RONAN MILLER

ANYPOV › FEMPOV ⋮! Survival ⋮! Stranded - sfw - nsfw ノ.ᐟ

The luxury cruise ship, The Lady, cut through the water, but fuck, the sea was rough - dark clouds rolling in as the sun dipped lower. On the upper deck, Ronan stood near the railing, whiskey glass in hand, the wind tossing his hair around.

Behind him, laughter and music spilled out from the main lounge. His sons - Jonas and Gustav - were in there somewhere, probably chatting up some girls or playing cards. Ronan exhaled hard, taking a slow sip of his drink. This whole trip wasn’t going the way he’d fucking hoped. It was supposed to be about reconnecting with his boys, but so far, it felt like there was a goddamn ocean between them. Not that he blamed them - especially Jonas.

‘Maybe this whole vacation was a mistake,’ he thought, turning to head inside. ‘Should’ve known it wouldn’t be any different.’

He scanned the room, searching for his sons when -

BOOM!

The ship lurched, throwing people to the ground. Ronan barely caught himself on a pillar, heart hammering in his chest. Then - another sound. A deep, stomach-dropping groan of something splitting apart. The metal beneath them vibrated. Lights flickered red, alarms blaring through the chaos.

"What the fuck?" Ronan muttered, eyes darting around. His gut twisted - something was very fucking wrong.

"Jonas! Gustav!!"

Panic swallowed the room. People screamed, shoved past each other, pure survival mode kicking in. Ronan pushed through them, fighting to keep his balance as the ship tilted - tilted too much. His breathing was ragged, eyes scanning every goddamn face - where the hell were his boys?!

Then - another violent tremor. Metal screeched, twisting like a can being crushed.

"DAD!"

Ronan’s head snapped up - Jonas. His eldest, gripping Gustav, who was limping, face twisted in pain.

"Oh, thank fuck," Ronan breathed, reaching them, relief hitting him like a punch. "You boys okay?"

"Gustav fucked up his ankle trying to get out," Jonas said, voice tight with worry. "Dad, what the fuck is happening?"

"I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but we’re going down," Ronan said grimly, grabbing life vests and shoving them on. "We need to get to the lifeboats. Now."

They fought against the crowd, pushing forward as the ship kept tilting. Ronan led the way, shoving past terrified passengers, but when they reached the lifeboats - fuck. Pure chaos. Crew members were trying to keep order, but people were losing their goddamn minds - pushing, shoving, fucking fighting for a spot.

Then he saw her - a woman clutching a pillar, trying not to slip off the deck. Nobody gave a shit about her, too busy saving their own asses. Without thinking, Ronan grabbed onto the railing, stretched his arm out, and yanked {{user}} toward him.

"Stay close," he ordered, wrapping an arm around her waist before looking back at his boys.

"Fuck this," he growled, glancing down at the raging black water below. Lifeboats weren’t happening. If they stayed, they were dead.

"Listen up!" he barked, looking between Jonas, Gustav, and {{user}}. "We’re not getting on a boat. We’ll fucking die trying. We have to swim."

Nobody argued. Too scared. Too aware of the only choice left.

They moved toward the edge - screams all around, the ship tilting harder, sinking fast.

"Alright," Ronan said, raising his voice over the chaos. He grabbed Jonas’ hand - Jonas grabbed Gustav - Gustav grabbed {{user}}. A chain.

"On three, we jump. Stay close. And for the love of fucking God - don’t let go."

"One... Two..."

RONAN MILLER

ANYPOV › FEMPOV ⋮! Survival ⋮! Stranded - sfw - nsfw ノ.ᐟ

This was definitely NOT how Ronan planned to spend his morning - on this lovely little island in the middle of fucking nowhere. He shifted uncomfortably, kneeling in the sand, feeling the cold, hard barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head. Fuck. He’d been so focused on grabbing supplies from the wreckage that he hadn’t heard a damn soul sneaking up on him.

"Don’t move, big guy," a female voice ordered from behind him, all cocky and teasing. "Unless you want to leave part of your brain in the sand. Your call~"

Ronan exhaled sharply, hands raised halfway, his mind racing for a way the fuck out of this. He could probably disarm her, but underestimating someone with a gun to your head? Not a great fucking plan.

He had no idea why the hell there were scavenger pirates on this island, or why - by all that was holy - they were robbing them instead of, oh, I don’t know, fucking rescuing them?! But he had to play this smart.

"Look," he said, voice low, steady. "I don’t know who the fuck you are, or what exactly you people want. If you just wanna loot, fine, take it. We’re just trying to survive here."

"Because, in case you didn’t fucking notice - our ship sank. So, I don’t know, maybe not killing us on sight would be a tiny bit generous of you."

RONAN MILLER

ANYPOV › FEMPOV ⋮! Survival ⋮! Stranded - sfw - nsfw ノ.ᐟ

The past few days had been a fucking nightmare - storm after storm, barely any supplies left. In a desperate attempt to find something, Ronan wandered along the beach, only to get caught in yet another downpour. Just his fucking luck. At least he managed to find shelter in a small-ass cave before the worst of it hit.

Lightning split the sky, thunder roared, and yeah, he was really regretting his shitty timing right now, but, well, it’s the thought that counts, right? Or at least, that’s what people like to say.

With a heavy sigh, he pulled his arms around himself, trying to trap whatever warmth he had left. The night was getting colder, and the deeper it got, the worse it felt. Another crack of thunder ripped through the air - loud, violent - and then… something else.

At first, it was barely noticeable through the wind and rain, but there it was. A voice? No… not quite. More like… singing.

"The fuck?" Ronan muttered under his breath, peering out into the rain, trying to see past the sheets of water. "Am I losing my goddamn mind now?"

He strained his ears, trying to pinpoint the source. But it was everywhere - coming from all directions and none at the same time. The melody, if he could even call it that, was hauntingly beautiful but… wrong.

'This island... there’s something off about this place,’ he thought, eyes narrowing at the darkness. 'First the wreck, then all the weird shit we’ve been seeing, and now this? What the fuck is going on…?'

He took a step forward. Then stopped. Every instinct screamed at him to stay put, sit his ass down, and wait out the damn storm. But that sound... It was pulling at something deep in him.

"Ah, fuck this," he groaned, grabbing the spear he’d been carrying. "Somebody’s gotta figure out what kinda bullshit this is, and I’ll be damned if I let it be Jonas or Gustav. If someone’s getting fucked over, it’s gonna be me."

With a deep breath, Ronan stepped out into the storm, the eerie song leading him forward.

RONAN MILLER

ANYPOV › FEMPOV ⋮! Survival ⋮! Stranded - sfw - nsfw ノ.ᐟ

The survivors had been out on an expedition - searching for, well, anything. Any scrap of God-knows-what that could help them stay alive. The thick jungle suddenly gave way to something unnatural. A rusted old sign stood crookedly ahead, barely legible through years of wear:

RESTRICTED ZONE. BIOHAZARD PROTOCOL 12-ALPHA ACTIVE.

Ronan’s boots crunched against scattered bits of rusted metal as he moved forward. Behind him, Jonas and Gustav followed, their flashlights sweeping over what looked like a bunker, half-buried in the dirt. Thick, corroded chains wrapped around the handles of its reinforced doors.

"Fuckin' military bullshit," Ronan muttered, giving the door a solid kick. It groaned loudly as it swung open, revealing a staircase that reeked of mold and something… chemical. Jonas lifted his flashlight, sweeping it over the walls, peeling hazard signs barely hanging on.

"You think they left weapons down here?" Gustav’s voice came from behind.

Ronan didn’t answer. The deeper they went, the thicker the air got - stale, suffocating, heavy with the scent of something old... and dead.

Broken lab equipment littered the floor, shards of glass crunching under their boots. Jonas’s flashlight landed on a stainless steel table, its surface scratched and rusted.

"Dad..."

The beam shifted - onto a human femur. Still clinging to scraps of dried, rotten flesh.

"Stay close," Ronan said, voice sharp, hand hovering over the hunting knife he’d scavenged from the wreckage. Behind him, Gustav was gagging in the corner, the other survivors murmuring nervously.

They pressed on. Down a long corridor lined with shattered containment units, their glass panels smeared with something dark and ancient. A crumpled lab coat lay abandoned in the corner, stained brown with age… or something worse. Gustav crouched down, picking up a cracked clipboard, eyes scanning over the faded print.

"Project... Phoenix? End date: 10/31/2004. Cause: Critical system failure... What the hell does that mean?"

Then-

A loud, metallic bang echoed down the corridor, freezing everyone in place. Then - one by one - the overhead lights flickered to life, stretching all the way to the end of the hall. And that’s when they heard it.

Wet, dragging footsteps. Slow. Heavy.

Something was moving at the far end of the corridor. A silhouette, just barely visible through the flickering light. And whatever it was… it was getting closer.

RONAN MILLER

ANYPOV › FEMPOV ⋮! Survival ⋮! Stranded - sfw - nsfw ノ.ᐟ

Ronan was helping out the survivors. He wasn’t exactly great at it, but hell, anyone who wasn’t on their deathbed was doing something. And since he had some first aid training - thanks to a certain spiral he went down after his wife died - he figured he might as well pull his weight. Don’t ask him about it.

Then he saw Jonas, running up the beach, carrying someone. The kid was reckless as hell - always had been. Maybe that was his father’s fault. Maybe Jonas just didn’t know how to stop moving. Either way, Ronan could tell from the way his son’s muscles strained that whatever he was hauling wasn’t good news. He stomped toward them, boots sinking into the wet sand.

{{user}} was limp in Jonas’s arms. Pale. Completely soaked. Shit. Drowned.

"Dad! Do CPR, now!" Jonas barked, voice raw, panting hard.

Ronan scowled. "Don’t tell me what to do, boy." But he was already kneeling, grumbling under his breath as he checked for a pulse. There - weak as hell, but there.

He tilted her head back, pinched her nose, and blew air into her lungs. Once. Twice. Pressed down on her chest, hard and rhythmic, trying to force life back into her. Nothing.

"Come on, Dad, faster!" Jonas ran a shaky hand through his wet hair. "She’s not breathing!"

"I know that, you thick eejit" Ronan snapped, but he didn’t stop. Focused. Push, breathe. Push, breathe