Discover Top Posts Tagged with #bloodstained devotion

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

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#bloodstained devotion