind was a little fuzzy from the feeling of him touching you. But you managed. You kissed him back and moaned into his mouth, you held onto his bicep while his fingers worked inside of you.

It was quiet, peaceful. More gentle than what you did together most of the time, and it allowed your mind to get off of the worries that you had been thinking about from the moment Jimmy Ink mentioned the fact that she believed that she had seen Old Nick in person.

Jimmy held you against him as he felt your thighs close around his hand, trembling as he continued to finger you as though it wasn’t a concern to him that you were definitely about to come and that he was hard against your stomach and yet untouched. Unconcerned, even when you tried to touch him, but he nudged your hand away so he could make you finish first.

When you did, when your teeth bit down on his lip to keep quiet, and your body pressed closer to his, he held you through it. But when he parted from the kiss, he finally let you touch him.

His quiet moan filled the air as your hand gripped his cock, stroking him with your hand for what couldn’t have been more than a minute before he pushed your hand aside so he could push inside of you.

Quiet. You needed to keep quiet.

The sun was setting faster, the dark looming like a threat. The creatures could see better in the dark than you could, and you both knew that quiet was the utmost priority right now.

His hands gripped your hips as your legs lifted underneath the water to wrap around him. You’d done this before. He’d fucked you in many different ways in the water because bathing was one way to get away from the rest of the group. Sometimes he fucked you bent over a rock, sometimes he took you out to fuck you against a tree. In a cleaner area with less mud, he could bring you out of the water to fuck you in the sand.

But like this, pressed so tightly around each other, it felt more intimate. Closer. You could feel his heart beating against your own as his hips pressed into yours. The quiet moan that left his mouth before he caught himself and recalled that he needed to keep quiet if you wanted to finish without getting your heads ripped off.

Jimmy wasn’t necessarily gentle, but he wasn’t in a rush, either. You had to be fast, but he wanted to make sure that it didn’t feel rushed. Like some half-assed quickie that you could have the moment that you got away from everyone else.

Some part of it felt like taking out some pent-up stress. You were both stressed. Stressed about the people who had died, stressed about the vulnerability that having only four capable Jimmies posed. Stressed about the fact that you were walking into something that didn’t seem as clear-cut as everything else.

Giving charity to everyone you met was easy. It was easy to watch people die; it was something that you were used to. But this wasn’t. So you were both a bit stressed. A bit overwhelmed by the sheer amount of things that were happening, but also just by said things in general. That was why Jimmy ended up needing to cover your mouth, why you got far louder than you meant to. Why he fucked you a little harder and gripped your hips so you were fucking him back.

Your body arched into his on instinct. You clung to him, needed him close. You were so used to feeling him pressed against you that it was comforting rather than just something that you had grown accustomed to. It wasn’t old, and no matter how many times you had him inside of you, it was never something that you were bored with.

By the time that you did both come, you had your lips on his again. Kissing like you would never have the chance to do so again, touching each other as if nothing mattered more than the other person. To you, nobody mattered more than Jimmy; nobody ever would. He meant the world to you, and you knew that he loved you just the same.

“Everything is going to be okay.” His voice was quiet against your lips. You were quite sure that Jimmy believed what he was telling you. That he wasn’t just saying it to say it. He was never one to lie and give you comforting words that he didn’t mean. You were sure that Jimmy didn’t actually think something bad was going to happen the next day. But that didn’t mean that you didn’t think that something bad was going to happen the next day.

Even if you did, it was probably best to keep it to yourself for the time being. There was no real proof that anything was going to go wrong; you were just a bit paranoid.

“I’ll make sure that everything is going to be okay.” Was the only thing you could respond with. It was enough to get him to drop it, but it did worry him more than he chose to let on.

Eventually, you did go back to where everyone else was. You sat with Jimmy while the others ate dinner. It was solemn. More solemn than things normally were. There was less people and a massive elephant in the room, given that Jimmy still hadn’t told anyone about what had happened with him and Kelson that afternoon.

But there was a plan, wasn’t there? You would wait, though. Figure out how to get the cocktail to him before bed, certainly not while everyone was staring at both of you. If you didn’t, it wasn’t the end of the world. The next day, there were real anti-psychotics promised. They could help him; they could allow him more clarity than he had. All you wanted was to see if it brought him more peace than he generally had if he didn’t have the voices in his head, if he could hear clearly. If he wasn’t being guided by something that wasn’t there.

Jimmy let you cling to him. He kept his arm around you as you cuddled into his side. He sat quietly with the others while they talked amongst themselves. It wasn’t until he was lying down with you that he actually discussed what had happened down below with everyone else. But it wasn’t really what happened. It was a lie. You knew it, and he knew it.

It did strike you, however, that this meant that he was never intending to call Old Nick on young Jimmy. He could have. He was about to the night before. But it was never discussed with Kelson. You were sure the older man wouldn’t have agreed to it even if it was. More than likely, he just didn’t want to lose any more fingers. He had morphed worse candidates into loyal servants than the child who was too sick to his stomach to deal with Charity. Besides, what choice did he have? He needed them to believe that they were going to be seeing Old Nick because he told them that they were. What would they think if they found out that he was lying?

Still, you didn’t notice as he turned to face you.

Your mind was elsewhere. Somewhere up in the clouds, trying to figure something out.

Jimmy lied about Old Nick, but he considered himself a servant of him. His favorite son. You knew that he believed much of what he said, but you also recalled his interactions with Kelson earlier in the day. His interactions with you that had become fewer and further in between. Sometimes, that fog that he had over his brain lifted. But oftentimes, there was just a disconnect. A disconnect with what he wanted to believe and what the logical part of his brain knew to be true.

He had no idea if that was Old Nick, and if he genuinely believed that it was, how would the real Old Nick, whom he believed to be in his brain, feel if he found out that he lied about his identity? If he found out that he had created a false prophet? It made no sense, but you knew that it wasn’t going to. How could it make sense when it wasn’t real?

“You’re thinking too hard again.”

You blinked as you turned to look at him, your eyes refocusing on him. It calmed you a bit. His hand pressed into your cheek, your eyes wandering across his face. You always worried about making sure that he was comfortable and happy. So, your next words felt like they could be natural. “Earlier, I got this.”

Pulling the little vial of liquid out of your back pocket, you held it out to him. It was quite small, but it contained the medicine that you were asked to give to him in preparation for what would be given to him the next day. There was no possible way to ever get Jimmy agree to the truth, but you needed to help him. You always needed to help him.

“I-uh-this is supposed to help with the insomnia.” That both of you have, that neither of you really does anything about because there’s nothing to be done. It is, theoretically, something that calms the mind and could help you sleep. So it wasn’t a lie, it was just… not entirely the truth, either.

Jimmy took it from you, inspecting the little glass vial. “There’s not enough for both of us.”

You could say something about wanting to take care of him more than yourself, but you knew Jimmy. He’d accept that from anyone else, because the fingers existed to serve him in his mind most of the time. But from you? You knew that he would hand it right back before you could even think about him taking it.

Instead: “I figured you could be my lab rat. I don’t like putting new things in my body without a test subject first.”

“How thoughtful.” Jimmy’s voice was teasing. He glanced toward the others before he turned back to you and took what was in the vial. There was some relief that filled you, but you also didn’t really know what this was going to do. What if it made it worse? What if it made it better, but then Jimmy didn’t want to do much of anything anymore? What if you had to fight the others to protect him? You knew you’d lose. You knew that.

But the effects were… desired. Somewhat. Jimmy wasn’t out like a light immediately. You curled up next to him like you did every night. Clung to him and pet his hair like you did most nights. But Jimmy seemed to have more clarity than he did most of the time. His conversations, hushed and kept away from the prying ears of the Jimmies, were more focused.

He talked to you about your experiences before meeting him. About random anecdotes that he typically forgot and never brought up from his childhood, before everything happened. He rambled, and rambled, and there wasn’t a mention of the voices. Not until he was able to fall asleep, that was. Not until he mumbled something about how he couldn’t hear any voices. How strange it was to not hear anything at all except the sounds of both of you speaking to each other.

Jimmy was asleep soon after, and you followed once your mind calmed down enough to do so.

But it was an early morning. For everyone.

It wasn’t supposed to be. You had nowhere to be other than where you were right now until the evening. Until the sun had set. You were supposed to be more relaxed than you were throughout the day, but that wasn’t possible.

Another Jimmy had been killed. Something to do with Jimmy Fox apparently wandering off, claiming that he didn’t want to meet Old Nick. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to determine that Jimmy Ink wasn’t telling the truth. Why would the newest, youngest, most uncomfortable Jimmy been present for that? You knew he wouldn’t have been, and she knew that he wouldn’t have been, either. What you figured was more likely was that he had been trying to leave, to make a break for it before things got worse than they already were. But Jimmy Fox, who had it out for him from the moment he killed his best friend, chased him down in the hopes of killing him since he never did get to offer him Charity like he wanted.

He was running away, after all.

You half expected Jimmy to do something about it. To say something. To disprove it. But he didn’t. He fell back on asking ‘Old Nick’ later in the evening, even though he knew that he wasn’t going to see Old Nick at all. And it was odd. You knew that he was lying. You knew that he didn’t believe what he was saying. And you knew that he had no intention of offering Charity to either Jimmy Ink or young Jimmy. He was letting them off the hook, and you weren’t sure why.

You could surmise why with Jimmy Ink. She was the best fighter, and he was weaker without Jimmima and Jimmy Jimmy. Not only that, but he had known her for the longest time out of all of them. Maybe he just didn’t want to. Maybe he felt like he would lose in a fight against her. Maybe he knew that it was a bad idea to lessen his numbers when they were already less than what he would have liked. Maybe it didn’t matter, because the end result was going to be the same. No Charity, no punishment. Maybe a slap on the wrist, but nothing more.

It was fascinating, but you chose not to think too deeply about it. You had other worries.

Taking care of the body distracted you from the thoughts that you had rattling around in your brain about that evening. About what might happen. About how, no matter what, your gut-feeling was getting worse.

Jimmy Ink was lying to Jimmy, and you recalled that she seemed to notice that he had been lying the day prior about Old Nick. She was the best fighter, she was the strongest of the group, and she had just killed one of her own for reasons that you could surmise, but not quite understand. If she was angry with Jimmy, if she chose to harm him, you were certain that you were going to get yourself into trouble to try to protect him. Even then, it might not work.

The entire day, you were painfully stressed.

Clinging to Jimmy when you had the time, letting him kiss you when no one was looking. Letting him fuck you against a tree when everyone was occupied. But something about the way that he held your hand and stayed close to you was different. He recalled the night before. The conversation. The cloud that had lifted. And you knew it when he brought it up to you. When he asked if there was any more of that medicine because it had, in fact, helped him sleep ‘like a baby’.

But there was something else in his inflection. Like he liked not having the voices in his head for a brief period. You, of course, weren’t sure if he would like not having them for a long time. He certainly enjoyed not hearing them when they were keeping him up at night, typically. But during the day? When his routine had been so deeply ingrained into his psyche for almost thirty years? You couldn’t be so sure that he would be okay with it.

Questioning it wasn’t something you had time for.

You were back where you had been the day prior, before you could really think too much about it. Standing beside Jimmy with your hand placed in his, waiting for Kelson to appear.

Appear he most certainly did.

He prefaced everything with the drugs, as promised. Blowing something undefinable into everyone’s face. You knew that what he gave to Jimmy contained anti-psychotics if his words were to be believed. But after that, it was a rush. Dancing and shouting and forgetting about volume control, if only for a brief period of time. You got to dance with Jimmy, laugh at the ridiculous things that he was doing, and forget about the fact that you thought something just had to go wrong before the night was over.

When the number was over, when Kelson was theatrically calling everyone over, you remained by Jimmy’s side, and it seemed like you were going to be okay. The terms were met, and the small bottle of pills had been transferred into your back pocket. You had what you were looking for. Jimmy was slapping two of the fingers on the wrist for defying them, but he wasn’t asking for guidance. He wasn’t asking Kelson to do anything that he logically figured he wasn’t going to be willing to do.

There was a palpable sense of relief that took over you.

Things might be confusing going forward. Figuring out what to do with the medicine, how to keep Jimmy taking it, and what things would look like once he was taking it. But everything, for that brief moment, felt like it was going to be okay.

Until it didn’t.

It was a glance. A moment. Kelson looked toward the youngest of the bunch. Maybe it was because he was a child, or maybe he knew him. But his tune changed. He wanted to crucify Jimmy; that much was clear. And you were… livid? Panicked? You weren’t sure. There was an apologetic look in the older man’s eyes when he made eye contact with you, but you were trying to convince him otherwise.

A series of ‘you can’t be serious’, and ‘please don’t do this’ went ignored as you tried to fully process what was happening. But it was difficult. It was difficult because everything was happening so fast, and you had been drugged the moment you got here. Everyone had. He could just drug Jimmy. Everyone had gotten the drugs blown in their face, and your brain was functioning slower than it normally was.

Jimmy Ink, the one you knew was disbelieving of Jimmy as of late, was the first to come forward. Eager. Like she had been waiting for something like this. You were standing in front of him, and he was… holding you back? Even when he was on a tirade. Even when he watched two of the others be killed in front of him. He was holding you back.

Holding you back when you tried to lunge, when you were quite sure that he got stabbed. And when you were just about to break free because of his shock. Silence.

Someone hit you.

You couldn’t see; you were passed out. Knocked out. And there was silence in the group because Jimmy had been the one to knock you out. Because he knew, just as you did, that you weren’t going to win that fight. Even if it gave him time to get away, even if he was selfish and callous and had done everything in his power to ensure his own survival, he wasn’t willing to let you get killed in the process.

The very same reason he never made you a finger all those years ago. The very same reason he was worried when you proclaimed that you were more concerned with his own safety than your own. Because Jimmy, as insane as he was, did love you. More than he knew what to do with.

He didn’t have much time to think about what he had done, as he was knocked out soon after.

It was the sound of his screams that woke you.

Everything was foggy when you started to come to. People were walking away, leaving you on the ground as you slowly lifted yourself out of the grass. Your head tilted as you tried to make sense of what you were seeing. But it was Jimmy. Jimmy. Upside down, on the cross, just like had been instructed. What you had been fighting. What you couldn’t bear happening.

You scrambled towards him despite the pounding in your head. Kelson was stabbed beside him. Jimmy had stabbed him, you remembered that. And it was odd, because Jimmy almost never got his own hands dirty. But his life had been threatened. And now here he was. In danger, in pain.

There was a stab wound on his stomach, and nails that held him to the cross. You weren’t sure if they were in a place that would kill him, and you didn’t know what to do.

“Yo-y-can-if I take him off, is he gonna die?” You were prying the dying old man for answers, but he couldn’t provide them.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re a fucking doctor, is he gonna die? Is that-is that a spot where he’s gonna die?”

“I can’t see him.”

“Look-” There was no point arguing. Your head was pounding, and you fell down into a seated position as you cradled Jimmy’s head in your hands. “Why didn’t you let me protect you? I was g-going to, my job is to protect you, I could have kept you safe.”

He couldn’t really turn his head, couldn’t really look at you. He was in pain, you knew that. And you didn’t know how to help him. What if he died when you took him down? What if you prolonged his suffering? What if you made it worse? You couldn’t bear making it worse. You were utterly confused.

“You would’ve-” He groaned a bit, and all you could do was hold in a little bit tighter. Your forehead pressed to his cheek, holding him. “Would’ve died.”

“I’m supposed to die protecting you-”

“And I’m supposed to die protecting you.” His voice was, at the very least, somewhat firm. But he wasn’t wrong. You both had the same duty to each other, the same promise. But it made your heart ache, because you knew that he wasn’t going to do that for anyone else. He would have taken the opportunity to run if you weren’t you. But you were. And even if he had, the results probably would have been the same.

“I don’t know what to do, I don’t-I cant be the one-”

“Shh, just-just think, okay, it’s going to-”

It was not going to be fine. But Jimmy stopped focusing on that. He murmured something about not hearing the voices again, the voices that were always there, no matter what.

“It’s-that’s-”

“It wasn’t for sleep, was it?”

“No. No, not for sleep. I just-I just wanted to help you.”

He wasn’t angry, couldn’t be. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t touch you, and you didn’t know if you could take him off. You didn’t know how you could help him. You didn’t know how to make things better. Jimmy was in pain, scared, and babbling about how he wanted his mum. All you could do was hold him, cry, and hope that you would figure out a solution. Hope that you could find a way to get him out of this.

“Stay with me, please.” His voice sounded weak and sad, and the only thing that you could really do was hold his face a little tighter and nod.

“I’ll always stay with you.”

Maybe you meant it in the sense that you’d get him out of this, that there had to be a way, that you’d figure it out. Or maybe you meant that you would sit here and die with him. It didn’t matter. It didn’t change things. The circumstances or what got you here. All you could do for now was stay by his side - knowing, fully, that you would be the first person to do so. The first person who he had protected.

Jimmy had seen his mother die. He’d watched her bleed out and scream for him to run. He’d watched his sisters die in his place. He’d watched his own father die, and for the first time in a long time, he remembered it clearly. And he didn’t let it happen again.

Your feet are aching and the slash in your shoulder is still screaming from an encounter with some Infected several days ago. You haven’t seen a house or farm in over a week–not a viable one at least. A few isolated farms that had obviously been ransacked, all the supplies stripped from the kitchens, bathrooms, and bedrooms. And those that hadn’t been raided seemed to have met a worse fate; barns burned to the ground, stone crumbling from chimneys, red spray paint–and in some cases, a red hue you could tell wasn’t paint–covering siding and shingles. Messages of The Reckoning, doomsday shit. People panicking, scratching final testaments into the sides of their homes as if repentance would save them. You thought it best to keep moving. If a property looked lived-in, you’d stop, knock on the door, try your luck with whatever strangers were willing to open their doors to you. If the property looked like someone else had gotten to it first, you didn’t waste your time. As it was, it had been several days since you’d seen a mattress, cot, couch, or even a blanket that wasn’t the one you kept crammed in your rucksack, and sleeping on the forest floor has started to force the cold and damp into your bones. 

You come upon a small clearing, and cautiously scan your surroundings. Stepping out of the trees carries risks; though the grass is tall, you know you’ll still be easily visible to anyone– or anything– lurking nearby. Satisfied that the coast is clear, you emerge from the woods. You’re at the top of a small hill, and as you look down into the gulch below, your face lights up.

A playground.

Small and rusted, abandoned for 28 years, but still standing.

You bound down the hill, all caution thrown to the wind for a brief moment until your feet land on the soft woodchips with a gentle crunch. You take it in, wandering around the small area– the metal slide, the tiny structures, the climbing frame, and at the far edge of the playground, a set of two swings. You dash over to them, feeling like a child for the first time in decades. You gently touch the chain holding up the swing, miraculously not entirely decayed by rust and mildew. You quickly shrug your rucksack off and drop it into the woodchips next to the post holding up the swings. It’s so stupid, but you can’t resist. You wipe the seat of the swing with your sleeve, dampening the fabric with the bit of dew that’s collected on the black rubber. You sit down, hands holding both chains, gently push your feet against the ground underneath you, and look around.

For one second, you’re 6 years old again, playing on the swing after school while your father pushes you.

“Higher, higher!” you giggle in your joy.

“Higher, love? You’d fly right up to Heaven, little angel!” your father laughs behind you.

“Higher, dad, higher!!”

You pump your legs faster, extending them straight in front of you and quickly pulling them back when you reach peak height until you’re swinging swiftly through the air, the wind blowing in your face and stinging your eyes.

“Come along, love, it’s time to go!”

“Push me again, Daddy!”

“Come on now, angel, we’ve got to get home, Mum’s going to be mad at us…”

“One more time, Daddy, please, please!”

Your father laughs, throwing his head back, silhouetted against the setting sun.

“Just once more then, yeah? Come on darling…”

You’re so high that you’re level with the bar every time you swing back. The tears gathering in your eyes streak down your cheeks. It feels like the wind forces its way into your lungs with each swing, burning in your throat but satisfying the demands of your blood as it pounds in your veins. You pump your legs again and again, letting every care in the world, every burden that you’ve shouldered for the last 28 years, slip away behind you as your hair whips into your face and you soar above the ground, weightless.

You don’t notice them lingering near the trees.

“Whatd’ya think, Sir?”

“Aye…excellent job.”

“Charity?”

“No…not for this one. Old Nick has…other plans for her…”

When you see a group of people running down the hill towards the playground, your heart leaps in your chest. Then you realize they’re not Infected. They don’t have the chaotic, flailing sprint of the Infected. They’re calculated, moving like a pack of wolves down the side of the hill. They’re all wearing brightly colored tracksuits and matching blonde wigs. The one remaining at the top of the hill, in a deep plum tracksuit, jaunts down with a playful, gleeful bounce. Obviously the leader of the pack. The alpha.

The people spread out, two of them on each side running in a wide circle around the playground.

You start to dig your heels into the ground underneath the swing, trying to slow down and stop yourself. They’ve got you surrounded now, four of them dotted around behind you, three of them coming to stand in an arc a few feet in front of you. The alpha walks at a leisurely pace as his clones post up and stare you down. You’ve stopped swinging; you could reach for your knife, but looking at their weapons– some of them are brandishing small pocket knives, some hold machetes, one even aims at you with a slingshot– you decide against it. Better to hear them out than to provoke them.

Purple Tracksuit saunters over to the swing next to you and sits down. You stare straight ahead, refusing to look at him. The entire situation is ringing every alarm bell in your head. You’ve been at this long enough to know that the Infected aren’t the only dangerous thing in this world.

“Hello,” the alpha says in a chipper voice. His accent is thick, almost comically so. You can tell he’s from the Highlands.

“We were just…passin’ through…” he continues, his gaze fixed on you. “And couldnae help but notice a…a wee thing like you, out here all alone.”

You finally glance at him. He smiles when you meet his eye, revealing his grimy blackened teeth. He’s not Infected; none of them are. But you recognize something in him that’s almost worse.

Desperation. 

Opportunism.

Hunger.

“Now, I donnae mean to pry,” he grins. “But we,” he motions around at his minions, “are also travelers.”

He’s asking you a question without asking you.

“It must be…lonely…out here by yerself…”

You notice some of his clones glancing at each other nervously.

“I like working alone,” you say simply. The first words you’ve given him. One of his eyebrows shoots up, intrigued.

“Workin’ alone…and what, do tell, is the work that you do?”

“Same as you, I reckon. Wander about. Kill Infected. Survive.”

You kick at the dirt with the toe of your boot. 

“Infected?” he asks, his voice raising with the faintest hint of surprise and amusement. “Oh, I see…”

You watch him nervously, feeling your heart pounding in your chest. The longer he and his freaks stay, the slimmer your chances of escape seem. You’ve calculated all the possibilities in your head. You can’t fight them all; not with the types and number of weapons they’re wielding. You do notice, however, that he doesn’t seem to be carrying one. At least not one that you can see.

“Jimmy,” he crows, loud enough for all of the tracksuit wearing copycats to hear. You wish he’d shut up; any sound louder than a hushed tone carries the risk of attracting Infected.

“Jimmy, we have found…a doubter.” The last word he says quieter, turning his attention back on you.

“Ah, fuck,” you chuckle under your breath. “Don’t tell me you’re one of them religious folks, thinkin’ this is all End of Days bullshit.” 

“End of Days?” he asks, amused. “End of Days? No…no, this! This is the beginnin’!”

You wish he would fucking lower his voice. Your eyes dart around nervously, looking past his companions, scanning the treeline.

“The beginnin’…of my Father’s kingdom,” he holds his hands out, motioning to the world around him. “This is the vision He foretold to me…and Jimmy–”

He raises his voice again, and the clones all perk up. Are they all fucking named Jimmy?

“He has delivered unto me…a new vision…howzat?”

“HOWZAT!!” they all shout in glee.

Fuck. They’re being way too loud. Your breath is coming and going quicker in your lungs as your eyes scan the horizon, the way you trained yourself to do over the years. You try to block them out and listen for the snap of twigs or branches, the snarl of the Infected, but you can’t hear anything over their giggling and whispers. You notice one girl, in a blue tracksuit with raggedy blue fairy wings strapped to her back, is the only one not snickering. She’s just scowling at you.

“My Father has delivered us a doubter…a nonbeliever…”

“Told you, ‘s fuckin’ charity,” one of them hisses to another.

“Shut up,” the other replies. He’s wearing a black and white tracksuit.

“Better be fuckin’ charity,” Fairy Wings mutters. She’s holding a wooden baseball bat over one shoulder, the end of which has been chipped and dented from too many encounters with Infected. At least, you hope it’s only from Infected.

“Jimmima,” Purple Tracksuit chides. She snaps to attention, staring at him with enormous eyes. He looks around at them. “All’a yous…Jimmy says go play.”

With a tilt of his chin, he sends them bounding across the playground. You watch as some of them scamper off, running and chasing each other like children.

“It’s mine!”

“No, it’s mine!!”

“Darlings, if you can’t learn to take turns, we’ll go home…”

“No, Mum!”

“No, Mum, we’re sorry!”

“Now Lachlan, let your sister have a turn…”

Two of them– Black & White and Orange –sit atop the climbing frame, chatting. A boy in Black & Red swings from the monkey bars until he kicks another, a boy in Blue, in the stomach. Blue doubles over in momentary shock, then grabs Black & Red by the ankles and yanks him down to the ground, wrestling him. Green stands nearby, laughing.

“Children…behave yerselves,” Purple calls out, grinning wildly.

The girl in Red has climbed into one of the play structures and watches you and Purple with a somber look on her face. Fairy Wings rocks back and forth on a small horse that’s held up by a spring. She watches you too, with a different look on her face. Red looks like she’s watching Purple. Fairy Wings looks like she’s watching only you.

“You’re going to get us killed,” you tell Purple. “They’re gonna hear.”

“Oh, donnae worry about that,” he brushes away your concern. “We’re perfectly capable of keepin’ ye safe.”

“I can keep myself safe, thanks,” you retort. You go to stand and Fairy Wings stops rocking. She stands, her eyes locked on yours, mirroring your movements. You freeze, then sit back down on the swing. Purple follows your gaze to see Fairy Wings staring at you.

“Donnae mind her,” he tells you. “They were all just…so excited t’meet ye.”

“Meet me?” you ask in a whisper, your eyes returning to him again. He can see the worry in your face, the clock ticking down in your head, the gears in your mind turning, calculating every possible scenario that has the potential to unfold before you. Smart. Keen. Living in the future so you can survive the present.

He likes that.

“Yes,” he grins. “We were watchin’ ye, from up the hill,” he continues. “Looked like ye could use some company.”

You don’t respond. You look him up and down. Where the zipper of his tracksuit opens, you can see a dirty undershirt clinging to his chest. Gold chains hang loose around his neck, clinking slightly as he shifts on the swing. You can’t believe it’s taken you this long to notice the inverted crucifix attached to one of them.

“Y’see, they’re always excited to meet new people,” he tells you. “But you…ye were especially excitin’.”

“How’s that?”

He grins, and you can hear some of the others giggle and snicker from around the playground, obviously listening in.

“See, she already knows her lines,” Blue taunts Black & Red. “And I bet she’s gonna pick you, y’fuckin’ weak cunt!”

“Fuck off!” Black & Red shouts. “She’s gonna pick fuckin’ Jones, guarantee it!”

“Is not!” Orange shouts across the playground. “She’s gonna pick you, you’re fuckin’ rolled over on your back already!”

Black & Red squirms on the ground underneath Blue’s grip. He brings his knee up and connects with Blue’s groin, freeing himself and twisting, pinning Blue to the ground underneath him. He flicks out a pocket knife.

“Oi!” Purple shouts. Instantly, the boys stop fighting. “She’s not pickin’ any’a you rowdy fuckers.” 

You notice Fairy Wings deflate slightly.

“She’s not meant t’be a Finger.”

The tracksuits sit up from their places scattered around the playground. They’re watching you now, the two of you, clearly intrigued. Whatever Purple is up to, it’s obvious that even they don’t know his next move.

You’re looking around for a way out– any way out. You can tell he’s done fucking with you; he’s going to reveal why he’s here, why they’re all here, why they’re bothering with you, and then you have two options: submit or die.

“She’s meant t’be a Disciple.”

The tracksuits all stir, perking up, standing, watching. Purple turns back to you. He brings a hand adorned with gold rings to your face and grips your chin firmly in his fingers. He doesn’t have a crazed look in his eye; fuck, it would almost be comforting if you could see the insanity raging behind his irises. When he looks at you, all you can see is pure, uninterrupted…sincerity.

It makes your blood run cold.

The screeching that erupts around you snaps both of you out of the moment. Purple drops your chin and stands. You jump up and reach for your rucksack. You unzip it and grab your machete, tossing the scabbard back into the bag before slinging it over your shoulder again. The tracksuits all pick up their weapons, brandishing their blades, slingshots, and bats. 

You take a quick scan to assess the situation. There’s a group of Infected charging down the hill towards the playground. It looks like there’s around a dozen of them. For the first time since they showed up, you’re kind of grateful to be surrounded by eight feral freaks with weapons.

“Hold,” Purple commands, a sick smile spreads across his face. You snap your head towards him in disbelief. They’re not seriously going to listen to him?

Yet they do. 

They’re frozen, watching the Infected running towards them. You know your odds are better in a group, but everything in you is screaming to run. Run away, run into the battle, same fucking difference, but run.

And yet they stand.

“Hold,” he repeats, his voice even and measured. He watches the Infected barrelling towards you, snarling and hissing. He listens to your breath as it puffs in and out of your lungs. 

The Infected reach the base of the hill. It’s seconds before they’ll be on the woodchips, lunging at you. You grip the machete firmly in your fist. You roll your injured shoulder once, wincing in pain. His eyes flick over to you. He can see every muscle in your face betraying your anxiety, your desire to jump into action. But there’s something else there, too. The same look a hunting dog gets before it chases a fox.

He grins. You listened.

“Fucking go.”

The tracksuits charge at the Infected. Fairy Wings runs at one with her bat, swinging wildly and sending it to the ground. She bashes its skull in with the wood until you can hear the disgusting squish of the bat connecting with soft tissue. You charge forward into the fray, machete leading your way. Red is shoving her knife into the chest of a decaying woman, still wearing jeans and a sweater, obviously recently turned. Younger Infected were more likely to attack in packs like this, unable to hunt for themselves yet.

Another Infected runs at Red from the side and you step in, plunging your machete through his ribcage. He gurgles as blood leaks from his mouth, and you kick him in the hip to push him off of your blade. He’s a middle aged man, his hair only just starting to grey.

“I fuckin’ had it,” Red hisses at you.

“Fuck you,” you spit before running at another Infected.

Jimmy’s face lights up in delight as he watches you.

“Oooh, gonnae haveta be quicker’n that, Jimmy!” he shouts gleefully.

Red rolls her eyes and turns to another Infected, seemingly bored with the task.

“He was mine, you cunt!” Fairy Wings screeches at you when you stab another zombie, tossing the now twice-killed corpse to the side.

“Then why didn’t you fuckin’ kill ‘im?” you taunt her.

“Ohhoohoo!!” Jimmy giggles, clapping. “Beautiful work!”

The boys are still finishing off two Infected.

“Anytime ye care t’finish up there, lads, by all means, take yer time,” Purple quips, pretending to yawn.

Your eyes dart from the tracksuits back to him. He’s distracted, watching his clones gather around the final skirmish, cheering and laughing to each other, blonde wigs now smattered with blood.

It’s now or never.

You turn and run, the tall grass whipping against your skin and stinging. But you can’t slow down. You charge towards the trees, the same trees the Infected just emerged from, and fuck, there could be more running towards you right now. But you can’t slow down.

You race through the trees, dodging gnarled roots and rocks. Your lungs are screaming and your heart is pounding so loud you’re not even sure you’d hear any Infected around you. You run until you can’t run anymore, and then you keep running.

Running.

Running.

Running.

You can see an Infected in the distance, running towards you, hissing. You don’t break your stride. You hold your machete firmly and swing as you barrel forward, feeling the head of the Infected come off in one clean swoop as you pass. It lands against the forest floor with a loud thunk.

Tears sting your eyes and your lungs don’t feel like they’re part of your body anymore.

You run until you’re through the woods and in another clearing of tall grass. And just in the distance, you see it: a small stone cottage.

You could sob if you still had air in your lungs. As it is, you just run until you reach the front door. You pound on the wood, rattling the old door around in its frame.

“Hello!” you croak. “Hello, please let me in!”

You jiggle the knob. It’s sticky, but it rotates just barely in your grip. You resist the instinct to shove your shoulder into the wood, mindful of the pain still stinging your muscle. You bring a boot to the bottom of the door, kicking it roughly and throwing it open.

You tumble inside and slam the door closed behind you. You sink to the floor, your legs and feet burning. Your machete clatters against the wood floorboards as you drop it, your hand still clenched in a distorted claw shape. You’re shaking and sobbing quietly, the fear in your chest still lighting up every nerve in your body. You sit like that, you have no idea how long, just shaking, crying, huddled on the floor.

“Stay down here, lovey, chain the door after me.”

“But Dad–”

“Stay put! Darling, I love you so much–”

“Dad, please–”

“Chain it up! I love you!!”

The sounds of your soft cries and shaking breaths dissolve into the floorboards beneath you. It’s dark in the cottage.

It’s empty.

You try to gather your thoughts, re-order your mind. 

The cottage is empty.

Slowly, you push yourself up and to your feet. You drag your aching feet into the kitchen, throwing open cupboards. They’re filled with canned goods, properly stocked. You turn to the sink and open the cabinet beneath the ceramic basin. Giant jugs, the blue ones you’ve seen in pictures in old magazines, sitting upside down on a pedestal while men in suits stand around smiling, sit beneath the sink. Filled with water. 

You almost can’t believe it.

You shuffle through the house until you find the tiny bedroom. It’s not much; a small bed, a nightstand, a radio. But holy shit, it’s a bed. 

You collapse onto the bed, unable to bear your own weight on your feet any longer. The sheets are soft, threadbare in a few patches. You crawl under the duvet, boots still laced up. The feeling of a pillow under your head makes you want to cry again.

It’s only seconds before you drift off.

Back on the playground, in the afternoon light, the Jimmys stand around the final fallen Infected. They laugh, cheer, slap each other on the shoulder, their congratulatory shoving quickly turning into roughhousing. Jimmy approaches them, grinning widely. He stops quickly in his tracks, watching them. They all snap to attention, staring at him with crazed eyes and delirious smiles.

Jimmy pops up one foot and flicks his wrists up, standing in a playful ninja’s pose he remembers from a show on the telly ages ago.

“Howzat?” he teases.

“HOWZAAAAAAT!!!!” the Jimmys shriek in response, copying his pose before devolving into more whooping and cheering.

Jimmy scans over his flock. Seven.

He quietly holds up the two fingers on his right hand. The Jimmys stop their chaotic celebration and watch their leader dutifully, aware of his signal to call their attention.

“Fingers…where is the girl?” he asks them plainly.

The seven blonde heads twist and turn in confusion, each looking around the playground and the surrounding area, until they realize.

“She’s gone,” Jimmy Jimmy says, more stupidly and out loud to himself than to any of the others.

“I can see tha’ she’s gone,” Jimmy grits through a forced smile. “Do ya think it would please Old Nick, to find tha’ you stupid cunts lost the first Disciple of his only son?”

His voice is amplified in his anger; not necessarily louder, but bigger. Sharper.

“No, Sir Jimmy,” they reply in shambled unison.

“No…I donnae think so, either,” he assures them, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “So here’s what you lazy fuckers are gonnae do.”

“Can we kill ‘er?” Jimmima asks sweetly, swaying her hips from side to side, bloodied bat still dragging at her side.

“No,” Jimmy replies. “No, you cunts…fuckin’ find her…and bring her to me. Alive.”

Jimmy looks over their faces, dull and obedient. Jimmima is pouting at the prospect of not being able to kill you on sight. Shite has a disgusting smile plastered on his face. One corner of Jimmy’s lip darts up. 

You’ll turn up.

You listened the first time.

Jimmy smiles.

“Howzat?”

“HOWZAT!”