Lacey @graciesbow - Tumblr Blog

Chapter Three: Second Act - Descent of the Dove

sir lord jimmy crystal x fem!reader

Contains smut; 18+/MDNI

w.c: 6.1k

read on ao3 here.

Summary: When Jimmy finally catches up to you, you find a place in his band of misfits. But not everyone is so keen on your company.

Warnings: Contains smut, 18+/MDNI. Masturbation (m!) Graphic depictions of violence. Cults and cult leader. (duh it's Jimmy??) Religious themes and Satanism. Zombie apocalypse and related trauma.

Spoilers Note: This chapter DOES contain spoilers for Bone Temple. Read accordingly.

Author's Note: Thank you all for your patience; I've had this chapter outlined for some time, and I've been slowly and steadily working on it, but oh man it really snowballed into something bigger than I was anticipating. It's been so much fun to work on it, and I really truly cannot wait to continue working on this series. The response you've all had to this one has been really special as well, so thank you.

Thank you to my dear friend abhi @scannainscanrula for this incredible banner image, for editing, and for being generally amazing. Really can't put into words what you mean to me (in this language, at least.)

Reblogs, comments, and likes always appreciated! Please reblog if you like what you read; it helps keep writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you!

You’ve been walking all night, trying to put as much space as possible between you and the blond band of freaks. You’d stumbled on the occasional Infected, but had succeeded in either swiftly killing them or avoiding their attention altogether.

Your feet are killing you, and you know you need to find a place to set up camp, even if just for a short while. An object rising from the grass in the distance catches your attention. Slowly approaching it in the hazy twilight, you realize what it is.

A car.

A four door sedan, either black or dark blue; it’s hard to tell in the dim light. You try one of the doors, yanking on the handle roughly. Although it’s rusted with age, it opens.

Thank God.

You slide in behind the wheel, tossing your rucksack on the passenger seat. You push the lock down manually behind you, then lean over to the passenger door to do the same. Finally, you awkwardly stretch your arm into the backseat, locking the back doors as well. When you’re done, you slump down in the seat and sigh.

You’re exhausted. The car is far from clean or comfortable, but with doors that lock, it’s safe. And it’s your best option right now– hell, it’s your only option. You’ll rest here for a bit until you have to keep moving. You’re not sure how far you’ve gotten from the house, but you can tell it’s not far enough.

You lean back in the seat, trying to silence your brain, but it’s no use. Your head buzzes with the events of the last day and a half. Purple Tracksuit’s sinister smile. The blood-curdling screams of the people in the house above you. The sneers and grins of the band of misfits.

Disciple.

You shudder. You click open the glove compartment and rummage through it, unsure of what you’re looking for. It was almost second nature for you to ransack any place you entered, hunting for scraps and supplies.

You flip through some papers, the car’s instruction manual, some crumpled old napkins, a roadmap. You tuck the map into your pack and snap the door to the glove compartment closed again. Not even a stale bag of crisps. You sigh again and slump down in the tired, beat-up seat, resolved to get some shut eye before you push forward. You’re not sure how long it is before you fall asleep, but as the sun begins to crest over the horizon and dew begins to paint the tall grass, you fall into a dark, dreamless lull.

You wake with a start to the sound of hands banging on the window next to your head. Your heart is instantly thumping as a woman with bloodshot eyes shrieks and pounds on the glass, centimeters from your face. A young man in a tattered t-shirt dives across the hood of the car, clawing at the windshield. You know the Infected are strong enough to break the windows of the car; you’ve seen them force their way into buildings, crashing through locked doors and shattering panes of glass.

Your heart is pounding along with every smack of the woman’s fists on your window. The two of them might be manageable, but their screams were sure to attract more, and with your escape options already extremely limited, you couldn’t risk it.

Another man, this one a little older, descends on the passenger side door of the car, viciously tugging on the handle. You quickly slide your machete out of your bag, trying to assess your choices. There’s no good ones; either you stay in the car, hoping they lose interest before one of them smashes their way in, or you try to leave the car, and are immediately outnumbered. Your brother’s voice rings in your head.

The only way out is through.

Your eyes dart frantically between the three screaming Infected. The woman has started pounding her head against the glass. You’re trying to decide which one you can take first when the man yanking on the door finally rips it free. You scream and swing at his outstretched arms with your machete. Suddenly, a blade plunges through his chest. You stare in horror as he sputters and gasps, and the now blood-covered blade recedes. He crumples to the ground and you’re facing Red– the girl in the blonde wig and red tracksuit. She grins at you, and you notice the scar arcing across the lower half of her face.

Your attention is pulled forward again when the Infected clawing at the windshield suddenly screams, his blood splattering across the glass. You see Fairy Wings standing over him proudly wielding her bat. The woman on your side is also quickly dispatched, and you see the boy in Black & White grinning smugly as she collapses against the car and her limp body slides to the ground.

Purple steps over the bloodied corpse of the Infected and plops into the passenger seat of the car with a sigh. You’re staring straight ahead in shock, hands still shaking and gripping your machete tightly.

There’s a moment of quiet between you in the car as you both stare out the windshield.

Finally, he turns to you.

“Sorry, I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day. I’m Jimmy,” he offers casually.

You turn your head only slightly, so you can see him out of the corner of your eye. The rest of your body remains frozen in place as your heart only just begins to slow down. He smiles softly at you, as if you’re not in a blood splattered car surrounded by the corpses of Infected and his cheering minions. He turns his attention to the seven of them, cleaning their weapons and chattering loudly to each other.

“An’ tha’s Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, and–”

“Let me guess,” you croak. “Robert.”

He chuckles, and the silence falls back into the air.

He found you.

And just like the Infected, your options for escape are so limited they’re practically nonexistent. Stab him and face the seven riotous murderers. Run– be found again.

Jimmy watches your eyes dart around, watches the gears turning in your head as you try to calculate your next move.

“Ye know,” he begins, his voice tentative in the fragile space between you, as if he’s trying not to startle a small animal. “I was never too good at the maths…but I’ve a feelin’ yer odds of survivin’ are better with us.”

A bitter laugh chokes its way out of your throat.

“Surviving…with you lot…” you huff.

“Jus’ saved yer neck, yer fuckin’ welcome,” he counters hotly.

“I’m not like you.”

Your voice is a whisper, harsh and angry as you fight back tears. You’re not sure why your eyes are hot and watery; you’re not sad. But something about the emotional intensity of the last two days, something about being in this car with him…it makes you feel like a sweater with a loose thread that someone’s yanked on. You can feel your stitching starting to unravel.

“Yer not?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“I could never do– what you do– what you did…those people…at the house…”

His brows shoot up in surprise. You were there.

“Oh, right…right, but those zombie fuckers on the playground–” he starts, challenge in his voice.

“That’s different,” you retort firmly.

“How?” he pushes back. “Oh, we’re so fuckin’ evil, but you can stab those wee shites through the heart, slash their fuckin’ throats–”

“That’s different. The Infected–”

“No, I donnae think so,” he cuts you off sharply. The silence falls over you again as he watches you, studies your face as your lip quivers. He sighs, then turns his attention back through the windshield, watching the Jimmys play through the blood smeared glass.

“Ye see them?” he asks finally. “Every single one of ‘em joined my Fist because I saw somethin’ in ‘em. A hunger, a fire…an anger.”

He turns back to you.

“The same anger I saw in you.”

You press your eyes closed and feel hot tears stinging your eyes and streaking down your cheeks. You’re tired. No, you’re fucking exhausted.

Not exhausted from a lack of sleep. You’re exhausted from twenty-eight years of survival. Twenty-eight years of scraping by, roaming from one decimated place to another. Twenty-eight years of hiding, running, fighting, crying in empty houses, on barren rooftops in the dark. Twenty-eight years of wondering if this was all worth it. If this was all your life would be.

You are angry. And that’s what scares you.

You would be lying if you said there wasn’t some sick part of you, buried deep inside of your chest, that enjoyed killing the Infected. As much as you hated to admit it, as much as you did still see them as people, human beings with a disease…the feeling of your machete slicing through their flesh was the closest you ever got to catharsis.

The rage that boils in their blood…you sometimes wonder if it simmers in yours, too.

Your eyes flick open and you huff out a breath, turning away from him and wiping your cheeks. He continues to watch you, examining your face, your body language.

“Sometimes I worry about you, kid.”

“Wha’d’ya mean?”

“All that fire in you…”

“Hey, that fire’s kept us alive so far!”

“I know, I know…just…don’t let it burn you, too.”

“That…anger…” Jimmy continues, his voice oddly soft. He turns his attention back to his flock, watching Jimmima jump on Jones’s back, shrieking in delight as they go stumbling forward. “It has a home here.”

You turn back to him, eyes scanning his face, expecting to see a glimmer of something– an ulterior motive, a scheme, something that tells you he’s lying.

All you see is sincerity.

You face forward, following his gaze, and watch the Jimmys. The same freaks that pulled those screams out of those people in the house are now laughing, smiling, playing together. Orange runs forward with Fairy Wings on their back, while Blue stumbles forward, holding Red & Black. Green stands a distance away, arms outstretched. When Orange and Fairy Wings reach him, Fairy Wings slaps his outstretched hand, then hoists her own fists in victory. Blue and Red & Black tumble to the ground, and the others laugh.

It has a home here.

You have a home here.

You assess your odds one more time.

Finally, you look back to Jimmy. His eyes dart over to meet yours and he gives you a small smile. He holds his hand out, his rings glinting in the bright afternoon light.

You take it, and shake.

A home.

You’re walking through the woods now, all nine of you, and you can’t believe these fools have lasted as long as they have out here.

They’re so loud. You’d learned that any noise was a risk; the Infected had an especially keen sense of hearing, and in the early days of Infection, you and Lachlan had trained yourselves to step carefully, avoid twigs and branches, breathe quietly, communicate with hand signals, and read each other’s lips.

The Jimmys crash through the foliage, shouting and hurling insults at one another the whole way. Your instincts keep you from joining in the romp.

Red trudges along at your side, leading the pack. Jimmy brings up the rear, keeping his eye on you.

“So…the root cellar. Good hidin’ place,” she offers after several moments of sustained silence.

You halt in your tracks, staring at her. She chuckles softly at you before tilting her head forward.

“C’mon,” she smiles. “Trust me, y’don’t want any’a those nosy cunts eavesdroppin’.”

You force your feet to keep going and fall back in step with her.

“That was you,” you reply, dumbfounded. “Pulling on the doors.”

She nods, stepping over a large gnarled tree root.

“Why did you let me go?” you ask in a small voice. She surely could’ve broken the door, or alerted the others.

“Dunno,” Red says simply.

You examine her face, your eye once again drawn to the scar that runs from her cheekbone across her lip, down to her chin. She’s rolled up the sleeves of her tracksuit, the zipper resting about halfway up her torso, and you look her up and down, noting all the tattoos decorating her neck, her forearms, the backs of her hands. You remember her name now: Jimmy Ink. She glances over at you and you snap forward again, embarrassed to be caught staring.

Suddenly, several of the others prance up, flanking your sides. They’re all eager to play with their newest toy.

“Boy, can I pick ‘em or what?” Black & Red announces smugly.

“Shut up, Fox,” Ink grumbles.

“I dunno,” Fairy Wings taunts in a sing-song voice. “Seems a little soft to me.”

“Soft?” Ink laughs. “Yeah, that’s why she fuckin’ beat you to the punch the other day, right?”

“Fuck off,” Fairy Wings scowls, then turns her attention back on you. You avoid her eye. “Why’s she get to be Finger without a fight, hm?”

“She’s not a fuckin’ Finger, stupid,” Fox leers. “She’s a pet, remember?”

“Shut up, Fox,” Ink repeats. “So fuckin’ annoyin’.”

“Oooh, someone’s gone a bit sweet on Sir Jimmy’s disciple, huh?” he taunts her, his voice dripping with the same teasing tone that Lachlan had often turned on you.

“Fuck off, both of you,” Ink huffs. “Like you’re one to fuckin’ talk.”

That shuts him up.

“Jus’ sayin’,” Fairy Wings counters. “If she’s so fuckin’ important, dontcha think she needs to prove herself to Old Nick?”

You lift your boot high enough to step over a fallen branch. Fairy Wings skips over it, landing gracefully without breaking her stride, as if her wings are more than just tattered nylon stretched over a wire frame.

“Sir Jimmy said Old Nick told ‘im about his plans for ‘er,” Ink protests. “If Sir Jimmy says it, isn’t that good enough for you, Jimmima?”

Jimmima frowns again, but she doesn’t have a retort. You’re still learning their names, and try your best to internalize hers.

Ink stops in a small clearing, looking around. The ground is level enough to set up camp, and mostly free of any large debris. The groundcover in the area has receded, leaving some of the damp soil of the forest floor exposed. She turns toward the sun, now getting low in the sky. You’ve been walking for longer than you realize.

“We should stop here,” she calls back to Jimmy. Again, her volume makes you wince.

The others linger in the clearing as they catch up. When Jimmy finally steps through the trees, he looks around briefly before giving Ink a small, firm nod.

“Aye,” he says. “We’ll set up here for th’ night.”

The full moon casts a little light through the trees, and you stare up at it through the branches over your head.

Snake and Jones have taken over the far corner of the tiny camp, and share a blanket draped across both of their chests. Shite, Fox, and Jimmy Jimmy– whom you’d learned the others often called ‘JJ’ to save time– occupy another small footprint of the campsite. Jimmima had laid out a blanket between Jimmy and Ink, and you’d opted to lie down on Ink’s other side.

You twist in your bedroll, unable to find comfort on the cold forest floor. The damp smell of the dirt below your head soothes you, but the cold chill in the air cuts you to the bone. You shiver.

Despite Ink and Jimmima sleeping soundly between you, Jimmy’s dreaming about choking you with his cock until you pass out.

You hear him tossing and turning, the gentle rustling of his makeshift bedding echoing in the otherwise quiet night. You finally hear him sit up and sigh.

Jimmy rubs at the back of his neck. He stares at you, your back to him, curled up in your sleep. Well, what he assumes is sleep.

He pushes himself to his feet and quietly walks over to your place, stepping over a sleeping Jimmima and Ink. Ink stirs slightly as he passes, but the others remain still. Jimmy stands over your unmoving body, unaware of the fact that you’re awake and holding your breath under his gaze. You keep your eyes shut, but you can feel your heart pounding. You swallow and your jaw tenses. You listen to his steady breathing as he watches you.

Jimmy runs his eyes along your outline, watching your chest expand with every breath, your tits rising and falling. He shoves a hand down the front of his track pants and grips himself, slowly stroking his length. He stares at you, you, lying quietly underneath him at last. He shudders at the lazy stimulation of his hand on his cock and pumps faster.

He imagines pulling himself out and painting your face and hair while you sleep.

You can hear his breath stuttering through his lungs.

He imagines the others waking up and watching him cum all over you, claiming you as his own, and bites back a moan. His cock twitches in his hand and he pants, trying his best to stay quiet.

You can hear him moving, breathing, but you have no idea what’s going on just above your head.

Jimmy lets a shaky breath escape his lungs as he takes his hand off himself and turns away from you. He runs his hand through his hair, trying to relax. When he turns back to you, he shoves a fist against his teeth, too worked up to be this close to you. He’s still painfully hard, his erection tenting the velour of his track pants. Jimmy wraps his hand around his base once more, squeezing gently.

“Fuck,” he whispers through gritted teeth, his breath feather-light on the air. You shift slightly, finally hearing him speak. Jimmy freezes. He grumbles and pulls his hand away again.

Not yet.

He turns away from you, scrubbing a hand against his jaw, desperately trying to steady his breath. He walks back towards his bed, then turns again, restlessly pacing. His eyes fall back on you. He knows he won’t sleep.

Finally, he turns and slinks down the hill the way you came. Maybe a walk will clear his head.

When you hear Jimmy walk off, you carefully roll over, your eyes still closed, imitating sleep. You gently open them, squinting through the darkness. He’s gone.

Ink is twisted up in her own blanket. Her face is so much more delicate like this, lost in a gentle slumber. You stare at her scar again and wonder where it came from. An Infected? One of these creeps? Jimmima’s voice from earlier still rings through your head.

Why’s she get to be Finger without a fight?

Your eyes drift from her face to her neck, her pulse fluttering softly under the skin adorned with a large tattoo. At first you thought it was just meant to look like a choker, but now you can see the details. It’s a man with his arms outstretched, an enormous pair of wings sprouting from his back and stretching around Ink’s neck. The man has something on his chest, but in the low light, you can’t make it out.

You study her face again. The splatter of freckles across her skin rivals that of the stars over your head. But she has the same trademark as the others: an inverted cross, carved into her forehead between her eyebrows.

Dontcha think she needs to prove herself to Old Nick?

You finally tear your eyes away from Ink, landing them instead on your knapsack. You have enough supplies to stay on the move for a few days; if you make a dash for it now, you can put 30 kilometers between you and them before sunrise, easy. You quietly fold back the top cover of your bed roll, not bothering to try and repack it. It’s not worth the risk of waking the others.

You shoulder your pack and carefully step around Ink and Jimmima. You walk a few paces, and when you’re satisfied that you’re far enough not to be heard, you run.

You run until you’re at the small creek you’d crossed earlier in the evening. Ink is clearly the one guiding the group; not just leading them, but obviously tracking you. The way she surveyed the campsite, the fact that she knew you were in the root cellar…she thinks like Lachlan. He was always your north star. You would’ve followed him anywhere.

Ink’s keen instincts were just like your brother’s; luckily, that meant you could predict her moves. And you knew she would wake in the morning and assume that you had run east, towards the coast. Which is exactly why you ran directly back the way you came. Lachlan always believed the answer to any given question or problem was in front of you, and if you could just keep going, just keep moving, you’d find it. Ink had the same look in her eyes that told you she was sick of looking backwards. She’d never think to backtrack to find you.

As you approach the creek, you can hear a sound floating above the steady flow of the water. It sounds like a person, but you can’t tell if it’s an Infected or not. All you can make out is the ragged, rushed sound of breathing. As you approach the riverband, you catch a glimpse of the source and quickly duck behind the base of a wide tree, your knee gently landing in the soft dirt as you sink down.

It’s Jimmy.

Fuck.

You peek around the trunk of the tree and watch him. He’s about 15 meters from you, standing hunched over, one hand braced against the tree in front of him. Your eyes drift down towards his other hand.

He’s jerking off.

You quickly twist back around the tree, pressing your back into the trunk and a hand over your mouth.

“Fuck, jus’ like that, angel, c’mon,” he grunts. The slick, disgusting sound of his hand on his cock makes bile rise in the back of your throat and the sound of your heartbeat floods your ears.

You need to get back to camp. But you’re frozen in place, listening to him.

Jimmy’s hand works over his length, gently twisting and squeezing in all the right places as he teases himself.

He imagines you laying underneath him again, so soft and gentle and pliable. He wants to make you cry and beg and claw at his chest while he ruins you.

“Fuck, fuck,” he pants. You hear your name tumble past his lips in an obscene groan. It makes your blood run cold.

You’re calculating odds again in your head, but you don’t see a way out of this one. At least, not in any way that ends well for you.

Fox rolls over to the sound of gentle rustling and groggily forces his eyes open. Jimmima’s quietly walking off, away from the campsite. Fox, fully awake now, props himself up on an elbow and stops Jimmima with a quick low whistle. She abruptly turns back and sees Fox raise his hands in a what the fuck are you doing gesture. She clicks her tongue softly in annoyance, then waves him over.

Fox quietly rises from his makeshift bed and scurries over.

“Fuck ‘re you goin’?” Fox whispers harshly. “He’s gonna be fuckin’ pissed.”

“He’s fuckin’ gone,” Jimmima whispers, nodding at Sir Jimmy’s empty cot. “And so’s she.” She nods at your similarly unoccupied place.

“So?” Fox counters.

“So…something’s fucking up. Why’s Sir Jimmy lettin’ ‘er travel with us if she hasn’t fucking proved herself to Old Nick?” Jimmima continues. Ink gently shifts in her sleeping bag, and Jimmima drops her voice a bit. “Somethin’s fuckin’ goin’ on.”

She turns back towards the woods. She’s not sure which way you’ve gone, but she trusts her sense of hearing enough to know that she’ll find you.

“Y’comin’?” she asks Fox at last.

His eyes are narrowed in thought. He looks back at your empty place, then to Jimmy’s. She’s right– something’s up. He gives Jimmima a quick nod and the two of them take off into the night.

Ink wakes to harsh whispers just a few paces away from her sleeping bag.

Somethin’s fuckin’ goin’ on. Y’comin’?

When she hears the footsteps disappear into the brush, she tentatively opens her eyes and sits up. Snake, Jones, Shite, and JJ are still sleeping soundly. It would take a stampede of Infected to wake Jones; Ink recalls a morning where Jimmy had to practically kick them in the stomach to get them up. Snake usually got up first and would shake them awake at the last possible moment. But Ink’s attention is now drawn to the empty places around the campsite: Jimmima, Fox, Jimmy, and you are all missing. She notices that your knapsack is gone, too. The whispers were right. Something’s fucking going on. And whatever it is, it can’t be good.

Ink tosses back the top of her sleeping bag and silently follows the direction of the voices.

“Listen–!”

“Wha’, I don’t hear anythin’?”

“This way!”

It’s Fox and Jimmima. They’re looking for you. Ink quietly steps through the foliage, careful not to rustle too many leaves or step on any twigs. She just hopes she can find you before they do.

Back at the riverbank, you’re still frozen behind the tree, listening to Jimmy pant and whine your name.

“Fuck, tha’s it, tha’s fuckin’ it, good fuckin’ girl,” he hisses.

It’s so vile, you feel like you could throw up. But a part of you feels the shameful heat rise in your cheeks and blossom between your thighs. You squeeze your legs together as your stomach twists.

It’s been so long since you’ve felt someone’s hands on you. There was a man you traveled with some years ago, from a nearby island, who’d stopped on the mainland to hunt. You lived and worked together for a few weeks before you were separated during an attack. He was handsome and strong, and he could work your body like you were an instrument.

You don’t feel the same way about Jimmy; you felt something with the man from your past that you could almost call love. You found a tiny stone cottage with a door that locked and windows that let in light. You spent many lazy sunlit mornings lying in the bed that was too small to be comfortable when you shared it, his hands on your waist, your chest, your jaw. In those moments it felt like the world was paused, the way you remember freezing a tape in the television as a child. Everything holding still, halted in place, while he whispered in your ear, promises of marriage, of taking you back to his island, making you a mother.

It had been years since he’d disappeared. And there wasn’t a good way to meet people in the zombie apocalypse. A quick glance at a young man living on a farm that was willing to shelter you for a night or two. But usually you were on your own.

“Take it so well, angel,” Jimmy mutters, still lost in his bliss. “Y’wan’ it? Fuck, want it down yer fuckin’ throat?”

You hear his breath accelerating, matching your own. You swallow thickly.

You stumble to your feet. You’re never going to make it past him; your best bet is to make it back to camp before one of the others realizes you’re gone. You start back up the hill towards the smell of lingering smoke from your campfire, hopeful that the other Jimmys are still sound asleep, and this can fade into an awkward memory that lives in a dark corner of your mind.

Until you hear the sound of low bickering voices and rusting leaves.

“She went fuckin’ this way!”

“How could you possibly fuckin’ know that?”

“I heard something, shut up!”

“You heard somethin’, how’d’ye know it’s not a fuckin’ animal? Or a fuckin’ zombie, ohhh….!”

“Fuck off, she went this way!”

You’re too late. Fox and Jimmima are on your trail, and close, by the sounds of it. Your mind is going a mile a minute. You quickly slide your pack off your shoulder and toss it aside. If they hadn’t already noticed it was missing from the campsite, you might be able to play this off.

Your pack lands with a louder thump than you’d meant it to, and you hear Jimmima and Fox freeze. You do the same. Their pace quickens, and you’re already wracking your brain for your excuse when they finally reach you.

“Well…” Fox begins. “Lookae wha’ we ‘ave ‘ere.”

“Oh dear,” Jimmima smiles. “Did you get lost?”

“I-I was just goin’ to the bathroom–” you stutter on the lie. Shit.

“Sure…” Jimmima sneers. “Y’know, you’re not even s’posed to be here.”

“I know, I was just heading back,” you reply, a little more confidence in your voice this time. You take a step forward, and they each step closer together, blocking your path.

“No,” she corrects you firmly. “You’re not supposed to be here. With us.”

No fucking shit, you think.

“What’re you talking about?” you say instead, trying to play at casual.

“Everyone has to prove themselves to Old Nick,” she spits. “So why not you?”

“I don’t know, ask Jimm–”

“Sir Jimmy,” Fox barks at you.

“Ask Sir Jimmy,” you correct, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.

Fox shoots a glance towards Jimmima. The corner of her lip quirks up ever so slightly before they both turn back to you.

“Well, Sir Jimmy always says that everyone has’ta prove themselves to Old Nick,” Jimmima starts innocently. Fox smirks and circles around you. “We could help you…”

Fox grabs your wrist and twists your right arm behind your back. You wince in pain, your hand clawing for the small knife tucked into your waistband.

“Ah, ah,” Fox chides, snatching the knife for himself. He grabs your left wrist, knife still in hand, and twists again, effectively pinning you. Jimmima takes a step towards you.

“Wha’dya think, Fox? My knife, or hers?”

Fox grins wickedly and tosses Jimmima your knife. When his hand leaves your wrist, you struggle to break free, but he’s quick to adjust his grip and pulls you back into position. Jimmima catches your knife by the handle– impressive, even you have to admit– and inspects the blade.

“Stop–please, you don’t have to do this–” you pant, your heartbeat thundering in your chest.

“Oh, but we do,” she murmurs. She presses your knife to the side of your neck, the cool metal meeting your hot skin. “Y’gotta prove that you deserve to be here, isn’t that right, Fox?”

Fox tugs on your arms, pulling your back into his chest. He leans up into your ear, his breath hot and revolting.

“Yeah…” he sneers. “Gotta prove you can fuckin’ hang.”

Jimmima presses the blade into your neck, stinging your flesh. You can feel the sharp edge digging into your skin slightly and you whimper. Jimmima laughs.

“Listen t’that, Fox. Got her fuckin’ cryin’ already!”

Suddenly, Jimmima lands on the ground with a scream. Ink is on top of her, pinning her wrists into the dirt above her head.

“Fuck ‘re you doing?” she hisses. Jimmima squirms underneath her, but Ink’s knees straddling her tiny frame keep her in place. Fox tightens his grip on you, but you can tell he’s surprised– he doesn’t know whether to let you go and help Jimmima, or finish you off himself.

“Fuck off!” Jimmima squeals. “She’s mine!”

“Yeah right, she’s fuckin’ yours!” Ink shouts. “And how’s Sir Jimmy gonna feel, knowin’ you fuckin’ killed ‘er?”

“She has to–mmph–she doesn’t fuckin’ deserve to be a Finger!” Jimmima whines. Your heart is still racing, but you think you see tears streaking down her dirt-covered temples.

“She’s not a Finger,” a new voice looms through the darkness.

Your eyes turn toward the source. Jimmy stands just meters away from you, staring at Ink and Jimmima on the ground. Fox quickly drops your wrists, and you stumble out of his grip. You trip and your hands land on the soft dirt, catching yourself as you catch your breath.

“What about that is so hard f’you stupid cunts to understand?” he asks cooly. The way his voice freezes the air around you chills you to the bone. You can feel the way they respond to him with complete reverence.

Ink slowly stands, releasing Jimmima. Jimmima stands. The three of them look like misbehaving children caught by a stern parent, eyes cast downward, avoiding his gaze. You lean back on your haunches, the knees of your trousers collecting the dampness of the dirt below you. You look up at him. His eyes dart from each of them back to you.

Jimmy stares at you, panting, on your knees in front of him, and bites the inside of his cheek.

“Someone wannae tell me what the fuck was goin’ on?” he asks again, his tone sharper than the blade that was digging into your neck. You absentmindedly rub a hand over your neck, checking for injury. When you pull your fingers back, they’re painted with the faintest sheen of red. She got you, but not enough to do much damage.

“We were–” Fox stammers, then swallows hard when Jimmy’s eyes land on him, “we were…just…she’s gotta prove ‘erself, Sir.”

“She’s gottae prove herself…” Jimmy repeats thoughtfully. “To who?”

“Old Nick,” Jimmima mutters weakly. Jimmy turns his gaze on her. “Sir,” she adds.

He looks at Ink. He raises his brow at her. That what happened? Their silent language.

“Fox were holdin’ her, Jimmima had the knife,” Ink confirms.

Jimmy clicks his tongue in disapproval. You examine his face, trying to read him for his next move as he looks back and forth between Jimmima and Fox. The moonlight dances through the trees as a gentle breeze waves the branches around you.

“Ye know,” Jimmy starts. “Fightin’...when not for the glory of Old Nick…is an offense, Fingers.”

“Yes, Sir Jimmy,” Jimmima and Fox answer in unison. His control amazes you. The two aggressive fighters who were just about to kill you are now turned to bashful, obedient followers.

“Shall I ask Old Nick what yer punishment should be?” Jimmy continues. “For breakin’ the fuckin’ rules?”

The vitriol in his voice scares you. Your head is pounding in time with your heart as you watch Fox and Jimmima share a worried look. Jimmy raises two of his fingers to his right temple.

“No!” you shout.

You don’t know why. They were trying to kill you. Your odds of survival would certainly be better without them– either or both of them– around.

Jimmy pauses and looks at you.

“Wha’ was that?”

You swallow.

“N-no,” you repeat, a little quieter.

“No?” he repeats.

Ink’s eyes dart nervously between you and Jimmy. She knows Jimmy has some kind of plan for you, but defiance of any sort was a sure way to activate his rage. She’d seen his rage; she didn’t want you on the receiving end of it.

“No…Sir…” you correct. Hearing his title on your lips makes Jimmy swallow hard, tensing his jaw. Your head is spinning, working fast to craft a lie that will let the events of the night evaporate into nothingness. “No, Sir. Old Nick…he already told me…he said they should be forgiven.”

Jimmy stares down at you, a question in his eyes that even Ink can’t read. You don’t break his gaze, silently praying that he believes the lie.

Listen to her, Jimmy. She is my disciple. I speak through her.

Jimmy’s eyes flutter shut as he listens to his Father. He releases a breath. You’re still holding yours.

Finally, he opens his eyes. He holds your gaze a moment longer, staring into your pleading eyes.

You can hear Him, too.

He looks from you, to Ink, to Jimmima, to Fox. No one moves.

“Very well, Fingers,” Jimmy says at last, flashing his decaying smile. “Ye heard the girl. Old Nick says…forgiveness.”

You release your breath, your chest quietly heaving. Ink eyes you. Jimmima and Fox stare at Jimmy in disbelief. He gently kicks your knife towards you with the toe of one of his trainers. You pick it up and tuck it back into your belt.

Jimmy starts back up the hill towards the campsite. The rest of you stay frozen in place, staring at the spot he once occupied. You can feel the tension in the air slowly dissipate, like air being released from a balloon.

Jimmy pauses, his back still to you.

“Jus’ don’t fuck it up this time.”

thank you for reading! please reblog if you like what you read; it keeps writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you! check out my masterlist (including previous chapters) here.

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