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@nessinborderland
Welcome!
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A list of my works in progress and which stage they're in.
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Bloodstained Devotion: Chapter 9
Latest Releases: BD (Chapter 8) BD (Chapter 7) BD (Chapter 6)
Updated: 06/03/2026
missing you queen. Hope you’re well!
Haha one day at a time, but we're getting there! 🫶✨
In the meantime here, have more bebe 😺❤️
Are you okay?? 🥺💕
Heyo! Sorry for going MIA everyone 🤧.
Things got kinda crazy in March with some health scares and a pretty messy fall that left me in bed for a week. Due to that I'm once again unemployed for the foreseeable future 🙃
This week I also got two newborn kittens to care for, so I'm now a mother of two running on a couple hours of sleep lol
Kitty tax 😸😺
Don't worry tho, I haven't forgotten about you or BD ❤️ just trying to get my life back on track.
Much love to you 💖🤗
I'm honestly so scared for aoaud season 2, i just know they're gonna butcher it..🥹
netflix just LOOVVEEE to turn their popular shows into cashgrabs with no actual love for what it originally was so i feel like s2 will be awful plot wise... If they bring cheong-san back but not Gwi-nam I'll actually riot 💔
Tbh I don't have high expectations for the new season either, but we never know until it actually comes out. We might be pleasantly surprised 😃 (not that I think we will lol).
One thing that I'm pretty certain of is that Yoo Insoo won't be back as Gwinam for the new season. A shame tbh, I could see him being an even better antagonist this time around if written properly.
I was listening to Ultraviolence by lana del rey and reading the lyrics and it reminded me SO much of BD 😩 please listen to it if you haven't already!!
I knew the song but looking at the lyrics omg 😭 it's so so them, especially in later chapters!
I wanna write fanfic for the AKOTSK fandom so bad but it's so out of my range I hate this
Bloodstained Devotion (Chapter 8)
Pairing: Yoon Gwinam x Plus size! Reader
Genres: Dark Romance · Post-Apocalyptic Horror · Psychological Thriller
Word Count: 3.9k words
Warnings ⚠️ Smut, Angst, Death, Blood and Injury, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Survival, Enemies to Lovers, Moral Ambiguity, Bullying, Non-Consensual Touching, Childhood Friends, Stockholm Syndrome, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trauma, Other Additional Warnings to Be Added, Captivity
Summary: The world ended in blood and chaos, leaving only the unfortunate and the dead behind. You survived the fall. Sometimes you wish you hadn't. Once a familiar face, Gwinam is no longer the boy you remember. Twisted by obsession, he refuses to let you slip from his grasp, even if that means you'll hate him for eternity. Now survival isn’t the hardest fight. It’s resisting the kind of love that feels like death.
Notes: I've been exhausted, so apologies for any mistakes. Hope you enjoy it regardless <3
Please read at your own risk.
AO3 | Masterlist
«Chapter 7
An empty apartment and a locked door. A dead world. None of it matters anyway — a bird with broken wings cannot fly.
Hands on you. Cold and stiff and wrong.
You're in the bathroom again. No… the school. The tiles. You're counting them but they won't stay still, moving like they're alive. Focus! Seven has a crack. Nine and ten have mold. Fingers dig into your hips, black cracked nails scratching blood into your skin, and you can't remember how you got here.
The smell. God, the smell.
Rot and something sweet-sick coating your throat. You turn your head and the face is there — rotting and peeling flesh, an empty eye socket where something should be. You know this face. You don't know this face. Something moves in the socket. Small, black, pouring out like water. Spiders crawling out, covering you.
They're everywhere now. Little legs on your skin, in your hair, in your mouth. You're screaming but no sound comes out, just more of them crawling down your throat, choking you, and the pain—
The pain is tearing through you like fire, splitting you open. Your body doesn't belong to you. It's just meat, ruined and used, and you can't tell if it's the spiders or the hands or the weight crushing the air from your lungs or if it was always like this, if this is just—
You jolt awake.
Your chest heaves, pulling in air in gasps that won't come fast enough. Your hands frantically brush over your face, your mouth, trembling as you realize it was only a dream. For a moment, you don't know where you are. Darkness presses in, thick and suffocating as you stare wildly at your surroundings.
Then you remember.
Not a zombie. Not spiders.
Worse.
You sit up slowly, your neck protesting as you straighten from your hunched position on the sofa. The pain between your legs flares — duller now after the shower, but still there. A deep ache that reminds you of everything with each shift of your thighs.
The apartment is silent. Empty.
He's gone.
Relief crashes through you so suddenly it makes you dizzy. You're alone. You're safe.
For now, at least.
The lamp is still on in the living room, casting everything in dim orange light. It's still dark outside, not a sign of life apart from the street lamps. If you didn't know better, you would think these past few days have been nothing but a dream.
You stand on shaking legs, steadying yourself on the couch's arm when they falter. The borrowed sweatpants cling to your hips and thighs, but the hoodie engulfs you well enough, warm and soft against your body. You hate how the fabric feels against your bruised skin.
Moving through the apartment like a ghost, you step toward the windows.
Any doubt you could have of reality shatters as you take in the street below.
A 24-hour self-service laundry illuminates everything, white lights flooding the pavement in harsh fluorescent glare. What's left of the broken door hangs wide open, glass scattered across the entrance. The inside is covered in rusted red, handprints smeared across the washing machines — a trail leading deeper inside where you can't see.
Next to it, a small barbecue restaurant. Benches and tables thrown everywhere, chairs on their sides, one leg snapped clean off. And more blood. So much blood. Dark pools of it dried into the concrete, splattered everywhere.
And amidst it all, crumpled against the restaurant's exterior wall, something that might be a body.
You stare at it. At the unnatural angle of the limbs, twisted like a discarded doll from some low-budget horror movie set. The way the streetlight catches on what could be torn fabric or torn flesh, the distinction impossible from here. You can't tell. Don't want to look closer to find out.
Your breath fogs the window, obscuring the view for just a moment before it clears and you’re back to looking at it.
This is real. The world ended. Everyone is dead or dying or worse. And you're here, locked in a stranger's apartment, wearing a dead man's clothes while his body is God knows where.
The street is empty. Silent. No survivors stumbling past. No rescue vehicles. No help coming.
Just silence and blood and bodies.
You look away.
Your bare feet touch cold linoleum as you shuffle toward the kitchenette, arms wrapped around yourself like you can hold yourself together through sheer force. Everything feels strange and wrong. Unreal.
You're not supposed to be here.
You open the fridge. The light inside is harsh and white, making you squint after the dim orange of the living room. Your stomach rumbles, loud in the quiet. Inside, you find yogurt cups stacked neatly. A carton of milk, probably sour by now, sits together with some sauces on the door next to a half-drunk bottle of soju. Vegetables in the crisper drawer, already starting to wilt and brown. A couple of takeout containers on the top shelf. You crack one open and the smell of spoiled japchae almost makes you gag.
Still, your stomach clenches with hunger so sharp it hurts.
You grab one of the yogurt cups with trembling hands, struggling with the foil lid before it gives and you’re searching for a spoon in the drawer behind you. Strawberry, you notice as the first spoonful hits your tongue, artificial and too sweet. You eat it standing there with the fridge door still open, cold air spilling out around your legs. You don't savor it. Don't even taste it after the first bite. Just need something in your stomach, something to ground you in your body even though you don't want to be in it.
The hum of the refrigerator fills the silence; your eyes drift around the room.
The electricity still works.
The realization hits you with the third spoonful. Power's on. Water ran in the shower. The fridge is cold. That means the grid's still functioning, at least here.
Maybe the rest of Korea is fine. Maybe it's just Hyosan. Maybe help is coming.
The thought sparks something in your chest. Hope — some delusion mixed in.
You glance at the calendar on the wall. Four days. That's all it's been. Four days since the world ended.
Four days, and no one's come.
The hope flickers, dimming.
You close the fridge and the kitchen plunges back into orange lamplight. The door is covered in magnets and photographs of a people you don’t know. A man, maybe mid-twenties. Him at a baseball game, grinning with a beer in hand. A selfie with a young woman — the same from the picture in the bedroom, her head tilted against his chest, both of them laughing. More pics scattered across the surface with what you assume to be friends and family members.
This person had a life.
Where is he now?
Your eyes drift across the room. The living area — couch with worn cushions, two tall bookshelfs filled to the brim, a coffee table with a ring stain from a forgotten mug, fluffy black carpet underneath. Tennis equipment leans against the far wall: a racket with fraying grip tape and a can of balls. He played tennis. Had a routine. Came home from work, changed into workout clothes and grabbed that racket and left through that door, completely unaware that in a few days none of it would matter.
The door.
You move toward it without deciding to, feet shuffling on the floor until you step onto the carpet. The softness startles you, making you pause for just a second before continuing.
The handle is cold under your palm. You twist it.
It turns, the lock disengaging with a soft click, unlocked from the inside.
You pull.
The door doesn't budge. Not even a fraction. Completely immovable.
Of course.
You heard it last night. The scrape of the key in the lock, the heavy thunk of the deadbolt sliding home. He turned it twice — you counted — and then his footsteps faded down the hall.
But you had to try. Had to know for certain.
You pull harder, bracing your foot against the doorframe, muscles straining. Your bandaged palm throbs. Nothing gives.
Your hand falls away from the handle.
Something hot and tight builds in your chest. The key is in his pocket, somewhere out there.
Hell, he could be right on the other side of this door — waiting for you to just try an escape — and you would be none the wiser.
You swallow it down hard. Don't think about it, you tell yourself as you take in a trembling breath. Don't think about being trapped. Don't think about how he can come and go and you can't.
How he holds every key, every way out.
Don't think.
The laptop catches your eye, sitting on the coffee table, and your heart kicks as a possibility comes to you.
You step onto the carpet again, sink down onto the floor, back against the couch, and flip it open. The screen glows to life, no password. The desktop is cluttered with folders, a background photo of the woman in the other pictures feeding a deer. You click the internet browser.
No connection.
You try again. Refresh. Check the wifi settings.
No networks available.
Your hands hover over the keyboard, trembling. The government could have shut it down. Or the outbreak destroyed the infrastructure. Or...
Or you're alone. Completely alone… and no one is coming.
The realization sits in your stomach like a stone.
Your vision blurs at the edges before you blink hard, forcing it back. Your throat works around something that wants to claw its way out — a scream, maybe, or a sob. But you swallow it down, jaw clenching until your teeth ache and the tears have dried.
The laptop screen dims as you stare at it, then goes dark.
You close it slowly, staring at the wall like it can tell you what’s real and what isn’t.
The exhaustion hits you all at once, so heavy you can barely stand as you use the couch cushions as support. You can feel a headache coming and your body aches, the pain in-between your legs pulsing with each heartbeat.
You shift and feel it. The soreness deeper inside, the rawness that wasn't there before he touched you. Bruises on your hips where his fingers dug in. You don't need to look; you can feel the dark imprints under the clothes, five on one side and five on the other.
Your hands move to cover them instinctively, pulling the hoodie down lower.
Don't look. Don't think about how they got there... It doesn’t matter.
Your breath hitches, that pressure in your chest making it hard to breathe. Everything feels too real, too much.
You need to lie down. Need to sleep. Need to disappear for a little while longer.
But not out here. Not where he could come back and find you vulnerable, almost like you’re waiting for him to take you again.
Your eyes drift toward the bedroom door, the empty room calling to you.
You can lock yourself in.
You walk back through the apartment, movements mechanical, linoleum cold under your feet again as you stop in the kitchenette and open a drawer just to see utensils, the metal clacking as you search for anything that could serve as a weapon. Shaking your head, you open another, this one filled with dish towels. The third one makes you pause.
Knives.
You stare at them for a long moment. Paring knives. Steak knives. And there, you find what you’re looking for — a chef's knife, blade catching the dim light. The biggest one.
Your fingers close around the handle, the weight of it solid in your palm as you stare at your reflection on the blade. You could use this, if he comes back. When he comes back. If he tries to—
The thought cuts off before it can finish. You don't let yourself complete it. Don't let yourself imagine the blade sinking in, the resistance of flesh, the blood, the look on his face. Don't let yourself wonder if you'd actually be able to do it, or if you'd freeze again like you always do — except for that one time. Still, with him it will be different, that’s not a doubt in your head.
You take the knife.
The bedroom door closes behind you with a soft click. You turn the lock — flimsy, just a button on the handle, but it's something. You test it, letting out a long breath as it holds.
For now, at least. Until he decides it doesn't.
The bed is unmade from when he pulled you out of it, the blanket still on the floor when he took it from you. You don't grab it. Just climb onto the mattress and curl on your side, the knife clutched in your good hand, half-under the pillow that smells like a stranger, in a home that’s not your own.
The room is dark. Quiet.
Waiting for sleep to take you, you try not to think about the fact that the lock won't stop him. That the knife probably won't either. That nothing you do matters when he's stronger and faster in every way.
You squeeze your eyes shut tighter.
Sleep comes faster than you expect, pulling you under before the thoughts can catch up.
The sound jolts you awake.
Your eyes snap open, heart already racing as your eyes jump around the room. It’s still dark, but less so, grey light filtering through the window now. Early morning, maybe. Dawn.
The knob rattles again. Harder this time, enough to make you flinch.
You sit up slowly, knife still gripped in your hand. Your palm is sweaty around the handle, making it slippery. You adjust your grip, but the weight of it suddenly feels inadequate. You're using your non-dominant hand and the blade looks too small, too fragile. What were you thinking? That this would actually stop him?
“Y/N?”
His voice. Muffled through the door but unmistakable.
Your breath catches in your throat as you press yourself back against the headboard, the wood solid against your spine. Trapped. The closet is too small and the bed too low to hide under. Not like hiding would ever stop him.
The knob jiggles once more, then stops.
Silence stretches. You hold your breath, counting the seconds.
One.
Two.
Three.
“C'mon, Y/N.” His tone is different now. Tighter. Sharp with something that might be worry. “I know you're in there, open the door!”
You don't move. Don't breathe. Your knuckles are white around the knife handle, nails digging into your palm. You just stare at the door, at the flimsy lock that suddenly feels like nothing at all. Like tissue paper between you and him.
BANG!
The sound of his palm suddenly slapping against the wood is so loud you flinch, the knife nearly slipping from your grip.
“What are you doing in there?” The edge in his voice cuts deeper now. “Did you...” A sharp inhale. “Shit. I'm not fucking around here — open the door!”
The fear in his voice is real. Raw. Like the thought of you hurting yourself actually terrifies him. Like he didn't just...
Don't think about it.
“Y/N, answer me!”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Even if you wanted to speak, you're not sure you could. The words are locked somewhere way too deep for you to reach right now.
You jump off the bed, legs trembling as you try to steady your hands.
The door explodes inward.
Not gradually. Not with effort. One second it's closed, the next the entire handle is ripped from the wood, pieces of the frame splintering and clattering to the floor. The door swings open hard enough to crack against the wall, and you let out an involuntary scream.
He's there, breathing hard, hand still outstretched from where he tore through the lock like it was paper. Like it was nothing. Like every barrier you tried to put between you and him is meaningless.
His eye sweeps the room frantically, looking for blood, for a body, for—
He finds you instead.
Standing by the bed. Alive. Knife pointed at him with shaking hands.
He goes still.
For a heartbeat, he just stares. His chest rises and falls rapidly, fresh blood smeared across his t-shirt. His skin is dirty and specked with blood. You don't let yourself wonder where he's been, what he's done.
Then something in his shoulders relaxes, tension draining so suddenly he almost sways. Genuine relief floods his face.
Then his gaze drops to the knife in your hand.
The relief shifts, the open expression from moments ago morphing into something else. Something that makes your stomach turn.
A slow smile spreads across his face in a teasing pull of his lips.
“Brave, are we now?” he snickers.
Gwinam takes a step forward, casual, like he has all the time in the world. Like you're not holding a weapon. Like you're not a threat at all — just a petulant child mid-tantrum.
You tense, raising the knife higher. Your hand trembles so badly the blade wavers in the air, catching the grey dawn light. “S-Stay back.”
The words come out thin. Weak. Nothing like the command you meant them to be.
His smile widens into something pleased, almost a smirk.
“Go ahead.” Another step. He taps two fingers against his throat, right over the pulse point. You can see it beating there, steady and strong, the dark veins stark against his skin. “Stab it right here. See what that does...”
Your breath comes faster. Shallower. The knife wavers, almost dropping from your hand as you struggle to hold your grip. Could you do it? Could you actually drive the blade in, feel it sink through skin and muscle — watch him bleed?
Watch him die?
The thought makes bile rise in your throat, and you let out a shaky breath as you blink away the unshed tears in your eyes.
“What's wrong?” His voice drops lower, that manic edge from earlier still threaded through but tempered now by something almost playful. “Thought you wanted me dead. Well,” he makes a open-handed gesture like he’s presenting himself, “here's your chance! Better make it count.”
He's closer now. Close enough that you'd only need to lunge. Close enough that the blade could reach. Close enough that you can smell him: sweat and copper and something burnt that makes you nauseous.
But you don't move.
Can't move. Your body won't obey, frozen in place like it was in the bathroom — like it always is when it matters most.
Doesn’t matter the circumstances, you keep failing yourself.
He tilts his head, studying you from top to bottom. Drinking in the sight of you finally looking at him, even if it's with terror. You can see it in the glint of his eye, how much he’s enjoying it.
“Do it. Come on.”
His tone of encouragement only makes your shaking worse. You just stare at him, and there's nothing in your eyes but terror. Pure and naked and impossible to hide. There’s no bravery in your actions, only desperation and pure self-preservation.
You hate him.
You don’t want to die.
You don’t want to hurt again.
A whimper leaves your trembling lips.
His smile falters.
Just for a fraction of a second, just a minute drop at the corners of his mouth. But you notice it — like he has just realized something he hadn’t before.
The look on his face shifts, subtle but unmistakable, the pleased edge transforming, his eye tightening. He exhales through his nose, slow and long, before the furrow on his brow relaxes.
His gaze lingers on you, searching for something that isn't there. Whatever he was looking for before, you don't have it.
“That's it,” he murmurs anyway, voice softer now. Almost gentle. “There you are.” His eyes drift for the knife and then back to your face. He doesn’t step away from his spot, but his hand moves in your direction, palm raised. “We’re good. Just give me the knife.”
The words make your stomach twist. Your grip tightens reflexively, knuckles aching, the knife trembling harder in your hand. You can feel his attention on you like a physical weight — and the worst part is knowing that this is what he wanted.
Not your trust.
Just your attention.
All so he can play his sick games and hurt you again.
He opens his mouth to say something else.
And that's when you hear it.
A soft, gentle sound. Familiar in all the best ways.
Coo. Coo.
Your head turns sharply toward the window and the knife lowers slightly, forgotten.
There. On the narrow ledge outside, surrounded by the rising sun. A pigeon.
Grey and black, head bobbing as it pecks at something on the concrete. Its feathers catch the early morning light, iridescent purple and green at the throat. Just like the ones in the playground near your home. Just like the ones you used to watch with Reggie from your window, both of you cooing back and forth like you were having a conversation.
Coo. Coo.
Everything stops.
The knife slips from your fingers, clattering to the floor, barely missing your toes.
You break.
The sound that tears from your throat is raw and animal. A sob that's been locked inside since you woke up in this place, since his hands were on you, since Hanni's glassy eyes stared at nothing, since the world ended and kept ending and wouldn't stop.
You collapse.
Your knees hit the floor hard enough to hurt, then you fold completely until your face presses into the carpet. The fabric scratches against your cheek, smells like dust and age, but you don't care. Your hands claw at your chest, hitting yourself over and over like you're trying to dig something out. The sobs wrack through you, violent and uncontrolled — each one ripping through your body until you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel everything you've been pushing down.
Hanni. Your mother. Reggie. Home. Safety. Yourself. Everything you've lost. Everything that's gone. Everything that will never come back.
The pigeon coos again, oblivious to your breakdown.
You sob harder, pressing your face into the carpet until it muffles the sound. Your throat burns. Your chest aches. Your injured hand throbs from hitting yourself but you can't stop, can't make yourself stop.
Above you, Gwinam doesn't move.
You don't look up, but you can feel the shift in the air — the sudden absence of whatever tension had filled the room moments before. The silence stretches too long.
When you finally risk a glance through blurred vision, he's still standing there, staring at you like he's trying to make sense of something that won't line up.
His jaw works. His hand curls at his side, fingers flexing once, twice.
He doesn't touch you.
For a moment — just a moment — you think he might say something. Do something. Fix it.
He doesn't.
Whatever passes across his face is gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by a familiar blankness, something that only makes him fit more into the monster you know him to be.
Then he bends over, picks up the knife, and leaves.
You barely register it through your sobs. Barely hear his footsteps, the front door opening.
Closing.
The scrape of the key in the lock. The deadbolt sliding home.
And you're alone again, sobbing into a stranger's carpet while a pigeon coos outside, and somewhere in the broken mess of your thoughts, you realize that this is your life now.
I'll try to have the next one ready for the last week of March.
hellooo love, i was wondering if you've watched trigger?
it's peak toxic yaoi, i think you'd enjoy it
Yess omg 🤧 the obsession I had with Moon Baek at the time was so strong I started planning a one shot for him in my notes app while watching the show lol 10/10 great action thriller.
Chapter 7!! I didn’t realize how long it was when I was reading until I saw the word count. I breezed right through it, that’s how good it was!! I felt so connected to this chapter. Despite not have much “action”, the emotional turmoil kept me hooked the entire time.
The dissociation was so well described. The hyper fixating on small things like cracks in the wall or buttons on a shirt so the mind can wander, the seeing and hearing things around you without REALLY seeing or hearing them. It’s so hard to explain what that feels like and you did it perfectly.
They was you wrote it kind of reminded me of maladaptive daydreaming, and while I was reading, I was thinking of how that can make hours can feel like minutes and then I read the “time feels elastic” line and I was like EXACTLY!! (then her realizing that’s it’s nighttime just drives the point further). I’m amazed by how well it was written. It was so cool to read this chapter and know exactly how she felt. I also really liked that her body was still functioning normally despite her mind not fully being there. I’ve seen quite a few depictions of dissociation in media being both the mind AND body shutting down which doesn’t always happen. This felt more real (& relatable) and was very enjoyable to read.
And then the Gwinam of it all…..“like I’m the bad guy”🤦♀️. His inability to see that he’s done anything wrong is both the best and most frustrating part of his character. The “he’s hard again” line is has so few words but such a big impact when you read paragraph upon paragraph of the trauma she’s just had to endure/her struggling to cope with it, and then all of sudden he’s getting sexually aroused cleaning the body HE broke. And her trying to think of her mom but not being able to because he’s touching her inappropriately was so sick and demented in the best way. If I’m remembering correctly, in LU I think the worst parts of Gwinam were more implied rather than directly shown since there were a couple time jumps, but this series goes into how much of a monster he really is. He’s not just an asshole, he’s the literal devil incarnate.
The dialogue is so good, I love that the entire time he’s basically just have a one sided conversation with himself lol. The “I like you” bit felt so wrong because it sounded so innocent after we’ve just seen the absolute worst of him in the previous chapter. Also, the use of the word “like” as present tense threw me for a loop since we’re way past that at this point. I think that just goes to show the difference between where they are mentally, and I think it’s a testament to your writing skills that such small details say so much about the characters.
I’m trying not to write an essay, but there were so many things I loved about this chapter. This was the best one so far imo.❤️ ❤️
Please write me an essay, a whole bible if you want... I'm obsessed 😫❤️
This chapter was such a monster to write, both from its size to the contents. I started it with the intention to add some action and then I was like...she was just violently assaulted - let's give everyone a breather. I also had some dialogue on her part, but that didn't feel right, so full dissociation we went.
Her whole dissociative episode was very much inspired by my own experience with trauma and it's aftermath. I also just tend to vacantly stare at walls because YES! maladaptive daydreaming is my bread and butter during boring work hours! ✌️
Reading your words regarding those points fills my heart fr 🤧
Now zombie boy... Well, saying he's fucked up is stating the basic obvious. I'm not sure if it was clear in this chapter but he does regret it. Not for raping her exactly, but for the way the aftermath came with repercussions he wasn't expecting and definitely didn't want. He knows that what he did was objectively wrong - but he loves her so very much so how wrong can it be really?? He saved her, after all. He's caring for her! So why that reaction??
I assure you - if reader was feisty after the assault we would be seeing him behaving very differently. He just realized that he has to "behave" or he will lose her for good.
Fkskfjddj he was so annoyed from the lack of answer and reaction, you have no idea. He felt so small then, so frustrated. I can't wait to show things from his POV. It's really sad tbh - he does love her in his own way, even tho it doesn't translate well. We'll see more of/about it in future chapters, but is very complex. Hope to make it justice lol.
You guys really have no idea how dark and deep I'm planning to go with BD - LU could never come close with what was already posted. I'm really glad I took a step back to plan it properly this time.
Thank you so much again for such a wonderful essay 🥰❤️ A+
Bloodstained Devotion (Chapter 7)
Pairing: Yoon Gwinam x Plus size! Reader
Genres: Dark Romance · Post-Apocalyptic Horror · Psychological Thriller
Word Count: 6.9k words
Warnings ⚠️ Smut, Angst, Death, Blood and Injury, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Survival, Enemies to Lovers, Moral Ambiguity, Bullying, Non-Consensual Touching, Childhood Friends, Stockholm Syndrome, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trauma, Other Additional Warnings to Be Added, Captivity
Summary: The world ended in blood and chaos, leaving only the unfortunate and the dead behind. You survived the fall. Sometimes you wish you hadn't. Once a familiar face, Gwinam is no longer the boy you remember. Twisted by obsession, he refuses to let you slip from his grasp, even if that means you'll hate him for eternity. Now survival isn’t the hardest fight. It’s resisting the kind of love that feels like death.
Notes: We're officially in Act 2! This chapter is a long and intense one. Don't get used to it, tho, that's an anomaly for me lol. Hope you enjoy! <3
Please read at your own risk.
AO3 | Masterlist
«Chapter 6
The aftermath of everything washes over you. Gwinam tries, and fails. You give him nothing.
Everything feels wrong.
A choked sound leaves your lips as you curl in on yourself, a wave of pain crashing through your body. Everything hurts — a dull, persistent ache that seems to radiate from everywhere at once. Your palm stings like it's on fire, throbbing with each heartbeat and your fingers tremble as you slowly unclench the fist you've made in the fabric covering you.
It's a blanket. Floral pattern, you think, though you can't quite make it out. The material is scratchy, warm if a little itchy against your cheek. You take a deep breath and immediately regret it. The scent hits you: clean detergent, something floral and artificial, mixed with the sour stench of an unwashed body. Your own.
The combination makes your stomach turn.
You don't know how long you've been here. Minutes? Hours? Your tongue sits thick and dry in your mouth and your throat feels scratchy. Your muscles ache with the particular stiffness of staying in one position for too long, a tingling sensation starting to take over your limbs like ants under your skin.
You struggle to open your eyes, lids heavy and crusted in the corners. A headache throbs at your temples, sharp and insistent, as you slowly take in your surroundings, your heartbeat spiking and hammering against your ribs.
You don't know where you are.
The room is dim and unfamiliar, late afternoon light filtering weakly through a window to your right and casting long shadows across walls you've never seen before. There are things here — a dresser, photos in frames, a book on the nightstand. Signs of someone else's life.
The previous occupants are nowhere in sight.
Panic claws at your throat. You try to sit up and quickly regret it, a pained gasp tearing from you as the pain between your legs flares, bringing immediate tears to your eyes. It's sharp and burning, a deep ache that pulses with each movement, especially when you squeeze your thighs together in reflex.
Your hands move without thinking, reaching between your legs. You flinch at what you find, the mess of dried fluids coating your inner thighs, staining your fingers rust-brown and sticky. The evidence of what happened.
A flash of memory hits you, sudden and terrorizing.
Gwinam alive.
On top of you.
Inside you.
The feeling of his weight crushing the air from your lungs, his brutal force as he took what he wanted, your body nothing more than a thing to use as he saw fit. You had done nothing to stop it.
You hadn’t even tried.
Your breath catches, trapped somewhere between your throat and lungs. The room tilts slightly, nausea rising—
“You're awake.”
The voice cuts through the fog, sharp and loud in the empty room. You instinctively shove yourself against the headboard, ignoring the spike of pain the movement causes. A shadow fills the doorway, tall and familiar in the worst way. His face is obscured by the backlighting, dusk glow warming his silhouette and turning him into nothing more than a dark shape.
But you know who it is.
You'd know him anywhere.
You don't dare utter a word, your gaze locked on him as you wait for his next move. Your fingers tremble as you pull the blanket toward your chest, clutching it like a shield. Your vision wobbles, tears blurring the edges, but you force yourself to keep him in focus. You know you're incapable of doing anything to protect yourself — you keep proving just that, again and again — but as long as you keep him under your stare, you're safe.
Or at least that's what you tell yourself.
To your surprise, he doesn't move from the doorway immediately. His hand grips the handle, knuckles pale even in the dim light. You can feel his stare moving over you, analyzing you, almost like he's taking inventory of something. His face is barely visible in the shadows, but you catch the dark smears across his jacket, the white fabric smeared with rust, the blue and red accents barely visible under the dried blood.
You don't let yourself wonder whose. Don't want to know.
“Found a place,” he says finally, voice carefully flat. He leans against the doorframe, casual, like he's discussing weekend plans. His fingers drum once against the wood before stilling. “Apartment above a 7-Eleven. Rest of the building is empty.”
He shifts his weight, and you track the movement without really seeing it. Your eyes follow the shape of him, the slight tilt of his head, but your mind refuses to process it as anything more than threat assessment. Distance. Proximity. Escape routes you don't have the strength to take.
“It's close enough to the school,” he continues, as if that matters. As if you care. A pause. His hand slides from the doorframe, hanging at his side. His thumb rubs against his forefinger — once, twice. “And it's safe.” Another pause, longer this time. “I carried you up. You were out cold.”
Like he's reporting on the weather. Like this is normal. Like you passed out from exhaustion and not—
You don't finish the thought.
Your fingers tighten on the blanket until your knuckles ache, the only movement you allow yourself. The scratchy fabric bunches in your grip. You don't look away from him. Can't. If you do, he might move closer, and you're not ready for that. You're not ready for anything.
He watches you watching him. Waiting, maybe, for something. A response. A thank you. Anger. Tears.
You give him nothing.
The silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. You can hear your own breathing — shallow and careful, like even that might provoke him. You can hear his too, slower at first, then slightly rougher. His jaw clenches and then relaxes as he lets out an audible exhale, but he doesn’t move.
“You should eat something,” he says, and there's something in his voice now. Not quite concern. Something that you don't have a name for. “There's plenty of food downstairs. Water too. Whatever you want.” He gestures vaguely toward the door, the movement jerky. “I'll bring some up.”
He says it like an offering. Like he's being helpful.
You give him nothing.
The silence stretches so long you can hear the building settle around you, distant creaks and groans of wood and metal. His bare foot taps once against the floor. Stops. His shoulders tense, and you hear the clink of his jacket's zipper.
Then he moves.
A step forward. Then another, his feet against the floor sounding too loud in the quiet room.
Your body curls inward instinctively, knees pulling toward your chest despite the sharp pain between your legs. The blanket comes with you, just a useless shield, and your breath catches. You know what's coming. You can feel it in the way he approaches.
But you're so tired. Too tired to fight. Too tired to scream.
Your eyes drift away from him, sliding past his approaching form to the nightstand beside the bed. There's a photo there in a simple frame — a couple, smiling. The woman's head tilts toward the man's shoulder, his arm wrapped around her slim waist. They're laughing at something outside the frame, caught in a moment of candid happiness.
They look so normal. So safe.
You wonder distantly where they are now.
“Y/N.”
His voice cuts through, but it sounds muffled now. Like you’re underwater. You don't look at him. Can't pull your eyes away from the photo. The woman's smile is wide, genuine. Her hand rests on the man's chest. The bracelet on her wrist glints in the sun, the ruby-like pendant stark against her pale skin and the man’s beige shirt.
He says your name again, sharper this time. There's an edge to it now, frustration creeping in.
Nothing. You have nothing to give him.
You hear him move closer, feeling the shift in the air as he approaches the bed. The mattress dips slightly under his weight as he sits on the edge. Close. Too close. You can smell him now: sweat, blood, smoke. Something metallic underneath. Revolting.
“Look at me.”
Frustration bleeds into his voice now, rough around the edges. His hand reaches out, your peripheral vision catching it as he moves toward your face.
You flinch.
The movement is small but it pulls you back — just for a second — into your body. Into this room. With him. Your heart kicks once, hard, fear flickering before you're gone again, eyes finding the photo, clinging to it.
His hand stops mid-air. Hovers for a long moment. Then drops.
“Fuck.”
The word comes out quiet, almost under his breath. You hear him shift, the rustle of his jacket loud in the silence. Something crosses his face, too quick to name. His jaw clenches then releases, his hand curling into a fist against his thigh before flexing open.
“You should shower,” he says finally, and there's something different in his tone now. Uncomfortable and uncertain. Like something he once considered a fact might not be so clear after all. “Clean up. You'll feel better.”
Better.
The word takes a moment to land. Your thighs press together reflexively — the stickiness there, the evidence still clinging to your skin — and awareness flickers for just a heartbeat before you retreat back to the photo.
Six buttons. The woman's hand covers one. The ruby on her bracelet looks like a drop of fresh blood.
They look so happy.
His hand comes back, this time gripping the edge of the blanket before he slowly pulls it away. The cool air hits your skin and you curl tighter, but you don't resist. Don't fight.
What's the point?
“Come on.” His hands find your elbows, grip firmer than you expect as he pulls you upright. Your body obeys even though you're not inside it anymore. The room tilts, or maybe you do. “I'll help.”
Not a question. Not a request.
Your feet touch the floor, cold linoleum through your socks. He steadies you, hands still on your shoulders, and for a moment you're standing. Your legs tremble beneath you, muscles screaming.
Then they give out.
You don't fall far. His arm shoots around your waist, catching you before your knees hit the floor. The movement is instant, effortless, and suddenly you're weightless, lifted like you're nothing. Like you weigh nothing at all.
He shifts you in his arms, adjusting his grip. One arm beneath your knees, the other supporting your back. Bridal style. Firm but careful, like he's carrying something breakable.
You are breakable. You broke hours ago.
Your head lolls against his shoulder, too heavy to hold up. The ceiling comes into view — white, humidity stains in the corner. A crack runs diagonally across it, branching like tree roots. You follow the lines with your eyes as he moves, the room sliding past in your peripheral vision.
The couple, still smiling, is left behind as they disappear from view.
His footsteps are steady and purposeful as he carries you. You feel the shift in his body as he moves through the doorway into another room. There's a couch. Windows. Kitchen counters. You register these things distantly, without really seeing them.
Your gaze stays fixed on the ceiling, tracking the cracks, the imperfections. Anywhere but his face. Anywhere but the reality of his arms around you, holding you up because your body can't do it on its own anymore.
“Almost there,” he murmurs. His voice rumbles in his chest, close enough that you feel it more than hear it.
You say nothing. Give him nothing.
The ceiling changes. Different tiles. Smaller room. The fluorescent light makes you squint, too bright after the dim bedroom.
He carries you inside.
The bathroom is small, almost cramped. Typical, all white tile and fluorescent lighting that flickers once before holding steady. There's a drain in the center of the floor, a showerhead mounted on the wall over a sink and a wide mirror, a plastic stool pushed into the corner. A cabinet next to the toilet occupies the further wall, filled with towels and bathroom supplies.
He sets you down carefully, your feet touching cold tile. The chill bites into your soles, sharp enough to register. His hand stays at your waist, still supporting you because your legs won't. The door clicks shut behind you.
He moves around you, one hand never leaving your body as he reaches to turn on the water, testing it with his free hand, adjusting the temperature. Steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror above the sink. You stare at your reflection as it disappears, features blurring, vanishing into white.
Just like you. Vanishing.
“Arms up,” he says.
Your body obeys. Arms lift without thought, and he pulls your torn shirt over your head. The fabric catches on your hair, tugs slightly, then comes free. He drops the crumpled mess of ruined cotton on the floor. His fingers find the back of your bra, struggling with it for a moment before sliding it down your shoulders. Your skirt is next — the one still stiff with dried blood — as he slides it down your hips. It pools at your feet.
Tiny drops of water sprinkle on your skin as the shower stream hits the floor, soaking your socks.
The underwear follows. Ruined beyond recognition. He doesn't look at your face as he removes it, gaze fixed somewhere on the floor.
You stand there, naked, and focus on the wall. There's a crack in one of the tiles. Thin. Jagged. It cuts through the seventh tile from the left, starting at the grout line and splitting diagonally toward the corner.
You count the tiles while he undresses behind you. The rustle of fabric. His jacket — that bloodstained white with blue and red — hits the floor with a soft thud. The clink of a belt buckle. The whisper of pants sliding down legs. You don't turn around. Don't look. Just count.
One row. Two rows. Three.
“Sit,” he says, and his hand guides you to the stool he has pulled under the shower stream. You sit because he tells you to, the pain in your core as bright as ever. The plastic is cold beneath your thighs, the texture rough and slightly damp.
The water hits.
A loud gasp tears from your throat — the first real sound you've made since waking. It's warm. Almost hot. The temperature shocks against your cold skin, against the bruises forming across your ribs, your thighs. Dark muddy-pinkish water runs down your legs, swirling toward the drain. Blood and whatever else, washing away in lazy spirals.
He's behind you now. You can feel him there, close, his presence taking up the small space. Naked. You know this without looking. Can feel the heat of his body even through the steam.
His hands land on your shoulders.
You go still. Every muscle locks, but you don't pull away. Can't. Where would you go?
Soap. He lathers his hands with soap — you smell it, something generic and clean. Lavender, maybe. Or chamomile. The artificial floral scent makes your stomach turn. It smells like the detergent from the blanket. Like this place.
Like nowhere you want to be.
He runs his hands down your arms, methodical at first. Clinical. His palms are almost rough on your skin, scrubbing away the grime and blood. Your wrists. Your forearms. Back up to your shoulders, the pressure firm but not cruel.
The water runs pink for some time, then lighter. Rust-colored. Then almost clear.
You count tiles. The crack runs through tile seven. There's mold in the grout lines between tiles nine and ten. Dark. Spreading like an infection.
His hands move to your back, down your spine, fingers tracing it gently. Along your sides, where his thumbs press slightly too long against your ribcage. You can feel the hesitation in his touch — like he's memorizing the shape of you.
You wish he would stop touching you.
You focus on the dirty water circling the drain. Watch each drop slide down the tiles, following its path until it disappears into darkness.
Then his hands come around to your front.
They cup your breasts.
You stop counting.
His thumbs brush over your nipples, circling slowly. Once. Twice. Three times. He's not washing anymore. Not scrubbing. Just... touching. Feeling. His breath is warm against your wet hair, his chest almost pressed to your back. You feel him there — all of him — close enough that you know he's hard again and—
No. Don't think about it.
You try to think of something else. Anything else.
Your mother. You think of your mother washing your hair when you were small. Sitting on this same kind of stool in your tiny bathroom while she worked shampoo through your tangles, her touch gentle and patient as she hummed softly to some old song you can't quite remember the words to. Her hands were soft. Careful. They never hurt.
You try to imagine these are her hands.
They're not.
Too rough. Too firm. Touching where your mother would never. The grip is wrong — possessive instead of tender, hungry instead of loving. His fingers knead your flesh, squeeze, and you feel the tremor in them, subtle but there. Like he's fighting to keep them steady. Like he wants to grip harder, take more, but won't let himself.
Not yet, at least.
When his hand moves to tilt your head back under the water, his fingers tangle in your hair and pull, just slightly. Your mother never pulled.
The illusion shatters.
You're here. In this bathroom. With him. His hands on your body. Again.
He reaches for something; a washcloth, hanging from a hook you hadn't noticed. The movement brings him closer, his chest brushing your back, and you feel every point of contact like a hot iron.
The washcloth is rough against your skin as he works more soap into it. He brings it to your neck, scrubbing gently, then up to your face and down to your collarbones. Your chest. Careful around your breasts this time, almost clinical again, like he's caught himself and pulled back.
But then he moves lower.
The cloth drags across your stomach, your sides. Lower still. Your hips, where his fingers had dug in hard enough to leave marks on your soft flesh. You see them now in your peripheral vision — dark purple fingerprints against your skin. Five on each side.
He sees them too.
The washcloth pauses. His breathing changes — hitching slightly — before he continues, his touch gentler. Almost reverent. Like he's touching something sacred instead of something he broke.
The cloth moves to wash your sore feet, then your legs, until he reaches your thighs. The bruises there are worse — finger marks and scratches, the spread of them visible even through the steam. He washes around them carefully, soap suds sliding down your legs.
Then the cloth moves higher. Between your thighs.
Your whole body goes rigid. A sound escapes before you can stop it, small and choked, like an animal caught in a trap.
He freezes.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The water streams down, the only sound in the tiny room besides your ragged breathing.
“I'm just—” he starts, voice rough. “I'm just trying to clean—”
You make that sound again. Smaller this time. Trapped.
The cloth withdraws immediately. He drops it — the wet slap of it hitting the tile — and his hands go back to your shoulders. Safe. Neutral.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay. I won't.”
The water temperature shifts; hotter suddenly, almost scalding. It hits your shoulders, your back, and the shock of it yanks you somewhere you don't want to be.
Back. Into your body.
Your breath hitches, eyes widening. You feel it — the heat of the water, the ache between your legs, the throb of bruises, the weight of his hands still on your shoulders. You see the bathroom, really see it; the white tiles, the mold in the grout, the drain with its hair-clogged grate.
You see your body.
Naked. Bruised. Marked by him in ways that won't wash away.
And he's behind you. Naked too. Touching you. And you're here, you're really here, and it's going to happen again, it's—
“Shit! Sorry—” His hand shoots out, adjusting the water temperature. The scalding heat disappears, replaced by something more tolerable. “I didn't mean—”
But you're already gone.
Farther this time. Deeper. To a place so small and dark that nothing can reach you. Not his voice. Not his hands. Not even the memory of what he did.
You leave your body behind like an empty shell.
The tiles. Count the tiles.
Tile seven has a crack. Tiles nine and ten have mold. Tile three has a chip in the corner, small, barely noticeable unless you're looking for it. Tile twelve has a small brown stain near the grout line. Water damage, probably. Or rust.
His hands are in your hair now, working shampoo through the strands. The same artificial floral scent fills your nose. You feel it distantly, the pressure of his fingers against your scalp, but it's far away. Happening to someone else. Some girl who isn't you anymore.
He's gentle now, almost hesitant, fingers moving carefully through the tangles. When they catch on a knot, he works it loose slowly instead of pulling.
Water runs down your face. Into your eyes. You don't blink it away. Don't move at all.
His hands pause.
You don't know how long you've been sitting here. Time feels strange, elastic, like you could have been here for minutes or hours and it would feel the same.
But something shifts in the air behind you. His fingers still in your hair, the movement stopping mid-motion. The water continues to stream down, but his hands have gone completely still.
He's looking at you. You can feel it. His gaze on the side of your face, on your empty eyes, searching for something that isn't there anymore.
“Y/N?”
Your name in his mouth. It sounds wrong. Foreign.
Nothing. You give him nothing.
His hands slide from your hair to your shoulders, turning you slightly — not forcing, just guiding — so he can see your face better.
“Hey,” he says, quieter now. Almost... scared? “Can you hear me?”
Tile seven. Tile nine. Tile ten.
“Y/N.” Firmer this time. His hand comes up to your face, fingers under your chin, tilting your head to look at him.
But you're not looking. Your eyes point in his direction but they don't see. Don't focus. Just stare through him at the wall behind, at the tiles, at anything that isn't him.
“Fuck.” The word comes out sharp. Jagged. His hand drops from your face. “Fuck, I—”
He stops. Starts again.
“I didn't want—” His voice cracks. “It wasn't supposed to—”
He stops again. You hear him take a breath. Then another.
When he speaks again, all the softness is gone. “Fine. Fucking fine.”
His hands come back to your hair — rougher now, efficient and almost angry. He rinses the shampoo out in quick, harsh movements. No more gentle untangling. No more careful touches. Just wanting to be done.
Water streams down your face, into your nose, your mouth. You don't cough. Don't turn away. Just let it happen.
He's muttering something under his breath. You catch fragments between the sound of the water. “...just trying to... won't even fucking... like I'm the bad guy...”
The water shuts off.
Silence, except for the drip of water from the showerhead. Drip. Drip. Drip.
He wraps a soft towel around you and pulls you to your feet. Your legs shake but hold this time. He dries himself quickly, movements sharp and efficient, then pulls on clothes. Clean ones; a t-shirt and sweatpants. They must have belonged to whoever lived here before.
He hands you clothes; a hoodie and sweatpants. Men’s. Definitely not yours.
“Put these on,” he says.
You do. Because he tells you to. Your body knows how to dress itself, even when you're not inside it. Arms through sleeves, legs through pants. The fabric is soft. A bit snug, but fits. The sleeves hang past your fingertips, covering your hands and tickling your palms.
He's watching you. You can feel his gaze, but you don't look at him. You're looking at tile seven. The crack is still there.
It will always be there.
He guides you back to the main room, hand at your elbow. His fingers press just slightly too firm, like he's testing to see if you'll pull away. You don't. Your body moves where he directs it, feet shuffling across the cold floor, wet hair dripping onto the borrowed hoodie.
The apartment is small. You can see all of it from where you stand — kitchenette along one wall, a couch and low table in the living area, the bedroom door you just came from. Windows on two walls allow what’s left of the afternoon light to filter through, dimmer now, casting long shadows across the floor. How long were you in the bathroom?
You don't know. Don't care.
He steers you to the couch and you sit where he positions you. The cushions are soft, worn in, the fabric almost velvety. Someone else's comfort. Someone else's life.
There's a bookshelf against the wall across from you. Paperbacks and hardcovers crammed together, some upright, some tilted, spines faded from sunlight. You can just make out a few titles from here. Lord of the Rings. Painter of the Wind. Norwegian Wood. Books you've never read. Books you'll never read.
He disappears into the bathroom. You hear drawers opening and things being moved around. When he returns, he's carrying a white box with a red cross on it. First aid kit. He sets it on the coffee table with a decisive thunk, then walks to the kitchenette.
The tap runs. The clink of glass.
He returns with a cup of water, slightly chipped at the rim, and places it in your hands. Your fingers curl around it automatically, the cool glass solid against your palms. Real. Here.
“Drink,” he says.
You do. Because your body demands it, even if you don't. The water is cool, almost cold inside your dry mouth. It hurts going down your throat, scraping against tissues rubbed raw from bile and screaming. You drink it all anyway, the cup empty before you realize you've finished.
He takes it from your hands, fingers brushing yours. Lingering just a moment too long.
Then he's kneeling in front of you.
The movement brings him lower, puts him at eye level, but you're not looking at him. You're looking past him, over his shoulder, at the bookshelf. Trying to make out more titles. The Distance Between Us. Pachinko. Something with a red spine you can't quite read.
“Give me your hand.”
You don't move.
He reaches for it himself, pulling your right hand from where it rests half-curled in your lap. The sleeve slides back, revealing your palm. The cut runs diagonally across it, deep enough that you can see the layers of skin where the glass sliced through. The edges look angry and slightly swollen, with dried blood crusted around it, dark brown and flaking.
He stares at it for a long moment. His jaw works, teeth grinding. You notice something flicker across his face — concern, maybe. Or calculation. His thumb brushes the edge of the wound, feather-light, and you feel the heat radiating from the inflamed skin.
“It's infected,” he says quietly. More to himself than to you.
He looks up at your face, searching for something. A reaction. Worry. Fear. Anything.
You're reading titles. The ones you can make out, anyway. Your eyes trace the spines, some old looking, others brand new.
His jaw tightens. He turns back to your hand.
The first aid kit clicks open. He rummages through it, pulling out supplies. Antiseptic. Gauze. Medical tape. A tube of antibiotic ointment. His movements are stiff and unpracticed, like he's not quite sure what he's doing.
He uncaps the antiseptic — the sharp chemical smell making your nose wrinkle involuntarily — and pours some onto a clean gauze pad.
“This is going to hurt,” he says.
Then he presses it to your palm.
The pain is immediate and searing and your hand jerks back on instinct, a sharp breath hissing through your teeth. Your fingers tremble, trying to curl into a protective fist, but he holds your wrist steady.
“Hold still,” he says, pressing the gauze deeper into the wound.
Your hand shakes in his grip and tears prick your eyes, not from emotion but just pure physical response to pain. But you don't look at him. Don't make a sound beyond that first involuntary gasp.
You focus on the bookshelf. On a book with a blue cover near the bottom. You can't read the title from here, but you stare at it anyway.
He cleans the wound thoroughly, methodically, the gauze coming away rust-brown with old blood and something yellowish that would normally make your stomach turn. His other hand wraps around your wrist, thumb pressing against your pulse point. You can feel it racing beneath his touch, betraying the calm you're trying to project.
When he's satisfied it's clean, he reaches for the antibiotic ointment. Squeezes too much onto his fingers, a glob of it that he tries to spread across your palm. It's cold and greasy, and his fingers are clumsy, smearing it unevenly.
He curses under his breath. Wipes some away. Tries again.
His hands aren't shaking, but they're not quite steady either. He's concentrating hard, brow furrowed, jaw set. Like if he can just do this right, if he can just fix this one thing, it'll—
What? Make everything okay? Erase what you did?
The thought doesn't form fully. You're not there enough to think it through.
He picks up the gauze, cuts a piece and presses it to your palm. But when he reaches for the medical tape, his fingers fumble with it, the tape sticking to itself uselessly.
“Fuck,” he mutters, ripping it off and tossing it aside. He grabs another piece, but this one's too short. He tries to stretch it across the gauze and it doesn't reach. The gauze slips, exposing part of the wound again.
“Fuck!” Louder this time. Sharper.
He tears the tape off again, almost violent now. Grabs another piece — too long this time — and wraps it around your hand. Too tight. The gauze bunches underneath, uncomfortable and uneven.
You feel the pressure and the awkward wrapping, but don't say anything. Don't look at him. Just keep staring at that blue book on the shelf.
His hand moves to your knee. Steadying himself, maybe. Or just... touching. His fingers press into the soft flesh there, gripping just slightly too firm. You feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of the sweatpants.
“There,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction. He's looking at the sloppy bandage, at the way the tape overlaps wrong, at the edges already starting to peel. “That'll... that'll do.”
But he doesn't let go of your hand. Or your knee. He just stays there, kneeling in front of you, holding you like if he lets go you'll disappear.
His eye lift to your face.
You're still staring past him. At the bookshelf. At the books. At anything that isn't him.
He lets out a sigh.
“Look at me,” he says.
Nothing.
“Y/N.” His fingers tighten on your knee. “Look. At. Me.”
You don't. Can't. Won't. Your eyes trace the spine of a book near the top shelf. Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage. The title is long. You read it twice. Three times.
“I said look at me!”
His hand moves from your knee to your chin, fingers gripping, forcing your head down, angling your face toward his. Your eyes have no choice but to land on him now — his face, his remaining eye, the ruined socket beside it, still crusted with dried blood at the edges.
But you're not seeing him. You're looking through him. Past him. At nothing.
His eye searches yours, darting back and forth, looking for something that isn't there anymore.
“Why won't you—” He stops. His grip on your chin tightens, just for a second, before he forces himself to loosen it. “I'm trying to help you. I'm taking care of you. Don't you see that?”
Your face remains blank. Empty. A mask.
Something in his expression cracks. Not quite guilt. Not quite regret. Something uglier. Frustration and want and anger all mixed together, like a cocktail about to explode.
“I didn't want to hurt you,” he says, and there's something almost pleading in his voice now. “You have to know that. I never wanted—”
He stops. Swallows hard. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, and the touch is gentle in a way that makes your stomach turn.
“I've wanted you for so long,” he continues, quieter now. “Since we were kids. You have to know that. You had to have known how much I like you.”
Nothing. You give him nothing.
His hand drops from your face, the other releasing your bandaged hand.
“Fine,” he says, and the gentleness evaporates like steam. “Fucking fine, keep staring at the goddamn wall!”
He stands abruptly, backing away from you as he slams the first aid box into the ground, contents scattering across the floor. His hands clench and unclench at his sides as he stares at the ground like it has personally offended him.
“I saved your life,” he says, voice hard now. Defensive. “Those zombies would've torn you apart if it wasn't for me. You'd be dead right now if I hadn't—”
He stops, grunting as he runs a hand through his damp hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles.
“You can hate me all you want,” he continues, and there's an edge of cruelty creeping into his voice now. The familiar edge you remember from school, from before. “But you're alive because of me. So maybe instead of giving me this—” he gestures at you, at your blank face, your empty eyes, “—you could show a little fucking gratitude.”
His words land in the space between you, harsh and bitter.
You stare at the bookshelf. At a book with a yellow spine. The title is too small to read from here.
He laughs, a short, humorless cackle. “Unbelievable.” He shakes his head. “You know what? Maybe this is what you wanted. You always loved playing the victim, didn't you? Poor little you, always getting picked on. Maybe you get off on it.”
The words are meant to wound. To provoke. To get any reaction at all.
They wash over you like water.
He stands there for a long moment, waiting. When you don't respond — don't even flinch — his hands curl into fists again.
“Whatever,” he spits. “Sit there and rot for all I care.”
He turns away, stomping to the window. His shoulders are tense, hands braced against the frame as he stares out at the street below. You can see his reflection in the glass, his jaw working and eye bright with something that might be unshed tears or might just be rage.
You stare at the bookshelf.
A book with a white cover. A book with a red spine. A book lying on its side.
So many books you’ll never read.
The light continues to fade, casting the room in deeper shadows. Somewhere in the building, something creaks. Settles. Outside, a distant groan — zombies, still wandering.
He doesn't turn around.
You don't move.
The bandage on your hand throbs with each heartbeat. Too tight.
But you're somewhere else now. Somewhere small and dark where nothing can reach you.
Not his words. Not his anger. Not even the pain.
Your eyes wander after a moment, and you stare at the wall. There's a calendar hanging there, like the one your mother magnets on the fridge door. This month's page is still up, dates crossed off in red marker. You count backward from today, trying to make sense of it. Three days. Maybe four. That's all it's been since the outbreak started.
Only four days since your world ended.
He moves around the apartment, and you track the sounds without following him with your eyes. His footsteps against the floor. The rattle of a doorknob. More footsteps. He's checking the windows now. Testing the locks. One. Two. The metallic click of each latch sliding into place. He tugs on them, making sure they're secure.
Keeping things out. Or keeping you in.
The light outside has shifted, the sun nowhere in sight now. The shadows in the room stretch longer, darker. An hour, maybe, since you woke up in that unfamiliar bed. It feels like days.
“Store downstairs has supplies,” he says, voice cutting through the quiet. “There’s an EMart close by as well I think. I’ll bring whatever we need.”
We.
The word hangs in the air. We. Like you're a unit now. Like this is normal. You register it, filing it away somewhere, but it doesn't land. Doesn't mean anything. It’s just another word.
He pauses by the window, looking out. His shoulders are tense, the line of them rigid. His jaw works like he's chewing on words he hasn't said yet.
“I need to go back to the school,” he says finally. His voice is flat. Matter-of-fact. “Unfinished business.”
His jaw tightens. You can see it even from here, the way his muscle jumps beneath the skin.
He doesn't say the name. Doesn't need to.
Cheongsan.
The thought drifts through your mind. You hope he lives. Hope he got away, that he's hiding somewhere Gwinam won't find him. But the hope is distant.
He'll probably die anyway. They all will eventually.
Everyone dies now.
He turns from the window, looking at you. Really looking. His eye searches your face, scanning for something. Anything.
You just keep staring at nothing, like he’s not even there.
“You'll be okay here,” he says, and something in his voice shifts. “Safe. I'll come back.”
Safe. Right.
You don't respond. Don't move. Your hands rest in your lap, the bandaged one throbbing dully.
Something flickers across his face. Frustration. Maybe anger. Either way, it’s gone too fast to name.
He moves toward the kitchenette. You hear him opening cabinets, the rustle of plastic. When he comes back, he's carrying something — a granola bar, the wrapper slightly crumpled. He crouches in front of you, not quite kneeling this time. Keeping distance.
“Here.” He holds it out. “You should eat something.”
You don't reach for it. Don't even look at it. Your eyes stay fixed on the wall.
He waits. The silence stretches.
He says your name, his voice harder now, that familiar edge creeping back. “Take it.”
Nothing.
His jaw clenches. He sets the granola bar on the coffee table in front of you with more force than necessary, the sound of it hitting the wood too loud in the quiet room.
“Starve then!” He stands abruptly. “For fuck’s sake.”
But he doesn't move toward the door yet. Just stands there, staring down at you, waiting for something that won't come.
When you still don't react, he makes a hissing sound in his throat and stalks to the entryway.
You hear him putting on his shoes; the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of rubber against tile. Then he pauses at the door, hand on the handle.
He glances back at you one more time.
“Don't—” He stops. Starts again. “Just... stay put.”
Not a request. A command.
Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
You hear the lock turn from the outside. Once. Twice. The deadbolt slides home with a heavy thunk. Then his footsteps fade down the exterior hallway, growing fainter until they disappear entirely.
Silence settles over the apartment like dust.
Locked.
You know this. Register it. The information sits in your mind, clear and simple: the door is locked from the outside.
You're trapped here.
You should care. Should feel panic rising, should test the door, should scream or cry or bang your fists against it until someone hears.
You don't.
You're too tired. Too empty. Too far away from yourself to care about locks or doors or escape.
Silence settles over the apartment like dust.
You sit exactly where he left you, hands resting in your lap. The granola bar sits untouched on the table. You don't reach for it.
Outside is completely dark. You can hear them out there, the distant groans of the dead, the shuffle of feet on pavement. Somewhere far off, a scream cuts through the air and then stops abruptly.
The world is ending. Has ended. Will keep ending.
And you're here. Alive. Locked in someone else's apartment wearing someone else's clothes and someone else's life.
Your eyelids grow heavy. The exhaustion that's been pulling at you since you woke finally wins. Your body slumps slightly against the couch cushions, head tilting to the side.
He's gone. That's the only thought that matters. He's gone and you're alone and for however long he's away, you're safe.
Safe.
Your eyes close.
The room blurs, then disappears.
You fall asleep still sitting up, hands in your lap, the bandage on your palm already starting to come loose.
Not awake. Not dreaming. Just... gone.
»Chapter 8 (coming March)
Bloodstained Devotion (Chapter 7)
Pairing: Yoon Gwinam x Plus size! Reader
Genres: Dark Romance · Post-Apocalyptic Horror · Psychological Thriller
Word Count: 6.9k words
Warnings ⚠️ Smut, Angst, Death, Blood and Injury, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Survival, Enemies to Lovers, Moral Ambiguity, Bullying, Non-Consensual Touching, Childhood Friends, Stockholm Syndrome, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trauma, Other Additional Warnings to Be Added, Captivity
Summary: The world ended in blood and chaos, leaving only the unfortunate and the dead behind. You survived the fall. Sometimes you wish you hadn't. Once a familiar face, Gwinam is no longer the boy you remember. Twisted by obsession, he refuses to let you slip from his grasp, even if that means you'll hate him for eternity. Now survival isn’t the hardest fight. It’s resisting the kind of love that feels like death.
Notes: We're officially in Act 2! This chapter is a long and intense one. Don't get used to it, tho, that's an anomaly for me lol. Hope you enjoy! <3
Please read at your own risk.
AO3 | Masterlist
«Chapter 6
The aftermath of everything washes over you. Gwinam tries, and fails. You give him nothing.
Everything feels wrong.
A choked sound leaves your lips as you curl in on yourself, a wave of pain crashing through your body. Everything hurts — a dull, persistent ache that seems to radiate from everywhere at once. Your palm stings like it's on fire, throbbing with each heartbeat and your fingers tremble as you slowly unclench the fist you've made in the fabric covering you.
It's a blanket. Floral pattern, you think, though you can't quite make it out. The material is scratchy, warm if a little itchy against your cheek. You take a deep breath and immediately regret it. The scent hits you: clean detergent, something floral and artificial, mixed with the sour stench of an unwashed body. Your own.
The combination makes your stomach turn.
You don't know how long you've been here. Minutes? Hours? Your tongue sits thick and dry in your mouth and your throat feels scratchy. Your muscles ache with the particular stiffness of staying in one position for too long, a tingling sensation starting to take over your limbs like ants under your skin.
You struggle to open your eyes, lids heavy and crusted in the corners. A headache throbs at your temples, sharp and insistent, as you slowly take in your surroundings, your heartbeat spiking and hammering against your ribs.
You don't know where you are.
The room is dim and unfamiliar, late afternoon light filtering weakly through a window to your right and casting long shadows across walls you've never seen before. There are things here — a dresser, photos in frames, a book on the nightstand. Signs of someone else's life.
The previous occupants are nowhere in sight.
Panic claws at your throat. You try to sit up and quickly regret it, a pained gasp tearing from you as the pain between your legs flares, bringing immediate tears to your eyes. It's sharp and burning, a deep ache that pulses with each movement, especially when you squeeze your thighs together in reflex.
Your hands move without thinking, reaching between your legs. You flinch at what you find, the mess of dried fluids coating your inner thighs, staining your fingers rust-brown and sticky. The evidence of what happened.
A flash of memory hits you, sudden and terrorizing.
Gwinam alive.
On top of you.
Inside you.
The feeling of his weight crushing the air from your lungs, his brutal force as he took what he wanted, your body nothing more than a thing to use as he saw fit. You had done nothing to stop it.
You hadn’t even tried.
Your breath catches, trapped somewhere between your throat and lungs. The room tilts slightly, nausea rising—
“You're awake.”
The voice cuts through the fog, sharp and loud in the empty room. You instinctively shove yourself against the headboard, ignoring the spike of pain the movement causes. A shadow fills the doorway, tall and familiar in the worst way. His face is obscured by the backlighting, dusk glow warming his silhouette and turning him into nothing more than a dark shape.
But you know who it is.
You'd know him anywhere.
You don't dare utter a word, your gaze locked on him as you wait for his next move. Your fingers tremble as you pull the blanket toward your chest, clutching it like a shield. Your vision wobbles, tears blurring the edges, but you force yourself to keep him in focus. You know you're incapable of doing anything to protect yourself — you keep proving just that, again and again — but as long as you keep him under your stare, you're safe.
Or at least that's what you tell yourself.
To your surprise, he doesn't move from the doorway immediately. His hand grips the handle, knuckles pale even in the dim light. You can feel his stare moving over you, analyzing you, almost like he's taking inventory of something. His face is barely visible in the shadows, but you catch the dark smears across his jacket, the white fabric smeared with rust, the blue and red accents barely visible under the dried blood.
You don't let yourself wonder whose. Don't want to know.
“Found a place,” he says finally, voice carefully flat. He leans against the doorframe, casual, like he's discussing weekend plans. His fingers drum once against the wood before stilling. “Apartment above a 7-Eleven. Rest of the building is empty.”
He shifts his weight, and you track the movement without really seeing it. Your eyes follow the shape of him, the slight tilt of his head, but your mind refuses to process it as anything more than threat assessment. Distance. Proximity. Escape routes you don't have the strength to take.
“It's close enough to the school,” he continues, as if that matters. As if you care. A pause. His hand slides from the doorframe, hanging at his side. His thumb rubs against his forefinger — once, twice. “And it's safe.” Another pause, longer this time. “I carried you up. You were out cold.”
Like he's reporting on the weather. Like this is normal. Like you passed out from exhaustion and not—
You don't finish the thought.
Your fingers tighten on the blanket until your knuckles ache, the only movement you allow yourself. The scratchy fabric bunches in your grip. You don't look away from him. Can't. If you do, he might move closer, and you're not ready for that. You're not ready for anything.
He watches you watching him. Waiting, maybe, for something. A response. A thank you. Anger. Tears.
You give him nothing.
The silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. You can hear your own breathing — shallow and careful, like even that might provoke him. You can hear his too, slower at first, then slightly rougher. His jaw clenches and then relaxes as he lets out an audible exhale, but he doesn’t move.
“You should eat something,” he says, and there's something in his voice now. Not quite concern. Something that you don't have a name for. “There's plenty of food downstairs. Water too. Whatever you want.” He gestures vaguely toward the door, the movement jerky. “I'll bring some up.”
He says it like an offering. Like he's being helpful.
You give him nothing.
The silence stretches so long you can hear the building settle around you, distant creaks and groans of wood and metal. His bare foot taps once against the floor. Stops. His shoulders tense, and you hear the clink of his jacket's zipper.
Then he moves.
A step forward. Then another, his feet against the floor sounding too loud in the quiet room.
Your body curls inward instinctively, knees pulling toward your chest despite the sharp pain between your legs. The blanket comes with you, just a useless shield, and your breath catches. You know what's coming. You can feel it in the way he approaches.
But you're so tired. Too tired to fight. Too tired to scream.
Your eyes drift away from him, sliding past his approaching form to the nightstand beside the bed. There's a photo there in a simple frame — a couple, smiling. The woman's head tilts toward the man's shoulder, his arm wrapped around her slim waist. They're laughing at something outside the frame, caught in a moment of candid happiness.
They look so normal. So safe.
You wonder distantly where they are now.
“Y/N.”
His voice cuts through, but it sounds muffled now. Like you’re underwater. You don't look at him. Can't pull your eyes away from the photo. The woman's smile is wide, genuine. Her hand rests on the man's chest. The bracelet on her wrist glints in the sun, the ruby-like pendant stark against her pale skin and the man’s beige shirt.
He says your name again, sharper this time. There's an edge to it now, frustration creeping in.
Nothing. You have nothing to give him.
You hear him move closer, feeling the shift in the air as he approaches the bed. The mattress dips slightly under his weight as he sits on the edge. Close. Too close. You can smell him now: sweat, blood, smoke. Something metallic underneath. Revolting.
“Look at me.”
Frustration bleeds into his voice now, rough around the edges. His hand reaches out, your peripheral vision catching it as he moves toward your face.
You flinch.
The movement is small but it pulls you back — just for a second — into your body. Into this room. With him. Your heart kicks once, hard, fear flickering before you're gone again, eyes finding the photo, clinging to it.
His hand stops mid-air. Hovers for a long moment. Then drops.
“Fuck.”
The word comes out quiet, almost under his breath. You hear him shift, the rustle of his jacket loud in the silence. Something crosses his face, too quick to name. His jaw clenches then releases, his hand curling into a fist against his thigh before flexing open.
“You should shower,” he says finally, and there's something different in his tone now. Uncomfortable and uncertain. Like something he once considered a fact might not be so clear after all. “Clean up. You'll feel better.”
Better.
The word takes a moment to land. Your thighs press together reflexively — the stickiness there, the evidence still clinging to your skin — and awareness flickers for just a heartbeat before you retreat back to the photo.
Six buttons. The woman's hand covers one. The ruby on her bracelet looks like a drop of fresh blood.
They look so happy.
His hand comes back, this time gripping the edge of the blanket before he slowly pulls it away. The cool air hits your skin and you curl tighter, but you don't resist. Don't fight.
What's the point?
“Come on.” His hands find your elbows, grip firmer than you expect as he pulls you upright. Your body obeys even though you're not inside it anymore. The room tilts, or maybe you do. “I'll help.”
Not a question. Not a request.
Your feet touch the floor, cold linoleum through your socks. He steadies you, hands still on your shoulders, and for a moment you're standing. Your legs tremble beneath you, muscles screaming.
Then they give out.
You don't fall far. His arm shoots around your waist, catching you before your knees hit the floor. The movement is instant, effortless, and suddenly you're weightless, lifted like you're nothing. Like you weigh nothing at all.
He shifts you in his arms, adjusting his grip. One arm beneath your knees, the other supporting your back. Bridal style. Firm but careful, like he's carrying something breakable.
You are breakable. You broke hours ago.
Your head lolls against his shoulder, too heavy to hold up. The ceiling comes into view — white, humidity stains in the corner. A crack runs diagonally across it, branching like tree roots. You follow the lines with your eyes as he moves, the room sliding past in your peripheral vision.
The couple, still smiling, is left behind as they disappear from view.
His footsteps are steady and purposeful as he carries you. You feel the shift in his body as he moves through the doorway into another room. There's a couch. Windows. Kitchen counters. You register these things distantly, without really seeing them.
Your gaze stays fixed on the ceiling, tracking the cracks, the imperfections. Anywhere but his face. Anywhere but the reality of his arms around you, holding you up because your body can't do it on its own anymore.
“Almost there,” he murmurs. His voice rumbles in his chest, close enough that you feel it more than hear it.
You say nothing. Give him nothing.
The ceiling changes. Different tiles. Smaller room. The fluorescent light makes you squint, too bright after the dim bedroom.
He carries you inside.
The bathroom is small, almost cramped. Typical, all white tile and fluorescent lighting that flickers once before holding steady. There's a drain in the center of the floor, a showerhead mounted on the wall over a sink and a wide mirror, a plastic stool pushed into the corner. A cabinet next to the toilet occupies the further wall, filled with towels and bathroom supplies.
He sets you down carefully, your feet touching cold tile. The chill bites into your soles, sharp enough to register. His hand stays at your waist, still supporting you because your legs won't. The door clicks shut behind you.
He moves around you, one hand never leaving your body as he reaches to turn on the water, testing it with his free hand, adjusting the temperature. Steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror above the sink. You stare at your reflection as it disappears, features blurring, vanishing into white.
Just like you. Vanishing.
“Arms up,” he says.
Your body obeys. Arms lift without thought, and he pulls your torn shirt over your head. The fabric catches on your hair, tugs slightly, then comes free. He drops the crumpled mess of ruined cotton on the floor. His fingers find the back of your bra, struggling with it for a moment before sliding it down your shoulders. Your skirt is next — the one still stiff with dried blood — as he slides it down your hips. It pools at your feet.
Tiny drops of water sprinkle on your skin as the shower stream hits the floor, soaking your socks.
The underwear follows. Ruined beyond recognition. He doesn't look at your face as he removes it, gaze fixed somewhere on the floor.
You stand there, naked, and focus on the wall. There's a crack in one of the tiles. Thin. Jagged. It cuts through the seventh tile from the left, starting at the grout line and splitting diagonally toward the corner.
You count the tiles while he undresses behind you. The rustle of fabric. His jacket — that bloodstained white with blue and red — hits the floor with a soft thud. The clink of a belt buckle. The whisper of pants sliding down legs. You don't turn around. Don't look. Just count.
One row. Two rows. Three.
“Sit,” he says, and his hand guides you to the stool he has pulled under the shower stream. You sit because he tells you to, the pain in your core as bright as ever. The plastic is cold beneath your thighs, the texture rough and slightly damp.
The water hits.
A loud gasp tears from your throat — the first real sound you've made since waking. It's warm. Almost hot. The temperature shocks against your cold skin, against the bruises forming across your ribs, your thighs. Dark muddy-pinkish water runs down your legs, swirling toward the drain. Blood and whatever else, washing away in lazy spirals.
He's behind you now. You can feel him there, close, his presence taking up the small space. Naked. You know this without looking. Can feel the heat of his body even through the steam.
His hands land on your shoulders.
You go still. Every muscle locks, but you don't pull away. Can't. Where would you go?
Soap. He lathers his hands with soap — you smell it, something generic and clean. Lavender, maybe. Or chamomile. The artificial floral scent makes your stomach turn. It smells like the detergent from the blanket. Like this place.
Like nowhere you want to be.
He runs his hands down your arms, methodical at first. Clinical. His palms are almost rough on your skin, scrubbing away the grime and blood. Your wrists. Your forearms. Back up to your shoulders, the pressure firm but not cruel.
The water runs pink for some time, then lighter. Rust-colored. Then almost clear.
You count tiles. The crack runs through tile seven. There's mold in the grout lines between tiles nine and ten. Dark. Spreading like an infection.
His hands move to your back, down your spine, fingers tracing it gently. Along your sides, where his thumbs press slightly too long against your ribcage. You can feel the hesitation in his touch — like he's memorizing the shape of you.
You wish he would stop touching you.
You focus on the dirty water circling the drain. Watch each drop slide down the tiles, following its path until it disappears into darkness.
Then his hands come around to your front.
They cup your breasts.
You stop counting.
His thumbs brush over your nipples, circling slowly. Once. Twice. Three times. He's not washing anymore. Not scrubbing. Just... touching. Feeling. His breath is warm against your wet hair, his chest almost pressed to your back. You feel him there — all of him — close enough that you know he's hard again and—
No. Don't think about it.
You try to think of something else. Anything else.
Your mother. You think of your mother washing your hair when you were small. Sitting on this same kind of stool in your tiny bathroom while she worked shampoo through your tangles, her touch gentle and patient as she hummed softly to some old song you can't quite remember the words to. Her hands were soft. Careful. They never hurt.
You try to imagine these are her hands.
They're not.
Too rough. Too firm. Touching where your mother would never. The grip is wrong — possessive instead of tender, hungry instead of loving. His fingers knead your flesh, squeeze, and you feel the tremor in them, subtle but there. Like he's fighting to keep them steady. Like he wants to grip harder, take more, but won't let himself.
Not yet, at least.
When his hand moves to tilt your head back under the water, his fingers tangle in your hair and pull, just slightly. Your mother never pulled.
The illusion shatters.
You're here. In this bathroom. With him. His hands on your body. Again.
He reaches for something; a washcloth, hanging from a hook you hadn't noticed. The movement brings him closer, his chest brushing your back, and you feel every point of contact like a hot iron.
The washcloth is rough against your skin as he works more soap into it. He brings it to your neck, scrubbing gently, then up to your face and down to your collarbones. Your chest. Careful around your breasts this time, almost clinical again, like he's caught himself and pulled back.
But then he moves lower.
The cloth drags across your stomach, your sides. Lower still. Your hips, where his fingers had dug in hard enough to leave marks on your soft flesh. You see them now in your peripheral vision — dark purple fingerprints against your skin. Five on each side.
He sees them too.
The washcloth pauses. His breathing changes — hitching slightly — before he continues, his touch gentler. Almost reverent. Like he's touching something sacred instead of something he broke.
The cloth moves to wash your sore feet, then your legs, until he reaches your thighs. The bruises there are worse — finger marks and scratches, the spread of them visible even through the steam. He washes around them carefully, soap suds sliding down your legs.
Then the cloth moves higher. Between your thighs.
Your whole body goes rigid. A sound escapes before you can stop it, small and choked, like an animal caught in a trap.
He freezes.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The water streams down, the only sound in the tiny room besides your ragged breathing.
“I'm just—” he starts, voice rough. “I'm just trying to clean—”
You make that sound again. Smaller this time. Trapped.
The cloth withdraws immediately. He drops it — the wet slap of it hitting the tile — and his hands go back to your shoulders. Safe. Neutral.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay. I won't.”
The water temperature shifts; hotter suddenly, almost scalding. It hits your shoulders, your back, and the shock of it yanks you somewhere you don't want to be.
Back. Into your body.
Your breath hitches, eyes widening. You feel it — the heat of the water, the ache between your legs, the throb of bruises, the weight of his hands still on your shoulders. You see the bathroom, really see it; the white tiles, the mold in the grout, the drain with its hair-clogged grate.
You see your body.
Naked. Bruised. Marked by him in ways that won't wash away.
And he's behind you. Naked too. Touching you. And you're here, you're really here, and it's going to happen again, it's—
“Shit! Sorry—” His hand shoots out, adjusting the water temperature. The scalding heat disappears, replaced by something more tolerable. “I didn't mean—”
But you're already gone.
Farther this time. Deeper. To a place so small and dark that nothing can reach you. Not his voice. Not his hands. Not even the memory of what he did.
You leave your body behind like an empty shell.
The tiles. Count the tiles.
Tile seven has a crack. Tiles nine and ten have mold. Tile three has a chip in the corner, small, barely noticeable unless you're looking for it. Tile twelve has a small brown stain near the grout line. Water damage, probably. Or rust.
His hands are in your hair now, working shampoo through the strands. The same artificial floral scent fills your nose. You feel it distantly, the pressure of his fingers against your scalp, but it's far away. Happening to someone else. Some girl who isn't you anymore.
He's gentle now, almost hesitant, fingers moving carefully through the tangles. When they catch on a knot, he works it loose slowly instead of pulling.
Water runs down your face. Into your eyes. You don't blink it away. Don't move at all.
His hands pause.
You don't know how long you've been sitting here. Time feels strange, elastic, like you could have been here for minutes or hours and it would feel the same.
But something shifts in the air behind you. His fingers still in your hair, the movement stopping mid-motion. The water continues to stream down, but his hands have gone completely still.
He's looking at you. You can feel it. His gaze on the side of your face, on your empty eyes, searching for something that isn't there anymore.
“Y/N?”
Your name in his mouth. It sounds wrong. Foreign.
Nothing. You give him nothing.
His hands slide from your hair to your shoulders, turning you slightly — not forcing, just guiding — so he can see your face better.
“Hey,” he says, quieter now. Almost... scared? “Can you hear me?”
Tile seven. Tile nine. Tile ten.
“Y/N.” Firmer this time. His hand comes up to your face, fingers under your chin, tilting your head to look at him.
But you're not looking. Your eyes point in his direction but they don't see. Don't focus. Just stare through him at the wall behind, at the tiles, at anything that isn't him.
“Fuck.” The word comes out sharp. Jagged. His hand drops from your face. “Fuck, I—”
He stops. Starts again.
“I didn't want—” His voice cracks. “It wasn't supposed to—”
He stops again. You hear him take a breath. Then another.
When he speaks again, all the softness is gone. “Fine. Fucking fine.”
His hands come back to your hair — rougher now, efficient and almost angry. He rinses the shampoo out in quick, harsh movements. No more gentle untangling. No more careful touches. Just wanting to be done.
Water streams down your face, into your nose, your mouth. You don't cough. Don't turn away. Just let it happen.
He's muttering something under his breath. You catch fragments between the sound of the water. “...just trying to... won't even fucking... like I'm the bad guy...”
The water shuts off.
Silence, except for the drip of water from the showerhead. Drip. Drip. Drip.
He wraps a soft towel around you and pulls you to your feet. Your legs shake but hold this time. He dries himself quickly, movements sharp and efficient, then pulls on clothes. Clean ones; a t-shirt and sweatpants. They must have belonged to whoever lived here before.
He hands you clothes; a hoodie and sweatpants. Men’s. Definitely not yours.
“Put these on,” he says.
You do. Because he tells you to. Your body knows how to dress itself, even when you're not inside it. Arms through sleeves, legs through pants. The fabric is soft. A bit snug, but fits. The sleeves hang past your fingertips, covering your hands and tickling your palms.
He's watching you. You can feel his gaze, but you don't look at him. You're looking at tile seven. The crack is still there.
It will always be there.
He guides you back to the main room, hand at your elbow. His fingers press just slightly too firm, like he's testing to see if you'll pull away. You don't. Your body moves where he directs it, feet shuffling across the cold floor, wet hair dripping onto the borrowed hoodie.
The apartment is small. You can see all of it from where you stand — kitchenette along one wall, a couch and low table in the living area, the bedroom door you just came from. Windows on two walls allow what’s left of the afternoon light to filter through, dimmer now, casting long shadows across the floor. How long were you in the bathroom?
You don't know. Don't care.
He steers you to the couch and you sit where he positions you. The cushions are soft, worn in, the fabric almost velvety. Someone else's comfort. Someone else's life.
There's a bookshelf against the wall across from you. Paperbacks and hardcovers crammed together, some upright, some tilted, spines faded from sunlight. You can just make out a few titles from here. Lord of the Rings. Painter of the Wind. Norwegian Wood. Books you've never read. Books you'll never read.
He disappears into the bathroom. You hear drawers opening and things being moved around. When he returns, he's carrying a white box with a red cross on it. First aid kit. He sets it on the coffee table with a decisive thunk, then walks to the kitchenette.
The tap runs. The clink of glass.
He returns with a cup of water, slightly chipped at the rim, and places it in your hands. Your fingers curl around it automatically, the cool glass solid against your palms. Real. Here.
“Drink,” he says.
You do. Because your body demands it, even if you don't. The water is cool, almost cold inside your dry mouth. It hurts going down your throat, scraping against tissues rubbed raw from bile and screaming. You drink it all anyway, the cup empty before you realize you've finished.
He takes it from your hands, fingers brushing yours. Lingering just a moment too long.
Then he's kneeling in front of you.
The movement brings him lower, puts him at eye level, but you're not looking at him. You're looking past him, over his shoulder, at the bookshelf. Trying to make out more titles. The Distance Between Us. Pachinko. Something with a red spine you can't quite read.
“Give me your hand.”
You don't move.
He reaches for it himself, pulling your right hand from where it rests half-curled in your lap. The sleeve slides back, revealing your palm. The cut runs diagonally across it, deep enough that you can see the layers of skin where the glass sliced through. The edges look angry and slightly swollen, with dried blood crusted around it, dark brown and flaking.
He stares at it for a long moment. His jaw works, teeth grinding. You notice something flicker across his face — concern, maybe. Or calculation. His thumb brushes the edge of the wound, feather-light, and you feel the heat radiating from the inflamed skin.
“It's infected,” he says quietly. More to himself than to you.
He looks up at your face, searching for something. A reaction. Worry. Fear. Anything.
You're reading titles. The ones you can make out, anyway. Your eyes trace the spines, some old looking, others brand new.
His jaw tightens. He turns back to your hand.
The first aid kit clicks open. He rummages through it, pulling out supplies. Antiseptic. Gauze. Medical tape. A tube of antibiotic ointment. His movements are stiff and unpracticed, like he's not quite sure what he's doing.
He uncaps the antiseptic — the sharp chemical smell making your nose wrinkle involuntarily — and pours some onto a clean gauze pad.
“This is going to hurt,” he says.
Then he presses it to your palm.
The pain is immediate and searing and your hand jerks back on instinct, a sharp breath hissing through your teeth. Your fingers tremble, trying to curl into a protective fist, but he holds your wrist steady.
“Hold still,” he says, pressing the gauze deeper into the wound.
Your hand shakes in his grip and tears prick your eyes, not from emotion but just pure physical response to pain. But you don't look at him. Don't make a sound beyond that first involuntary gasp.
You focus on the bookshelf. On a book with a blue cover near the bottom. You can't read the title from here, but you stare at it anyway.
He cleans the wound thoroughly, methodically, the gauze coming away rust-brown with old blood and something yellowish that would normally make your stomach turn. His other hand wraps around your wrist, thumb pressing against your pulse point. You can feel it racing beneath his touch, betraying the calm you're trying to project.
When he's satisfied it's clean, he reaches for the antibiotic ointment. Squeezes too much onto his fingers, a glob of it that he tries to spread across your palm. It's cold and greasy, and his fingers are clumsy, smearing it unevenly.
He curses under his breath. Wipes some away. Tries again.
His hands aren't shaking, but they're not quite steady either. He's concentrating hard, brow furrowed, jaw set. Like if he can just do this right, if he can just fix this one thing, it'll—
What? Make everything okay? Erase what you did?
The thought doesn't form fully. You're not there enough to think it through.
He picks up the gauze, cuts a piece and presses it to your palm. But when he reaches for the medical tape, his fingers fumble with it, the tape sticking to itself uselessly.
“Fuck,” he mutters, ripping it off and tossing it aside. He grabs another piece, but this one's too short. He tries to stretch it across the gauze and it doesn't reach. The gauze slips, exposing part of the wound again.
“Fuck!” Louder this time. Sharper.
He tears the tape off again, almost violent now. Grabs another piece — too long this time — and wraps it around your hand. Too tight. The gauze bunches underneath, uncomfortable and uneven.
You feel the pressure and the awkward wrapping, but don't say anything. Don't look at him. Just keep staring at that blue book on the shelf.
His hand moves to your knee. Steadying himself, maybe. Or just... touching. His fingers press into the soft flesh there, gripping just slightly too firm. You feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of the sweatpants.
“There,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction. He's looking at the sloppy bandage, at the way the tape overlaps wrong, at the edges already starting to peel. “That'll... that'll do.”
But he doesn't let go of your hand. Or your knee. He just stays there, kneeling in front of you, holding you like if he lets go you'll disappear.
His eye lift to your face.
You're still staring past him. At the bookshelf. At the books. At anything that isn't him.
He lets out a sigh.
“Look at me,” he says.
Nothing.
“Y/N.” His fingers tighten on your knee. “Look. At. Me.”
You don't. Can't. Won't. Your eyes trace the spine of a book near the top shelf. Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage. The title is long. You read it twice. Three times.
“I said look at me!”
His hand moves from your knee to your chin, fingers gripping, forcing your head down, angling your face toward his. Your eyes have no choice but to land on him now — his face, his remaining eye, the ruined socket beside it, still crusted with dried blood at the edges.
But you're not seeing him. You're looking through him. Past him. At nothing.
His eye searches yours, darting back and forth, looking for something that isn't there anymore.
“Why won't you—” He stops. His grip on your chin tightens, just for a second, before he forces himself to loosen it. “I'm trying to help you. I'm taking care of you. Don't you see that?”
Your face remains blank. Empty. A mask.
Something in his expression cracks. Not quite guilt. Not quite regret. Something uglier. Frustration and want and anger all mixed together, like a cocktail about to explode.
“I didn't want to hurt you,” he says, and there's something almost pleading in his voice now. “You have to know that. I never wanted—”
He stops. Swallows hard. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, and the touch is gentle in a way that makes your stomach turn.
“I've wanted you for so long,” he continues, quieter now. “Since we were kids. You have to know that. You had to have known how much I like you.”
Nothing. You give him nothing.
His hand drops from your face, the other releasing your bandaged hand.
“Fine,” he says, and the gentleness evaporates like steam. “Fucking fine, keep staring at the goddamn wall!”
He stands abruptly, backing away from you as he slams the first aid box into the ground, contents scattering across the floor. His hands clench and unclench at his sides as he stares at the ground like it has personally offended him.
“I saved your life,” he says, voice hard now. Defensive. “Those zombies would've torn you apart if it wasn't for me. You'd be dead right now if I hadn't—”
He stops, grunting as he runs a hand through his damp hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles.
“You can hate me all you want,” he continues, and there's an edge of cruelty creeping into his voice now. The familiar edge you remember from school, from before. “But you're alive because of me. So maybe instead of giving me this—” he gestures at you, at your blank face, your empty eyes, “—you could show a little fucking gratitude.”
His words land in the space between you, harsh and bitter.
You stare at the bookshelf. At a book with a yellow spine. The title is too small to read from here.
He laughs, a short, humorless cackle. “Unbelievable.” He shakes his head. “You know what? Maybe this is what you wanted. You always loved playing the victim, didn't you? Poor little you, always getting picked on. Maybe you get off on it.”
The words are meant to wound. To provoke. To get any reaction at all.
They wash over you like water.
He stands there for a long moment, waiting. When you don't respond — don't even flinch — his hands curl into fists again.
“Whatever,” he spits. “Sit there and rot for all I care.”
He turns away, stomping to the window. His shoulders are tense, hands braced against the frame as he stares out at the street below. You can see his reflection in the glass, his jaw working and eye bright with something that might be unshed tears or might just be rage.
You stare at the bookshelf.
A book with a white cover. A book with a red spine. A book lying on its side.
So many books you’ll never read.
The light continues to fade, casting the room in deeper shadows. Somewhere in the building, something creaks. Settles. Outside, a distant groan — zombies, still wandering.
He doesn't turn around.
You don't move.
The bandage on your hand throbs with each heartbeat. Too tight.
But you're somewhere else now. Somewhere small and dark where nothing can reach you.
Not his words. Not his anger. Not even the pain.
Your eyes wander after a moment, and you stare at the wall. There's a calendar hanging there, like the one your mother magnets on the fridge door. This month's page is still up, dates crossed off in red marker. You count backward from today, trying to make sense of it. Three days. Maybe four. That's all it's been since the outbreak started.
Only four days since your world ended.
He moves around the apartment, and you track the sounds without following him with your eyes. His footsteps against the floor. The rattle of a doorknob. More footsteps. He's checking the windows now. Testing the locks. One. Two. The metallic click of each latch sliding into place. He tugs on them, making sure they're secure.
Keeping things out. Or keeping you in.
The light outside has shifted, the sun nowhere in sight now. The shadows in the room stretch longer, darker. An hour, maybe, since you woke up in that unfamiliar bed. It feels like days.
“Store downstairs has supplies,” he says, voice cutting through the quiet. “There’s an EMart close by as well I think. I’ll bring whatever we need.”
We.
The word hangs in the air. We. Like you're a unit now. Like this is normal. You register it, filing it away somewhere, but it doesn't land. Doesn't mean anything. It’s just another word.
He pauses by the window, looking out. His shoulders are tense, the line of them rigid. His jaw works like he's chewing on words he hasn't said yet.
“I need to go back to the school,” he says finally. His voice is flat. Matter-of-fact. “Unfinished business.”
His jaw tightens. You can see it even from here, the way his muscle jumps beneath the skin.
He doesn't say the name. Doesn't need to.
Cheongsan.
The thought drifts through your mind. You hope he lives. Hope he got away, that he's hiding somewhere Gwinam won't find him. But the hope is distant.
He'll probably die anyway. They all will eventually.
Everyone dies now.
He turns from the window, looking at you. Really looking. His eye searches your face, scanning for something. Anything.
You just keep staring at nothing, like he’s not even there.
“You'll be okay here,” he says, and something in his voice shifts. “Safe. I'll come back.”
Safe. Right.
You don't respond. Don't move. Your hands rest in your lap, the bandaged one throbbing dully.
Something flickers across his face. Frustration. Maybe anger. Either way, it’s gone too fast to name.
He moves toward the kitchenette. You hear him opening cabinets, the rustle of plastic. When he comes back, he's carrying something — a granola bar, the wrapper slightly crumpled. He crouches in front of you, not quite kneeling this time. Keeping distance.
“Here.” He holds it out. “You should eat something.”
You don't reach for it. Don't even look at it. Your eyes stay fixed on the wall.
He waits. The silence stretches.
He says your name, his voice harder now, that familiar edge creeping back. “Take it.”
Nothing.
His jaw clenches. He sets the granola bar on the coffee table in front of you with more force than necessary, the sound of it hitting the wood too loud in the quiet room.
“Starve then!” He stands abruptly. “For fuck’s sake.”
But he doesn't move toward the door yet. Just stands there, staring down at you, waiting for something that won't come.
When you still don't react, he makes a hissing sound in his throat and stalks to the entryway.
You hear him putting on his shoes; the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of rubber against tile. Then he pauses at the door, hand on the handle.
He glances back at you one more time.
“Don't—” He stops. Starts again. “Just... stay put.”
Not a request. A command.
Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
You hear the lock turn from the outside. Once. Twice. The deadbolt slides home with a heavy thunk. Then his footsteps fade down the exterior hallway, growing fainter until they disappear entirely.
Silence settles over the apartment like dust.
Locked.
You know this. Register it. The information sits in your mind, clear and simple: the door is locked from the outside.
You're trapped here.
You should care. Should feel panic rising, should test the door, should scream or cry or bang your fists against it until someone hears.
You don't.
You're too tired. Too empty. Too far away from yourself to care about locks or doors or escape.
Silence settles over the apartment like dust.
You sit exactly where he left you, hands resting in your lap. The granola bar sits untouched on the table. You don't reach for it.
Outside is completely dark. You can hear them out there, the distant groans of the dead, the shuffle of feet on pavement. Somewhere far off, a scream cuts through the air and then stops abruptly.
The world is ending. Has ended. Will keep ending.
And you're here. Alive. Locked in someone else's apartment wearing someone else's clothes and someone else's life.
Your eyelids grow heavy. The exhaustion that's been pulling at you since you woke finally wins. Your body slumps slightly against the couch cushions, head tilting to the side.
He's gone. That's the only thought that matters. He's gone and you're alone and for however long he's away, you're safe.
Safe.
Your eyes close.
The room blurs, then disappears.
You fall asleep still sitting up, hands in your lap, the bandage on your palm already starting to come loose.
Not awake. Not dreaming. Just... gone.
»Chapter 8 (coming March)
Bloodstained Devotion (Chapter 7)
Pairing: Yoon Gwinam x Plus size! Reader
Genres: Dark Romance · Post-Apocalyptic Horror · Psychological Thriller
Word Count: 6.9k words
Warnings ⚠️ Smut, Angst, Death, Blood and Injury, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Survival, Enemies to Lovers, Moral Ambiguity, Bullying, Non-Consensual Touching, Childhood Friends, Stockholm Syndrome, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trauma, Other Additional Warnings to Be Added, Captivity
Summary: The world ended in blood and chaos, leaving only the unfortunate and the dead behind. You survived the fall. Sometimes you wish you hadn't. Once a familiar face, Gwinam is no longer the boy you remember. Twisted by obsession, he refuses to let you slip from his grasp, even if that means you'll hate him for eternity. Now survival isn’t the hardest fight. It’s resisting the kind of love that feels like death.
Notes: We're officially in Act 2! This chapter is a long and intense one. Don't get used to it, tho, that's an anomaly for me lol. Hope you enjoy! <3
Please read at your own risk.
AO3 | Masterlist
«Chapter 6
The aftermath of everything washes over you. Gwinam tries, and fails. You give him nothing.
Everything feels wrong.
A choked sound leaves your lips as you curl in on yourself, a wave of pain crashing through your body. Everything hurts — a dull, persistent ache that seems to radiate from everywhere at once. Your palm stings like it's on fire, throbbing with each heartbeat and your fingers tremble as you slowly unclench the fist you've made in the fabric covering you.
It's a blanket. Floral pattern, you think, though you can't quite make it out. The material is scratchy, warm if a little itchy against your cheek. You take a deep breath and immediately regret it. The scent hits you: clean detergent, something floral and artificial, mixed with the sour stench of an unwashed body. Your own.
The combination makes your stomach turn.
You don't know how long you've been here. Minutes? Hours? Your tongue sits thick and dry in your mouth and your throat feels scratchy. Your muscles ache with the particular stiffness of staying in one position for too long, a tingling sensation starting to take over your limbs like ants under your skin.
You struggle to open your eyes, lids heavy and crusted in the corners. A headache throbs at your temples, sharp and insistent, as you slowly take in your surroundings, your heartbeat spiking and hammering against your ribs.
You don't know where you are.
The room is dim and unfamiliar, late afternoon light filtering weakly through a window to your right and casting long shadows across walls you've never seen before. There are things here — a dresser, photos in frames, a book on the nightstand. Signs of someone else's life.
The previous occupants are nowhere in sight.
Panic claws at your throat. You try to sit up and quickly regret it, a pained gasp tearing from you as the pain between your legs flares, bringing immediate tears to your eyes. It's sharp and burning, a deep ache that pulses with each movement, especially when you squeeze your thighs together in reflex.
Your hands move without thinking, reaching between your legs. You flinch at what you find, the mess of dried fluids coating your inner thighs, staining your fingers rust-brown and sticky. The evidence of what happened.
A flash of memory hits you, sudden and terrorizing.
Gwinam alive.
On top of you.
Inside you.
The feeling of his weight crushing the air from your lungs, his brutal force as he took what he wanted, your body nothing more than a thing to use as he saw fit. You had done nothing to stop it.
You hadn’t even tried.
Your breath catches, trapped somewhere between your throat and lungs. The room tilts slightly, nausea rising—
“You're awake.”
The voice cuts through the fog, sharp and loud in the empty room. You instinctively shove yourself against the headboard, ignoring the spike of pain the movement causes. A shadow fills the doorway, tall and familiar in the worst way. His face is obscured by the backlighting, dusk glow warming his silhouette and turning him into nothing more than a dark shape.
But you know who it is.
You'd know him anywhere.
You don't dare utter a word, your gaze locked on him as you wait for his next move. Your fingers tremble as you pull the blanket toward your chest, clutching it like a shield. Your vision wobbles, tears blurring the edges, but you force yourself to keep him in focus. You know you're incapable of doing anything to protect yourself — you keep proving just that, again and again — but as long as you keep him under your stare, you're safe.
Or at least that's what you tell yourself.
To your surprise, he doesn't move from the doorway immediately. His hand grips the handle, knuckles pale even in the dim light. You can feel his stare moving over you, analyzing you, almost like he's taking inventory of something. His face is barely visible in the shadows, but you catch the dark smears across his jacket, the white fabric smeared with rust, the blue and red accents barely visible under the dried blood.
You don't let yourself wonder whose. Don't want to know.
“Found a place,” he says finally, voice carefully flat. He leans against the doorframe, casual, like he's discussing weekend plans. His fingers drum once against the wood before stilling. “Apartment above a 7-Eleven. Rest of the building is empty.”
He shifts his weight, and you track the movement without really seeing it. Your eyes follow the shape of him, the slight tilt of his head, but your mind refuses to process it as anything more than threat assessment. Distance. Proximity. Escape routes you don't have the strength to take.
“It's close enough to the school,” he continues, as if that matters. As if you care. A pause. His hand slides from the doorframe, hanging at his side. His thumb rubs against his forefinger — once, twice. “And it's safe.” Another pause, longer this time. “I carried you up. You were out cold.”
Like he's reporting on the weather. Like this is normal. Like you passed out from exhaustion and not—
You don't finish the thought.
Your fingers tighten on the blanket until your knuckles ache, the only movement you allow yourself. The scratchy fabric bunches in your grip. You don't look away from him. Can't. If you do, he might move closer, and you're not ready for that. You're not ready for anything.
He watches you watching him. Waiting, maybe, for something. A response. A thank you. Anger. Tears.
You give him nothing.
The silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. You can hear your own breathing — shallow and careful, like even that might provoke him. You can hear his too, slower at first, then slightly rougher. His jaw clenches and then relaxes as he lets out an audible exhale, but he doesn’t move.
“You should eat something,” he says, and there's something in his voice now. Not quite concern. Something that you don't have a name for. “There's plenty of food downstairs. Water too. Whatever you want.” He gestures vaguely toward the door, the movement jerky. “I'll bring some up.”
He says it like an offering. Like he's being helpful.
You give him nothing.
The silence stretches so long you can hear the building settle around you, distant creaks and groans of wood and metal. His bare foot taps once against the floor. Stops. His shoulders tense, and you hear the clink of his jacket's zipper.
Then he moves.
A step forward. Then another, his feet against the floor sounding too loud in the quiet room.
Your body curls inward instinctively, knees pulling toward your chest despite the sharp pain between your legs. The blanket comes with you, just a useless shield, and your breath catches. You know what's coming. You can feel it in the way he approaches.
But you're so tired. Too tired to fight. Too tired to scream.
Your eyes drift away from him, sliding past his approaching form to the nightstand beside the bed. There's a photo there in a simple frame — a couple, smiling. The woman's head tilts toward the man's shoulder, his arm wrapped around her slim waist. They're laughing at something outside the frame, caught in a moment of candid happiness.
They look so normal. So safe.
You wonder distantly where they are now.
“Y/N.”
His voice cuts through, but it sounds muffled now. Like you’re underwater. You don't look at him. Can't pull your eyes away from the photo. The woman's smile is wide, genuine. Her hand rests on the man's chest. The bracelet on her wrist glints in the sun, the ruby-like pendant stark against her pale skin and the man’s beige shirt.
He says your name again, sharper this time. There's an edge to it now, frustration creeping in.
Nothing. You have nothing to give him.
You hear him move closer, feeling the shift in the air as he approaches the bed. The mattress dips slightly under his weight as he sits on the edge. Close. Too close. You can smell him now: sweat, blood, smoke. Something metallic underneath. Revolting.
“Look at me.”
Frustration bleeds into his voice now, rough around the edges. His hand reaches out, your peripheral vision catching it as he moves toward your face.
You flinch.
The movement is small but it pulls you back — just for a second — into your body. Into this room. With him. Your heart kicks once, hard, fear flickering before you're gone again, eyes finding the photo, clinging to it.
His hand stops mid-air. Hovers for a long moment. Then drops.
“Fuck.”
The word comes out quiet, almost under his breath. You hear him shift, the rustle of his jacket loud in the silence. Something crosses his face, too quick to name. His jaw clenches then releases, his hand curling into a fist against his thigh before flexing open.
“You should shower,” he says finally, and there's something different in his tone now. Uncomfortable and uncertain. Like something he once considered a fact might not be so clear after all. “Clean up. You'll feel better.”
Better.
The word takes a moment to land. Your thighs press together reflexively — the stickiness there, the evidence still clinging to your skin — and awareness flickers for just a heartbeat before you retreat back to the photo.
Six buttons. The woman's hand covers one. The ruby on her bracelet looks like a drop of fresh blood.
They look so happy.
His hand comes back, this time gripping the edge of the blanket before he slowly pulls it away. The cool air hits your skin and you curl tighter, but you don't resist. Don't fight.
What's the point?
“Come on.” His hands find your elbows, grip firmer than you expect as he pulls you upright. Your body obeys even though you're not inside it anymore. The room tilts, or maybe you do. “I'll help.”
Not a question. Not a request.
Your feet touch the floor, cold linoleum through your socks. He steadies you, hands still on your shoulders, and for a moment you're standing. Your legs tremble beneath you, muscles screaming.
Then they give out.
You don't fall far. His arm shoots around your waist, catching you before your knees hit the floor. The movement is instant, effortless, and suddenly you're weightless, lifted like you're nothing. Like you weigh nothing at all.
He shifts you in his arms, adjusting his grip. One arm beneath your knees, the other supporting your back. Bridal style. Firm but careful, like he's carrying something breakable.
You are breakable. You broke hours ago.
Your head lolls against his shoulder, too heavy to hold up. The ceiling comes into view — white, humidity stains in the corner. A crack runs diagonally across it, branching like tree roots. You follow the lines with your eyes as he moves, the room sliding past in your peripheral vision.
The couple, still smiling, is left behind as they disappear from view.
His footsteps are steady and purposeful as he carries you. You feel the shift in his body as he moves through the doorway into another room. There's a couch. Windows. Kitchen counters. You register these things distantly, without really seeing them.
Your gaze stays fixed on the ceiling, tracking the cracks, the imperfections. Anywhere but his face. Anywhere but the reality of his arms around you, holding you up because your body can't do it on its own anymore.
“Almost there,” he murmurs. His voice rumbles in his chest, close enough that you feel it more than hear it.
You say nothing. Give him nothing.
The ceiling changes. Different tiles. Smaller room. The fluorescent light makes you squint, too bright after the dim bedroom.
He carries you inside.
The bathroom is small, almost cramped. Typical, all white tile and fluorescent lighting that flickers once before holding steady. There's a drain in the center of the floor, a showerhead mounted on the wall over a sink and a wide mirror, a plastic stool pushed into the corner. A cabinet next to the toilet occupies the further wall, filled with towels and bathroom supplies.
He sets you down carefully, your feet touching cold tile. The chill bites into your soles, sharp enough to register. His hand stays at your waist, still supporting you because your legs won't. The door clicks shut behind you.
He moves around you, one hand never leaving your body as he reaches to turn on the water, testing it with his free hand, adjusting the temperature. Steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror above the sink. You stare at your reflection as it disappears, features blurring, vanishing into white.
Just like you. Vanishing.
“Arms up,” he says.
Your body obeys. Arms lift without thought, and he pulls your torn shirt over your head. The fabric catches on your hair, tugs slightly, then comes free. He drops the crumpled mess of ruined cotton on the floor. His fingers find the back of your bra, struggling with it for a moment before sliding it down your shoulders. Your skirt is next — the one still stiff with dried blood — as he slides it down your hips. It pools at your feet.
Tiny drops of water sprinkle on your skin as the shower stream hits the floor, soaking your socks.
The underwear follows. Ruined beyond recognition. He doesn't look at your face as he removes it, gaze fixed somewhere on the floor.
You stand there, naked, and focus on the wall. There's a crack in one of the tiles. Thin. Jagged. It cuts through the seventh tile from the left, starting at the grout line and splitting diagonally toward the corner.
You count the tiles while he undresses behind you. The rustle of fabric. His jacket — that bloodstained white with blue and red — hits the floor with a soft thud. The clink of a belt buckle. The whisper of pants sliding down legs. You don't turn around. Don't look. Just count.
One row. Two rows. Three.
“Sit,” he says, and his hand guides you to the stool he has pulled under the shower stream. You sit because he tells you to, the pain in your core as bright as ever. The plastic is cold beneath your thighs, the texture rough and slightly damp.
The water hits.
A loud gasp tears from your throat — the first real sound you've made since waking. It's warm. Almost hot. The temperature shocks against your cold skin, against the bruises forming across your ribs, your thighs. Dark muddy-pinkish water runs down your legs, swirling toward the drain. Blood and whatever else, washing away in lazy spirals.
He's behind you now. You can feel him there, close, his presence taking up the small space. Naked. You know this without looking. Can feel the heat of his body even through the steam.
His hands land on your shoulders.
You go still. Every muscle locks, but you don't pull away. Can't. Where would you go?
Soap. He lathers his hands with soap — you smell it, something generic and clean. Lavender, maybe. Or chamomile. The artificial floral scent makes your stomach turn. It smells like the detergent from the blanket. Like this place.
Like nowhere you want to be.
He runs his hands down your arms, methodical at first. Clinical. His palms are almost rough on your skin, scrubbing away the grime and blood. Your wrists. Your forearms. Back up to your shoulders, the pressure firm but not cruel.
The water runs pink for some time, then lighter. Rust-colored. Then almost clear.
You count tiles. The crack runs through tile seven. There's mold in the grout lines between tiles nine and ten. Dark. Spreading like an infection.
His hands move to your back, down your spine, fingers tracing it gently. Along your sides, where his thumbs press slightly too long against your ribcage. You can feel the hesitation in his touch — like he's memorizing the shape of you.
You wish he would stop touching you.
You focus on the dirty water circling the drain. Watch each drop slide down the tiles, following its path until it disappears into darkness.
Then his hands come around to your front.
They cup your breasts.
You stop counting.
His thumbs brush over your nipples, circling slowly. Once. Twice. Three times. He's not washing anymore. Not scrubbing. Just... touching. Feeling. His breath is warm against your wet hair, his chest almost pressed to your back. You feel him there — all of him — close enough that you know he's hard again and—
No. Don't think about it.
You try to think of something else. Anything else.
Your mother. You think of your mother washing your hair when you were small. Sitting on this same kind of stool in your tiny bathroom while she worked shampoo through your tangles, her touch gentle and patient as she hummed softly to some old song you can't quite remember the words to. Her hands were soft. Careful. They never hurt.
You try to imagine these are her hands.
They're not.
Too rough. Too firm. Touching where your mother would never. The grip is wrong — possessive instead of tender, hungry instead of loving. His fingers knead your flesh, squeeze, and you feel the tremor in them, subtle but there. Like he's fighting to keep them steady. Like he wants to grip harder, take more, but won't let himself.
Not yet, at least.
When his hand moves to tilt your head back under the water, his fingers tangle in your hair and pull, just slightly. Your mother never pulled.
The illusion shatters.
You're here. In this bathroom. With him. His hands on your body. Again.
He reaches for something; a washcloth, hanging from a hook you hadn't noticed. The movement brings him closer, his chest brushing your back, and you feel every point of contact like a hot iron.
The washcloth is rough against your skin as he works more soap into it. He brings it to your neck, scrubbing gently, then up to your face and down to your collarbones. Your chest. Careful around your breasts this time, almost clinical again, like he's caught himself and pulled back.
But then he moves lower.
The cloth drags across your stomach, your sides. Lower still. Your hips, where his fingers had dug in hard enough to leave marks on your soft flesh. You see them now in your peripheral vision — dark purple fingerprints against your skin. Five on each side.
He sees them too.
The washcloth pauses. His breathing changes — hitching slightly — before he continues, his touch gentler. Almost reverent. Like he's touching something sacred instead of something he broke.
The cloth moves to wash your sore feet, then your legs, until he reaches your thighs. The bruises there are worse — finger marks and scratches, the spread of them visible even through the steam. He washes around them carefully, soap suds sliding down your legs.
Then the cloth moves higher. Between your thighs.
Your whole body goes rigid. A sound escapes before you can stop it, small and choked, like an animal caught in a trap.
He freezes.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The water streams down, the only sound in the tiny room besides your ragged breathing.
“I'm just—” he starts, voice rough. “I'm just trying to clean—”
You make that sound again. Smaller this time. Trapped.
The cloth withdraws immediately. He drops it — the wet slap of it hitting the tile — and his hands go back to your shoulders. Safe. Neutral.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay. I won't.”
The water temperature shifts; hotter suddenly, almost scalding. It hits your shoulders, your back, and the shock of it yanks you somewhere you don't want to be.
Back. Into your body.
Your breath hitches, eyes widening. You feel it — the heat of the water, the ache between your legs, the throb of bruises, the weight of his hands still on your shoulders. You see the bathroom, really see it; the white tiles, the mold in the grout, the drain with its hair-clogged grate.
You see your body.
Naked. Bruised. Marked by him in ways that won't wash away.
And he's behind you. Naked too. Touching you. And you're here, you're really here, and it's going to happen again, it's—
“Shit! Sorry—” His hand shoots out, adjusting the water temperature. The scalding heat disappears, replaced by something more tolerable. “I didn't mean—”
But you're already gone.
Farther this time. Deeper. To a place so small and dark that nothing can reach you. Not his voice. Not his hands. Not even the memory of what he did.
You leave your body behind like an empty shell.
The tiles. Count the tiles.
Tile seven has a crack. Tiles nine and ten have mold. Tile three has a chip in the corner, small, barely noticeable unless you're looking for it. Tile twelve has a small brown stain near the grout line. Water damage, probably. Or rust.
His hands are in your hair now, working shampoo through the strands. The same artificial floral scent fills your nose. You feel it distantly, the pressure of his fingers against your scalp, but it's far away. Happening to someone else. Some girl who isn't you anymore.
He's gentle now, almost hesitant, fingers moving carefully through the tangles. When they catch on a knot, he works it loose slowly instead of pulling.
Water runs down your face. Into your eyes. You don't blink it away. Don't move at all.
His hands pause.
You don't know how long you've been sitting here. Time feels strange, elastic, like you could have been here for minutes or hours and it would feel the same.
But something shifts in the air behind you. His fingers still in your hair, the movement stopping mid-motion. The water continues to stream down, but his hands have gone completely still.
He's looking at you. You can feel it. His gaze on the side of your face, on your empty eyes, searching for something that isn't there anymore.
“Y/N?”
Your name in his mouth. It sounds wrong. Foreign.
Nothing. You give him nothing.
His hands slide from your hair to your shoulders, turning you slightly — not forcing, just guiding — so he can see your face better.
“Hey,” he says, quieter now. Almost... scared? “Can you hear me?”
Tile seven. Tile nine. Tile ten.
“Y/N.” Firmer this time. His hand comes up to your face, fingers under your chin, tilting your head to look at him.
But you're not looking. Your eyes point in his direction but they don't see. Don't focus. Just stare through him at the wall behind, at the tiles, at anything that isn't him.
“Fuck.” The word comes out sharp. Jagged. His hand drops from your face. “Fuck, I—”
He stops. Starts again.
“I didn't want—” His voice cracks. “It wasn't supposed to—”
He stops again. You hear him take a breath. Then another.
When he speaks again, all the softness is gone. “Fine. Fucking fine.”
His hands come back to your hair — rougher now, efficient and almost angry. He rinses the shampoo out in quick, harsh movements. No more gentle untangling. No more careful touches. Just wanting to be done.
Water streams down your face, into your nose, your mouth. You don't cough. Don't turn away. Just let it happen.
He's muttering something under his breath. You catch fragments between the sound of the water. “...just trying to... won't even fucking... like I'm the bad guy...”
The water shuts off.
Silence, except for the drip of water from the showerhead. Drip. Drip. Drip.
He wraps a soft towel around you and pulls you to your feet. Your legs shake but hold this time. He dries himself quickly, movements sharp and efficient, then pulls on clothes. Clean ones; a t-shirt and sweatpants. They must have belonged to whoever lived here before.
He hands you clothes; a hoodie and sweatpants. Men’s. Definitely not yours.
“Put these on,” he says.
You do. Because he tells you to. Your body knows how to dress itself, even when you're not inside it. Arms through sleeves, legs through pants. The fabric is soft. A bit snug, but fits. The sleeves hang past your fingertips, covering your hands and tickling your palms.
He's watching you. You can feel his gaze, but you don't look at him. You're looking at tile seven. The crack is still there.
It will always be there.
He guides you back to the main room, hand at your elbow. His fingers press just slightly too firm, like he's testing to see if you'll pull away. You don't. Your body moves where he directs it, feet shuffling across the cold floor, wet hair dripping onto the borrowed hoodie.
The apartment is small. You can see all of it from where you stand — kitchenette along one wall, a couch and low table in the living area, the bedroom door you just came from. Windows on two walls allow what’s left of the afternoon light to filter through, dimmer now, casting long shadows across the floor. How long were you in the bathroom?
You don't know. Don't care.
He steers you to the couch and you sit where he positions you. The cushions are soft, worn in, the fabric almost velvety. Someone else's comfort. Someone else's life.
There's a bookshelf against the wall across from you. Paperbacks and hardcovers crammed together, some upright, some tilted, spines faded from sunlight. You can just make out a few titles from here. Lord of the Rings. Painter of the Wind. Norwegian Wood. Books you've never read. Books you'll never read.
He disappears into the bathroom. You hear drawers opening and things being moved around. When he returns, he's carrying a white box with a red cross on it. First aid kit. He sets it on the coffee table with a decisive thunk, then walks to the kitchenette.
The tap runs. The clink of glass.
He returns with a cup of water, slightly chipped at the rim, and places it in your hands. Your fingers curl around it automatically, the cool glass solid against your palms. Real. Here.
“Drink,” he says.
You do. Because your body demands it, even if you don't. The water is cool, almost cold inside your dry mouth. It hurts going down your throat, scraping against tissues rubbed raw from bile and screaming. You drink it all anyway, the cup empty before you realize you've finished.
He takes it from your hands, fingers brushing yours. Lingering just a moment too long.
Then he's kneeling in front of you.
The movement brings him lower, puts him at eye level, but you're not looking at him. You're looking past him, over his shoulder, at the bookshelf. Trying to make out more titles. The Distance Between Us. Pachinko. Something with a red spine you can't quite read.
“Give me your hand.”
You don't move.
He reaches for it himself, pulling your right hand from where it rests half-curled in your lap. The sleeve slides back, revealing your palm. The cut runs diagonally across it, deep enough that you can see the layers of skin where the glass sliced through. The edges look angry and slightly swollen, with dried blood crusted around it, dark brown and flaking.
He stares at it for a long moment. His jaw works, teeth grinding. You notice something flicker across his face — concern, maybe. Or calculation. His thumb brushes the edge of the wound, feather-light, and you feel the heat radiating from the inflamed skin.
“It's infected,” he says quietly. More to himself than to you.
He looks up at your face, searching for something. A reaction. Worry. Fear. Anything.
You're reading titles. The ones you can make out, anyway. Your eyes trace the spines, some old looking, others brand new.
His jaw tightens. He turns back to your hand.
The first aid kit clicks open. He rummages through it, pulling out supplies. Antiseptic. Gauze. Medical tape. A tube of antibiotic ointment. His movements are stiff and unpracticed, like he's not quite sure what he's doing.
He uncaps the antiseptic — the sharp chemical smell making your nose wrinkle involuntarily — and pours some onto a clean gauze pad.
“This is going to hurt,” he says.
Then he presses it to your palm.
The pain is immediate and searing and your hand jerks back on instinct, a sharp breath hissing through your teeth. Your fingers tremble, trying to curl into a protective fist, but he holds your wrist steady.
“Hold still,” he says, pressing the gauze deeper into the wound.
Your hand shakes in his grip and tears prick your eyes, not from emotion but just pure physical response to pain. But you don't look at him. Don't make a sound beyond that first involuntary gasp.
You focus on the bookshelf. On a book with a blue cover near the bottom. You can't read the title from here, but you stare at it anyway.
He cleans the wound thoroughly, methodically, the gauze coming away rust-brown with old blood and something yellowish that would normally make your stomach turn. His other hand wraps around your wrist, thumb pressing against your pulse point. You can feel it racing beneath his touch, betraying the calm you're trying to project.
When he's satisfied it's clean, he reaches for the antibiotic ointment. Squeezes too much onto his fingers, a glob of it that he tries to spread across your palm. It's cold and greasy, and his fingers are clumsy, smearing it unevenly.
He curses under his breath. Wipes some away. Tries again.
His hands aren't shaking, but they're not quite steady either. He's concentrating hard, brow furrowed, jaw set. Like if he can just do this right, if he can just fix this one thing, it'll—
What? Make everything okay? Erase what you did?
The thought doesn't form fully. You're not there enough to think it through.
He picks up the gauze, cuts a piece and presses it to your palm. But when he reaches for the medical tape, his fingers fumble with it, the tape sticking to itself uselessly.
“Fuck,” he mutters, ripping it off and tossing it aside. He grabs another piece, but this one's too short. He tries to stretch it across the gauze and it doesn't reach. The gauze slips, exposing part of the wound again.
“Fuck!” Louder this time. Sharper.
He tears the tape off again, almost violent now. Grabs another piece — too long this time — and wraps it around your hand. Too tight. The gauze bunches underneath, uncomfortable and uneven.
You feel the pressure and the awkward wrapping, but don't say anything. Don't look at him. Just keep staring at that blue book on the shelf.
His hand moves to your knee. Steadying himself, maybe. Or just... touching. His fingers press into the soft flesh there, gripping just slightly too firm. You feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of the sweatpants.
“There,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction. He's looking at the sloppy bandage, at the way the tape overlaps wrong, at the edges already starting to peel. “That'll... that'll do.”
But he doesn't let go of your hand. Or your knee. He just stays there, kneeling in front of you, holding you like if he lets go you'll disappear.
His eye lift to your face.
You're still staring past him. At the bookshelf. At the books. At anything that isn't him.
He lets out a sigh.
“Look at me,” he says.
Nothing.
“Y/N.” His fingers tighten on your knee. “Look. At. Me.”
You don't. Can't. Won't. Your eyes trace the spine of a book near the top shelf. Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage. The title is long. You read it twice. Three times.
“I said look at me!”
His hand moves from your knee to your chin, fingers gripping, forcing your head down, angling your face toward his. Your eyes have no choice but to land on him now — his face, his remaining eye, the ruined socket beside it, still crusted with dried blood at the edges.
But you're not seeing him. You're looking through him. Past him. At nothing.
His eye searches yours, darting back and forth, looking for something that isn't there anymore.
“Why won't you—” He stops. His grip on your chin tightens, just for a second, before he forces himself to loosen it. “I'm trying to help you. I'm taking care of you. Don't you see that?”
Your face remains blank. Empty. A mask.
Something in his expression cracks. Not quite guilt. Not quite regret. Something uglier. Frustration and want and anger all mixed together, like a cocktail about to explode.
“I didn't want to hurt you,” he says, and there's something almost pleading in his voice now. “You have to know that. I never wanted—”
He stops. Swallows hard. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, and the touch is gentle in a way that makes your stomach turn.
“I've wanted you for so long,” he continues, quieter now. “Since we were kids. You have to know that. You had to have known how much I like you.”
Nothing. You give him nothing.
His hand drops from your face, the other releasing your bandaged hand.
“Fine,” he says, and the gentleness evaporates like steam. “Fucking fine, keep staring at the goddamn wall!”
He stands abruptly, backing away from you as he slams the first aid box into the ground, contents scattering across the floor. His hands clench and unclench at his sides as he stares at the ground like it has personally offended him.
“I saved your life,” he says, voice hard now. Defensive. “Those zombies would've torn you apart if it wasn't for me. You'd be dead right now if I hadn't—”
He stops, grunting as he runs a hand through his damp hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles.
“You can hate me all you want,” he continues, and there's an edge of cruelty creeping into his voice now. The familiar edge you remember from school, from before. “But you're alive because of me. So maybe instead of giving me this—” he gestures at you, at your blank face, your empty eyes, “—you could show a little fucking gratitude.”
His words land in the space between you, harsh and bitter.
You stare at the bookshelf. At a book with a yellow spine. The title is too small to read from here.
He laughs, a short, humorless cackle. “Unbelievable.” He shakes his head. “You know what? Maybe this is what you wanted. You always loved playing the victim, didn't you? Poor little you, always getting picked on. Maybe you get off on it.”
The words are meant to wound. To provoke. To get any reaction at all.
They wash over you like water.
He stands there for a long moment, waiting. When you don't respond — don't even flinch — his hands curl into fists again.
“Whatever,” he spits. “Sit there and rot for all I care.”
He turns away, stomping to the window. His shoulders are tense, hands braced against the frame as he stares out at the street below. You can see his reflection in the glass, his jaw working and eye bright with something that might be unshed tears or might just be rage.
You stare at the bookshelf.
A book with a white cover. A book with a red spine. A book lying on its side.
So many books you’ll never read.
The light continues to fade, casting the room in deeper shadows. Somewhere in the building, something creaks. Settles. Outside, a distant groan — zombies, still wandering.
He doesn't turn around.
You don't move.
The bandage on your hand throbs with each heartbeat. Too tight.
But you're somewhere else now. Somewhere small and dark where nothing can reach you.
Not his words. Not his anger. Not even the pain.
Your eyes wander after a moment, and you stare at the wall. There's a calendar hanging there, like the one your mother magnets on the fridge door. This month's page is still up, dates crossed off in red marker. You count backward from today, trying to make sense of it. Three days. Maybe four. That's all it's been since the outbreak started.
Only four days since your world ended.
He moves around the apartment, and you track the sounds without following him with your eyes. His footsteps against the floor. The rattle of a doorknob. More footsteps. He's checking the windows now. Testing the locks. One. Two. The metallic click of each latch sliding into place. He tugs on them, making sure they're secure.
Keeping things out. Or keeping you in.
The light outside has shifted, the sun nowhere in sight now. The shadows in the room stretch longer, darker. An hour, maybe, since you woke up in that unfamiliar bed. It feels like days.
“Store downstairs has supplies,” he says, voice cutting through the quiet. “There’s an EMart close by as well I think. I’ll bring whatever we need.”
We.
The word hangs in the air. We. Like you're a unit now. Like this is normal. You register it, filing it away somewhere, but it doesn't land. Doesn't mean anything. It’s just another word.
He pauses by the window, looking out. His shoulders are tense, the line of them rigid. His jaw works like he's chewing on words he hasn't said yet.
“I need to go back to the school,” he says finally. His voice is flat. Matter-of-fact. “Unfinished business.”
His jaw tightens. You can see it even from here, the way his muscle jumps beneath the skin.
He doesn't say the name. Doesn't need to.
Cheongsan.
The thought drifts through your mind. You hope he lives. Hope he got away, that he's hiding somewhere Gwinam won't find him. But the hope is distant.
He'll probably die anyway. They all will eventually.
Everyone dies now.
He turns from the window, looking at you. Really looking. His eye searches your face, scanning for something. Anything.
You just keep staring at nothing, like he’s not even there.
“You'll be okay here,” he says, and something in his voice shifts. “Safe. I'll come back.”
Safe. Right.
You don't respond. Don't move. Your hands rest in your lap, the bandaged one throbbing dully.
Something flickers across his face. Frustration. Maybe anger. Either way, it’s gone too fast to name.
He moves toward the kitchenette. You hear him opening cabinets, the rustle of plastic. When he comes back, he's carrying something — a granola bar, the wrapper slightly crumpled. He crouches in front of you, not quite kneeling this time. Keeping distance.
“Here.” He holds it out. “You should eat something.”
You don't reach for it. Don't even look at it. Your eyes stay fixed on the wall.
He waits. The silence stretches.
He says your name, his voice harder now, that familiar edge creeping back. “Take it.”
Nothing.
His jaw clenches. He sets the granola bar on the coffee table in front of you with more force than necessary, the sound of it hitting the wood too loud in the quiet room.
“Starve then!” He stands abruptly. “For fuck’s sake.”
But he doesn't move toward the door yet. Just stands there, staring down at you, waiting for something that won't come.
When you still don't react, he makes a hissing sound in his throat and stalks to the entryway.
You hear him putting on his shoes; the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of rubber against tile. Then he pauses at the door, hand on the handle.
He glances back at you one more time.
“Don't—” He stops. Starts again. “Just... stay put.”
Not a request. A command.
Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
You hear the lock turn from the outside. Once. Twice. The deadbolt slides home with a heavy thunk. Then his footsteps fade down the exterior hallway, growing fainter until they disappear entirely.
Silence settles over the apartment like dust.
Locked.
You know this. Register it. The information sits in your mind, clear and simple: the door is locked from the outside.
You're trapped here.
You should care. Should feel panic rising, should test the door, should scream or cry or bang your fists against it until someone hears.
You don't.
You're too tired. Too empty. Too far away from yourself to care about locks or doors or escape.
Silence settles over the apartment like dust.
You sit exactly where he left you, hands resting in your lap. The granola bar sits untouched on the table. You don't reach for it.
Outside is completely dark. You can hear them out there, the distant groans of the dead, the shuffle of feet on pavement. Somewhere far off, a scream cuts through the air and then stops abruptly.
The world is ending. Has ended. Will keep ending.
And you're here. Alive. Locked in someone else's apartment wearing someone else's clothes and someone else's life.
Your eyelids grow heavy. The exhaustion that's been pulling at you since you woke finally wins. Your body slumps slightly against the couch cushions, head tilting to the side.
He's gone. That's the only thought that matters. He's gone and you're alone and for however long he's away, you're safe.
Safe.
Your eyes close.
The room blurs, then disappears.
You fall asleep still sitting up, hands in your lap, the bandage on your palm already starting to come loose.
Not awake. Not dreaming. Just... gone.
»Chapter 8
Bloodstained Devotion (Chapter 6)
Pairing: Yoon Gwinam x Plus size! Reader
Genres: Dark Romance · Post-Apocalyptic Horror · Psychological Thriller
Word Count: 3.3k words
Warnings ⚠️ Smut, Angst, Death, Blood and Injury, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Survival, Enemies to Lovers, Moral Ambiguity, Bullying, Non-Consensual Touching, Childhood Friends, Stockholm Syndrome, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trauma, Other Additional Warnings to Be Added
Summary: The world ended in blood and chaos, leaving only the unfortunate and the dead behind. You survived the fall. Sometimes you wish you hadn't. Once a familiar face, Gwinam is no longer the boy you remember. Twisted by obsession, he refuses to let you slip from his grasp, even if that means you'll hate him for eternity. Now survival isn’t the hardest fight. It’s resisting the kind of love that feels like death.
Notes: Please read before continuing: This chapter contains a detailed depiction of rape. Your well-being matters more than any story. If you need to step away, that's completely valid.
Please read at your own risk.
AO3 | Masterlist
«Chapter 5
I want to hold you close, soft breath, beating heart. As I whisper in your ear, "I wanna fucking tear you apart" - Tear You Apart by She Wants Revenge
As an eighteen-year-old high school girl, you thought you knew what hell was like. You weren’t so naive as to believe it couldn’t get worse, but days were hard. Going to school just to be bullied, then coming home to an empty apartment, was hard.
Your friends made it bearable. The hope for a better future — college, maybe moving to Seoul, getting a job you didn’t hate — gave you something to work toward. A future to cling to.
Now you’d laugh at that girl.
Hell wasn't loneliness or depression or bullying. Hell is the dead walking. Hell is watching people die while you did nothing. Hell is not knowing if your mother is even alive.
Hell is him in front of you again, very much not dead, hunger burning so brightly in his eye that you wonder when he will finally sink his teeth into you.
His fingers burn where they grip your chin. You jerk your head to the side on instinct, trying to escape his touch.
His eyes narrow at your reaction. The change is small, but noticeable enough to make you cringe.
For a second, nothing happens. Then his grip releases.
He straightens slowly, deliberately, looking down at you with his head tilted. The movement is almost casual, but there's something predatory in the way he shifts his weight. Testing.
“That's how it's gonna be, huh?”
You don’t answer. There’s nothing left to say. Your tongue still stings with bile, your lips cracked and bloody. The hand you grabbed the shard with throbs like it’s been pressed to hot coals, your palm leaving a smeared handprint on the wall as you use it to try and push yourself upright.
Your legs don’t cooperate. The cramps seize, sharp and unforgiving, and you cry out as you collapse back onto the floor.
Your body shakes — from pain, from shock, from the cold that prickles your skin like you’re in the middle of a snowstorm. From the simple effort of breathing. Your vision swims as you try to keep him in focus.
Gwinam crouches again, watching you with a now blank expression. Not touching.
You can’t look away from where his eye should be. The socket’s a mess of torn tissue and dried blood. Bite marks cover his neck and jaw, disappearing under his collar. He should be dead. Should be stumbling and groaning and trying to tear you apart.
Instead he’s here, acting like he has never felt better. Steady. Breathing. Way too focused on you.
Wrong.
“You looking at this?” His finger taps the hollow where his left eye was. “Wanna guess who did it?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Cheongsan. You remember him, right?” Venom drips from the name. “Your little hero. Shoved a phone right into my fucking eye socket.”
He leans in. Close enough that you can smell the blood and rot clinging to him. It makes a new wave of bile bubble at the back of your throat.
“So where is he?”
You swallow, struggling to answer. “I don’t— I already told you, I don’t know,” you manage to repeat between chattering teeth, weakly shaking your head. “I swear I don’t.”
The truth doesn’t seem to register. Or maybe it does, and he just doesn’t care, too focused on getting the answer he’s looking for. His remaining eye narrows, studying your face like he’s searching for a lie that isn’t there.
Your mind flashes back to the moment he tried to kill Cheongsan. The moment he killed the principal. And the girl. He’d been so close.
Cheongsan, if you’re alive, I hope you never let him catch you.
“Doesn’t matter.” Gwinam snaps your attention back, straightening with a roll of his shoulders. “I’ll find him eventually. He can’t run away forever. Not now.”
His eye shifts to you. “You were there, though.” He tilts his head, and something changes in his expression. “In the library. I saw you hiding,” he says quietly. “I called your name, you know? Right before they got me, I called you. And what did you do?”
A beat.
“You left me behind.”
You can’t answer. Can’t move. The memory slams back — his scream cutting through the chaos, your hand pressed over your mouth to keep from making a sound, the wet tearing that followed in unison with your name being shouted in terror.
“I’m like this because you left me behind.”
The words hit like a slap. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. What can you say? That you were terrified? That you couldn’t have helped him even if you tried? That some part of you had been relieved when you thought he was dead?
“I didn’t—” you start, voice cracking. “I couldn’t—”
“Couldn’t?” He crouches again, close enough that you can see the dark veins webbing under his skin. “Or didn’t want to?”
“Gwinam—”
“Did you even miss me?”
The question comes out soft. Too soft. The kind of soft that makes your skin crawl because you know what it really means.
“While I was gone,” he continues, leaning in, “did you think about me at all? Or were you glad I was gone?”
Your breath comes too fast, too shallow. You don’t know how to answer. Every response feels like a trap.
The silence stretches.
His jaw tightens. “That’s what I thought.”
His hand shoots out and fists in your hair, yanking your head back. You cry out, hands flying up to grab his wrist as pain explodes across your scalp.
“Gwinam, please—”
“You left me to die!” His face is inches from yours, that ruined eye socket somehow worse up close. “You hid like a fucking coward while Cheongsan ripped my eye out, and then you just … left.”
“I'm sorry!” The words tumble out, desperate. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”
“Sorry?” He laughs, sharp and ugly. “You're sorry?”
He releases you so suddenly you nearly fall. You catch yourself against the wall, gasping, one hand pressed to your stinging scalp.
Gwinam stands, looking down at you with something unreadable flickering across his face. Not quite anger. Not quite hurt. Something worse.
Then you hear it.
The groaning. Closer now. The shuffle-drag of rushing feet.
Your head snaps toward the end of the hallway. Three of them round the corner, drawn by your voices and your scream. Their heads turn in unison, pupils blown wide and unseeing, jaws already working.
They rush forward.
You look at Gwinam, heart hammering. He doesn't move. Doesn't even glance at them.
He's looking at you, the shadow of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“You better run, princess.”
The words don't register at first. Then one of the zombies lurches closer, arms outstretched, and your body makes the decision your brain can't.
You run.
Pain shoots through your legs with the first step, muscles screaming in protest. You nearly trip over the corpse you killed earlier, catching yourself on the wall as you stagger into the hallway.
Behind you, the zombies snarl and give chase.
Behind them, you hear nothing from Gwinam at all.
He’s going to let them catch me, you think wildly, terror flooding your system with enough adrenaline to keep your legs moving. Your lungs burn with the effort, but you force yourself on, wheezing as you run for your life.
Your shoes skid on blood as you round a corner. The world tilts sideways and you slam shoulder-first into a wall, bouncing off with a gasp.
Keep moving. You have to keep moving.
A classroom door flashes past. A broken window. Another classroom, zombies banging on the closed door. The stairs— no. You can’t do stairs. You can barely stay upright as it is.
Another corner.
A bathroom.
The door is open.
You don’t think. You just throw yourself inside, hands shaking so badly you almost miss the handle as you slam it shut behind you.
The lock is broken.
Fuck.
You scan the room wildly — stalls, sinks, a window too high and too small to climb through. Blood spatters the tiles like an abstract painting, a smeared crimson trail leading from one of the stalls and out the door. You don’t let yourself think about it.
A broken mop lies on the floor, the handle snapped in half.
It’ll have to do.
The growls are right outside now.
You back toward the far wall, pressing yourself into the corner between the cabinet of cleaning supplies and the tile, trying to make yourself smaller. Your lungs burn, your heart beating like it’s going to fly out of your chest. Dark spots bloom at the edges of your vision.
You’re going to pass out. You’re going to pass out and they’re going to—
The door crashes open.
You don’t scream. There’s no air left for it.
But it isn’t the zombies that come through first.
It’s Gwinam.
He moves like something inhuman, faster than you’ve ever seen anyone move. His hand snaps out, catching the first zombie by the throat and hurling it into the sinks hard enough to crack the porcelain, before grabbing the corpse again and throwing it out the door like it’s nothing. The second lunges past him; he sidesteps it almost lazily, grabs the back of its head, and slams it face-first into the wall.
Once. Twice. Three times.
It goes still.
The third sinks its teeth into his arm.
You watch in horror as it bites down hard enough for you to hear the wet crunch.
Gwinam doesn’t even flinch.
He grabs the thing’s jaw with his free hand and pulls.
The sound it makes will haunt you; bone and cartilage tearing apart, the jaw ripping free in his grip. The body collapses, twitching. Then, like the last note in a concerto, Gwinam stomps on its skull, the cracking sound echoing through the room.
Silence.
Gwinam stands in the doorway, chest barely rising, covered in rotten blood, shoes drenched in brain matter tapping against the doorframe as he shakes it off. Unbothered. The jawbone flies over his shoulder, hitting the tile with a wet clatter.
His eye finds yours.
“See?” He fully steps inside, movements casual as he pushes the door shut behind him, unhurried. “I didn’t let them hurt you.”
You can’t answer. Can’t move. Your whole body is shaking so hard your teeth chatter.
He crosses the space between you in three strides. When you try to back up further, you hit the wall.
Nowhere left to go.
“Hey.” His voice is almost gentle as his hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. The touch would be tender if not for the blood coating his fingers, if not for the manic gleam in his remaining eye. “It’s okay. I’m with you. You’re safe now.”
You’re not. You know you’re not.
“Gwinam—” Your voice breaks. “Please—”
“Shh.” One hand slides into your hair, not pulling this time. “I’ve got you.”
Your hands tremble as you clutch the broken mop handle. Do something, you scream in your head, but the only thing in your possession that resembles a weapon clatters to the ground before you can act. Gwinam doesn’t even react, eyes still locked on your face.
His other hand moves to your throat. Not squeezing, just resting there, thumb against your pulse. Feeling it race like a galloping horse. It stills your breath all the same.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he murmurs, and there’s something like satisfaction in his tone. Like he’s been waiting for this. “Not this time.”
Then he releases you and turns toward the door.
You don’t understand what he’s doing until you hear it; the scrape of metal, the sharp click of a broken slide bolt being forced into place.
When he faces you again, his expression has shifted into something you can’t read. Something hungry and possessive, so intense you’re afraid to even look at him.
“Now,” he says, backing you further into the corner, his body caging yours like a predator cornering prey. “Where were we?”
You let out a whimper, tears stinging your eyes as they spill down your cheeks.
“Hey, hey, hey. Relax, princess,” he shushes, petting your dirty hair back.
When his face gets close to yours, you squeeze your eyes shut, a sob breaking loose as you feel his warm breath against your skin, the tip of his tongue following the trail of your tears as he licks your cheek.
“You smell fucking divine, you know that?” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger, his nose burying into your neck as he inhales deeply, teeth grazing the soft flesh there. “I could devour you whole.”
Before you can twist away, his lips crash onto yours.
His kiss tastes nauseatingly of blood, lips rough as they press against yours. You weakly try to push him away, only to feel his teeth close around your bottom lip, barely biting down before he shoves his tongue into your mouth. One hand keeps your head angled for him while the other palms your ass under your skirt.
Your mind races, trying to find a way out. A way to make it stop.
When you bite down on his tongue — hard enough that you taste his blood — the sound he makes resembles a kicked dog.
He releases you for just a second, a faint trail of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth as he lets out a manic laugh, his eye bright and terrifying.
“You fucking bitch,” he chuckles, spitting a thick blob of blood onto the tile before gripping your chin with enough force to bruise. “Do that again. I dare you.”
“Let me go!” you cry out, begging, hand squeezing his. “Please, Gwinam,” you sob. “I don’t feel good. I can’t do this. Please, let me go!”
In answer, he grabs you by the arms and shoves you toward the floor. You stumble and would've fallen face-first on the tiles if you hadn't caught yourself on the nearest sink, the cold porcelain almost pleasant against your injured palm.
Gwinam gives you no reprieve. His hand fists in your hair as the other curls around your neck, chest pressed fully against your back. Your breath catches as you feel him, hard, against the curve of your ass.
The hand on your neck slides down your chest, roughly palming your breasts before ripping your shirt open with a savage yank, buttons scattering across the floor. You cry out as his hand goes under your bra, fingers pinching a nipple hard enough to make you jolt in pain.
Then he presses you down. A gasp leaves you as you're held against the cold porcelain, goosebumps covering your body. The hand in your hair tightens. You cry out, sobbing as you feel him palming your thigh, slithering up as he kneads your flesh with bruising grips until he reaches your ass again, shoving your skirt higher.
“No, stop— please!” you beg, voice muffled against the sink, but your words dissolve into whimpers as his knee wedges between your thighs, forcing them apart. Your legs tremble, and cold air shocks your core as he hooks his fingers into the edge of your underwear, yanking the cotton aside to bare you to him.
He doesn't hesitate.
His warm fingers probe your entrance, then shove inside without warning. The pain is sharp, invasive, like being torn from the inside, your body clenching around the unwelcome pressure as he pumps them deeper. Slickness builds unwillingly from the friction, betraying you.
The burn of his fingers stretching you rips a choked sob from your throat, your walls clenching futilely around the rough invasion. He pumps them harder, scissoring to force you open, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.
“I dreamed of this,” he rasps, voice laced with triumph. “Your pussy’s as tight as I imagined it would be.”
You thrash weakly, hips bucking to dislodge him, but his grip in your hair yanks you back, spine arching painfully over the sink. Tears stream endlessly, falling on the porcelain beneath your cheek as you beg in broken whispers — stop, hurts, please — but the words slur into gasps.
He withdraws his fingers abruptly, the slick pop echoing in the stale bathroom air, leaving you achingly empty for a heartbeat. You hear the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric, and then the blunt pressure of his cock nudging your entrance — thick, hot and unlike anything you have ever felt there.
"No— no!" you wail, voice cracking, but he ignores it, one hand clamping your hip to still your squirms.
With a guttural grunt, he thrusts forward, burying half his length in one brutal shove. The stretch tears through you like fire in a sharp, ripping pain that makes you see white. You scream, raw and animal, nails scraping the sink as your body convulses, core spasming around the invasion. Blood slicks the joined point where he's wedged inside, warm and sticky, mixing with the unwilling wetness his fingers coerced.
“Stop, it hurts!”
“Hurts?” he repeats with a chuckle. “You don’t know what pain is.”
He pulls back slightly, then slams home, bottoming out with a wet slap that jolts your whole frame. His balls smack against your clit, sending unwanted sparks amid the agony, and you feel every inch of him, the thick girth splitting you, the ridge of his head dragging inside you.
“Fuck, yes,” he groans, his thrusts turning relentless.
Each thrust drives deeper, his cock pistoning into you. Your breasts bounce against the cold sink, nipples hardening from the friction and cold despite the horror, and sobs wrack your body in harsh, heaving cries that echo off the walls. You claw at the porcelain, leaving bloody streaks from your injured palm, but resistance fades as the pain overwhelms you, your mind splintering.
This isn't real, can't be, make it stop...
The world blurs, sounds muffling: the wet squelch of him fucking you, his grunts growing feral, the distant zombie moans outside blending into a nightmare haze.
He pounds relentlessly, one hand sliding under to grope your belly, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, possessive and cruel.
“Look at us,” he growls in your ear as he pulls your head back, your scalp screaming. “Mine. Finally fucking mine.”
He sucks bruises into the tender skin of your neck, his other hand bruising your hip as he angles you for harder access. You clench around him sporadically, traitorous flutters amid the burn, but you feel detached now, floating above it all, body just a vessel for his assault.
You cry for the girl you see in the mirror, but she isn't you. You're sorry you can't do anything to help. Only endure. Tears dry on your cheeks, replaced by a vacant stare into the cracked mirror. Your reflection shows a ghost: hair matted, lips swollen, eyes hollow.
Your gaze drifts, unfocused, catching on movement beneath the sink. A spider walks across its web, long legs moving with purpose. In the corner lies a fly, still alive, buzzing as it tries to escape certain death. You watch as the spider closes in.
His pace falters, breaths coming in harsh pants. The spider reaches the fly. He buries himself to the hilt one last time, and you feel the pulse of him, the flood of warmth that makes bile rise in your throat. A low, satisfied sound rumbles from his chest. The fly stops struggling.
He stills.
The silence stretches, suffocating. His hand on your hip trembles, just once, before his grip releases. He pulls out abruptly, the slide of it leaving you gaping, sore, leaking. Behind you, fabric rustles. The rasp of a zipper cuts through the quiet.
He doesn't speak. You don't move.
You slump against the sink, limbs heavy, mind returning slowly to a body that isn't yours anymore. Your reflection in the cracked mirror shows a ghost wearing your face.
You feel like a rabbit trapped in a dog's mouth, its teeth pressing, pressing, pressing down.
For a fleeting moment before unconsciousness takes you, you pray you'll stay asleep forever.
»Chapter 7 (coming FEB20)
New chapter coming tonight! 😃
I AM SICK!!!!!!!!!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN HIS FINAL WORDS WERE HOW STRONG HIS BABY BROTHER IS?!?!?!?!? AND HE SAYS IT WITH PRIDE?!?!?!?!?
A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS — 1.05: In the Name of the Mother
A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS 1.05 — "In the Name of the Mother"
