#[[ I need to come up with a tag for them >.< ]]

[possessionisamyth]

In light of recent events, here are some mantras I think everyone should keep close to their chests.

1) Horrible people are capable of making amazing art.

Morality has no marker on experience and skill level. Only what they produce can, in theory, reveal their inner beliefs.

2) Do not put famous people or anyone on a pedestal.

You can be inspired and touched by what they create. There's no need to raise them to a hero or god like status in your mind. They will be awkward, annoying, and so very human it may lead you to disappointment and sadness when they don't meet the image you made of them in your head.

3) "Separate the art from the artist" rhetoric only works if the artist is dead or can no longer profit from the IP.

Every dollar you give to a franchise with a living bigoted artist is supporting their life style. They still receive that money even if you don't vocally support their beliefs. Please remain aware of where you put your wallet since financial support is still support. Pirate if you're desperate, but do not pretend buying merchandise directly from the store is harmless.

4) Respecting victims should be your priority.

You were not the ones hurt the most by events which occured. Conversation around this topic needs to be tagged appropriately and spoken of with sympathy.

As many people want to claim "they knew there was something fishy about X", it's not about lounging in your self perceived righteousness for not being into the thing. You are neither unique nor special for not getting into a media where the creator was revealed to be harmful. You were just as ignorant as the rest of us, and your bad feeling being validated is about as significant as claiming to sense ghosts in a house full of black mold.

In addition to this, fans of the media should not be taking this time to victimize themselves. Learning information like this so suddenly means we are aware you didn't know. There will not be your imaginary mob coming into your inbox to send you death threats or dox you for having made fan content. Stop acting like self flagellation or taking up arms is the next logical step to defend your interest.

5) You are allowed to be angry and hurt.

It's easy for me to say don't make people your heroes, but I know this isn't a mindset many people adhere too. Especially not people who are looking for footholds to build their skills and find inspiration and connection in the art someone of their similar passion creates. You can sit in your frustration and despair for a little while. Give yourself time to fully process what has occured, and then choose your next course of action. The internet has taught many people to react immediately to everything, but this is not nor has ever been required of you.

✌🏾

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-eight —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.4k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex!!! SEX. enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

France feels just as haunted by ghosts, the kind that cling to silence.

The next morning, you follow the road south near the Belgium border under a punishing sun and suffocating humidity. Sweat pools under your clothes as you leave the coastline behind, passing overgrown rose bushes and grand estates crumbling to rotted beams. Without the raft or truck, supplies rest on everyone's backs, lighter now with all the food you’ve already gone through—a stark reminder that you’ll need more soon.

You were the last to wake, stirred from a deep sleep by the sounds of bags being packed. It shouldn’t be surprising—you’d slept well after two orgasms. It’s a miracle the night’s events didn’t spill into your dreams, but now, in the daylight, keeping them at bay is harder. Thankfully, Kyle and the two kids create a buffer as you all follow Price’s lead. Their presence helps keep your eyes from drifting to him. You force your gaze on the passing signs, making a mental game out of trying to pick up on some French. It's distracting enough. So far you've gathered that sortie means exit and allez means something like go. 

The first break comes when your shoulders burn from the weight of the backpack, the straps biting into your skin. You slip it off with a groan, sinking to the ground, and nurse the canteen of water. Just enough to wet your throat and keep the dizziness at bay—rationing is a habit.

Price's plan echoes in your head: Méteren by nightfall. That’s ten hours of walking, minimum. Your toes throb at the thought, each step promising fresh blisters, but you force yourself to focus. The faster you reach Switzerland, the safer you’ll all be. If the place they heard of is actually waiting there.

"Hey. Do you want this?"

Blue lowers beside you, offering a near-empty jar of peanut butter she was snacking on.

"Not much left but it's really good," she shrugs. 

"I'll finish it off, thanks."

The salty taste is not exactly refreshing, but you choke it down anyway, the boost of protein more of a necessity than a pleasure. Blue pulls at the grass beside you, her gaze drifting to Ari, who’s sharing food with Kyle. You try not to look, but your eyes flick to Ghost anyway.

The mask is still on, as always. Why is he obsessed with it, even after you just saw him naked? Despite its presence, you can still see the furrow between his brows as he pores over the map with Price. Sweat rings the collar of his black tee, and his biceps flex as he gestures down the road. You’re definitely checking him out when he catches your eye mid-conversation, adjusting his mask, and without missing a beat, you turn your attention back to Blue.

She is staring at you, her brow furrowed.

You instinctively touch your neck, your thoughts racing to the bruise hidden beneath your hair. 

“Do you think he likes him?” she asks abruptly.

You blink. “What?”

“Ghost,” she whispers, leaning closer. “Do you think he likes Ari?”

Relief floods you. “Oh. I mean, sure. He's a good kid.”

“He’s not a kid,” she corrects with a huff. “He’s thirteen.”

“That’s still a kid, Blue.”

She rolls her eyes but hesitates before adding quietly, “He kissed me.”

Your jaw nearly drops. “What?”

“Shh! Keep your voice down. And don’t tell Ghost.” She pinches your arm, her cheeks reddening.

“I won’t,” you assure her. “But… when? How?”

“The other night, when we kept watch. Just on my cheek, but still.” She pulls her knees to her chest. “He's cute. I think I like him, but… what if he doesn’t actually like me? What if he just sees me as a kid?”

Her uncertainty tugs at something deep in you. “Have you talked to him about it?”

She shakes her head, looking horrified. “No way. What if he doesn't feel the same? It could get weird.”

“Then kill him,” you deadpan. At her glare, your lips twitch. “Fine, I’ll kill him.”

She snorts despite herself. “Be serious.”

“Okay, how about this—just ask him, ‘Why did you kiss my cheek?’ Keep it simple.”

Blue considers this, her expression softening. “I could do that. But it has to be when Ghost isn’t around. Which is almost never.”

You're telling me. You pick at your nails, avoiding her trusting gaze as your chest tightens. 

The sound of Price's boots back on the gravel ends the break.

Even after the brief rest, your limbs drag with exhaustion for the next few hours, but the extra calories push you forward. You make it to Méteren before nightfall. As the guys pitch tents, you rip off your socks to survey the damage. Open blisters stare back at you. With only so much gauze in your kit, you've been hesitant, but you cut a conservative strand and wrap up your heels. 

Behind a bush, you change from your sweaty clothes and hope there is freshwater somewhere to wash them in the morning. You dab a rag with a bit of water from the canteen and scrub the biggest offenders; armpits, between your legs, the back of your neck. Changing into a clean shirt, the sound of them unpacking the sleeping bags beckons your heavy shoulders and sore legs. You head back to the tents, ready for sleep, when you overhear Ghost volunteer for first watch.

"Twix will help me."

You hope the surprise isn't visible on your face as you nearly drop your backpack, swinging your gaze at him.

"I will?"

"It's been a few days since you've taken watch."

Your lips roll together then flatten, shoving down the blush that crawls your neck at the thought of being alone with him. Kyle looks like he is ready to take your place, but you nod in resignation, clear your throat, and finish tugging on the zipper over your clothes. "Yeah, of course. I'll help."

The others disappear into the tents, and you turn to sit on a fallen log, bow in hand. But before you can settle, you feel his presence—a shift in the air just behind you, then the solid pressure of his hand curling around your forearm. Without a word, he guides you forward, pulling you with an ease that leaves no room for hesitation. Your body moves instinctively as he leads you out of earshot of the tents, behind an abandoned car. It is now you realize he's changed into a black hoodie and shedded the tactical vest. He leans his rifle against the side of the car and looks down at you, saying nothing for a few seconds.

"Did you take away my chance to sleep and pull me over here just to stare at me?" you whisper, arms crossing against the gentle breeze that has cooled with the fallen sun.

He exhales through his nose before responding. "About yesterday."

You blink at him, hoping you don't fail at hiding how even the mere mention sets your nerves alight. "What about it?"

The way his eyes move slowly over your face suggests he is searching for the words. Finally, he says flatly, "It was just fucking. A distraction."

"A distraction," you repeat slowly under your breath. The bluntness hits you harder than expected. You bite the corner of your cheek, a bit too hard, and you narrow your eyes. "You really think I don't already know that?"

His broad shoulders roll back in a shrug and his tone shifts far too casual for your liking. "I just didn't want you getting the wrong idea."

The wrong idea. You rip your gaze away, scraping your fingertips into your arm, before looking back at him with a forced shrug of your own. "I can handle fucking, Simon. Like I said, I'm a big girl."

There is an audible inhale, then a low chuckle rumbles in his throat as he leans in, his darkened eyes locking onto yours. He cages you in with his arms, the familiar heat radiating from his touch and already making your brain fuzzy. His hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding you onto your toes as he tears off the mask and lays it on the hood of the car. The glimpse of his strong jaw and the flick of his tongue wetting his lips sends a shiver through you despite the lingering irritation at his words. 

"Yes. You are," he murmurs, his voice rough and low, before capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that feels like the deep, soothing release of sinking into warm water after aching for relief.

You could kiss him for hours, you quickly realize, pleasantly fascinated by how hot and demanding his tongue feels against your mouth. He tastes like how he smells. Pine and salt. You submit to the pace of his lips, every graze of his teeth making your heart thicken. You move your hands through his hair, scratching his scalp, pulling him closer.

"There's something I need," he mumbles, voice etched with a tremble of impatience, and his fingers clench your shirt. With his other hand, he blindly reaches for the car door and forces the rusted thing open with a few tugs. 

"What do you need?" you breathe out, secretly thrilled that he wants you, again, even when it's been only twenty-four hours since he last had you. The mutual desire erodes the fatigue in your limbs and awakens your arousal. 

Without an answer, he spins your bodies, easing into the passenger seat, then pulls you in with him, closing the door with a soft click. The position is awkward at best—your head bumps into the roof, one knee wedged painfully into the center console from the lack of space. The car smells like stale leather and dust, but thankfully not like rot. It's far from enticing, but none of that matters when he forces the seat to recline, creating just enough room for you to lay on top of him.

You can feel him, hot and straining within his jeans, as you kiss him again and begin to move your hips instinctively. It is a thrilling notion, that you have made him hard so quickly, and you wonder if he ever touched himself like you did, stroking his cock with a callused hand that he imagined as you. The image of it, in combination with the friction on your pussy, has you greedily reaching to undo his belt buckle. 

He breaks from your lips with a grunt and grabs your wrist. "Not that."

Huh?

You don't have the chance to question him before the notch in his throat bobs, and he begins unzipping your jeans, instead. "My face. Sit on it." 

The blush on your cheeks is hidden in the car's small, dark space. His half-lidded gaze lifts to yours, and you nod absently before helping him push your pants and underwear to your ankles, shifting awkwardly to discard them to the floor. His hand immediately moves between your bodies, his fingers brushing against your wetness with a sharp inhale. It should make you embarrassed, but it doesn’t—not with the way he watches you, his other hand peeling off your shirt, the whites of his eyes flashing over your naked body with such unabashed hunger that you realize it must’ve been simmering in him for as long as it has in you.

Again, you're the only one undressed. His hands knead the plush of your ass, the massage to your sore glutes drawing a moan from you. He pushes you up his chest and you move your knees, until his face is level with your cunt, nose caressing your throbbing clit. You have to grip the headrest of the backseat to keep yourself steady, neck craned. His palms cup the backs of your thighs, keeping them apart. 

He's already put his mouth on you, but for some reason, this time feels more vulnerable. You become unconsciously alert of the fact you are not the girl you used to be, the one who shaved every inch of her body before going on a date, and scrubbed her skin with perfumed body wash. You have been sweating all day in the French humidity, and not a single part of you is hairless. When he attempts to pull you to his mouth, you resist with a wiggle of your hips.

"You don't—we don't have to do this, you know. I mean, I haven't shaved in years and—"

He bites your thigh. "Stop talking."

"Ghost, I'm disgusting."

His brows furrow, confused, before he exhales a soft laugh, breath fanning your cunt. "I don't care."

You writhe. "No, seriously—"

"I'm a big boy, Twix," he throws back you.

His tone is final, and with that, he ignores your protests and tightens his hands on you, pulling you to sit on his jaw. His tongue licks a bold stripe from hole to clit, then back down to your hole, where he swirls it a few times before pushing in. Your mouth hangs open in a silent surrender. It is you at his mercy now. His mouth feels even hotter on your cunt for some reason, causing your head to lull forward because of the ceiling, hair dangling. 

Your nails scrape into the leather. His tongue fucks you, nursing the sore flesh that his cock had stretched. He pushes you down with more force, and meets the juncture of your thighs with an arch of his neck, pressing his face deeper. There is a small worry that he might not be able to breathe, but it is erased when his tongue visits your clit with a heady groan, the vibrations of his vocal chords making your muscles flinch. He circles it with a light pressure. You reach down to grip his hair, silently demanding more. He listens, pressing his tongue harder.

"Fucking... yeah, like that."

One of his hands glides up your stomach and squeezes your breast. He keeps sucking, toiling with your puckered nipple at a similar pace. Despite the uncomfortable position, your hips buck and thrash. Your hand slaps against the window as he makes a sloppy mess out of you. The overgrown stubble on his jaw scrapes between your tightened thighs and the sting adds to the overwhelming sensations. You attempt to lift off, seeking a break, but he growls and strikes your ass, forcing you back down.

He licks at you expertly, as if having figured you out in just a few minutes. You screw your eyes shut, a small but swift orgasm rolling through you when you hear him slurp at your folds. He gathers it with a sweep of his tongue, humming. The aftermath leaves your trembling, breath jagged, as a larger one grows towards release.

"Been thinking about that all day," he whispers against you, continuing his ministrations. "Got another one for me?"

His tone feels mocking and desperate at once. Your nails press painfully into the condensation-painted glass. Your other hand fists back in his hair, curling and uncurling, but there is no point in trying to fight it, not when he parts your cunt with his fingers so he can lick more of it. You cum again, harder, almost convulsing as your head bangs upward. It feels never-ending, your moans uncontrollable. He laps you through it, even more relentless, drawing the pleasure for a near-minute, until your lungs can hardly function and you feel like you might collapse.

Your body is pliant and jelly-like when it finally fades. He takes hold of your waist to keep you upright, and pulls his mouth away with a dribble of leakage down his chin. Already, you know it will be impossible to forget that sight, his eyes dazed as if he is the one who just came twice. 

His touch turns somewhat tender when he helps you back down to his lap. He doesn't bother wiping the obscenity from his mouth when he kisses the corner of your lips, firmly, then helps you slip back into your clothes since your brain doesn't seem to have full control over your limbs yet. It's when you place a hand on his thigh to shimmy on your jeans that you feel a distinguishable wet spot.

He finished, too.

The discovery makes your chest swell, and you nibble at your lip as you finish changing. 

"Thanks," you whisper to him. 

He doesn't say anything. He keeps the seat reclined and allows you to lay limp against him, feeling the uneven pace of his heart that matches your own. Clearly, he is a man of his word. This will not be a one time thing, even if it is just fucking. You sigh in sheer exhaustion from the day's activities, unable to ignore the weight in your eyelids as you inhale the residual musk in the air between your bodies. His chest feels firm and warm, a decent place to rest your head, and you think you feel a touch caress your hair. 

You are supposed to be staying up to keep watch, but he doesn't seem ready to move you. Somewhere between wondering how long you can keep this hidden from Blue, and dreading how far you will have to walk again tomorrow, you drift to sleep.

When morning arrives, you are not curled up in a car, but tucked in a sleeping bag. 

Ghost must've put you here, but you have no recollection of it, squinting your eyes against the harsh incoming of sunlight through the nylon walls. Nereida is in the bag beside you, not Blue, which offers a thread of relief. You carefully extricate yourself without waking her and join an awakened Price and Kyle for breakfast.

This morning feels slower than the last. Satisfied with the distance covered yesterday, Price is content with just making it to a town called Englos today. Then, you can focus on finding food and water during the evening. 

Your energy is replenished with tomato soup and stale crackers. Blue sits with Ari to eat, and you casually glance at her, but she gives you a subtle shake of her head. No, she hasn't talked to him yet. You offer a small, forced smile and look away.

The day's journey begins after what you would guess is around 8 am. As you walk, you redo your braids, tucking the strands into place so they don't stick to your forehead. Kyle falls in step beside you in comfortable silence, while Ghost moves to the front of the group. He treats you exactly as before—offering only the rare glance of acknowledgment. As if you hadn't just sat on his face last night. As if he hadn't ate you out like you were a source of sustenance.

Though, you’re grateful for his distance. It makes it easier to stay discreet. If he were to look at you too long, you might give yourself away.

It's just fucking.

Nothing but small towns and sprawling fields surrounds you. You pick up a few more words of French and think back to how your parents took you here, but never to the countryside. It's beautiful. Picturesque, even, except for the occasional skeleton tucked between ambery stalks of wheat. You pass through a place called Bailleul, where the remaining buildings remind you of England, when you spot black graffiti inked on a small clock tower.

N'allez pas à Fleurbaix.

"Allez means go," you murmur, stepping over some broken glass. "So what does n'allez pas mean..."

"Picking up a new language?"

You swing your head at Kyle, blinking, and he chuckles lightly at your reaction. 

"Yeah. I thought it might come in handy when chatting with the thriving local population."

He shakes his head in amusement. "Have you been here before?"

"When I was a kid. Once to Paris, and once to a ski resort."

"Ah. So you were one of those kids."

You frown. "What kids?"

"The kids who had money to go skiing."

You shrug, thinking back. "I mean, we weren't rich by any means. Just comfortable."

He nods, the companionable silence resuming as you replay the graffitied words in your head. N'allez pas must mean do not go. Do not go to Fleurbaix. You are about to ask Kyle if that is where you are headed when he speaks first.

"Are we good, Twix?"

His question throws you off guard. You make eye contact and he raises an expectant brow as if he is referring to something...

Right. He kissed you. It feels like forever ago since it happened, but it was only a week maybe. The memory almost makes you cringe, especially in comparison to what you've done with Ghost the past two days.

"Yeah," you dismiss breathily. "Yeah, of course. We're good."

He seems genuinely relieved by your answer, smiling with a sliver of teeth. "Good. I'm glad. I was an idiot and not in the right headspace. But still, I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable. I've been trying to give you space."

"It's fine, honestly," you tell him. "We are all under a lot of stress."

He releases a breath, then brushes a shoulder against yours. "So we're friends, you and I? Or something like that."

You nod with a little laugh, shifting the backpack. "Something like that. By the way, do you know if we are going by a place called—"

"Gaz. Come here for a moment," Ghost calls.

His tone is abrupt, causing everyone to halt. Without question, Kyle jogs over, his boots scraping against the gravel as he moves toward Ghost, who is crouched on one knee, fingers brushing over the matted grass at the side of the road. You squint, trying to figure out what’s caught their attention, and step closer to get a better look.

"A lot of them," Kyle says quietly, his palm pressing gently into the flattened vegetation. Now, you can see it—clear signs of something recently passing through. The ground is torn up, the plants bent and trampled. "It can't have been long ago," he adds, frowning as he observes the damage.

Ghost doesn't look up as he responds. "A horde went through here. Maybe in the last day." He inhales the humid breeze, and shifts his gaze toward Price. "I can smell them from the east."

"We could run right into them if we keep following the D231," Price mutters, drumming his fingers on the rear of his gun. He glances at the nearest road signs, then unfolds the map. "We could shift west for a few kilometers, through Fleurbaix, then cut back toward Englos."

"I just saw something that warned against going to Fleurbaix," you speak up.

Ghost's brow rises. You ignore the nerves that prickle your cheeks beneath his stare. 

"I mean, there are signs saying keep out of everywhere by now," Kyle reasons. "That's probably from the start of the infection."

"It's either Fleurbaix, or risk a run in with the horde," Ghost says.

You nod, more so to yourself, and murmur under your breath. "Fleurbaix it is, then."

Bailleul fades at your backs as you keep moving.

The scent of Greys lingers in the shifting air, but it is difficult to detect amid the strong aroma of flowers that pop up in every shade, replacing the fields of wheat. Roses, violets, and some yellow one you don't recognize ornate the rolling hills for as far as you can see. The buildings turn more upright, strong stone that has yet to falter from neglect. You keep reading the signs, even though you don't have the map to refer to, and your spine tightens when you read Fleurbaix: 1 km. 

You unsling your bow without thinking, tapping your nails against the wood.

The road becomes a bit windier as it cuts through some small farms. You even spot a few cows roaming the overgrown pastures which Blue seems curious by. You notice more painted words on the sides of the homes: Nous devons expier nos péchés. It repeats a few times, but you fail to translate it. The only part that clicks is nous, which you think means we.

We something... something...

After crossing a small bridge over a dried creek bed, you excuse yourself to relieve your bladder.

"Keep going, I'll catch up."

You step over what looks like a metal dog chain left on the road and situate yourself between a tree and old BMW. Squatting burns your thighs, and reminds you of your dried cum on them that you've tried, yet failed, to completely wipe off. You clench your teeth as you pee, when there is a sudden sound behind you that makes you flinch, and you quickly zip back up before whirling around. A rat—your shoulders sink. It sits up on its hind legs and stares at you with beady eyes.

"I guess I'm just jumpy sometimes, little guy," you whisper, leaning in. "You would be, too, if you've had to deal with what I have." The rat doesn’t blink. "Right. Well, I’m sure Ghost would think this is incredibly sexy—me having a talk with a rodent."

You sigh, watching him scurry away, but then another rat darts over your boot. You jerk back, gaze following its direction to an old building—a schoolhouse or chapel, judging by the circular stained-glass window below the roof. Beautiful shrubs lines the sides, seemingly well-kept. The door hangs ajar, with more vermin pouring out in an endless line.

"Jesus. Quite a lot of friends you have, huh?"

You glance down the road. The others are still close but walking ahead. You should catch up. It's not safe alone. But against your better judgment, you step toward the door, pushing it open. Rats scatter underfoot as a thick, rancid smell hits you. Death—fresh and cloying, even more so than the flowers.

Blood streaks the stone floor inside, pooling where vermin feast. Splintered pews lead to an altar. You freeze. Lying there ceremoniously is what's left of a body, hardly recognizable—ribs torn through flesh, a dangling optic nerve, a mangled groin. A plethora of bite marks cleave through the remains. Bile rises in your throat as the sound of gnawing echoes through against the sun-lit walls.

But what truly grips you is the writing, in blood, draped over a small cross.

Nous devons expier nos péchés.

You whip around and run, the door closing heavily behind you.

"Simon!" His name claws up your throat.

[angelltheninth]

Arcane Characters Hand Headcanons

Pairing: Jinx, Vi, Caitlyn, Maddie, Ekko, Vander, Silco, Sevika, Viktor, Jayce, Mel x Reader

Tags: fluff, size difference, hand-holding, scars, bruises, hand comparison, cuddles

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: I remember there was a post where an artist drew the hands and made some headcanons in their drawings but I don't remember who the artist was. But that was my inspiration for this.

JINX

Long and skinny fingers

Lots of calluses from tinkering with her weapons

A strong grip because of the Shimmer

If looking at her hands in the dark you can see Shimmer running through her veins

Has to constantly be told to be careful when working because she has no concept of safety and has come close to losing more fingers

VI

Her hands are really rough all over

bruises on her knuckles that never seem to heal because she's always fighting

A few bones have been broken over the years and healed haphazardly

Gets the biggest puppy-dog eyes if you take her hands and kiss each finger paying special attention to the bruises

You're the only one she trusts to help her wrap and unwrap her hands every day

CAITLYN

A lot of calluses on her hands, especially her fingers

She's been shooting with a riffle since she was young so the pads of her fingers are tougher than the rest of her hand

The skin on the pads if her fingers is hardened

Likes to wear gloves, which you will say is a shame

Knows you like her hands a lot, but she has a better grip on her guns with the gloves on

MADDIE

Her hands are dusted with little freckles

A bit small, perfect for hand-holding actually

Can crack her knuckles and she doesn't even realize she does it most of the time

Many faded scars from her time growing up and training in Noxus

Refuses to elaborate when you notice how scared her hands are, but if she gets to know you well enough and trusts you she might share a story or two

EKKO

Because he's always working his hands are really rough and even have a few burn marks

There are more than a few broken bones in his hands

Never healed well because he refuses to take Shimmer and it's a bit difficult to find good doctors in Zaun

Habit of tapping his fingers against surfaces, even your arm or back while you cuddle

To keep your relationship on the down-low he often holds your pinkie finger with his

VANDER

His hands are huge compared to yours, you have to use both to hold one of his

The strength he has could crush a man if he tried

Definitely a working man's hands, you can tell he's never skipped a work day in his life

Long faded scratches on his arms and wrists

Still enjoys punching things and has a big punching bag in his room, but he often forgets to wrap his hands, which makes them a bit bloody after

SILCO

For someone in Zaun he takes pretty good care of his hands

Cold compared to yours, like his body temperature isn't quite where it needs to be

Skinny, long fingers but he will paint his nails if you or Jinx ask him to

Takes care of himself so he never has dry hands despite how they look

Always places his hand over yours, it's a protective and possessive habit

SEVIKA

She only has one human hand left but she's reckless with that one too

Always fights so you always help her patch up the bruises and clean the blood

Marks from tearing off scabs or making them bleed again

Usually has a hard grip but softens it for you

Has a few ash burns from her cigarette, she doesn't always move it away in time

VIKTOR

He grew up in Zaun and then threw himself in lab work so he's not the best at taking care of his hands

Skinny, almost boney hands

Has a habit of biting his nails when he's thinking about something

Broke his fingers and wrists more than a few times

You always tell him to wear gloves but he never does, not because he doesn't think he shouldn't but because he doesn't remember

JAYCE

Big, meaty, rough hands, very strong

He always wears gloves when he works, be it the lab or the forge

And yet he still gets that slightly rougher skin, not fully though because he's really careful

Uses hand lotion when he finishes working, it's what makes his skin extra soft

Won't admit that he does it but when you hold hands he's doing math in his head and comparing the hand sizes

MEL

If she didn't tell you then you would have never guessed she grew up in Noxus because her hands are so smooth

Her hands are delicate, with really well manicured nails

Only when you look really close can you see just a few, very tiny cut marks but they're almost completely faded away

Enjoys getting hand massages from you and you complimenting her hands

Tickles you when she runs her nails across your skin

[prettyboykatsuki]

give it to me like you need it, baby | zayne (lnds)

❅ tags ; afab + fem!reader (referred to with she/her several times), established relationship, vague depiction of medical injury, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, fingering, unprotected sex, reader is very spoiled skjdds, 18+

❅ wc ; 5.7k (???????????)

❅ a/n ; i started playing this game 48 hours ago. i am out of my mind. sorry. please no spoilers for now JKSDJD. also shoutout to @acerathia who imbued me with even more zayne brainworms that resulted in this KJDSKJ

this is just porn. no plot like fr at all!! dont think too hard about anything!!!! also sorry if the characterization is inconsistent </3

❅ synopsis ; refusing to take your prescribed pain meds, you suggest a different type of pain relief from zayne to heal your injuries.

“You should be more careful,” 

Zayne’s voice is even. It’s the first thing to greet you when you wake up from your most recent round of medication.  There’s a pleasant clarity that comes with every tone and intonation, that somehow manages to  trample the thick fog in your brain after waking up from your last round of narcotics. 

The pain has settled, from a sharp throb to a dull ache but it’s there. You glance around the room for some way to tell the time. There’s still light out but your limbs feel heavy, so you must’ve been asleep for a while. 

“It’s almost evening,” Zayne says, like he’s reading your mind. He sits at the stool at your side with an expression, eyes softened with worry. “An hour or so till sunset.” 

“Right,” You reply. You wince as you sit up, bruised sides still tender and head heavy. You rub your eyelids, a deep pressure in your skull—just behind them, as you readjust to the remnants of light in the room. “Shit, it hurts.” 

“It’s been enough time between doses, so you’ll need to take them again soon for the pain.” Zayne says. 

Your lips curl instantly, shaking your head. “No way. I don’t want to take them again.” 

Zayne stares at you for a while. “You wouldn’t have to take them at all  had you taken the necessary precautions in the first place so I fear there’s little choice in the matter. The pain will be hard to manage without the medications,” 

“Are you nagging me, Doctor?” 

He shakes his head. “I’m treating you. Your injury is substantial and I don’t want you to do anything to aggravate it. Nor do I want you to suffer needlessly” And then, a little softer. “I don’t like prescribing such a strong dosage either.”

“But you did.” 

“Because my patient is severely injury and I’m worried for her quality of life,” Zayne says, firm but not unkind. “Perhaps if said patient took more care to preserve themselves, I could prescribe something lighter.” 

“Are you holding a grudge against me?” 

“Against your recklessness, yes.” 

You pout unthinkingly. “I’m sorry. Don’t be angry.” 

Zayne reaches his hand towards the corner of your mouth, pressing his thumb into the line of your frown. “I never said I was angry. Just worried. Don’t trouble yourself.” 

“Then who should I trouble?”

Zayne doesn’t reply to you, though he does smile light enough for you to catch sight of it in the dim lights. He goes back into physician mode before you get a chance to say more, and you’re too tired to give him your usual banter.

There’s a beat of silence between you where Zayne is writing something down on pen and paper while you daydream aimlessly. He’s probably documenting your injuries for record keeping in the system. Encountering an anomaly in your line of work is deceptively common but there hadnt been any exact records on anything like your specific incident. Bits and pieces of stray information but that’s all. Nothing cohesive. While it appears to be normal albeit impressive bruising and broken bones, the unit still thought it best to be monitored. 

(That, along with Zaynes general tendency to fuss over your state, mean you’ve been in this position for a few weeks now. Zayne has taken one of his usual work days off just to tend to you.)

Despite the effort you've put into recovering, sustaining a massive injury has made you feel stir crazy and has not gotten rid of the pain entirely - causing you to wince when you move in the wrong way way.  Noticing the way you deflate, Zayne looks up from his papers. He pauses, studying you and the large bruise up your side. 

“Take your medicine”

“Don’t wanna,” You say petulantly, eyes closed. 

Zayne pauses then sighs as you stubbornly turn him away. He weighs his options before  moving on to focus on your injury. You’re conscious of the hand he has underneath your shirt. How delicately he moves, scarred digits touching like you’re porcelain. You don’t think he does it on purpose, or because he underestimates you. Rather, treating you preciously is the easiest manner of being for him. Still, it does make you pout.

“That’s a nasty bruise even for your line of work. Don't be stubborn.” 

You shake your head. 

 “I’m tough. I can take some pain. It’s better than being groggy at least. Feels like my heads been full of cotton for weeks.” 

“You say that because the medication is working. It’s dulling the pain enough for it to be tolerable even though it can feel unpleasant at times. It’s going to worsen again, gradually, if you don’t keep on the dosage schedule.” 

You open your eyes again to look at him. It’s hard to refute his points, even more so when he makes it so obvious his concerns lie solely in your well-being. But you really, really hate the way it’s making you feel. You feel like you’ve been hit by a crr in general but the added sluggishness from narcotics is too much. Enough to be stubborn and childish about even the most sound advice. You shake your head again, trying to think of a solution to appease you both. 

It doesn’t last long since you quickly get lost in another train of thought as a result of your brain fog. 

When your mind catches up with reality,  your eyes flutter open to a worried looking Zayne. Half-conscious, you feel keenly aware of his presence. Of his hands resting on your sides and the heat that lingers when he moves them. His hands are covered in tens of small scars, fingers thick and long while managing to be elegant. A precision to him. To his features, to his movements, to his actions. 

“Something on your mind?” 

“Hm…?” 

His lips quirk. “You’ve got a look about you,” 

“I was just thinking of alternatives on how to manage pain.” 

“Another medication you mean?” 

You shake your head, smiling crookedly. 

“There are different kinds of pain relief, right? Something more… holistic.” 

“Holisitic?” 

Opting to answer his question another way, you let out an exaggerated noise of relief. “Your hand feels nice doc,” 

Zayne, quick on the uptake, hums to himself not showing any reaction.

“Does holistic feel like the appropriate vocabulary for what you’re implying?” 

“Maybe… something more physical.” 

“I see.” He hums. “And how would something that puts strain on your body improve your injury?” 

“Improving my mood is also an important part of recovery.” 

Zayne sighs. “Please be more mindful about my position as your doctor.” 

“You sound like you’re considering it when you don’t reject me outright.”

“Tsk.”  

He sits up from the stool he’d been sat on while tending to you, instead choosing to sit beside you in bed. You’re propped up in a mess of pillows and blankets, pressed close to the wall. There’s more than enough room for Zayne. The bed creaks under his weight as he stretches his legs, back against the headboard. You turn your head to look at him. 

A long silence falls between you, not uncomfortable. Heavy rather, with tension. Zayne, quick to indulge you, brings a hand up to cradle your face. His hand is cool against your hot skin, big palms cupping your cheek. He hums under his breath, hazel-green eyes tracing the outlines of your features. You keen into his palms and he laughs again, deeper. Richer. 

“I’m not against the suggested methods perse,” Zayne says slowly, holding your gaze while his thumb traces your lip. “Only that it may encourage your recklessness, should I give it to you. You’ve been cooped up in here for so long, I suppose needed some more stimulus isn’t far fetched.” 

“I’ll be more mindful.”  You promise, giving him the wettest puppy eyes you can while you nod enthusiastically. 

“I won’t forgive you otherwise.” 

He leans in. Just enough to tease. You frown. 

“Zayne,” 

His eyes meet your again, heating shooting through your spine. 

“Impatient, foolish, reckless. What should I do with a patient like you?” 

“Spoil me.” You reply shamelessly. His lips quirk up. “I take well to bribery.” 

“Is that really the most effective method?” Zayne pretends to ponder.

You nod. “Promise I’ll be on my best behavior, Doctor.” 

“I’ll hold you to it.” Zayne says, tone soft with affection. He holds a hand out for you. “ Come.”

Zayne tells you to move, but bears no intention of making you do so on your own. He wraps an arm around your back carefully - mindful of the tenderness in your ribs and side. He draws you into his lap with ease, your head tucked against his chest with his chin resting atop of your head. Your legs are drawn across his lap lazily, voice reverberating through your tired limbs as he speaks. 

“Comfortable? No pain?” 

You make an affirmative noise to him, cozying up in the way least straining to your body. 

He’s patient as he undresses you from the waist down - and you allow him, basking in the silent attention. In tattered sleepwear and half-sick, you barely move as the fabric rolls and peels all the to your knees - lazily lifting your legs to take them off along with your underwear in one swift go. A wave of embarrassment tugs at you, self-conscious as you nuzzle further into Zayne’s arms. Paradoxically finding comfort in the same person whose making your feverishness burn brighter, you let your hand clench weekly in his shirt. 

Naked, Zayne brings the hand not supporting your back up to your face. He holds your chin between thumb and forefinger and tilts your head towards him - a chaste kiss promising more. Your eyes lock for a heartbeat until you look away, shy. He lets you lean back further, lazier - until he’s at the right angle to hover over you to kiss you all the better. 

Contrary to the other ways he touches you, most times Zayne kisses you is fierce. Once, twice - to ease you into the pace of his mouth before you find your lips pulled open. It’s the only thing that he does this way, needy from the start. Your lips press to his sweetly, a noise of surprise slipping  that Zayne swallows in the next go. His lips are soft and pleasantly cool to the touch. 

Your hands grip tighter trying to find purchase in the overwhelming want of it. Slow and sticky kisses that make the back of your feel fuzzy, the kind that lingers in the minutes you’re parted. His breath is warm, faint with the smell of mint. 

The coy, cool demeanor you took suggesting this, fades—melts every inch of you. Your body goes slack with arousal underneath the assault, his tongue slipping against yours deeper and deeper. He gets breathy when he kisses, a longing sigh as you keen up into his mouth or suck his tongue - your body eager to be as wrapped up in the attention as you can. 

There’s something about this in particular that makes you feel pampered. Tucked away, safely. Zayne is familiar with the act of bending to your whims and your affirmed relationship has only made him more easily compelled. 

His free hand rests just above where your body longs to be touched. Deliberately above the navel, he slides over the softness of your belly. Traveling up slowly, his hand squeezes both sides of your chest. You can’t get enough air to say anything about how good it feels, so you whine instead - canting your hips to air for friction. Zayne laughs softly against your mouth. 

Less turned on, you think you would bicker with him about it. Turn your nose up at him for being so rude. Melted in his arms like lust liquified, you don’t know if you gave it in you. 

Deft fingers tweak your nipples underneath the thin fabric of your shirt. Zayne notices it for the first time touching you. He makes a face, faux disapproval causing his lip to curl.

“Wearing clothes like this with everything so visible. On top of your injury, you’ll get sick.” 

The words carry no weight or bite, playful at best. As if to prove a point, Zayne goes back over your clothes to touch them again. His thumb rubs across your hard nipples, your body shuddering from the rough texture at the fabric alongside Zayne’s fingers. He rubs them carefully, slowly. Pays attention to each one before settling on teasing the side more sensitive to the other. He knows the way to touch you, please  you down to the minutia. It makes you so wet you can hardly stand it. You squeeze your legs together with a frown. 

“I said spoil me. This is torture.” 

Your words are petulant even to your own ears. Zayne barely bites back a smile. 

“I wonder if your words about torture will hold up against your body if I touch you,” He kisses your temple to placate you, a hand at your waist to prove his point. “Patience,” 

“I can’t be patient,” You say, frowning. Zayne gives you an imperceptible look before leaning down, his voice close to your ear. 

“Should I help you then? Tell you how good it’ll feel if you sit through it obediently and allow me to have my way with you, hm? You like the sound of my voice right,” 

You let out a mewl. Zayne laughs. 

“Sit then, and wait for me to take care of you.” Zayne says gently. He kisses the corner of your mouth, trailing his kisses down to your jaw and neck. Bites so softly at the junction of your neck and shoulders, his voice a salve to your pent up lust. “Let me soothe the pain with pleasure.” 

You can’t be sure if it’s mercy or not, that your demands make Zayne more relentless in his fondling of your body. His hand doesn’t go further than your waistband. But they squeeze and grope all where he can reach. Cycling through hot, deep kisses that leave you breathless - toes curling up in fluffy socks unconsciously aching for more—and sweet, loving pecks to encourage you to put up with it a little longer. 

What keeps you tethered is the promise of pleasure, the assurance that Zayne always gives you what you ask for no matter how long or how much he may tease you until he does. It’ll be yours since you wanted it. 

You’ll manage to cum when he feels like it’s right. So you play into it. Beg sweetly in between sighs to touch you. Need you, need your hands, wanna feel even better. 

You like feeling Zayne get impatient, no matter how gradual or how slow. It never loses the thrill. The subtle gestures that his control is slipping away for you so slowly. Always worth the full brunt of your effort when you see his resolve slowly unravel - becoming sloppier in short doses. Sometimes, you get lucky enough to push him far enough and let go completely. 

“Spread your legs,” Zayne pants, desperate to get his hands on you. You do instinctually, gasping as soon as your swollen, throbbing clit brushes so lightly against his middle finger. His fingers are longer than yours - bigger and thicker. He rubs against your slit gently, feeling for how wet you are. It makes a noise as he slides through your folds, fingertip resting at your clit as he gives it a soft stroke. 

“Zayne,” You gasp his name. “Please,” 

No words follow your demand, but Zayne always makes good on his promises. Before you can think to whine again, he finds the spot that brings you pleasure the quickest and rubs soft circles into it. Steady pace paired with a complete understanding of the ins and outs of your body. Your pussy flutters in reply, whole body jolting from the contact. Pleasure seeps into you like the running flow of water, subtle but steady - the heat of your body melting the preciseness of Zayne’s ice. You feel a brief pain in your ribs, but its overwhelmed by the pleasure fizzling through you as Zayne rubs your clit in circular strokes. 

You rut against his hand, aching for more but Zayne keeps pace. 

You wonder how something can feel so different at the hands of someone else. How something you usually do alone and feel alright pleasure from can make you feel like this - like you’re burning from the inside when all he’s using is his hands. 

Zayne, sensing the buildup before you do, presses your mouths together again. He’s gentle this time but you’re desperate, a hand holding onto his face while you get nearer and nearer to cumming.

You know you’re on the edge when your muscles begin to tighten, mind rousing to the rush of dopamine and oxytocin. You pant his name sloppy as your mouth tests the syllables. Over and over and over as Zayne brings you to the peak. He’s quiet, laser focused on where his finger play with your needy pussy. Everything inside of you goes taut before you begin to unravel. Deep waves of rapture wash over you, from head to toe. Your cum spills, flows in thick sticky strands until you’re so wet you can feel it between your thighs and ass.

You take a shuddering breath upon your first release, trying to settle your mind through the aftershocks of powerful orgasm

You barely get a chance to breathe before you feel Zayne’s hand on your waist again. 

“You’ve a few more for me, right?” Zayne says, voice latent with unprecedented lust. You feel something hard pressing against your thighs, making you squirm. “Only once won’t be an effective treatment for a patient in so much pain.” 

You don’t get a chance to recover  your strength before you feel Zayne’s hands come down between your legs. Despite your efforts to run from it, Zayne holds you firm with his arm. Holds you in a way that won’t let you escape from it no matter how much you may try. B

efore you can finish riding your first high - the pads of his fingers find your clit once more. He goes to touch you indirectly, aware of your sensitivity and only heeding so much caution

The lack of direct friction is frustrating. Like he’s deliberately avoiding touching you where exactly you need while still making you feel good, a forceful staccato to an orgasm rather than a direct line to one. It feels good, it does— but it’s not enough. 

It makes you want more. With Zayne, you can’t be sure if its intentional or not. 

Your mind is too cloudy to speak to him, so you whine instead. Zayne has a talent for making you like that. Touching you in a way that renders your speech useless, forces you to lean on what you know. Leaves you nothing to ask him with except your body, your carnality, to get what you want. Everything you could possibly desire is yours if you shed your pride and ask. If you can’t ask, all you need to do is what you’re doing now—spread your legs and let him see just how much of a mess he makes you.  Zayne makes it easy for you. Fucks you in vulnerable, precise measures. He moves with the confidence necessary to wield a scalpel, uses it to take you apart perfectly before mending you to put together. 

No one knows how to build you up again how Zayne does. Who else is paying such close attention?

Your voice comes out shaking when you come around your second consecutive orgasm. The previous grogginess has been completely washed away, taken over by a stronger feeling of euphoria. Cumming again in such rapid succession blindsides you. Your mouth is fallen open. Silent, broken moans sound as the sensations starts to stir again in your core. Your belly is honeyed with lust - the muscles in your calves tensing hard as you thrash your legs around aiming not to lose your mind to the pleasure. Zayne is the only force keeping you upright in his arms and on his lap.

He tsks, half between sympathetic and teasing as you squeeze you thighs around his hand. “Stop squirming. You’ll hurt yourself. If your treatment proves to worsen your injuries and then we’ll have to stop—effective immediately.” 

Your voice comes out so unfamiliar and desperate, you barely know it as yours. “No, no, no don’t stop please, Zayne—”

“Then,” His voice is raspy against your ear, deeperer. Stained with lust. “Hold still and cum.” 

You force your body as still as possible at Zayne’s word. Your hands grip tight onto his shirt, stretching the material out with how hard you grip. You cry out as the knot inside of you untangles and frays.

 Zayne kisses you right as you get to the edge, forcing his tongue deep in your mouth to keep you from biting through your lip. You cum as soon as you feel your tongues touch, kissing deeply. 

You curl up this time in reaction to the gratification, your whole body folding in on itself. You can feel your pussy clench around nothing as you do, aching for something more. Like electricity sparking through the water, your pleasure is constant yet splintering. 

Pin-point accuracy leaves your mind completely muddled in the aftermath. When you manage to look up at Zayne, desire mixed with longing and affection puff up in your chest. It’s the way he looks down at you in the afterglow. Such sharp, intense eyes and strong features. Almost shattered, ruined with a restrained lust. Despite himself, despite being at his mercy, despite being weakened from healing wounds - Zayne holds you gentle. Puts you first even at odds with himself. 

You crane your neck up half tired to kiss him first. It’s nauseatingly gentle but doesn’t do enough to express your feelings. A mix of gratitude and compliance founded in mutual trust. You want to give yourself to him over and over and over - enough to wash away his worries. At the same time, you want him to want you so madly he abandons his usual restraint. 

Ultimately, your mind settles on the desire to make him feel good in whatever way you possibly can. You rub deliberately against the hard-on pressed against your thigh. Mellowed from cumming twice, you speak your thoughts frankly. 

“Fuck me.” 

He shakes his head. “You’ll really aggravate your injuries that way. I’d …. like too but I—” 

“Zayne,” You repeat, serious. “Fuck me, please.” 

He’s silent for a moment, eyes closed. 

“Want you to make me cum again,” You say, then add. “Wanna cum while you’re inside of me.” 

“You—” He takes in a sharp breath. “You can really be so—” 

“Zayne,” 

“Don’t call my name like that,” Zayne says on a sigh, rubbing your lower lip. “I’ve already conceded. Quit your pouting.” 

You smile at him, eyes wet with sincere joy. He lets out a strangled groan, followed by a sigh. “Given your injuries, you being on top would be best as to not cause anymore pain to you. Move gently.” 

“Will you help?” 

Zayne nods at you. “You don’t have to ask.” 

As promised, his touch is gentle as he takes you off his lap. His hands and arms give the necessary support to keep from further agitating your wounds- supporting your spine to ease yourself onto his strong lap with. It’s a wide fit to get your thighs over his lap but Zayne takes precaution.

Zayne pushes you to stand on your knees while you straddle him. He makes you lean on one side of him, your torso resting on one of his shoulders while you’re pressed slightly against the headboard. Uncertain of what he’s doing, you yelp in surprise when you feel his hands slide between your legs. One on your hips, securing you - the other one teasing your slit. 

“It’ll hurt if I put it in right away.” He clarifies. 

“I can take it.”

Zayne is quiet at that, choosing to ignore both your whining and the soft sway of your hips in a poor attempt to get him to fuck you quicker. Meticulously, Zayne slips his fingers into his mouth covering them with saliva first, before drawing them through the mess of slick between your thighs. Making his digits as wet as possible, he rubs your pussy until he finds your tight hole. You can feel your cunt pulse at the contact, taking in a soft breath as he eases the first finger inside of you. They’re thick. Thicker than yours by enough that you can feel some resistance as he works just his middle finger into you slowly. Patiently fucking it in and out until he’s all the way down to knuckle. 

When it’s easy to fuck you on one, he adds another - repeating the process until both fingers fit inside of you easily. The stretch leaves your breath hitching, thighs trembling slightly in anticipation. 

“One more should be—” 

“No,” You say immediately. “It’s enough already.” 

“You know very well it’s not.” 

“I can take it,” You coax, sitting back down properly onto Zayne’s lap, half naked. You rub yourself over the strained fabric of his sweats, wetting them with your own arousal. You’re pleased when you notice his own pre-cum staining them too. “Zayne.” 

Rubbing his temple, he holds you by your hips. You wrap your arms haphazardly around his neck as he casts his eyes towards you. Holding his gaze, you frown—face flush and lips pouty. He sighs, a noise of discontent slipping as his hands reach back and squeeze your ass - drawing you even closer to him. He closes his eyes, forehead resting on your shoulder. 

“What good is it taking such good care of your body as your physician when you’re so quick to throw it away in front of me, hm?” Zayne scolds half-heartedtly. You smile at him sheepishly, your eyes meeting. 

 He gives you a look, silent, encouraging you to take what you need first. 

Your hands are shaky as they reach the front of Zayne’s waistband, tugging until they slide down his thighs - along with his boxers in one smooth motion. Your thighs pressed together at the now familiar sight of his cock. Your thighs weaken at the sight of it, impressive length and girth - curved just right and too heavy to stand on its own. You reach out to touch it, a soft stroke to feel how hard it gets. It makes you gasp, feeling how it throbs between your fingers. Zayne suppresses a groan as your palm smooths over the tip. 

“Have you changed your mind?” 

You shake your head rapidly. Zayne lets out a breathless sigh against your collar bone. 

“Stubborn thing you are.” 

“Zayne,”  You peek at him through your lashes. “Can I?” 

He holds you close to him, careful not to grip you too hard. “Slowly.” 

You nod your head, pulling yourself forward on his lap to line the tip of his cock with your entrance. 

A long, shaky breath leaves your lips as you feel the tip of his cock slip against your folds. Adjusting to be sitting up a little more, you ease yourself down on Zayne’s hard length. You feel your pussy flutter in anticipation of being full. Placing our hands on Zayne’s shoulders, you ever so slowly slide yourself down on his cock. 

You both take a sharp inhale as the head of Zayne’s cock stretches your cunt open wide. Just the head is overwhelming, your thighs trembling as you do your best to take all of him inside of you. Your voice tremble, working yourself down inch by inch - desperately trying to adjust. His cock is big, too big - always more than you remember it being. You feel it up to your throat. 

So focused on taking it, you nearly miss the sounds leaving Zayne’s mouth each time you manage to take a little more of him. His voice is trembling, hot against your skin as he muffles each groan and sigh into your shoulder. His hands are tight with restraint as he holds you, trying his best to hold himself together. 

It takes you a beat or two. Long, restrained moments of silence before your body finally takes it. You moan as you bottom out, cock stretching your needy pussy out completely. You stay like that for even longer, longer than you would normally. 

“Aren’t going to move?” 

You give Zayne a look. “I don’t know if it’s possible.” 

“Spoiled girl.” Zayne tsks. 

Wordlessly, he uses his strength to slide you off of his cock in one go. Whining at the sudden feeling of loss - he fucks you back onto him. Carefully placing his hands on the most unmarred parts of your hips, Zayne fucks you on his cock with the same ease of a toy. 

After a few thrusts, your body adjusts to the feeling. You can feel the specific motion when it goes from a dull ache to a dull feeling of pleasure. Your waist goes completely weak in Zayne’s grasp as he fucks his cock up into you with controlled movements. Undulating just enough to make you gasp. Practiced with the full weight and gravity of his hips - but painstakingly measured so that it doesn’t hurt. It’s not slow, or fast - but a rhythmic inbetween that makes it hard for your mind to keep up.

If there was such a thing as getting fucked perfectly, you think Zayne is fulfilling it by all measures. 

The way he’s fucking the warm, slick heat of your cunt feels good beyond word. It’s relentlessly consistent,  head sliding against your sweet spot with ease. Precision guides his thrusts like it does everything else. Euphoria suffuses through your limbs as you get yourself fucked open on it.

The sound of his echoes in the room as Zayne keeps pace. You’re moaning loud now, shameless as the sensation builds and builds and builds but never quite hits its peak. You feel so full, but you need something else to get yo over the edge. 

“You want to cum like this, didn’t you?” Zayne says, matter-of-fact despite the level of calm in his voice.  His face betrays the composure in his voice. “Touch yourself. Make yourself cum in front of me.” 

Shakily, your hand finds itself between your bodies.You find your swollen clit for the last time and carefully rub between your fingers. It makes you gasp outright, nearly falling forward from the impact. Pleasure no longer plateauing, something bounds again inside of you. 

You can feel it coming this time. On the edge from the minute Zayne started fucking you to now, your body has been winding itself tighter and tighter until a knot formed right in the swell of your belly again. There’s something about this one that feels so much deeper then when you came before, something more overwhelming to it. He fucks you in places you could never reach, makes you cum like that too. 

You throw your head back noisily when you finally match your fingers to Zayne’s throat. 

“Fuck,” You hiss, trying your best not to lose the feeling. “Zayne, g-gonna—” 

Zaynes voice borders on a growl. “Cum for me.” 

One last time, your body finds release as Zayne holds you down on his cock and grinds into your g-spot while you cum again. Your nails dig into Zayne’s shoulders, holding onto him for life as your body wracks with shivers once more. Your last orgasm is the most overwhelming, the aftershocks feel like they last for minutes at a time instead of a seconds. 

Zayne cums quickly after you, panting into your neck like he’d been waiting the entire time for you  to cum first before finishing. You feel content as his seed spills into your pussy for the last time. 

A beat of silence passes between you before you speak again, 

“Thank you for the medicine doc,” You hum. “I feel all better.” 

Zayne simply goes along with you like alwys. “It’s what I’m here for.” 

__

After getting fucked good enough to knock out only a few moments after you came a third time, you aren’t exactly sure where or how you were going to wake up. 

When you do wake up though, your bruised and battered body - while still in dull pain, is being cradled by someone else. You feel clean too. Your clothes are changed and your skin is cool to the touch like someone’s been wiping you down and keeping an eye on you. 

Yawning, you open your eyes to the familiar sight of your partner. Zayne glances down at you without word. You feel his arm around your waist like a secure weight, tucking yourself into him.

Zayne’s first question is predictable. “How are you feeling, love?” 

Your heart flutters clumsily at the overt tenderness. “...Hurts a lot. It’s bearable though.” 

Zayne laughs as he notices your attitude. “What happened the my bold lover from a few hours ago? So bold she invited me to bed without hesitation?” 

Your face feels hot, warmth tingling from your ears down to your neck. “I was doped on a lot of narcotics so somehow… and sex is different from this you know?” 

“This…?” 

“Acting like a proper boyfriend when you’re always so…” You trail off. “Don’t you think that’s unfair?” 

“Are you saying I’m usually an improper boyfriend?” 

“Yes,” You say flatly, though you dont really mean it. Zayne chuckles. “At least you’re less…” 

“Kind? Honest?” 

“Playful,” You reply. Shy, you bury your face in his shirt. “You’re not honest but you’re always kind. You’re in too good of a mood.” 

“Will you be more comfortable if I act as usual?” 

You wrap your arms around his torso, hugging him gently. “This side of you isn’t so bad either.” 

“I’m spoiling my very unruly patient.” He hums. He leans down, a hand cradling the back of your head as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “So listen well to doctors orders and rest a bit longer. We’ll have dinner together in a bit so just rest.” 

As if caught by a spell, the mention of rest against has your eyes feeling heavy. You nod without thinking about it. 

“Hm… ‘kay,” You mumble. “Thank you… for taking care of me….” 

Zayne waits a beat or two before pressing another kiss to your temple, waiting for your breathing to even before he speaks. 

“As if it’s something to thank me for,” 

[strawbeaniie]

[ Use the tags : #f/obruary2025 #f/obruary when posting your work! you're also free to tag me if you'd like me to see too!]

(˵ •̀ ᴗ •́ ˵ ) ✧ Welcome to f/obruary 2025, a 14 day prompt list that could serve as a count down to valentine's day! Although, as long as your having fun you can take it at any pace you want too. I saw someone mention prompt lists are there to help you make things but it shouldn't overwhelm you or become a burden?

*; Everything from romantic f/o's, familial f/o's platonic etc. goes here! Feel free to change the prompts to fit your needs! I like to think of these as a base you can customize toward the stuff you wanna do!

*; I'm so excited to see what everyone comes up with! From writing, to art, to moodboards or playlists? Any sort of creative medium you could think of is up for grabs! **I've got the written list of prompts under the cut, in case anyone needs them**

pr✕ship + variants dni..

01. Love Letters

02. Plushies

03. Baking

04. Arcade

05. Phone Call

06. Cuddling

07. Fairy Tale

08. Music

09. Matching

10. Karaoke

11. In the Rain

12. AU

13. Dinner

14. Valentines

-*- taglist: @ogatas-beloved @fl0ralsxgar @abhorrentmessiah @lances-wife

[salemlunaa]

what the hell is up with you guys?

no seriously what is you guys’ problem?!?!

so i was scrolling thru my timeline and i come across this stupid post this stupid post which was an a adjacent to this other stupid idea this person decided to tag me and a bunch of other bloggers including my lovely moots accusing us of being selfish for not inducing pure consciousness for others

if you think the void is so hard you can’t do it yourself, you don’t understand what it is and i’m not saying that to be mean.

their idea is that: we should join a pact and “step up” to induce pure consciousness for others

RESPONSE: do you know how this works, i physically can not induce pure consciousness for someone else because i will go to a different timeline. “I have seen success stories where people manifest for others” false. idc what you saw. You can’t have someone else include the “I AM” state for you. Why do you think it’s called that. It’s a state of consciousness where YOU can step into a state where time and the 3D do not exist which is why it’s personal to you.

The void pact can not exist, because there is no such thing as entering the “I AM” state for someone else, you shift to a different timeline as your desires come into fruition in the 3D. The void pact cannot exist because you physically cannot bring everyone into the timeline with you.

a stupid comment i saw under that post: i agree, these bloggers need to understand how hard it is for us with circumstances

RESPONSE: fuck you, no seriously fuck you. do you realise you are not the only one with shitty circumstances, we try and tell you that circumstances don’t matter because they aren’t real along with time and you still aren’t getting it. There are people with horrible circumstances taht have done it.

if you keep focused on time and the 3d you will NEVER progress.

if you had the assumption that’s it’s so hard you need other people to help, that is what will stick

It’s effort not hard, if you can’t understand that you’ll never progress. Instead of spending time to reprogram your mindset and apply, you’re spending time doing this?? “but i’m trying and it just doesn’t work” then you’re wavering not actually doing anything. learn. the. difference. Instead of spending time ignoring the 3D and indulging in the facts that you’re a void master in your 4D you’re doing this?

You are not special, you are not exempt from inducing pure consciousness, you have all the information on here and you’re still demanding to have shit done for you.

If you think the void needs effort, you don’t understand. If you’ve been “trying” and failing you don’t understand. If you’ve think that someone can do it for you, you don’t understand

if you don’t get it you’ll NEVER have progress.

˚. 𖦹 ⌨️ .ೄྀ ∘˚

And you wonder why so many bloggers are upping and leaving. How entitled do you have to be, you are getting this information for FREE, information that so many others don’t have access to and you’re using the platform to beg demand that others induce for you.

I try to be patient with those who still ask the same questions over and over and over but this is too much, you losers are seriously asking us bloggers not to be selfish and do it for you. Something that takes no effort.

yall made me hop out of an impromptu break for this dumb shit. but i have to warn you don’t not follow these entitled people. it will get you no where and it will show when it’s 2028 and they’re still asking bloggers not to be “selfish” and help out. do not follow this foolish shit i’m begging.

and before you call me rude, i’ve had patience with so many of you. but then again some of you are allergic to anything but coddling so i’ll take those comments with a pinch of salt

ONLY YOU can induce pure consciousness, ONLY YOU can be “I AM”, it can’t be done for you why do you think it’s called “I AM”. ONLY YOU can have your desires and YOU DO HAVE THEM ALREADY.

This mindset will have you here until 2030. And honestly i’m not mad about that.

@void1finder here’s your answer boo

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt.16

Word Count: 30k...

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, tw if u have tokophobia, pet names like kitten, sweetie, honey, threats with a gun, tw for birth, bodily fluids (although kept vauge i felt i should add a tw anyways), mentions of blood, tw for labor

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh @eliasxchocolate @nozomiaj @xmiisuki @sylus-kitten @its-regretti @ve1vet-cake @letgobro @starkeysslvt @yarafic @prince-nikko @connorsui @iluvmewwwww75 @biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer @someone-somewheres-stuff @zaynesjasmine1 @honnylemontea @altariasu @sorryimakira @pearlymel @emidpsandia @angel-jupiter @hwangintakswifey @webmvie @housesortinghat @shoruio @gojos1ut @solomonlover @mysssticc @elegantnightblaze @mavphorias @babylavendersblog @burntoutfrogacademic @sinstae @certainduckanchor @ladyackermanisdead @sh4nn @milkandstarlight @lilyadora @nyumin @kiwookse @anisha24-blog1 @weepingluminarytale @riamir @definitionistato @xxhayashixx @adraxsteia @hargun-s @cayraeley @xxfaithlynxx @palomanh @spaceace111 @euridan

AN: This is on A03! This chapter was a doozy to write. And its 30k... thats what took so long! Also there is a birth scene (it’s not that graphic but still, be warned!) Reminder that the baby nor reader/mc have specific skintones. Imagine them how'd you like. Enjoy :3

“No,” you said coldly, refusing to let yourself fall for it. “If you really cared, you’d leave me alone.”

Sylus didn’t respond immediately, but you could hear his steady breathing on the other end of the line, a subtle reminder that he was still there—still looming over your life, even from miles away.

“I can’t do that,” he said after a long pause, his voice filled with quiet determination. “You’re mine, kitten. I’ll always come for you.”

See my masterlist for the previous parts!

Sylus strode up the sleek metal stairs of his private jet, the soles of his polished shoes clicking sharply against the aluminum. The faint hum of the engines warming up filled the quiet night, blending with the distant sound of waves crashing against the shoreline. He checked his watch—a sharp, precise movement—his expression impassive as the glowing hands ticked forward.

Seven hours and fifty-four minutes to Goldwood City.

Time was precious, and Sylus despised wasting it. Yet, here he was, boarding a plane and leaving you behind when you needed him most. The thought soured his mood, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. He didn’t like the idea of being away from you, not when the birth was so close, not when your body was bearing the weight of his daughter. But he wouldn’t be gone long. He’d make damn sure of it.

This mission wasn’t a choice—it was a necessity.

He took his seat near the front of the cabin, the plush leather chair creaking softly as he leaned back, his mind already dissecting the details of the plan. The tablet resting on the table before him blinked to life with a touch of his finger, casting a pale glow over his sharp features. Names, faces, locations—an entire network of filth sprawled across the screen, anchored by one name: Vincent Morrell.

The bastard responsible for commissioning the organ trafficking ring that had nearly ruined you. He had enlisted a woman named Serene Grey, a shadowy figure known for her ruthless efficiency, to abduct countless women in a desperate attempt to find a suitable match for his dying wife. The thought of Vincent Morrell’s cold calculations—treating the love of his life as no more than just a commodity to spare one, only deepened Sylus’s resolve.

The memory flickered across his mind, unbidden but vivid. The look in your eyes when he’d finally found you, the nightmares that haunted your head. You didn’t talk about it much anymore, but you didn’t have to. Sylus knew every scar, every broken fragment of what they’d done. He’d already erased Reese from existence for daring to touch you, and now he had the chance to do the same to Reese’s father.

The thought brought a flicker of satisfaction to his cold, calculated mind. Reese had been weak, arrogant, relying on drugs to keep his life afloat. But Vincent? He was the head of the snake, the architect of the operation that had dared to mark what belonged to Sylus.

And now, Vincent Morrell had become a loose thread—one Sylus intended to cut.

Sylus adjusted the cufflinks on his sleeves, the small, engraved pieces of jewelry glinting faintly under the cabin lights. His gaze drifted toward the window as the jet’s engines roared to life, the faint vibration coursing through the cabin a welcome reminder of progress.

“Goldwood City in seven hours and thirty five minutes, sir” the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom.

Sylus didn’t respond, his eyes narrowing as his mind shifted to the finer points of his plan. Vincent’s desperation to save his dying wife had made him sloppy, careless. The man had taken the bait without a second thought—a whispered rumor of a rare, illegal protocore capable of miraculous healing. Sylus had dangled it just close enough to whet his appetite, and Vincent had all but begged for the meeting.

How easy. Sylus was no fool when it came to the complexities of human emotions. A man’s heart, no matter how guarded, became his greatest vulnerability when tied to a woman he cherished. The desperation, the raw, unbridled need to protect, could unravel even the most calculated minds. It made them predictable, reckless. Vincent Morrell was no exception—his wife’s life dangled in the balance, and that fragile thread had become a noose Sylus was all too willing to tighten.

A grim smile tugged at Sylus’s lips. Vincent probably thought he was walking into a business negotiation. A trade. He didn’t realize it would be his last mistake.

Leaning back in his seat, Sylus closed his eyes for a moment, letting the hum of the engines drown out the weight of his thoughts. He didn’t allow himself to linger on the fact that you were miles away, in a house guarded by men who could never care for you the way he did. He wouldn’t allow doubt to creep into his mind.

This wasn’t just revenge—it was a message. A warning to anyone who thought they could take what belonged to him.

When he opened his eyes again, the gleam in them was as sharp as a blade. Goldwood City awaited, and so did Vincent Morrell.

Sylus would make this quick.

The flight goes mostly uneventful. The interior of the jet exuded quiet luxury—plush leather seats arranged in a spacious layout, polished mahogany accents gleaming under the soft, amber glow of the dimmed cabin lights. Outside, the vast expanse of the night sky stretched endlessly in every direction, a sea of velvety black dotted with distant stars that glinted like shards of ice against the darkness.

It was the kind of serene atmosphere designed for peaceful reflection, but Sylus’s mind was far from tranquil. Each passing minute seemed to remind him of what he was leaving behind and what lay ahead. The soft vibration of the engines beneath his feet only heightened the restless energy coursing through him, his thoughts flitting between the present mission and the future he had long envisioned. It was a perfect setting for quiet contemplation, yet Sylus’s mind was anything but still.

He pulled out his phone periodically, messaging Luke and Kieran to check on your condition. His lips curled into a faint smirk when Luke responded with an update: you were pouty and visibly agitated. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest. You were nearing the end of your pregnancy, your discomfort likely growing by the hour. He could picture you pacing around the house, arms crossed, grumbling under your breath with that familiar fiery expression. The mental image brought a quiet chuckle to his chest. Even when irritated, you had a way of commanding his attention completely.

He typed out swift instructions in response, his tone precise and commanding: ensure she’s eating regularly, make certain she has everything she needs, and cater to her every whim. He didn’t care if you requested a specific dish at midnight or demanded a walk in the cold evening air—your desires were to be met without question. Satisfied, he shut off his phone and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes against the faint cabin light.

For a fleeting moment, the surreal weight of it all washed over him. In just a few short weeks, he would hold his daughter in his arms—a child he’d dreamed of for longer than he cared to admit. A baby girl. He had spent countless nights obsessing over what she would be like, what she would look like. Would she inherit your sharp wit or his piercing gaze? Would she be quiet and observant, or would she cry easily, her temperament as demanding as her mother’s? The thought brought a flicker of amusement to his lips.

It all felt strangely distant yet inevitable. His life had always been about control, about taking what he wanted and bending the world to his will. But this…this was different. This was something he couldn’t entirely predict, and despite the unfamiliarity of it, he welcomed the unknown. For once, the future didn’t seem like a puzzle to solve but a gift waiting to be unwrapped.

His musings were interrupted by a sharp, irritated caw from the corner of the plane. Sylus’s crimson eyes snapped open, narrowing slightly as he spotted Mephisto fluttering toward him. The crow's movements were awkward and agitated, its wings flapping with clear irritation.

“You’re the one who insisted on resting your wings,” Sylus said, his voice low and clipped, tinged with faint amusement. “Don’t complain about the consequences now.”

Mephisto let out another disgruntled caw, hopping onto the armrest beside him and fluffing his feathers indignantly. The bird’s beady eyes glinted with irritation, as though it fully understood the jab. Sylus rolled his eyes, signaling to the attendant stationed discreetly at the far end of the jet. The man, clad in an immaculately pressed uniform, stepped forward with practiced precision, his expression neutral and composed.

“One glass of Gin Fizz,” Sylus ordered, his tone as sharp as a blade. “Very little ice.”

The man gave a polite nod, disappearing into the small galley without a word. Sylus turned his attention back to the crow, his fingers brushing idly against the edge of the leather armrest. "We'll be there soon. Then you can fly as far as you'd like," he muttered, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as Mephisto tilted his head, unrepentant. The bird let out a soft croak in response, seemingly satisfied with the acknowledgment.

Sylus leaned back once more, his gaze drifting toward the window. The world outside was vast and indifferent, a stark contrast to the tightly wound control he maintained over his life. But even now, as the jet sped toward Goldwood City and the mission awaiting him, his thoughts remained tethered to you and the tiny life growing within you.

"Just a little longer," he murmured to himself, closing his eyes once again. "Then everything will be as it should."

Sylus’s jet touched down smoothly on the private runway, the whir of the engines gradually fading into silence as the aircraft taxied to a halt. Outside, the city of Goldwood stretched out beneath the dawn sky, its skyline gleaming with a mix of modern opulence and old-world grit. He descended the steps of the jet with practiced ease, the brisk air brushing against his face, sharp but invigorating. His long coat trailed slightly behind him as he made his way across the tarmac, each step deliberate and assured.

There was no need for the usual pomp or pretense here. The entire runway, and indeed the small airport itself, belonged to him—one of his many acquisitions over the years. His influence extended far beyond the city’s limits, a network of properties and safehouses woven into the very fabric of Goldwood’s underworld.

Rather than heading straight for a car, Sylus entered a discreet, private entrance that led into the lower levels of his hotel. The building loomed overhead, a towering structure of steel and glass, exuding both modern luxury and an air of impenetrable security. To the public, it was one of the city’s most prestigious hotels, a beacon of wealth and exclusivity. But to Sylus, it was much more—a carefully curated fortress where he could operate without interference.

Mephisto had long gone, no doubt stretching his wings across skyscrapers by now.

He bypassed the grand lobby, where polished marble floors gleamed under the glow of crystal chandeliers, and took a private elevator to the top floor. The ride up was smooth and silent, the soft hum of the elevator barely audible over the rhythmic beating of his heart. As the doors opened, he stepped into his personal suite, a sprawling expanse of minimalist elegance. The walls were adorned with abstract art, muted tones blending seamlessly with the sleek furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, but Sylus paid little attention to the glittering skyline.

With a wave of his hand, soft music began to play from the built-in sound system, the warm, crackling notes of an old jazz record filling the room. He moved toward a vintage record player perched on a low table, carefully adjusting the needle to let the next track begin. The sound enveloped the space, a calming yet deliberate backdrop to his thoughts.

As he settled into a high-backed leather chair, a soft knock sounded at the door. "Enter," Sylus said without turning, his voice steady and commanding. A moment later, the door opened to reveal his personal chef, carrying a silver tray laden with a carefully prepared meal. The scent of freshly seared steak and roasted vegetables wafted into the room, mingling pleasantly with the faint aroma of leather and polished wood.

The chef approached with measured steps, placing the tray on a nearby table before retreating with a respectful nod. "Your meal, sir," he said quietly before exiting the room, leaving Sylus alone once more.

Sylus took a moment to savor the aroma before picking up his fork and knife. The first bite was exquisite, the flavors rich and perfectly balanced—a testament to the chef’s skill. Yet, as delicious as the meal was, his mind remained focused on the task ahead.

He didn’t have the protocore just yet. That was the true objective of being in the city so soon, tracking down the elusive artifact before his scheduled meeting with Vincent later in the week. The protocore, a rare and highly sought-after relic, was rumored to possess near-miraculous healing properties. For Vincent, whose wife’s life hung by a thread, it was the ultimate prize. For Sylus, it was the perfect bait.

Rumors had been circulating for weeks about the protocore’s appearance at an exclusive underground auction, a shadowy event known only to the wealthiest and most dangerous individuals in the network. Securing an invitation had been the easy part—now came the real challenge: ensuring he left that auction with the artifact in hand.

Tomorrow, the auction would commence, and there was no time to waste. Every move counted, and Sylus was nothing if not methodical. He allowed himself a brief moment of stillness, his crimson eyes narrowing as he contemplated the task ahead. Soon, very soon, he would have what he needed to finally end this chapter and protect what was his.

The night of the auction arrived, soft murmur of conversation and the clinking of glasses filled the expansive auction hall, muted by the distance from where Sylus sat high above. The private balcony he occupied offered a perfect vantage point, granting him an unobstructed view of the opulent, dimly lit room below. People milled about in elegant attire, each of them donning elaborate masks that concealed their identities. Some wore animal-themed masks, others bore intricate designs of gold and silver filigree, but all carried an air of wealth and danger.

Sylus leaned back in his chair, half of his own face hidden beneath a golden bird mask that gleamed faintly in the low light. In one hand, he swirled a glass of deep red wine, the liquid catching the flicker of candlelight as it moved lazily within the crystal. His gaze drifted across the room, watching the masked attendees as they whispered, schemed, and observed.

The auction had gone on for what felt like hours. The auctioneer, an older man with a booming voice and a flair for the dramatic, called out item after item—rare weapons, ancient artifacts, paintings that were no doubt stolen from private collections or museums. Each time a new piece was wheeled onto the stage, Sylus’s interest waned further. He found the entire display predictable, even tiresome.

His thoughts began to wander, drifting away from the glittering scene below to something far more important—you. According to the twins, you had spent the day cooking together, a simple, domestic activity that brought a faint, almost imperceptible smile to his lips. The thought of you in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, laughter echoing softly as you prepared a meal, stirred something warm and possessive within him.

Still, the idea of you cooking with another man, even if it was one of the twins, irked him slightly. He knew Luke and Kieran had no ill intentions-they were loyal to him, and more importantly, they respected you. Yet, a part of him bristled at the thought. He had vowed to be better, to curb some his possessive instincts. This was part of that effort. He took a long sip of his wine, the taste rich and dark on his tongue, as he reminded himself of the promise he had made to you.

His musings were abruptly interrupted when a large platform was wheeled onto the stage, drawing murmurs of anticipation from the crowd below. Sylus’s eyes sharpened, his attention snapping back to the auction as the item he had been waiting for was finally revealed.

The protocore.

Suspended within a cylindrical glass chamber, it hovered weightlessly, its surface glowing with a faint, ethereal green light. The room seemed to hold its breath as the auctioneer stepped forward, gesturing dramatically toward the artifact.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer began, his voice echoing through the hall, “behold the Emerald Protocore! One of the rarest and most sought-after cores in existence. With rumored restorative properties that surpass even the most advanced medical technology, this protocore is said to heal injuries, extend life, and grant vitality to its bearer.”

Sylus’s eyes narrowed, the gleam of the floating artifact reflected in his crimson gaze. The anticipation in the room was palpable, tension hanging thick in the air as the auctioneer announced the starting bid.

“We begin at five billion,” the auctioneer declared. “Do I hear five billion?”

A hand shot up immediately from the crowd below. “Five billion,” the auctioneer acknowledged, his tone gleeful. “Six billion! Do I hear six?”

Sylus’s lips curled into a faint smirk as the bidding began in earnest. Hands rose rapidly, voices calling out higher and higher numbers. The price climbed steadily—seven billion, nine billion, twelve billion. The competition was fierce, as expected. Only the wealthiest and most powerful individuals in the world had been invited to this auction, and it was clear they intended to fight for the prize.

“We have fifteen billion! Going once, going twice—”

“Seventeen billion,” a masked bidder called out, his voice calm but firm.

Sylus waited, his fingers tapping idly against the edge of his wine glass. He had no intention of jumping in too soon. This was a game of strategy, and he always played to win. The numbers continued to climb, the atmosphere growing tenser with each new bid.

“Twenty billion! Do I hear twenty-five?”

“Twenty-six billion,” Sylus finally tapped the screen in front of him, his bid appearing in bold digits on the display above the stage.

The room went quiet for a brief moment, all eyes turning toward the private balcony where Sylus sat. He didn’t react, merely raising his glass slightly as if in silent acknowledgment.

“Twenty-six billion!” the auctioneer cried, his voice rising with excitement. “An impressive bid! Do we have a counter?”

“Thirty billion,” another voice called out from below.

Sylus’s smirk deepened. Good. He enjoyed a challenge. Without hesitation, he tapped the screen again.

“Thirty-five billion.”

The back-and-forth continued, each bid coming faster than the last. Thirty-seven billion. Forty billion. Forty-five. The tension in the room was electric, the air thick with anticipation. Sylus remained composed, his demeanor cool and unshaken as the numbers soared higher.

“Fifty billion” he entered with finality, the bold digits flashing across the screen. The room fell into a hushed silence, the weight of the staggering number settling over the crowd. No one moved, no one spoke.

The auctioneer paused, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of a counter. When none came, he raised his gavel high.

“Fifty billion, going once…going twice…sold! To the gentleman in the golden mask!”

A polite round of applause broke out below, but Sylus paid it no mind. His eyes remained fixed on the protocore as it was carefully wheeled offstage, his mind already calculating his next move. The artifact was his. All that remained was ensuring it reached his hands safely.

He took one last sip of his wine, savoring the moment. The hunt had been successful, but the game was far from over.

“Prepare the transport,” he said quietly into his communicator. “I want eyes on every entrance. Nothing leaves this building without my approval.”

The night was still young, and Sylus knew better than to lower his guard just yet.

As the applause died down and the crowd dispersed into smaller clusters of murmuring onlookers, Sylus descended from his private balcony, his steps measured and purposeful. The auction might have been over, but the real game was just beginning.

He moved through the crowd with ease, his golden bird mask catching the glint of chandeliers overhead. Several masked figures approached him, eager to exchange pleasantries—or perhaps gather information. Among them was a man dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, his mask crafted to resemble a snarling wolf, gleaming silver in the dim light.

“Congratulations, Sylus,” the man said, his voice smooth but carrying an unmistakable edge. “Fifty billion is a steep price, even for someone with your…reputation.”

Sylus’s lips curled into a faint smile beneath his mask. “A steep price for some. A calculated investment for others,” he replied, his tone calm, almost bored. He extended his hand, and the man took it without hesitation.

“All’s fair in the game of money, wouldn’t you say, Sylus?” the man continued, gripping Sylus’s hand firmly. His fingers tightened in an iron grip, an unmistakable attempt at intimidation. Sylus met the challenge without flinching, his expression unchanging as he returned the handshake with a force of his own.

The faint crack of bones was barely audible over the low hum of conversation around them, but Sylus felt it clearly—the subtle give of the man’s fingers beneath his unyielding grip. The man tensed, his body going rigid with pain, though he made no sound. His pride wouldn’t allow it. Instead, his eyes locked onto Sylus’s, silently begging for release.

Sylus chuckled softly, a low, dangerous sound that carried an air of amusement. “Indeed,” he said, his voice as smooth as silk. “All’s fair.”

He held the man’s hand for a moment longer, just enough to make his point clear, before finally letting go. The man took a step back, subtly flexing his injured fingers while maintaining a composed façade. Despite his silence, it was obvious to Sylus that he was rattled, his earlier bravado shattered.

“Good game,” Sylus added with a faint smirk, turning away without waiting for a response. The man said nothing, his pride keeping him rooted in place as Sylus walked off, victorious in more ways than one.

Some time had passed, and with still a day or two remaining before his scheduled meeting with Vincent, Sylus found himself meticulously inspecting the protocore once again. The artifact was undeniably genuine—its faint green glow pulsed steadily within its containment unit, casting an otherworldly light across the dimly lit room. Even Sylus, with his carefully tempered emotions, couldn’t ignore the subtle effect it had on him. There was something about its presence that made the air feel lighter, more vibrant, as though it carried a hint of life itself.

Satisfied with his inspection, Sylus gave strict instructions to his men to keep the protocore under maximum security until the time came. No one, save for a select few, even knew where it was being stored. He wasn’t about to take any chances.

Now lounging in his private suite, Sylus swirled a glass of dark red wine in his hand, the rich aroma filling his senses. The distant hum of the city outside was barely audible through the reinforced glass windows. Despite the calm atmosphere, a familiar itch tugged at his mind—a restlessness born not of danger, but of curiosity. The kind of curiosity that gnawed at him whenever he thought of you. Were you resting properly? Were you being taken care of properly? These thoughts had a way of creeping in, no matter how focused he tried to remain on his mission.

He leaned forward slightly, the rim of the wine glass brushing against his lower lip as he stared into the swirling liquid. The weight of the moment settled over him, a rare stillness that only deepened his longing. Without further hesitation, he reached for his phone, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he dialed Luke’s number. The line barely rang twice before Luke answered, his voice cheerful and energetic.

"Yes, boss!" Luke said, sounding as though he had been expecting the call.

"Is she sleeping?" Sylus asked without preamble, wasting no time on idle chatter. He glanced at the clock—6 PM. It was around the usual time for your midday nap, a routine he had come to know well.

"No, she’s awake. She’s been complaining of, uh…Brax…ten? Hits?" Luke replied, stumbling over the unfamiliar words.

"Braxton Hicks," Sylus corrected smoothly, taking a measured sip of his wine. His lips quirked in mild amusement.

"Yeah, that! I’ll tell ya, boss, I’ve been so on edge lately. I thought I was gonna have to deliver a baby the other night..." Luke admitted nervously, his usual bravado replaced by genuine concern.

Sylus chuckled softly, a low, rich sound that conveyed both amusement and exasperation. These idiots…they meant well, even if they were woefully unprepared for such a scenario. Still, it reassured him that they were vigilant, keeping an eye on you as instructed.

"I assure you, delivering babies is not part of your job description," he said, his tone light yet authoritative. "Now, put her on. I want to speak to her."

"Right away, boss!" Luke said, his voice brightening again before the line went silent for a brief moment.

Sylus leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine once more as he waited. A faint smirk played at the edges of his lips, but beneath the outward calm was a subtle tension. He hadn’t heard your voice in days, and though he trusted his men, nothing could truly ease the restlessness that settled in his chest when he was away from you. The line clicked, and then—

"Hello?" your voice came through, slightly groggy but unmistakably yours.

A quiet relief washed over him at the sound. He hadn’t realized just how much he needed to hear you until that moment. Even from miles away, your voice had a grounding effect on him, steadying the swirling thoughts in his mind. The weight on his shoulders eased slightly, as though the mere sound of you could pull him back from the edge of his constant vigilance.

"How are you feeling, honey?" Sylus asked, his voice softening in a way it rarely did with anyone else.

You sighed, the faint sound of shifting fabric accompanying your words. "Tired. These weird fake contractions are no joke. They keep waking me up."

You sounded so adorable when you complained. Sylus wasn’t sure what it was, but when you grumbled and whined to him, it made him feel an intense urge to fulfill your every need. To fix all of your problems. There was something strangely satisfying about hearing you vent to him, trusting him enough to share your frustrations.

"They’re normal," Sylus assured, his tone steady and calm. "Your body is preparing for the real thing. Just a little longer, and it will all be over."

"Easy for you to say," you muttered, a hint of irritation in your voice. "You’re not the one carrying around a bowling ball."

Sylus chuckled again, the sound genuine this time. "Fair point. Still, you should rest as much as possible. If anything feels unusual, you’ll let the twins know immediately."

"Yeah, yeah," you replied, the tiredness in your voice evident, but you at least seemed to be a little more at ease. He silently wondered…did you miss him as much as he missed you? You had said that you don't love him, that it was a lie. But you also said you didn’t hate him either…that you didn’t know how to feel sometimes. What could he do to change that?

Still, he didn’t dare ask the question for fear of the answer. Some things were better left unspoken, at least for now.

For a moment, Sylus said nothing, simply listening to the sound of your breathing on the other end. That simple, quiet connection was enough to ease the knot of tension that had formed in his chest over the past few days. He found himself savoring it, reluctant to let the moment end.

"Good," he finally said, pausing briefly before adding in a softer tone, "You’re doing well. I’ll be back soon."

"How soon is…soon?" you murmured, your voice trailing off slightly. "It’s been a lot."

He felt a sharp pang in his heart at your words, the weight of them sinking deep into his chest. You sounded undeniably drained, your voice carrying a fatigue he couldn’t ignore. Did you actually long for him like he did you? The thought gnawed at him, stirring something both tender and painful. Guilt began to creep in, a cold, unwelcome presence that made him silently curse himself for even entertaining the idea of leaving you alone in the first place. He had told himself this mission was necessary—that it was about securing a safer future for you and the child you carried—but now, in the silence that followed your words, he questioned whether his absence was worth the toll it seemed to be taking on you.

Yet, he couldn’t allow doubt to derail him. This had to be done. The thought of ridding the pests of your past—the ones who had dared to hurt you—was too tempting, too important to abandon. If he could eliminate the lingering shadows that haunted your life, perhaps you could finally find some semblance of peace. And that, more than anything, was what drove him forward.

"I know sweetie" he said quietly. His voice carried a gentleness, as though he wished he could bridge the distance between you with words alone. "I’m just wrapping up some stuff here, and I’ll be back before you know it."

There was a small silence from you for a few short moments, as if you wanted to say something more. He waited patiently, despite his growing anticipation.

"Alright then, I’m going to take a nap. See you later," you said, your voice soft but tired, as though every word carried the weight of the past few days. There was a pause, a faint rustling on your end, before the sound of the phone being handed over to Luke became clear.

He sighed. Of course, with everything going on, there was still much work to close the distance between you two. He shouldn't have expected otherwise.

"Talk to ya later, boss!" Luke said brightly, his tone attempting to mask the tension from earlier. Sylus could hear the faint sound of your footsteps retreating in the background, likely heading off to finally get some rest.

With that, the call ended, and Sylus placed the phone back on the table. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and let out a slow exhale. The faint smile lingered on his lips for a moment, but it didn’t entirely banish the weight of concern that remained. There was still much to be done, but for now, the sound of your voice was enough. Soon, very soon, he would be back where he belonged—with you, and with the life he was determined to protect.

The wine sat forgotten beside him as he leaned back in his chair once more, his thoughts already drifting to what lay ahead. No matter what obstacles remained, he would see this through. Because in the end, nothing mattered more than you, and the family he was building.

Sylus arrived at Vincent’s private estate as afternoon fully claimed the sky, casting a veil of orange light over the sprawling property. The grand gates opened with a mechanical hum, revealing a long driveway flanked by perfectly manicured gardens. The estate itself loomed ahead, its tall windows glowing with soft, golden light. Despite the inviting atmosphere, Sylus remained on guard. Every movement here was calculated, just like the man he was about to meet.

As the car came to a halt, Sylus adjusted his cuffs and stepped out, his eyes briefly scanning the area before following the butler waiting to escort him inside. Sylus walked through the grand hallway of Vincent’s estate, the soft glow of antique lamps casting long shadows over the dark wood paneling. Every corner was meticulously curated—gold-framed portraits of Vincent’s family lined the walls, each one exuding an air of wealth and status. Sylus’s eyes flicked over the paintings as he followed the butler toward the study. One, in particular, caught his attention: a portrait of a child, with striking features and messy hair.

Ah. This must be Reese as a young boy.

Sylus allowed himself a brief smirk. Vincent had taken great care to display these portraits prominently, as though to remind every visitor of his family’s legacy. But to Sylus, it only confirmed what he already knew: Vincent was a man desperately clinging to appearances. A man whose carefully constructed façade masked the rot beneath.

Interesting.

The butler leading him stopped at the entrance to a grand study, opening the door with a slight bow. Sylus stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room with practiced ease. The crackling fire cast long shadows over the dark oak bookshelves that lined the walls, their shelves packed with leather-bound volumes that looked more decorative than well-read. A crystal decanter glinted on the side table, half-filled with amber liquid, while the faint scent of burning wood added a comforting warmth to the space.

Vincent turned from the fireplace as Sylus entered, a practiced smile already in place. “Sylus,” he greeted warmly, spreading his arms in a gesture of welcome. “Glad you could make it.”

Sylus returned the smile with one of his own, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Please, sit,” Vincent said, gesturing toward a pair of leather armchairs near the hearth. “Can I pour you something?”

Sylus inclined his head slightly, lowering himself into the nearest chair with deliberate grace. He rested one arm on the chair’s polished armrest, his fingers tapping lightly against the leather. “Wine will do.”

Vincent poured two glasses, handing one to Sylus before settling into the chair opposite him. He raised his glass in a casual toast. “To new ventures.”

Sylus clinked his glass lightly against Vincent’s but didn’t drink. Instead, he swirled the deep red liquid, watching how it clung to the sides of the glass. His mind was already working, piecing together what little information he’d gleaned so far. The portraits in the hallway had been deliberate, a carefully curated display meant to project an image of familial pride. But something about it felt off. Reese’s face had been too prominent, his image too recent. Sylus suspected that Vincent wasn’t displaying a legacy—he was mourning a loss.

“I couldn’t help but notice the portraits in the hall,” Sylus said casually, breaking the silence. “Your son?”

Vincent’s expression flickered briefly before he nodded, taking a sip of his wine. “Yes, my son Reese. He was a good boy once. Smart, driven. But…” He trailed off, his gaze growing distant. “Things change. He got caught up with the wrong crowd—drugs, bad influences. You try to guide them, but at some point, they make their own choices.”

Sylus tilted his head slightly, feigning a thoughtful expression. “That must be difficult. Watching someone you love spiral like that.”

“It is,” Vincent admitted, setting his glass down on the small table beside him. “It’s been hardest on my wife. She worried herself sick over him. And now he's gone.”

Sylus noted the way Vincent’s jaw tightened ever so slightly at the mention of his wife. There was something guarded in his tone, a subtle hesitation that didn’t escape Sylus’s attention. He stored the detail away for later use.

“I suppose I’ll be finding out what that’s like soon enough,” Sylus said after a pause, his voice light but deliberate.

Vincent arched a brow, clearly intrigued. “Oh?”

Sylus allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. “I’m expecting a child of my own very soon. A daughter.”

For a moment, Vincent’s expression softened, genuine emotion flickering in his eyes. He chuckled, lifting his glass in a half-toast. “A daughter, huh? You’re a lucky man. I always wished I’d had a daughter. Would’ve given her the world.”

Sylus filed that comment away, noting the wistfulness in Vincent’s tone. He wondered, briefly, if Vincent’s regret stemmed from something deeper—some failure he hadn’t yet admitted to himself. But he didn’t press the issue.

“Perhaps things would’ve been different,” Sylus mused aloud, his tone carefully neutral.

Vincent gave a slight nod but didn’t elaborate. Instead, he took another sip of his wine, as though retreating into his thoughts.

Sylus allowed the silence to stretch for a moment before steering the conversation back. “Stress like that must be hard on your wife,” he said, his voice carrying just the right note of concern. “I imagine it’s taken a toll.”

Vincent’s eyes darkened, and Sylus caught the brief flicker of something—guilt, perhaps?—before the man spoke. “It has. She’s battling cancer. The doctors say she needs a new kidney and liver if she’s going to have any real chance of survival. That’s why this deal is so important to me. I need her to live.”

Sylus leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine once more. He didn’t respond immediately, letting the weight of Vincent’s words hang in the air. There was something off about the way Vincent spoke—his tone was too measured, too practiced. Before Sylus could probe further, a sudden knock at the door broke the moment.

“We're busy, come back later” Vincent called, his irritation barely concealed.

The door suddenly swung opened to reveal an older blonde woman with sharp features and blazing eyes. She stormed into the room with an air of indignation, her hands clenched at her sides.

“Vincent, you said you’d only be a few minutes!” she snapped, her voice cutting through the room like a whip. “I’ve been waiting long enough.”

Vincent’s composure cracked, irritation flaring across his face. “I told you not to come in while I’m conducting business.”

“That’s no way to talk to your wife!” she screamed before turning on her heel and storming out, slamming the door behind her.

Sylus’s eyes followed her retreating figure, his expression carefully neutral. But inwardly, unease prickled at the edges of his mind. That woman didn’t look sick. There were no signs of frailty, no visible indication of someone battling a life-threatening illness. Yet Vincent had just spoken at length about his wife’s dire condition.

Something wasn’t adding up.

Vincent sighed heavily, rubbing his temples before turning back to Sylus. The firelight cast long shadows across his face, accentuating the weariness in his expression. “Apologies for that,” he muttered. “Emotions run high in these circumstances.”

Sylus leaned back in his chair, resting his glass of untouched wine on the armrest. He didn’t speak, choosing instead to observe Vincent in silence. His sharp crimson eyes flicked to the door where the woman had stormed out, her angry words still hanging in the air like an echo.

"That’s no way to talk to your wife!".

The pieces didn’t fit. The woman who had just left was far from the image of someone fighting for their life. Her complexion had been healthy, her stride strong. There had been no trace of sickness in her voice or demeanor. Yet Vincent had painted a picture of a wife on the brink of death, clinging to hope by a thread.

Sylus’s instincts prickled with suspicion. Something was off, and he had a sinking feeling he already knew what it was.

“Look,” Vincent said, exhaling slowly as though bracing himself for judgment. “Man to man…I know what you must be thinking. I’ll explain.”

Sylus arched a brow, gesturing slightly with his free hand as if to say, Go on. He maintained an air of polite curiosity, though inwardly, his mind was already racing, calculating the implications of what he was about to hear.

“It’s not my wife who’s sick,” Vincent admitted, his voice low and strained. He reached for his glass, taking a long sip before continuing. “It’s…my mistress. She’s the one with cancer.”

There it was.

Sylus didn’t react outwardly, keeping his expression neutral. But beneath the surface, a flicker of disgust stirred in his chest. He wasn’t shocked—he’d dealt with men like Vincent before, men who cloaked their deceit in noble intentions. But hearing it spoken aloud, seeing the casual way Vincent justified his betrayal, made Sylus’s disdain sharpen.

“I know how it sounds,” Vincent continued quickly, as though trying to preempt any criticism. “Cheating is wrong, yes, but…I love her. I can’t watch her die. My wife—she doesn’t know. And I intend to keep it that way.”

Sylus leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the armrest as he steepled his fingers. His crimson eyes locked onto Vincent’s with an intensity that made the older man shift slightly in his seat.

“How long has this…arrangement been going on?” Sylus asked, his voice smooth but carrying a subtle edge.

“Five years,” Vincent admitted, his tone defensive. “I never intended for it to get this complicated, but things happened. Life happened. I love them both, but I can’t lose her—not like this.”

Sylus remained silent, letting Vincent’s words hang in the air. The fire crackled softly in the background, filling the void as the tension between them grew thicker. He could see the desperation in Vincent’s eyes, the way his hands gripped the glass a little too tightly, as though holding onto it would keep everything from falling apart.

“I see,” Sylus said at last, his tone measured. “It’s…a difficult situation.”

Vincent exhaled in relief, clearly mistaking Sylus’s neutrality for understanding. “Exactly. You do what you have to, right? That’s why this deal means so much to me. I need the protocore. It’s her only chance.”

Sylus swirled the wine in his glass, watching the dark liquid slosh against the sides. He didn’t drink. He never intended to. The game Vincent was playing was clear now—a game of betrayal, fueled by misplaced loyalty and selfishness. Sylus had no sympathy for men like him, but he knew better than to show his hand too soon.

“Of course,” Sylus said smoothly, lifting his glass in a silent toast before setting it down untouched. “You’re doing what you believe is necessary. I can respect that.”

Vincent relaxed slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing. He poured himself another glass, clearly emboldened by what he perceived as Sylus’s agreement.

But Sylus wasn’t done yet.

“Though,” he said after a moment, his tone casual but pointed, “I imagine it must be difficult keeping something like this hidden. Secrets have a way of…unraveling.”

Vincent’s hand stilled briefly before he resumed pouring, the faintest hint of unease flickering across his face. “I’ve managed so far,” he said, his tone a little too brisk. “She doesn't suspect a thing.”

Sylus offered a faint smile, leaning back in his chair once more. “I'm sure she doesn't.”

Luck. Sylus didn’t believe in it. Men like Vincent relied on luck, on the hope that their lies would remain undiscovered, that they could continue juggling their fragile lives without consequence. But luck always ran out.

For now, Sylus played along, letting Vincent bask in the illusion of control. But as he watched the man across from him, he couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of contempt. Vincent claimed to love both women, yet his actions spoke of cowardice and selfishness. He was no better than the men Sylus had crushed underfoot in the past—men who believed they could cheat fate with charm and wealth.

Sylus leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he observed Vincent closely. The older man’s initial air of confidence had begun to waver, subtle cracks appearing in his polished façade. It was almost amusing—how quickly a man could shift from composed to cornered when the right pressure was applied.

“You’ve always been good at balancing appearances, Vincent,” Sylus said, his voice calm, almost conversational. “A loving husband. A grieving father. And yet, behind it all…someone willing to trade women for profit.”

Vincent’s glass paused mid-air, the amber liquid inside trembling slightly. He forced a tight smile, setting the glass down with a faint clink. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, Sylus.”

Sylus’s eyes gleamed in the firelight, a dangerous glint flickering in their crimson depths. He leaned forward slightly, his tone still smooth but carrying a razor-sharp edge. “I wonder…how would your wife react if she knew the real reason you’ve been so…preoccupied? Not just with your mistress, but with the blood you’ve spilled to keep her alive.”

Vincent’s expression hardened. “Careful,” he warned, his voice low. “You’re crossing a line.”

Sylus didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk widened, a predator toying with its prey. “Oh, I haven’t crossed anything yet. I’m merely stating the obvious. Reese got in over his head, didn’t he? He didn’t just ‘fall in with the wrong crowd.’ He was the wrong crowd.”

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the distant crackle of the fire. Vincent’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white against the leather armrests. There was no more room for pretense—Sylus had laid the truth bare, and Vincent knew it.

Still, Sylus wasn’t done. He leaned back again, exuding a sense of calm control that only heightened the tension in the room. “It must’ve been difficult,” he mused aloud. “Keeping that kind of operation hidden for so long. Juggling the demands of your little empire while ensuring no one pulled at the wrong thread.”

Vincent’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sylus chuckled softly, the sound devoid of humor. “Don’t I? I’ve seen men like you before, Vincent. Desperate men. Men who cling to power, thinking they can cheat fate. But fate, you see…” He tapped the rim of his wine glass with a finger, the faint ping echoing ominously. “Fate has a way of catching up with you. Secrets—they don’t just unravel. They unravel you. And once the first thread is pulled…” He let the sentence hang, the implication clear.

Vincent’s breathing had grown heavier, his composure slipping further with every word. He was no longer the confident businessman who had welcomed Sylus into his home. He was a man standing on the edge of a precipice, staring down into the abyss.

“What do you want?” Vincent finally asked, his voice strained.

Sylus’s smile faded, replaced by a cold, calculating expression. “Simple. You’ll give me exactly what I came here for. No games. No double-crosses. And in return…” He let the silence linger for a moment, watching as Vincent hung on his every word. “I won’t pull that first thread.”

Vincent visibly paled, the color draining from his face as Sylus’s words sank in, each one landing like a deliberate blow. His fingers twitched against the armrests of his chair, his grip tightening momentarily before he forced himself to relax. The air in the room seemed to shift, thickening with unspoken tension. He cleared his throat, masking the tremor in his voice as he struggled to maintain some semblance of composure.

“Well?” Vincent said, his voice strained and tight, each word sounding as though it had to be dragged from his throat. “Spit it out, then. What did you really come here for? And…what do you mean Reese was?”

Sylus tilted his head slightly, crimson eyes gleaming with something dark and unreadable. The firelight cast long shadows across his sharp features, accentuating the cold detachment in his expression. He leaned back in the chair, steepling his fingers as though contemplating how much to reveal. For a long, excruciating moment, the only sounds in the room were the faint crackle of the fire and the steady ticking of the ornate clock on the mantel. Sylus let the silence stretch, knowing full well that it would gnaw at Vincent’s fraying nerves.

Finally, he spoke, his tone casual but laced with menace. “The woman you’ve been commissioning to steal those girls—Serene Grey. Where is she?”

Vincent blinked, clearly caught off guard by the abrupt shift in topic. His brows furrowed in confusion as he processed the name. “Serene…?” he repeated slowly, as though the mere mention of her brought with it an uncomfortable weight. Sylus didn’t miss the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, nor the way his fingers tightened around the armrest once more.

“She’s a slippery little thing,” Sylus continued, his voice as smooth as silk, every word carefully measured. “Been evading my sights for a while now. But that ends today.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze never leaving Vincent’s. “You’re going to tell me exactly where she is.”

Vincent’s expression hardened, his mouth drawing into a thin line as he squared his shoulders. “And what makes you think I know where she is?”

Sylus gave a low, mirthless chuckle, the sound devoid of humor but rich with something far more unsettling. He leaned forward further, the predatory gleam in his eyes growing sharper. “Come now, Vincent. You’ve been playing this game long enough to know how it works. You commission someone like Serene Grey for these organs, and you keep tabs on her to make sure she doesn’t turn on you. Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise.”

Vincent opened his mouth, perhaps to deny the accusation, but Sylus raised a hand, halting him before he could speak. There was no point in entertaining false protests. Sylus wasn’t here to negotiate—he was here to extract the truth.

“And as for your son…” Sylus said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, each word delivered with deliberate precision. “Not sure if you’re aware, but he was supplying these women to Serene. For crack, of all things. Small world huh?”

Vincent’s face twisted, a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and mounting rage flickering across his features. Sylus let the moment hang, savoring the weight of his revelation before continuing.

“One of those women,” Sylus said softly, his voice barely more than a murmur, “just so happened to be the mother of my child.”

The room fell deathly silent. Vincent’s eyes widened, and for a split second, a flicker of something close to panic crossed his face. But before he could form a response, Sylus leaned back again, a wicked grin spreading across his face like the blade of a knife glinting in the firelight.

“And he…ultimately paid the price.”

The silence shattered as Vincent shot to his feet, his eyes blazing with fury. The fire behind him cast long shadows across the room, making his figure seem larger, more imposing. But Sylus remained utterly unfazed, his grin never wavering.

“You…bastard,” Vincent hissed through clenched teeth, every syllable dripping with venom. “So it was you who killed my son?”

Sylus didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as blink. Instead, he calmly lifted his glass of wine, swirling the liquid lazily as though Vincent’s outburst was nothing more than an amusing spectacle. “He left me no choice,” Sylus said smoothly, his voice devoid of remorse. “Actions have consequences, Vincent. Your son learned that the hard way.”

Vincent’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white with tension. For a moment, it looked as though he might lunge across the room, driven by sheer rage. But something stopped him—perhaps it was the icy calm in Sylus’s eyes, or the chilling realization that he was entirely outmatched.

“You cold-blooded—” Vincent began, but the words caught in his throat, strangled by the weight of his own fury.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, his grin fading into something colder, more calculating. “I understand this must be difficult for you,” he said, his tone mockingly sympathetic. “Losing a son is…tragic. But you should know better than anyone—business is business. Reese chose his path, and he paid for it.”

Vincent’s breathing grew heavier, his chest rising and falling with barely contained rage. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, every second stretching out like an eternity. His mind raced, torn between the burning desire for vengeance and the grim realization that Sylus held all the cards. Attacking him outright would be suicide, but letting him walk away after admitting to killing Reese? That felt impossible to stomach.

“You think you can walk in here, threaten me, and leave without consequence?” Vincent growled, his voice low and dangerous, each word laced with barely restrained fury.

Sylus raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of amusement flickering across his face. “Threaten you?” he repeated softly, his tone almost bored. “No, Vincent. I’m giving you a choice.” He leaned forward once more, his crimson eyes locking onto Vincent’s with an intensity that made the older man freeze. “Tell me where to find Serene Grey, and this ends here. No more blood. No more…unraveling secrets. I'll even be so gracious and help you save your dear mistress.”

Vincent’s jaw clenched tightly, his eyes darting toward the door as though considering summoning his guards. But deep down, he knew it wouldn’t matter. Sylus wasn’t a man who could be intimidated by force. He was smarter, faster, deadlier—and Vincent wasn’t willing to gamble on who would walk away if things turned violent.

“You’ll regret this,” Vincent said at last, his voice low and seething with barely concealed rage. “I’ll help you. But don’t think for a second that this means we’re done.”

Sylus inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the terms of the unspoken agreement. “Of course not,” he said smoothly. “We’re far from done. But for now…I’ll consider it a gesture of goodwill.”

Vincent’s hands still trembled slightly as he reached for the decanter, pouring himself another drink with far less precision than before. He downed the glass in one go, as though trying to steady his fraying nerves. Meanwhile, Sylus remained perfectly composed, watching him with the cold detachment of a man who had already won.

Vincent set his empty glass down with a sharp clink, the tension in his shoulders evident as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His expression was a mixture of begrudging acceptance and simmering resentment. Sylus’s unflappable calm only seemed to heighten his frustration, but he knew he had no choice—Sylus held the upper hand.

“She’s been operating out of a private estate about twenty miles outside the city,” Vincent said at last, his voice low and taut. “You’ll find her there. She keeps her movements quiet, doesn’t stay in one place for long, but I’ve…kept tabs on her.”

Sylus arched a brow, the faintest flicker of approval crossing his features. “Efficient,” he murmured, though his tone carried a hint of condescension. “I assume you’ve spared no expense in ensuring she doesn’t slip away from you?”

Vincent shot him a glare but refrained from responding to the jab. Instead, he reached into a drawer, pulling out a small folder and sliding it across the table toward Sylus. “Here’s everything I have—addresses, known associates, recent sightings.”

Sylus took the folder with a measured nod, flipping it open to scan the contents. Inside were photographs of Serene Grey, a woman with cold eyes and a cunning smile, alongside detailed reports of her movements and operations. He noted the precision of the intel, silently acknowledging Vincent’s thoroughness.

“This will do,” Sylus said, closing the folder and setting it aside. He leaned back in his chair once more, exuding the same aura of effortless control that had unnerved Vincent from the start. “You’ve made a wise decision, Vincent.”

Vincent let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “Wise? Hardly. You backed me into a corner.”

Sylus’s lips quirked into a faint smirk. “It’s better to be cornered than crushed. You still have options. Play your cards right, and you might even come out of this unscathed. So long as you cease this trafficking operation of course.”

Vincent didn’t respond immediately. He poured himself another glass of whiskey, his hands steadier now, though his mind was anything but. The revelation about Reese’s involvement in Serene’s operations had hit harder than he wanted to admit. He had known his son had problems—had even suspected him of dabbling in criminal circles—but hearing it confirmed, and by the man who killed him, was another matter entirely.

After a long silence, Vincent spoke again, his tone quieter, more contemplative. “She’s dangerous, you know. Serene doesn’t just disappear because she’s afraid. She disappears because she’s planning something.”

Sylus regarded him with interest, his fingers drumming lightly against the armrest. “Planning what?”

Vincent hesitated, as though debating whether or not to share more. But something in Sylus’s gaze made it clear that withholding information wasn’t an option. “Word is, she’s been trying to secure something big. Something…rare.”

Sylus’s eyes narrowed slightly. He had heard whispers of Serene’s recent dealings, but nothing concrete. “Go on.”

Vincent took a slow sip of his drink before continuing. “A shipment of illicit protocore. High-grade. She’s been brokering deals with some unsavory types—mercenaries, rogue scientists, the works. If she gets her hands on those cores…” He trailed off, the implication hanging heavily in the air.

Sylus didn’t need Vincent to finish the thought. Protocores, especially ones of high purity, were highly sought after in the underground market. They could enhance abilities, extend life spans, and, in the wrong hands, wreak untold havoc. If Serene was involved in something like that, it wasn’t just a matter of personal revenge anymore—it was a potential threat on a much larger scale.

Not that he cared much about illegal protocore trading. Its part of how he built his own empire. However getting his hands on them himself didn't sound like a bad idea.

“Interesting,” Sylus murmured, his mind already calculating the next move. He stood, picking up the folder and tucking it neatly under his arm. “I’ll handle it.”

Vincent rose as well, though his movements were slower, wearier. He fixed Sylus with a hard stare, his expression unreadable. “If you find her…do what you have to. But leave my name out of it.”

Sylus gave him a cold, knowing smile. “Of course. Discretion is a given.”

Sylus then dug into the pocket of his suit and pulled out the Emerald Protocore, it shining in its glass container. He dropped the container on a desk, watching Vincent eyes light up.

"Say hi to the mistress for me. I'm sure she'll appreciate the gift"

Without another word, Sylus turned and made his way toward the door, his steps deliberate and unhurried. Vincent watched him go, the weight of their encounter settling heavily on his shoulders. As the door closed behind Sylus, Vincent reached for his glass once more, downing the remainder in one swift motion.

Sylus stepped outside Vincent’s estate, the bright afternoon sun casting sharp shadows across the pristine driveway. The light glinted off the sleek black car waiting for him, but the warmth of the day did little to temper the cold fury bubbling just beneath his calm exterior. Mephisto swooped down from a nearby tree, perching on his shoulder with a soft flutter of wings. The bird ruffled its feathers, letting out a low, disgruntled caw.

Sylus absentmindedly reached up to stroke the birds head, his thoughts already elsewhere. He had done what he came here to do—secured the protocore and struck a deal that, at least for now, kept Vincent’s meddling contained. But something about the encounter still irked him. The man’s desperation, his hollow excuses for deceit—it grated on Sylus in a way he hadn’t anticipated. And now, as he stood there in the afternoon light, a new thought took root in his mind, one that grew darker with every passing second.

He pulled out his phone, dialing a secure number. The line clicked, and a voice answered, steady and efficient. “Yes, sir?”

Sylus’s eyes narrowed slightly, his tone even but carrying an unmistakable edge. “Vincent’s plane trip—make sure it ends in tragedy.”

There was a pause, the person on the other end clearly processing the order before responding carefully. “Understood, sir. How would you like it handled?”

“Mechanical failure,” Sylus said, his voice cold and deliberate. “Something plausible. Nothing too obvious. And ensure the wife survives.” He paused, considering his next words carefully. “She’ll finally be free of his lies, and with him gone, there’ll be no more distractions.”

“Yes, sir. And the timing?”

“The trip is in a week” Sylus ended the call without waiting for a response, slipping the phone back into his pocket. He rarely reconsidered decisions once made, but something about Vincent’s situation—the false life he led, the deceit woven into every aspect of his existence—had struck a nerve. Perhaps it was because Sylus himself had no patience for such duplicity, or perhaps it was because, despite all his flaws, there was one thing he had always been certain of: loyalty.

Cheating on the woman you vowed to protect? And for what? Selfish love? The thought made his stomach turn.

At least Vincent’s wife would be free now. And as for the mistress? Sylus had no interest in her fate. He had given Vincent the protocore—what happened beyond that was no longer his concern.

Just as he turned to step into the car, his phone vibrated again in his pocket. He frowned, glancing at the caller ID: Luke. Without hesitation, he answered, pressing the phone to his ear.

“Speak.”

There was a brief pause, followed by Luke’s voice—uneven, trembling, and clearly panicked. “Boss. I—I’m sorry. Please, I’ll fix this.”

Sylus’s brows furrowed instantly, a flicker of unease settling in his chest. Luke’s tone wasn’t just nervous—it was bordering on frantic. “What are you even talking about, Luke? Fix what? Is she okay?”

“I—uh—she’s on foot right now,” Luke stammered, each word coming out more frantic than the last. “With a gun.”

Sylus’s entire body went rigid, his mind racing as those words sank in. On foot? With a gun? His heart rate spiked, but his voice remained dangerously calm. “What kind of joke is this? I told you to only call me if her water broke,” he said slowly, his tone low and laced with tension. “So unless—”

“No, it’s not a joke!” Luke interrupted quickly, the fear in his voice palpable. “It’s…I left my gun in my coat pocket. After I spilled soda on her, I gave her the coat, and…she found it. She pointed it at us and threatened to shoot herself if we didn’t let her go.”

Sylus’s grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles turning white. His blood began to boil, a mix of fury and something far more dangerous—panic. “You what?” he growled, his voice dangerously low, each word carrying the weight of barely restrained rage.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen!” Luke said quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush. “She just—she ran off before we could stop her. She’s on foot, boss. But I swear, we’ll find her.”

For a moment, Sylus said nothing, his mind racing through every possible scenario. You were out there, alone, heavily pregnant, armed, and clearly distraught enough to threaten your own life. The thought sent a wave of cold dread through him, but he forced himself to stay focused.

“I’ll deal with you both later,” Sylus said after a tense pause, his tone colder than ice. “For now, keep calm. There’s a tracker embedded in her engagement ring—I can see her location easily.”

Luke exhaled shakily, clearly relieved that there was a way to track you down. “What do you want us to do, boss?”

Sylus’s jaw clenched as he fought to keep his emotions in check. Anger, fear, frustration—all of it threatened to boil over, but he couldn’t afford to lose control now. He needed to get to you. Fast. Serene would have to wait.

“I’ll send you both her coordinates,” he said, his voice hard and unyielding. “I can be back in about eight hours. By the time I arrive, I expect her to be back safely. No exceptions.”

“Yes, boss,” Luke said hurriedly, his voice trembling slightly. “We’ll get her and the baby back. I promise.”

“You already failed me once,” Sylus said darkly, his tone cutting like a blade. “Don’t let it happen again.”

Without waiting for a response, he ended the call and lowered the phone, his hand still clenched tightly around it. His heart pounded in his chest, the residual anger mingling with a growing sense of urgency. He opened the tracking app, watching as a small blinking dot appeared on the map. You hadn’t gotten far yet—good. That gave him some time.

The thought of you, heavily pregnant and vulnerable, wandering alone with a gun, filled him with a growing sense of dread. He was a man who controlled everything in his world—his business, his empire, even life and death when necessary—but right now, the one thing he valued most was beyond his immediate reach. Anything could happen out there. You could get injured, go into labor, run into a Wanderer...

Gritting his teeth, Sylus inhaled sharply and turned to the crow perched on his shoulder. Mephisto ruffled his feathers, sensing the rising tension in his creator's demeanor.

“Mephisto,” Sylus said, his voice low but commanding, each syllable cutting through the air like a blade. “Hurry back to the N109 Zone. I want everything within a hundred miles scanned—every road, every path, every possible hiding spot.”

Mephisto let out a sharp, piercing shriek, his beady eyes gleaming with understanding. Without hesitation, the crow spread his wings and launched into the sky, disappearing into the afternoon light with powerful beats of his wings. Sylus tracked his ascent for a moment, watching as the bird soared higher, becoming a dark speck against the bright expanse above.

He climbed into the back of the waiting car, his expression cold and unreadable as he barked a sharp order to the driver. “Back to the airfield. Now.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver responded without hesitation, pulling away from the estate at high speed.

As the car sped down the long driveway, Sylus leaned back in his seat, his fingers drumming restlessly against the leather armrest. His thoughts were entirely consumed by you—your safety, your well-being, and his daughter. The very thought of something happening to you made his blood run cold. His mind was already working, calculating the fastest way to reach you. Eight hours. It was too long, but it would have to do.

And when he found you—when he brought you back—you wouldn’t be leaving his sight again.

Not for a long, long time.

Your breath came in short, sharp gasps as you stumbled down the uneven dirt path, your hands instinctively cradling your swollen belly. Every step felt like fire shooting through your feet, your muscles screaming in protest, but you didn’t dare stop. Not yet. You couldn’t. The weight of your baby pressing down on your abdomen made it harder to move with any real speed, and the burning ache in your lower back only worsened with each passing second.

Your daughter kicked fiercely, almost as if she could sense your distress. You winced, pausing briefly to press your hand against your belly, trying to soothe her. “It’s okay,” you whispered through gritted teeth, though you weren’t sure who you were trying to reassure—her or yourself. “Just a little further…”

You scanned your surroundings frantically. The area felt eerily familiar—broken streetlights lined the path on either side, and just ahead, you noticed a clearing that tugged at your memory. Of course. You’d been down this way before, during your last escape attempt. Back then, you had taken the path leading toward the corner store. That was how you had ended up with Reese. In that basement. You weren’t about to make the same mistake twice.

Without hesitation, you veered off in the opposite direction, away from the familiar route and deeper into the unknown. The air was thick with tension, every rustling leaf and snapping twig setting your nerves on edge. No doubt Luke and Kieran had already alerted Sylus, and he was probably tracking you right now. You could almost feel the weight of his gaze, like a shadow looming over you, relentless and unyielding.

Your heart pounded wildly in your chest—not just from the physical exertion, but from sheer fear. You knew what Sylus was capable of. He wouldn’t stop. He never stopped. He always found you.

You tried to push the thought from your mind, focusing instead on placing one foot in front of the other. But it was getting harder. Every few steps, a sharp, tightening pain rippled through your belly, stealing your breath and forcing you to slow down. Braxton Hicks, you reminded yourself, though that knowledge did little to ease your growing anxiety. You couldn’t afford to stop, not when freedom was finally within reach.

After what felt like an eternity, you spotted a bus stop up ahead. Relief washed over you, though it was fleeting—there was no telling when the next bus would arrive, and you couldn’t linger too long out in the open. Still, your legs threatened to buckle beneath you, and the burning in your chest demanded a moment’s rest. You staggered toward the bench, collapsing onto it with a quiet groan as you leaned back and closed your eyes for a brief second, trying to catch your breath.

The baby kicked again, harder this time, and you grimaced, placing both hands on your belly as if to calm her. “I know, I know,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “We can’t stop for long. Just give me a minute…”

Your entire body ached—your feet throbbed, your back felt like it was on fire, and the relentless pressure in your lower abdomen made it almost impossible to think straight. You wiped the sweat from your brow with the sleeve of Luke’s coat, which was now damp and clinging uncomfortably to your skin. Despite the cool afternoon breeze, you felt unbearably hot, every breath coming out ragged and shallow.

Just when you thought you couldn’t push yourself any further, the low rumble of an approaching engine caught your attention. Your eyes snapped open, heart leaping with a mix of hope and trepidation as a bus rounded the corner and slowed to a stop in front of you.

The doors hissed open, and the driver—a middle-aged man with graying hair and a tired expression—leaned slightly out of his seat, eyeing you warily. “You got any money?” he asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.

Panic flickered in your chest. Of course, you hadn’t thought about money. “Please,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, raw with desperation. “I don’t…I don’t have any money. I’m pregnant, and I’m homeless. I just need a ride—just a few stops, to get closer to my-er mom’s house.”

Was the lie convincing enough? You hoped so. Your sure you looked a mess by now.

The driver’s eyes flicked down to your belly, taking in your disheveled appearance—sweaty, exhausted, clearly in pain. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and you held your breath, silently pleading with him. If he turned you away now, you didn’t know what you’d do.

Finally, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before jerking his head toward the interior of the bus. “Alright, get on. But just a few stops, you hear me?”

Relief flooded through you, so overwhelming that you nearly burst into tears. “Thank you,” you whispered, forcing yourself to your feet despite the burning protest of your muscles. You climbed the steps carefully, gripping the rail tightly to keep your balance as another wave of Braxton Hicks contractions tightened your belly.

Once you were on board, you made your way to the nearest seat and sank down heavily, letting out a shuddering breath. The driver glanced at you in the rearview mirror but said nothing more as he pulled away from the curb, the bus lurching forward with a groan of its engine.

For the first time since your frantic escape, you allowed yourself a moment to relax—if only slightly. The bus rocked gently as it moved, the familiar motion oddly soothing despite the chaos still swirling in your mind. You rested a hand on your belly, feeling the baby shift beneath your touch. She was still moving, still kicking, which meant she was okay for now.

But you weren’t out of danger yet. You knew that. No doubt Sylus was already on your tail—he always seemed to know exactly where you were, no matter how far you ran. You didn’t have much time, but at least now, with the bus covering some of the distance, you had a chance.

You had to be much smarter than last time. This would definitely be your last chance. God knows what Sylus would come up with next if he got you again. A cage maybe...? The thought made you shudder.

As the bus rumbled along the uneven road, you tried to steady your breathing, one hand gripping the seat tightly while the other remained protectively on your belly. The baby had calmed down somewhat, but you could still feel her shifting restlessly beneath your palm. The rhythmic rocking of the bus helped ease the burning ache in your legs, though your heart continued to pound, each beat a reminder of the ticking clock.

You hadn’t lied about being in pain—you were. Everything hurt. But the part about going to your mom’s house? That had been pure desperation. You hadn’t seen your mom in years. She was dead. Still, it had been enough to convince the driver to let you on, and that was what mattered.

Leaning back against the cracked leather seat, you glanced out the window, your eyes scanning the passing scenery. The streets were familiar but distant, hazy memories of another life surfacing briefly before fading away. You tried not to think about Sylus, but it was impossible. You knew him too well. He wouldn’t rest until he found you. Even now, Mephisto could be nearby, tracking your every move.

Your hand drifted to the ring, the weight of it feeling heavier than usual. It had once been a symbol of something you didn’t fully understand—Sylus’s obsession, his possessiveness. Now, it was a constant reminder that you were never truly free. You wanted to rip it off, toss it out the window, but you hesitated.

No. The ring could be useful. You could sell it for money right? Use the money to hop on a ferry and go overseas...to get as far away from Sylus as possible. Yeah that made way more sense than just tossing it.

“You sure you don’t have a husband looking for you?” the driver’s voice broke the silence, startling you slightly.

You turned to find him watching you in the rearview mirror, his brow furrowed in concern. It took you a moment to realize what had prompted the question, and when you did, your heart skipped a beat. Shit. The ring. You had been looking at it. How to explain how a "homeless" pregnant woman had such an extravagant ring?

“I…” You hesitated, your mind scrambling for an explanation. “Please,” you said quietly, avoiding his gaze. “You don’t want to get involved. For your own safety, just drop me off at the next few stops. I can’t say much more.”

The driver’s eyes flicked to the ring again, his concern deepening, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he gave a reluctant nod, his hands tightening slightly on the steering wheel as he turned his attention back to the road.

“Alright, lady,” he muttered. “But you be careful. Whatever mess you’re running from…I hope you find a way out.”

You didn’t respond, your fingers tightening around the edge of the seat as you stared down at the ring on your hand. The cool metal felt heavy against your skin, a constant reminder of the danger lurking just behind you. Every decision felt like a gamble, each one carrying risks you couldn’t fully predict. All you could do was keep moving and hope that, somehow, you could stay one step ahead. As the bus rumbled on, you leaned back against the cracked leather seat, trying to ignore the gnawing fear in your chest. You didn’t know what lay ahead, but one thing was certain—you couldn’t stop now.

The bus rumbled to a stop at the corner of a quiet, empty street, the brakes hissing as it came to a halt. You blinked, startled out of your frantic thoughts by the sudden stillness. The driver turned slightly in his seat, his weary eyes meeting yours through the rearview mirror.

“This is where I stop for you, miss,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with quiet finality.

For a moment, you just stared at him, unable to process the words. Your heart sank, a heavy weight settling in your chest. No, this can’t be it. It’s not far enough. You wouldn’t make it more than a few miles on foot before Sylus or the twins caught up to you. You needed to cover more ground, and you needed to do it fast.

“Please,” you said, your voice trembling as you pushed yourself to your feet, gripping the seat in front of you for balance. “I’m sorry, but…I really need to get out of the city.”

The driver’s expression softened slightly, but he shook his head. “I can’t. I’ve already taken you further than I should’ve. I need this job, miss. Please, just step off the bus.”

Desperation clawed at your throat, making it hard to breathe. You could feel the baby shifting restlessly inside you, as if she could sense your rising panic. This isn’t enough. I won’t make it. I’ll be caught. The thought sent a jolt of fear through you, making your hands tremble as you tried to think of something—anything—that could change the driver’s mind.

“I can give you my ring as compensation,” you blurted out, your voice cracking with urgency. You held up your hand, the engagement ring glinting faintly in the dim light. “It’s really expensive—”

The driver raised a hand, cutting you off with a sorrowful expression. “I’m sorry, miss. I can’t take that. I’m not looking to rob a pregnant woman, and I can’t lose my job. Please, just step off the bus. I can call an ambulance or take you to a hospital if you really need it, but I can’t drive you any further.”

Your heart pounded harder, every beat echoing like a ticking clock in your ears. You didn’t have time for this. You didn’t have time to wait for kindness or hope for mercy. Sylus could be closing in on you this very second. Every second you spent arguing was another second lost.

“I don’t have time for this!” you snapped, your voice rising in pitch as tears began to blur your vision. “Please! I’ll do anything. I need to get out of the city—for me and my baby’s safety!” You could hear the desperation in your own voice, the raw panic threatening to consume you.

Tears streamed down your face now, hot and fast, and your hands shook uncontrollably as you clutched at the seat in front of you. You could feel the driver’s hesitation, see the sympathy in his eyes, but it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated quietly, but his voice had hardened, resolved. “Please step off the bus. I don’t want to have to drag a pregnant lady off, but if you don’t get off willingly, I’ll have no choice.”

You froze, your heart skipping a beat as those words sank in. He was serious. He wasn’t going to take you any further. You didn’t have time to beg. You didn’t have time to argue. Time was running out, and you knew—you knew—that if you stepped off this bus, it was over. Sylus would find you, and everything you had done to escape would be for nothing.

Something inside you snapped.

Your fingers instinctively went to the pocket of Luke’s coat, wrapping around the cold metal of the sleep gun. You pulled it out in one swift motion, leveling it at the driver before you could second-guess yourself.

His eyes widened in shock, and his hands shot up in the universal gesture of surrender. “Whoa, whoa! What the hell are you doing?” he said, his voice rising in alarm. “Put the gun down! You don’t want to do this.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, and the words felt foreign, hollow, like they didn’t belong to you. Your hands were trembling, the weight of the gun cold and terrifying, but you didn’t lower it. “You seem like a nice man, but either you drive me out of here…or I’ll drive myself.”

The driver stared at you, his expression a mixture of fear and disbelief. “Look, I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, but threatening me isn’t going to help you.”

“I don’t have a choice!” you shouted, your voice breaking as more tears spilled down your face. “You don’t understand—I can’t go back. I won’t go back.”

For a brief moment, silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the engine. The bus driver looked at you, really looked at you—at your tear-streaked face, your trembling hands, the sheer desperation radiating from every part of you. Slowly, he exhaled, lowering his hands slightly.

“Okay,” he said carefully, his tone calm but wary. “Okay. Just…calm down. Don’t do anything rash.”

You didn’t respond, your grip on the gun tightening as your heart raced wildly in your chest. You couldn’t believe what you were doing. The old you would have never—never—pointed a gun at an innocent person. But that version of you was long gone. This was survival. Nothing else mattered now.

“Just drive,” you whispered hoarsely, your voice trembling with emotion. “Please.”

The driver hesitated for a moment longer, then, with a reluctant nod, he turned back toward the wheel. The bus lurched forward again, the engine groaning as it picked up speed. You didn’t lower the gun, keeping it trained on him, your mind spinning with fear and adrenaline.

You didn’t recognize yourself anymore. You didn’t know who you were becoming. But none of it mattered—not now. The only thing that mattered was getting out of the city, getting as far away from Sylus as possible.

And you would do whatever it took to make that happen.

The bus rumbled along the deserted road, the engine’s low hum filling the tense silence between you and the driver. Your hands gripped the gun tightly, your knuckles white, though every passing second made it harder to ignore the gnawing guilt creeping up your spine. The man hadn’t argued, hadn’t tried anything. He was just driving, his eyes flicking nervously to the rearview mirror every so often, clearly hyper-aware of the weapon pointed at him.

You felt awful—wretched, really. Here you were, holding a gun to the head of someone who had shown you nothing but kindness. Someone who had stopped his bus for a visibly pregnant woman, taken her on board despite her lack of money, and now…now he was being forced to drive to God knows where under threat of violence.

But you couldn’t lower the gun. Not yet.

Every instinct in you screamed to keep it raised, to stay alert, because the moment you let your guard down might be the moment it all ended. Sylus’s reach was far. You couldn’t risk stopping now. You couldn’t afford to trust anyone—not fully.

The silence stretched on, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of the bus and the sound of tires rolling over uneven pavement. You stared out the window, the scenery blurring past in muted shades of gray. Your heart still pounded in your chest, though the initial rush of adrenaline was beginning to wear off, leaving behind a hollow, aching exhaustion.

“Look,” the driver said suddenly, his voice cautious but steady, breaking the tense quiet. He didn’t turn to face you, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. “I could take you to Linkon. It’s the next city over, not too far from here. You’d be able to find a safe place there.”

You froze at the mention of Linkon, a surge of anxiety tightening your chest. Linkon. Where Xavier was. Where you had spent that brief, fleeting moment of happiness before everything went to hell again. The idea of going back there was tempting—painfully so—but you knew it wasn’t an option. Going to Linkon would only put Xavier in more danger, and you couldn’t live with yourself if that happened.

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I can’t go back there. I just…I can’t.”

The driver glanced at you briefly in the mirror, his brow furrowing in concern. “Okay…anywhere else, then? You name it.”

You hesitated, uncertainty gnawing at you. You didn’t have a destination in mind, only a desperate need to keep moving, to stay ahead of whatever storm was undoubtedly coming. “Just…anywhere but Linkon,” you said quietly, your voice trembling slightly. “And preferably not a major city. Somewhere quieter.”

The driver nodded slowly, eyeing the gun in your hands before turning his attention back to the road. Despite the tension in the air, he remained calm, his voice steady as he replied, “I got just the place. A small town a little further out. It’s quieter, like you asked.”

You swallowed hard, a flicker of gratitude stirring in your chest despite the guilt still weighing heavily on you. Even now, with a gun pointed at him, this man was offering to help. The realization made you feel sick to your stomach. What kind of person had you become?

“Okay,” you whispered, the word barely audible over the rumble of the engine. You glanced down at the gun in your hands, your fingers trembling slightly. For a brief moment, you considered lowering it, but fear held you back. You couldn’t take the risk.

“Please…just buckle your seatbelt, ma’am,” the driver said gently, his tone more concerned than fearful. “I don’t want you or the baby getting hurt.”

His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him. Despite everything—the fear, the tension, the threat of violence—he was still thinking about your safety. It was such a simple request, one that shouldn’t have made your throat tighten with emotion, but it did. You weren’t used to kindness anymore. Not real kindness.

With trembling hands, you reached for the seatbelt and pulled it across your body, clicking it into place. The baby shifted slightly inside you, as if responding to the sudden pressure, and you placed a hand over your belly, trying to calm the restless movement.

“Thank you,” you murmured, though you weren’t entirely sure who you were thanking—the driver for his patience, or yourself for not breaking down completely.

The driver gave a small nod, his gaze focused on the road. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on,” he said quietly after a moment, his voice calm and measured. “But whatever it is…life always finds a way to sort itself out again."

You didn’t respond. What could you say? That you were being hunted by a man who would stop at nothing to claim you as his own again? That you had escaped only to find yourself lost, with no real plan or destination? That you were terrified—terrified for yourself, for your baby, for whatever future lay ahead?

Instead, you sat in silence, your eyes fixed on the road ahead, the weight of everything pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket. You didn’t know what was waiting for you at the end of this journey, but one thing was certain—you couldn’t go back. You couldn’t let Sylus find you.

Not now.

Not ever.

"Boy or girl?" the driver asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the tense silence like a gentle nudge.

You froze, caught off guard by the question. It felt strange—foreign, even—to be spoken to like this, in a way that wasn’t demanding, controlling, or laced with hidden motives. You had forgotten what simple, human interaction with strangers felt like. Disregarding the time spent with Xavier, it had been so long since you were alone, truly alone, without Sylus looming in the background.

For a brief moment, you didn’t know how to respond. Your mind reeled, still teetering between fight and flight, and this unexpected moment of normalcy felt almost surreal. Yet, something about the driver’s casual tone, his genuine curiosity, calmed you just enough to find your voice.

"Uh…girl," you finally said, rubbing your belly instinctively. "She’s a girl."

The driver gave a small nod, his eyes flicking briefly to the rearview mirror before returning to the road. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, softening the lines of his weathered face. "That’s nice," he said quietly. "Have you decided what to name her?"

You blinked, startled once again by the simplicity of the question. A name. Something that should have been joyous, something that should have been decided after endless happy debates over baby name books and hopeful dreams for the future. But for you, it was different. The idea of naming your baby was tangled in a web of uncertainty and fear, weighed down by everything you had been through.

Your mind swirled with the names that had crossed your thoughts before—Evia… Ruby… Names you had once clung to in moments of hope, names that had flickered like fragile flames in the darkness of your captivity. But now? Now, the thought of naming her felt overwhelming, almost unbearable.

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers brushing lightly over the curve of your belly as you tried to keep your voice steady. "I honestly… I don’t know if I’m planning on keeping her," you admitted, the words coming out quieter than you had intended. Each one felt like a knife twisting in your chest. "Maybe…maybe her new parents will want to name her, y’know?"

The moment the words left your mouth, a tightness gripped your chest, and you felt a familiar sting in your eyes. You blinked rapidly, trying to push back the tears threatening to spill. But it was no use. The more you tried to suppress the emotion, the more it clawed its way to the surface, raw and relentless.

The driver didn’t say anything right away, but you caught the subtle way his hands tightened on the wheel, his expression shifting slightly. It wasn’t pity—thank God, it wasn’t pity—but something closer to understanding. Empathy, maybe.

"You’ve got a lot on your plate," he said after a moment, his voice softer now, more thoughtful. "But…if it means anything, whatever you decide, it’s clear you care about her. That counts for something."

His words hit harder than you expected, and you found yourself gripping the edge of the seat to steady yourself. You didn’t know this man, and he didn’t know you. Yet, in that moment, his words carried a weight you hadn’t realized you needed to hear. You weren’t sure if you believed him—if caring was enough—but for a fleeting second, it felt like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t entirely alone in this.

Still, you couldn’t let yourself dwell on that thought for long. There wasn’t time. You had to keep moving, keep running, because the moment you stopped, Sylus would catch up. And this time, you knew there wouldn’t be any escape.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to push down the lump that had formed there. "Thanks," you muttered, though you didn’t entirely know what you were thanking him for. Maybe for not pressing further, maybe for not asking questions you couldn’t answer.

Or maybe just for being human.

A few hours passed in silence, the bus rolling steadily along the deserted road. The tension in your chest began to ease slightly, though a nagging sense of unease still lingered at the back of your mind. You knew this brief calm wouldn’t last. Sylus was out there, and he was coming. It was only a matter of time before he caught up.

"We’re almost there," the driver said after a while, his voice breaking through your thoughts once again. "It’s a smaller area, like you asked. Should be quiet enough for you to rest for a bit."

You nodded, offering a quiet "Thanks" as the bus began to slow. Despite everything—the fear, the guilt—you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of gratitude toward the driver. He didn’t have to help you. Hell, you’d pointed a gun at him, and yet here he was, still offering a helping hand.

As the bus came to a gentle stop, the driver turned to you, his expression cautious but kind. "This is where I’ll drop you off. There’s a diner a couple of blocks down if you need something to eat. And… well, there’s a police station nearby if you change your mind about needing help."

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of the police station, and a cold wave of panic washed over you. A police station. Shit.

Your eyes darted to the window, and sure enough, you could see the telltale red-and-blue lights of the station’s sign glowing faintly in the distance. He’d brought you close—too close. You hadn’t been expecting this. You couldn’t involve the police. Sylus wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who got in his way, and you couldn’t live with more blood on your hands.

"Thanks," you said quickly, forcing yourself to sound calm even as your pulse raced. You unbuckled your seatbelt and grabbed the edge of the seat, pushing yourself to your feet with a strained effort. "I appreciate it."

The driver nodded, watching you carefully as you made your way to the front of the bus. His eyes flicked briefly to the gun still clutched in your hand, but he didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he offered a quiet, "Good luck, miss. Stay safe."

You didn’t respond, too focused on the rising panic tightening in your chest. As soon as your feet hit the pavement, you turned away from the bus, your heart pounding wildly in your ears. You needed to move—fast. You couldn’t risk staying here, not with the police station so close.

But you didn’t get far before the panic fully set in. What if they saw you? What if Sylus had people watching nearby?

Your breath hitched, and without thinking, you broke into a run. The weight of your belly made it difficult, each step sending jolts of pain through your body, but you didn’t care. You had to get away, had to put as much distance between yourself and the police station as possible.

The world around you blurred as you ran, your mind spinning with fear and desperation. You didn’t know where you were going—only that you couldn’t stop. Not yet. Not until you were sure you were safe.

You slowed your pace, gasping for breath as the adrenaline began to ebb away, leaving behind a gnawing ache in your legs and a heavy, almost unbearable pressure in your lower back. You pressed a hand against your belly, feeling the baby shift restlessly inside. She wasn’t kicking as hard now, but the movement was constant, as if reminding you she was still there, still depending on you.

For the first time since you bolted off the bus, you allowed yourself to stop. Just for a moment. Your eyes darted around the unfamiliar streets, taking in the quiet surroundings. The town wasn’t bustling, but it wasn’t deserted either. A few cars passed by on the narrow streets, and clusters of people walked in and out of nearby shops, chatting and laughing as if everything in the world was perfectly fine.

You envied them.

To them, this was just another ordinary afternoon in their quaint little town. But for you? This was survival. Every second counted. Every decision mattered. You couldn’t afford to waste time, but right now, you didn’t even know what your next move should be. You were truly on your own. Just you…and your daughter.

Your eyes flicked down to your belly, and for a brief moment, you rested both hands on it, feeling the subtle, rhythmic movement beneath your palms. “We’ll figure this out,” you murmured quietly, as if speaking to her could somehow calm your racing thoughts. “I promise, okay? We just have to make smart decisions. No more mistakes.”

Easier said than done. The weight of your situation pressed down on you like an invisible vice, and your mind spun with all the things you needed to do. Find a place to rest. Get food. Figure out where to go next. But first and foremost…money. You couldn’t keep relying on threats and luck to get by. Pointing a gun at people wasn’t a long-term solution. It had worked with the bus driver, but sooner or later, it was bound to land you in serious trouble. You couldn’t risk that—not when you had a baby to protect.

Your gaze dropped to the ring on your finger, the glint of the expensive ring catching the late afternoon sun. Right. First things first. Gotta secure some money.

You sighed, sliding your thumb over the ring absentmindedly. Pawning it seemed like the best option, but it wasn’t exactly easy to do that without drawing attention. You looked like a mess—disheveled, sweaty, and clearly out of place in this neat, quiet town. The long coat Luke had given you only added to the strangeness of your appearance, making you stand out even more.

And you were starving. The dull, empty ache in your stomach was becoming harder to ignore, and the thought of trying to find food without any money only added to your growing anxiety.

“This is gonna be tough,” you muttered under your breath, glancing around at the buildings lining the street. Most of them were small businesses—cafés, bakeries, and quaint little shops. Nothing that looked remotely like a pawn shop or jewelry store. You needed to find someone who could point you in the right direction, but asking a stranger wasn’t exactly something you wanted to do. The less attention you drew to yourself, the better.

Still, you didn’t have much of a choice. You couldn’t keep wandering around aimlessly forever. Swallowing your hesitation, you scanned the street for someone who looked approachable. After a moment, you spotted a woman walking toward you, carrying a small shopping bag. She looked friendly enough—mid-thirties, casually dressed, with a kind face that didn’t seem too wary of strangers.

Steeling yourself, you took a deep breath and stepped forward, forcing a nervous smile. “Excuse me,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite the tight knot of anxiety in your chest. “I’m sorry to bother you, but…do you know where I could find a jewelry shop around here?”

The woman paused, blinking in mild surprise before offering a polite smile. “Oh, sure. There’s one just a couple of blocks down that way.” She pointed to a street branching off to the left. “It’s called Oak & Gold. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” you said quickly, relief washing over you. You didn’t linger, turning in the direction she had pointed and making your way down the street as quickly as you could manage without drawing too much attention.

The area remained relatively quiet as you walked, your eyes darting to each building you passed. Despite being a smaller town, the streets were clean and well-maintained, with neatly trimmed hedges and colorful flower boxes lining the windows of some shops. It was nice—too nice, really. You couldn’t help but feel out of place, like an intruder in someone else’s picture-perfect life.

But you didn’t have time to dwell on that. You had a mission. Find the jewelry shop, pawn the ring, and get enough money to buy some food and figure out your next move. Simple, in theory. In practice? You weren’t so sure.

Your stomach growled loudly, and you winced, pressing a hand against it in an attempt to quiet the noise. Just a little longer, you told yourself, though you weren’t entirely sure if you were speaking to yourself or the baby. We’ll get something to eat soon. Just hang in there.

After a few more minutes of walking, you finally spotted the shop—a small, elegant storefront with a wooden sign hanging above the door that read Oak & Gold Fine Jewelry. You paused for a moment, staring at the building as a fresh wave of anxiety washed over you. This was it. Once you stepped inside, there was no turning back.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. You can do this. Just get in, sell the ring, and get out. No one has to know anything. Just act normal.

With that thought in mind, you squared your shoulders and pushed open the door, the soft chime of a bell announcing your arrival as you stepped inside.

The soft chime of the bell overhead echoed through the small jewelry shop as you stepped inside, the sound immediately making you more aware of your surroundings. The interior of the shop was warm and well-lit, with gleaming glass display cases arranged in neat rows. Each case was filled with glittering treasures—rings, necklaces, earrings, and bracelets that sparkled under the soft overhead lights. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and something metallic, like the scent of freshly cleaned silverware.

You hesitated for a moment, your eyes scanning the room nervously. The atmosphere was quiet, almost too quiet, amplifying the sound of your heartbeat thudding loudly in your ears. You didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Between your disheveled appearance, the oversized coat draped awkwardly around you, and your protruding belly, you stood out like a sore thumb among the neat, polished surroundings.

Near the front of the store, a teenager stood behind one of the display cases, idly scrolling through her phone with a bored expression. Next to her was an older man, likely in his late fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a kind but sharp gaze. As you approached the counter, he looked up, his eyes immediately flicking to your swollen belly before settling on your face.

"Welcome!" he said, his tone friendly but curious. "Haven’t seen your face around here. Visiting?"

You swallowed nervously, feeling suddenly self-conscious under his gaze. Despite his casual tone, there was something in his eyes—an alertness, a quiet calculation—that made you uneasy. Still, he didn’t comment on your appearance, didn’t ask questions you weren’t ready to answer. Instead, he offered a polite smile, waiting patiently for you to speak.

"Ah, yeah… just stopping by. Seeing new things…y’know," you mumbled awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Your hands trembled slightly as you reached for the engagement ring on your finger, sliding it off carefully. The weight of it felt heavier than usual, as if it carried all the tension of the moment. You placed it on the counter, the metal glinting under the bright lights.

"Um…I need gold. Or cash. Whatever you guys use around here," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

The man’s eyes widened as he picked up the ring, turning it over in his hands with a look of astonishment. He brought it closer to his face, inspecting it carefully. The teenager glanced up briefly from her phone, giving the ring a disinterested glance before going back to scrolling.

"I won’t lie," the older man said slowly, his tone a mix of disbelief and curiosity. "I don’t know where you got this ring, but…this costs a shit ton, miss. I don’t think I even carry enough in the store to give you for something like this."

Your heart skipped a beat, panic beginning to creep in at his words. Shit. This wasn’t going as smoothly as you had hoped. You had expected questions, sure, but you hadn’t anticipated this—him being suspicious about the ring’s value. The last thing you needed was to draw more attention to yourself.

"Um…that’s okay!" you said quickly, forcing a nervous smile. "I’ll take whatever you can give me. I need at least 20k though…"

The man set the ring down on the counter, his expression shifting from astonishment to something more cautious. He eyed you carefully, as if trying to piece together the story behind the expensive ring and the desperate, disheveled woman standing before him.

"Twenty grand?" he repeated, his tone skeptical. "Miss, this ring is worth at least a hundred grand…probably way more. I can’t in good faith only give you 20k for something like this."

He slid the ring back across the counter toward you, his brows furrowed in concern. "Look, if you’re in trouble or something, there are other ways to get help. I can’t just give you 20k for a ring like this. It doesn’t add up."

Your chest tightened, and a wave of panic surged through you. Does he think I stole it? The thought made your heart race even faster. You couldn’t afford for anyone to call the police, couldn’t afford for anyone to ask too many questions. You needed the money, and you needed it now.

"Please," you said, your voice trembling with desperation. "I really need the money. I don’t need its full value—I don’t even care about the ring. I’m about to have my baby, and I need some things for her. I promise it’s fine. Just…please."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. You hated this—hated feeling so vulnerable, so powerless. But you didn’t have a choice. This was survival, and survival meant swallowing your pride and doing whatever it took to protect your baby.

The man’s expression softened slightly, though the wariness didn’t entirely leave his eyes. He glanced at the ring again, then back at you, as if weighing his options. After what felt like an eternity, he let out a quiet sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Alright," he said reluctantly. "I can’t give you 20k in cash right now, but I can give you 10k upfront. The rest I’ll need to wire through a bank transfer. You got a bank account?"

You hesitated for a moment before nodding. You didn’t have a personal bank account anymore—Sylus had seen to that—but you remembered opening a small account in another name years ago, one you had used for emergencies. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. A quick stop to an atm to withdraw the rest and you'd be good.

"Yeah…I do," you said quietly.

"Okay," the man said, giving you a long, searching look before turning toward the back of the shop. "Wait here. I’ll get the cash and bring out the paperwork for the transfer."

You exhaled shakily, a mix of relief and lingering anxiety washing over you. You had managed to convince him, but it hadn’t been easy. Still, you couldn’t relax yet. Not until you had the money in hand and were far away from here.

As the man disappeared into the back room, you glanced down at your belly again, rubbing it gently. "Almost there," you whispered, more to yourself than to the baby. "We’re almost there."

Sylus glanced at the time displayed on his phone—just over four hours since he had taken off. The journey was dragging on far longer than he liked, every passing minute an agonizing reminder that you were still out there, beyond his reach. He tapped open the tracker again, watching the small blinking dot marking your location. You had stopped moving a little bit ago, somewhere in Brunswick, a quiet little town far from the bustling cities he was accustomed to.

The stillness of the tracker unnerved him. Were you resting? Hiding? Hurt? His mind spun through possibilities, each one more unsettling than the last.

“Luke, Kieran—update,” he said sharply, connecting to the twins through the communicator in his ear.

Luke’s voice crackled through the line, tense but composed. “We’re about an hour outside Brunswick, boss. Still no sign of her, but we did manage to track down the bus driver she…uh…borrowed transportation from.”

Sylus’s brows lifted slightly in surprise. “Borrowed?” he repeated, his tone edged with curiosity.

“Well…” Luke hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “She, uh, held him at gunpoint. Took control of the situation, made him drive her further than his route allowed. He was pretty shaken up, but he didn’t call the cops—figured it was safer to just let her go.”

Sylus leaned back in his seat, a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. You? Holding someone at gunpoint twice in one day? It wasn’t exactly a scenario he would have expected from you, but then again, desperation had a way of pushing people beyond their limits. Instead of anger, he felt a strange flicker of pride. That’s my girl, he thought, amusement mingling with admiration. You were learning how to survive, how to fight back in your own way.

“Impressive,” he murmured, more to himself than to Luke. “She’s resourceful. Good.”

Luke, likely sensing Sylus’s mood, cleared his throat awkwardly. “Uh, yeah. Anyway, we’re keeping an eye on things. Shouldn’t be long before we catch up. You want us to approach her if we find her?”

“No,” Sylus said firmly. “You’ll wait for me. Don’t spook her. Just observe from a distance and report back if anything changes.”

“Understood, boss,” Luke said before the line went silent again.

Sylus’s fingers drummed idly against the armrest, his mind already racing ahead. You were clever, but you were also tired, stressed, and heavily pregnant. He didn’t need brute force to bring you back—he needed patience. He would let you think you had a chance, let you tire yourself out. And when the time was right, he would step in.

By the time Sylus’s jet touched down at the private airstrip near Brunswick, night was beginning to settle over the horizon, casting long shadows across the tarmac. He didn’t waste a second, striding down the steps with Mephisto perched silently on his shoulder. The bird’s sharp eyes gleamed in the fading light, already scanning the surroundings as if sensing his creator's urgency.

Sylus pulled out his phone, checking the tracker once more. The dot hadn’t moved in hours, remaining stubbornly fixed in the same spot. He didn’t like it. You were on the run, constantly moving—why would you stop now?

“What are you up to, kitten?” he muttered under his breath, his crimson eyes narrowing in thought.

“Sir, the car is ready,” his driver announced, approaching with a respectful nod.

Sylus barely acknowledged him, sliding into the sleek black vehicle waiting nearby. As the engine roared to life, he leaned back in his seat, fingers steepled in thought. You had stopped moving, and that worried him more than if you had been constantly on the move. Were you planning something? Had you found a temporary place to hide? Or worse, had something happened to you?

“Drive. Quickly,” Sylus ordered, his tone sharp and unwavering.

The car sped off, cutting through the quiet evening air as they made their way toward Brunswick. Sylus’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, but beneath the tension and worry, there was a single, undeniable truth: he was close. So close to finding you, to holding you again. And once he did, he wouldn’t let go. Not this time.

Mephisto let out a low caw from a branch, as if sensing his creator's determination. The crow had been dispatched ahead of the car, already flying toward the town to scout the area. He hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of you yet, but that didn’t matter. It was only a matter of time now.

Soon, very soon, you would be back where you belonged.

The town of Brunswick was all but asleep by the time Sylus’s sleek black car pulled into the narrow street leading toward Oak & Gold Fine Jewelry. The late night had fully settled in, casting long shadows over the quiet town. Most of the shops had closed, their windows dark and their entrances locked, save for a few late-night diners and convenience stores still welcoming customers. The crisp night air carried a faint chill, but it was the quiet that unsettled Sylus more than anything—the kind of quiet that meant people were minding their own business, trying not to attract attention.

As the car crept down the street, Sylus noticed the occasional head turning, curious eyes peering at the unfamiliar vehicle. He could practically hear their whispers—Who’s that? Some kind of government agent? FBI? Maybe a politician? The polished, luxurious car didn’t fit in here, and neither did he. He didn’t care. Let them talk. Let them speculate.

He was here for one thing, and one thing only—you.

His fingers gripped the phone in his hand, the blinking dot on the screen still fixed at the jewelry shop. Oak & Gold. He narrowed his eyes, considering his next move. Had you convinced the owner to let you stay there for the night? Maybe you’d thought it was a safe place to hide. Or, more likely, you had decided to pawn off something valuable. His jaw tightened at the thought.

The ring.

Logically, Sylus knew why you would do it. You needed money, and the engagement ring was worth far more than most people in this town could comprehend. It was a smart move on your part—practical, efficient. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier for him to accept. That ring wasn’t just a shiny object. It was a symbol. A promise. A mark of what you meant to him. And now you’d tossed it away like it was nothing.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to let go of the irritation gnawing at him. It doesn’t matter, he told himself. I can buy you a thousand rings just like it. What matters now is finding you.

The car rolled to a stop across the street from Oak & Gold. Sylus stepped out without hesitation, the sound of his polished shoes striking the pavement echoing in the quiet night. His coat flared slightly as he moved, the cool breeze tugging at the edges. He crossed the street in long, measured strides, his sharp crimson eyes locked on the figure standing at the shop’s entrance—a man in his late fifties, fumbling with a set of keys as he locked up for the night.

Sylus didn’t slow his pace. He closed the distance quickly, placing a firm hand on the man’s shoulder before he could even register his presence.

The man jumped, his eyes widening in alarm as he turned to face Sylus. “Jesus, man!” he yelped, clutching his chest. “You scared the hell outta me.”

“Let’s have a chat inside, shall we?” Sylus said smoothly, though there was a cold edge to his voice that left little room for argument.

The man chuckled nervously, trying to mask his unease. “Look, I don’t have any money. Not much to rob, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Sylus’s eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light, a hint of amusement flickering across his sharp features. “After you,” he said, gesturing toward the door.

The man hesitated, glancing around the empty street as if contemplating whether to call for help. But something in Sylus’s gaze—something cold, unyielding—made him think twice. With a resigned sigh, he unlocked the door and stepped inside, flicking on a small desk lamp that cast a warm glow over the shop’s interior.

Sylus followed him in, his gaze sweeping over the room. The shop was small but well-kept, with polished glass display cases lining the walls and shelves filled with various pieces of jewelry. The faint scent of wood polish and metal lingered in the air, mingling with the quiet hum of the overhead lights.

“So, uh…what do you want?” the man asked, crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt to appear confident. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone as tall as you before. You play basketball or something?”

Sylus didn’t bother responding to the weak attempt at humor. Instead, he pulled out his phone, holding it up so the man could see the blinking dot on the screen.

“I don’t want trouble,” Sylus said calmly, though his tone carried a subtle menace. “But according to this, there should be a girl here. Where is she?”

The man blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Girl? Plenty of girls come in here every day. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sylus’s patience was wearing thin. He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Then I’m sure you won’t mind if I tear this little place apart until I find her—or until your memory jogs.”

As if to emphasize his point, Sylus raised his hand slightly. A polished trophy from one of the shelves floated into the air before crashing into the adjacent wall with a loud bang, shattering a glass display case and scattering jewelry across the floor.

“Woah, woah—okay!” the man yelped, raising his hands in surrender. His face was pale, beads of sweat forming on his brow. “Look, I swear, I don’t know much! There was a pregnant girl who came in earlier. She had an expensive ring—begged me to give her cash for it. I gave her 20k, and she left. That’s it! She’s not here!”

Sylus studied him for a long, tense moment, his crimson eyes gleaming with an intensity that made the shopkeeper visibly tremble. The air in the room felt thick, suffused with an almost tangible pressure that seemed to weigh down on the man’s chest. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, sweat gathering at his temples despite the cool night air filtering through the shop’s open doorway.

“Produce the ring,” Sylus said again, his voice low and measured, carrying a quiet menace that left no room for negotiation. “Now.”

The shopkeeper stumbled back a step, nodding quickly. “Y-Yeah, yeah, okay. Just gimme a second,” he stammered, turning toward the counter with clumsy haste. His hands fumbled as he opened a drawer, rifling through its contents with a frantic urgency. Each second felt like an eternity, the tension in the room stretching taut as Sylus remained perfectly still, his gaze locked on the man like a predator watching its prey.

Finally, with a faint clink of metal against wood, the shopkeeper pulled out the ring. He turned slowly, holding it up for Sylus to see. The band gleamed faintly under the dim light, and though the man’s hands were shaking, the ring itself remained steady, as if mocking the gravity of the moment.

“See? Here. This is the ring, isn’t it?” the man said, his voice wavering as he held it out further toward Sylus, desperate to prove he wasn’t hiding anything.

Sylus stepped forward with an almost lazy grace, reaching out to take the ring from the man’s trembling fingers. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly so the firelight reflected off its polished gems. There it was—the symbol of a promise, now nothing more than a pawned object traded for survival.

The weight of it felt heavier than he remembered, though he knew that was absurd. The ring hadn’t changed. What had changed was the context—the fact that you had willingly parted with it, reducing it to nothing more than a transaction. Despite himself, Sylus felt a flicker of something…unpleasant. Annoyance? Frustration? He couldn’t quite name it, but it gnawed at him all the same.

Time was slipping through his fingers like sand, and every second wasted was another second you slipped further from his grasp. The thought sent a flicker of irritation through him, though Sylus’s expression remained perfectly composed. He had little patience for delays, and even less for dead ends.

Sylus turned to leave, his polished shoes making barely a sound on the wooden floor, but before he could reach the door, the man’s voice rang out behind him, hesitant but tinged with indignation. “Hey! You can’t just—”

“I’ll give you twenty thousand,” Sylus interrupted smoothly, without even turning around. His voice was cool, indifferent, as though the sum he mentioned was pocket change. He reached for the door handle, pausing only briefly to glance over his shoulder. “Plus more for the damage. It’ll be delivered by tomorrow. Thanks for your time.”

The shopkeeper’s mouth opened slightly, as if to protest further, but no words came out. He was left standing there, stunned, watching Sylus’s retreating figure disappear into the night. The glint of shattered glass and scattered jewelry reflected faintly in the dim light, a quiet testament to the storm that had just passed through.

Outside, the cool night air greeted Sylus like a whisper, crisp and biting against his skin. He paused on the sidewalk, allowing himself a brief moment to collect his thoughts. The town was eerily quiet now, the streets nearly deserted save for the occasional flicker of movement behind curtained windows. A faint breeze stirred the air, carrying with it the scent of old stone and damp earth.

Sylus pulled out his phone, his gaze narrowing as he stared at the blinking dot that had once guided him directly to you. Now, it was useless. Static. Still. He clenched his jaw, forcing down the frustration rising in his chest. You were gone, and without the tracker, he had no immediate way of knowing where you had gone next.

His mind raced through possibilities. You were smart—he had always known that. Resourceful, determined. But you were also heavily pregnant, vulnerable in a way that made every passing minute a risk. Anything could happen out here. You could run into trouble, get hurt, go into labor too far from help. He hated the uncertainty, the inability to predict your next move. It gnawed at him, an unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the ring you had pawned. It was cold against his skin, a bitter reminder of how far you were willing to go to escape him. Kitten, where have you scurried off to? he thought, his lips curving into a faint, humorless smile. Was I really so terrible that you’d rather freeze in the night than be by my side?

A sharp whistle pierced the quiet night, and within seconds, Mephisto descended from the sky, his dark wings cutting through the air with silent precision. The crow landed gracefully on Sylus’s outstretched arm, his beady eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“Go,” Sylus commanded softly, his voice low but firm. “Keep looking.”

The bird let out a shrill caw before taking off once more, disappearing into the shadows above. Sylus watched him go, his expression unreadable, though beneath the calm exterior, his mind churned with anticipation. Things were getting serious now. He didn’t know where you were yet, but one thing was certain—he would find you. It was only a matter of time.

And when he did, there would be no more running.

No more hiding.

You were his, and soon, very soon, he would have you back in his arms. He'd lock you away forever if he had to. You'd have his baby and everything would be right in the world again. His perfect, curated world.

With that thought, Sylus strode back to his car, his movements purposeful and precise. There was still work to be done, and though the night stretched on, he had no intention of resting until you were found.

The hunt had begun. And Sylus always caught his prey.

The hours since you’d left the pawn shop had felt like an eternity. The weight of the cash tucked inside your coat—far more than you had ever held in your life—seemed to grow heavier with every passing minute. You clutched the envelopes tightly against your chest, your fingers gripping the edges so hard they ached. It wasn’t just money. It was survival. The only thing standing between you and whatever came next.

Earlier, things had felt slightly more hopeful. You’d managed to grab a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich from a small deli tucked into the corner of a quiet street. The warmth of the food had been comforting, even if only for a short while. You’d even thought ahead, wrapping up a few extra sandwiches to carry with you in case you didn’t get another chance to eat soon. But that had been hours ago. The warmth had long since faded, replaced by the bitter chill of the night creeping in through your coat. The weight of reality was settling in once more.

You had sought refuge in the local library after the sun had set, grateful for the brief reprieve from the cold. The place had been warm and quiet, filled with the scent of old paper and polished wood. For a moment, you’d almost felt safe, hidden among the rows of books and the soft murmur of people flipping pages. But now, the library was closed, and you were back out on the streets, exposed and unsure of what to do next.

The thought of finding a motel crossed your mind, but the idea filled you with unease. Staying in one place, even for a night, felt like inviting danger. Like leaving a trail too obvious for Sylus to miss. You had no doubt that he was searching for you by now. No doubt that the twins were on your trail. And worst of all, you knew Mephisto—the damned bird—was probably scanning the area from above. You couldn’t see him, but you could feel him. The thought made your skin crawl.

Still, you had to do something. You couldn’t stay out in the open all night, not like this. The cold was biting, each gust of wind cutting through your coat like a blade. You weren’t just thinking about yourself anymore—you were thinking about your daughter, growing inside you, kicking occasionally as if to remind you that she was there. You had to keep moving. You had to find somewhere safe.

You spotted a bench near city hall and made your way toward it, your legs aching with every step. Sitting down heavily, you wrapped your coat tighter around yourself, clutching it for warmth. The wind howled through the empty streets, and for a brief moment, you allowed yourself to close your eyes, trying to think.

What now?

Your mind raced with possibilities, each one more desperate than the last. You could try walking out of town—find a road that led somewhere remote and hope to hitch a ride. But the thought of being stuck out in the open, miles from anywhere, was terrifying. You could keep wandering the streets, but that was just as dangerous. And then there was the motel option, the one you kept circling back to despite the risk. At least it would be warm. At least you’d have a bed.

You let out a shaky breath, your hands trembling slightly from more than just the cold. Every decision felt like a gamble, and you were running out of time to make one. You couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that Mephisto was close. That Sylus was close. He always had a way of finding you, no matter how far you ran.

Think, think, you told yourself, glancing around the darkened street. Most of the shops were closed, their windows dark, their doors locked tight. The only signs of life came from a distant diner, its neon sign flickering faintly in the distance. The idea of stepping inside was tempting—food, warmth, people. Safety in numbers. But it wouldn’t last long. You couldn’t hide forever in a diner.

Another gust of wind blew through the street, making you shiver violently. Your daughter kicked again, a small but insistent reminder of the stakes. You pressed a hand to your belly, whispering softly, “Just a little longer, okay?”

But as you sat there, clutching your coat and feeling the weight of the cash against your chest, a chilling thought crossed your mind: You can’t keep this up. Not forever. Sooner or later, Sylus will catch up. And when he does…

You didn’t let yourself finish the thought. You couldn’t. Instead, you forced yourself to stand, your legs protesting the movement. You had to find shelter. Somewhere warm, somewhere hidden. Somewhere that wouldn’t feel like walking into a trap.

First things first, you thought. Get inside. Get warm. Then figure out your next move.

You took one last look around the empty street before making your way toward the distant glow of the diner. You didn’t have many options left, but for now, it was better than freezing out here. Better than waiting to be found.

And as much as you hated to admit it, a part of you knew that time was running out.

The bell above the diner door let out a soft chime as you stepped inside, the warm air immediately wrapping around you like a blanket. You took a deep breath, inhaling the comforting scent of coffee, fried food, and freshly baked bread. The fluorescent lights buzzed quietly overhead, casting a warm glow on the worn red booths and checkered floor tiles. A faint hum of conversation floated through the air, but the diner was far from crowded. Just a few late-night customers nursing cups of coffee or finishing off their meals.

You hesitated for a moment by the door, scanning the room. No familiar faces. No sign of Mephisto’s dark wings or any lurking shadows outside. Just regular people going about their lives. It felt… odd. You had been so consumed by fear and the need to keep moving that you’d almost forgotten what normalcy looked like.

“Come on in, hon,” a voice called out, breaking you from your thoughts.

Your eyes landed on an older woman standing behind the counter, wiping down a tray with practiced ease. Her short, curly hair was streaked with silver, and she wore a faded apron over her floral blouse. She had a kind smile, one that reached her eyes, though there was a hint of weariness in her expression—like someone who’d seen her share of long days and longer nights.

You managed a small, tired smile and made your way toward the counter, your legs feeling like lead beneath you. As you sat down on one of the stools, you noticed a name tag pinned to her apron: Clara.

Clara…You thought to yourself how her name almost rhymed with Tara. Your heart ached at the thought of your friend—of the life you had left behind. Tara had always been there for you, through thick and thin. You missed her more than you could put into words, but there was no going back now. That life was gone. All that mattered now was keeping your daughter safe.

“You look like you’ve been through the wringer,” Clara said, setting the tray aside and pouring you a fresh cup of coffee. “Long day?”

“You could say that,” you replied, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. You weren’t much of a coffee drinker these days, but the warmth felt good against your chilled fingers.

"Oh...uh. I can't have coffee. I'm pregnant" you say, eyeing the cup with an awkward smile.

Clara leaned on the counter, her eyes flicking briefly to your belly. “How far along are you?”

“Almost thirty eight weeks I think,” you answered, the words coming out quietly. “Almost there.”

She smiled gently. “ You can have a little coffee. It won't hurt the little one, I promise. Must be tough, traveling around at this stage. Most women would be resting up, nesting at home.”

You swallowed hard, the mention of a home cutting deeper than she probably intended. “Yeah…well, I don’t exactly have that luxury right now.”

Clara’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of quiet concern. She didn’t press, though, instead changing the subject. “Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”

You hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. “Not yet,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just…I need a place that’s not in town. Somewhere out of the way.”

Clara studied you for a moment, her expression thoughtful. Then she gave a small nod, as if coming to a decision. “I might have something for you. I own some land some hours from here, got a little farmhouse on it. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean and quiet. You can rent it for a while if you’d like.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden offer. Suspicion flickered in your mind. You’d been on edge for so long, constantly looking over your shoulder, that trusting a stranger felt…dangerous. Especially after what you'd been through with Reese. But at the same time, what other choice did you have? You couldn’t stay in Brunswick for long. Sylus would find you. He always did.

“I don’t know…” you said hesitantly, glancing down at your coffee. “That’s…really kind of you, but…”

Clara waved a hand dismissively. “I get it. It’s not easy trusting people these days, especially when you’ve got a little one on the way. But I promise, I’m not looking to scam you or anything. I’ve got my own life back here in Brunswick—taking care of my sick father and running this place. The house is just sitting empty. Figured it might be of more use to you than to me.”

You still felt wary, but there was something genuine in her tone. She didn’t seem like someone who meant you harm. If anything, she seemed like someone who had simply lived long enough to know that sometimes, people just needed a little help.

“Okay,” you said quietly, meeting her eyes. “Thank you. I…really appreciate it.”

Clara smiled again, this time with warmth. “Good. Finish your coffee, and we’ll head out in a bit. Don’t worry about a thing—I’ve got some baby stuff at the cabin from when my daughter was little. You’re free to use whatever you need.”

The mention of baby supplies eased some of the tension in your chest. You hadn’t had time to think about those kinds of things yet, and knowing there would be something waiting for you at the cabin was a small relief.

Still, you couldn’t completely shake the suspicion lurking in the back of your mind. Don’t get too comfortable, you reminded yourself. Stay alert. If something feels off, use the gun if you have to. You can’t take any risks—not now.

As you finished your coffee, Clara grabbed her keys and coat, nodding toward the door. “Come on. Let’s get you settled before it gets too late.”

You followed her out to the parking lot, where a beat-up old pickup truck waited. The seats were worn, and the faint smell of leather and pine filled the cab as you climbed inside. It wasn’t luxury by any means, but it was warm, and that was all that mattered right now.

As Clara started the engine, the soft rumble filling the cab, she glanced over at you. “Boy or girl?”

You hesitated for a split second, caught off guard by the simple question. You were still getting used to having normal conversations with people. It was honestly still super jarring.

“Girl,” you said softly, placing a hand on your belly. “I'm having a girl.”

Clara smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Girls are great. I always wanted another one, but…life had other plans.”

You managed a small smile in return, though the mention of family tugged at something deep inside you. For a moment, you let yourself imagine a future where things were different. A future where you didn’t have to keep running, where you could raise your daughter in peace. But the thought felt too distant, too fragile.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, save for the occasional hum of the tires against the road. As you gazed out the window at the darkened landscape, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this cabin could buy you some time.

But even as that thought crossed your mind, you kept your hand close to your coat pocket, fingers brushing against the cold metal of the gun. You couldn’t afford to let your guard down—not yet. Not until you were far, far away from Sylus.

The drive to the cabin took a few hours, passing through several small towns and quiet stretches of countryside. Clara’s truck rumbled steadily along the narrow roads, the soft hum of the engine blending with the occasional distant sound of crickets or rustling leaves. You watched the world blur by through the window, fields giving way to clusters of trees and then more open fields again. It was peaceful—eerily so. You hadn’t felt this kind of calm in what felt like forever, but it was hard to let your guard down entirely. Every passing mile felt like a gamble, as though Sylus could be right behind you, closing in fast.

“Brunswick and the towns around here are pretty close-knit,” Clara said, breaking the silence. She kept her eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. “We’re technically neighbors, just a couple of hours apart, but you’ll notice right away how much quieter it is here. Folks mind their business.”

You nodded absently, clutching the coat tighter around you as your fingers brushed against the envelopes stuffed with cash. The warmth of the truck’s heater made the cold feel distant, but you couldn’t shake the tension knotting in your chest. You knew this peace wouldn’t last forever, but for now, you had to take what you could get.

Eventually, the truck slowed as Clara turned onto a long dirt road lined with overgrown trees and shrubs. After a few more minutes of driving, the house came into view—a small, quaint farmhouse nestled in a clearing. It wasn’t much, but it was worlds better than sleeping on a bench or wandering the streets aimlessly. The farmhouse was simple, with a pale yellow exterior and a modest porch that wrapped around the front. The roof looked sturdy, and the surrounding land stretched far enough that you felt a bit more secure, knowing you were far from prying eyes.

“Here we are,” Clara said, turning off the engine and stepping out of the truck. You followed her, your boots crunching softly against the gravel driveway as you took in your surroundings. The air was crisp and clean, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. Despite the late hour, the sky was clear, stars scattered across the dark canvas above.

Clara led you up the steps and unlocked the door, pushing it open with a soft creak. “It’s small, but it’s cozy,” she said, stepping aside so you could enter first.

You walked in slowly, taking in the space. The interior was simple but welcoming—wooden floors, white walls, and modest furnishings that gave the place a warm, lived-in feel. The living area was combined with the kitchen, separated only by a small counter. A single hallway led to what you assumed was the bathroom and bedroom.

As Clara guided you through the place, you found yourself comparing it to the one Xavier had hidden you in. This place was larger, more open, less like a prison and more like…a temporary home. You didn’t want to think about Xavier right now, though. Shaking off the thought, you focused instead on the framed pictures lining the hallway walls—Clara and what you assumed was her daughter, smiling brightly in various candid moments.

“Where’s your daughter?” you asked, your eyes lingering on one photo of a little girl holding a stuffed bear.

“Oh, she’s with her father in the big cities,” Clara replied, her tone light but carrying an undercurrent of something you couldn’t quite place. “I get so busy with my father and the diner, I figured she could use some time with her dad, y’know?”

You nodded, following her into the bedroom. It was simple, with a single bed pushed against the wall, a small dresser, and a window overlooking the back of the property. “It’s not much, but it’ll fit two people,” Clara said, standing by the door. She hesitated for a moment before adding, “Not saying you have to stay here when you have your baby or anything, but…the offer’s there.”

You turned to her, feeling a pang of gratitude. “I really appreciate it, Miss Clara. Thank you.”

Clara gave you a soft smile and nodded. “Come on. Let me show you where I keep the baby stuff.”

She led you to a small storage room at the end of the hall. Inside were neatly stored baby items—an old crib, bottles, blankets, and a few onesies folded on a shelf. “All clean, just so you know,” Clara said, running a hand over the crib’s wooden frame. “I kept them for the memories, but they’re yours to use if you want.”

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat. This woman—a complete stranger—was offering you so much kindness when she had no reason to. “Thank you,” you said quietly, your voice thick with emotion.

“One more thing, hun,” Clara said as she closed the storage room door. “I can’t be driving hours back and forth to visit, so you’ll be on your own for days at a time. Gotta save on gas. But I’ll bring enough food when you give me the money. I’ll even drop by tomorrow with some supplies to get you started. I hope that’s okay?”

You nodded, feeling strangely grateful for the privacy. “That’s fine. I… appreciate it. Really.”

Clara smiled again, though there was a hint of weariness in her eyes. “I just know how it feels,” she said softly. “Couldn’t leave a pregnant woman alone at night, not when she’s about to pop.”

Her words made you smile, despite the tension still coiled in your chest. You followed her back to the living area, where she picked up her coat and keys, preparing to leave. But before she did, you remembered something important.

“What if there’s an emergency?” you asked, your voice tinged with worry. “How can I get back to town?”

“Oh!” Clara said, pausing by the door. “I’ve got my father’s old car parked out back. Keys are in the drawer by the kitchen. He doesn’t use it anymore since he lost his vision, so I figured I’d store it here. If you know how to drive, you’re free to use it. I won’t restrict your freedom.”

You stared at her, at a loss for words. The idea of having a way to escape, even if you didn’t plan on using it right away, was a relief you hadn’t expected. “Thank you. I…I don’t know what to say.”

Clara chuckled softly. “You don’t have to say anything, hun. Just take care of yourself and that baby, okay?”

With that, she gave you one last smile before stepping outside and disappearing into the night, leaving you standing in the middle of the house. The weight of everything hit you at once—exhaustion, relief, fear, hope. You were truly on your own now. Just you and your daughter. But for the first time in a long while, it felt like you might actually have a chance.

Still, you couldn’t let your guard down. You made a mental note to check the car first thing in the morning and keep your gun within reach at all times. Sylus was out there, and you knew he wouldn’t stop until he found you.

But tonight, at least, you could rest. Just for a little while.

The days passed quietly, a welcome change from the chaos you had left behind. True to her word, Clara brought food and supplies as promised, enough to keep you comfortable without needing to venture back into town. You had begun to settle into the rhythm of this temporary refuge, grateful for the space to breathe and the chance to rest, though your mind remained vigilant.

Clara had been surprisingly accommodating, asking few questions and never prying into your past. You supposed you should be relieved by her discretion, but a small, nagging voice in the back of your mind kept whispering that this peace couldn’t last. Nothing ever does.

The deal you struck with her was almost too good to be true—$500 a month to cover everything, including the gas for her weekly visits. You were shocked by how cheap it was, but you didn’t question it. At the very least, it bought you time. Time to think, time to prepare. And most importantly, time to figure out your next move without Sylus breathing down your neck.

The place itself was simple but cozy, and the lack of modern technology was oddly comforting. No cameras for Sylus to hack into, no smart devices that could be traced. Even the old television in the living room had antennas that required frequent adjustment to pick up a signal. It felt like stepping into a different era, one where things were slower, simpler…and harder to find.

On the morning Clara arrived with her brother to clear out some old boxes from the garage, you were sipping on a cup of lukewarm tea when you heard it—a shrill caw that sent a jolt of fear straight through your chest. You froze, your hand tightening around the mug as your heart began to race. The sound was unmistakable.

It can’t be…It can’t be.

“Hey, what’s wrong, hun?” Clara’s voice pulled you out of your spiraling thoughts. She nudged your shoulder gently, giving you a puzzled look. “It’s just a crow. You scared of ’em?”

You forced a laugh, trying to mask the rising panic in your chest. “Oh, um…I guess you could say so. Something like that.” You tried to sound casual, but your voice wavered slightly, betraying your nerves.

Clara didn’t seem to notice. She simply chuckled and went back to sorting through the boxes with her brother. Meanwhile, you set down the mug and moved toward the window, your eyes scanning the treetops outside. There, perched on a high branch, was a small murder of crows. They looked normal enough—just ordinary birds, not mechanical scouts sent to track you down.

You let out a slow, shaky breath, relief washing over you in waves. Not Mephisto. Just regular crows. You’re safe…for now.

“We’re heading back to town now, dear,” Clara called out from the front door, dusting off her hands. “You stay safe, alright? If you need anything, there’s a landline in the kitchen. I left my number on the counter. Call me if there’s an emergency.”

You forced a smile, waving as they loaded the last box into the truck. “Thanks, Clara. See you in about a week.”

“Take care, hun!” Clara said cheerfully, climbing into the driver’s seat while her brother waved from the passenger side. You watched as the truck rumbled down the long dirt road, disappearing into the distance. The sound of the engine faded, leaving only the quiet rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of birds in its wake.

Alone again.

You stood on the porch for a moment, staring out at the trees that surrounded the cabin. The air was still, almost unnervingly so. Despite the warmth of the morning sun, a chill crept down your spine. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming—something you couldn’t see yet but could almost sense, like the calm before a storm.

Nevertheless, you pushed the thought aside and headed back inside. Focus. That’s all you could do. Keep moving forward, keep surviving.

Clara had brought some loose-fitting women’s clothes with her last visit, simple but comfortable. You changed into a clean set, grateful to be out of your old, worn clothes. They weren’t stylish by any means—mostly oversized shirts and stretchy pants—but they fit, and that was all that mattered. You appreciated that Clara hadn’t pried into your situation. She truly seemed to mind her own business, something you couldn’t help but admire.

Still, you couldn’t completely relax. There had to be a catch, right? No one was this kind without wanting something in return. But Clara didn’t seem the type to harbor ulterior motives. Maybe she was just… genuinely good. The thought felt foreign, almost strange, after everything you’d been through. People like Clara didn’t exist in the world you had grown accustomed to—Sylus’s world. A world where kindness was a tool, a means to an end, and trust was a currency far too expensive to spend lightly.

You paced the small living room, the floorboards creaking softly beneath your feet. Your gaze wandered to the pictures on the wall again—Clara and her daughter, smiling in various snapshots. A life untouched by the kind of chaos you were running from. It made you wonder what kind of life your daughter would have if you managed to escape Sylus for good. Would she grow up in peace, free from the shadow of danger and control?

You pressed a hand to your belly, feeling the faint stir of movement beneath your palm. Maybe giving her up and leaving would still be the better plan? How far would you have to go to ensure her safety if you did give her up?

Just a little longer, baby girl. We’ll figure this out.

For now, all you could do was wait and hope that Sylus was still far behind.

The days stretched long and quiet, the silence of your new reality gnawing at you. It had been a few days since you last saw Clara or anyone else, and honestly, the loneliness was getting to you. You had never experienced true isolation like this before. Back at Sylus’s estate, even when he wasn’t there, the house had been full—staff moving about, the twins keeping watch, and Mephisto always lurking nearby. Eyes were always on you. You had grown used to it, almost dependent on the constant presence of others, no matter how suffocating it could feel.

But here? It was just you and your unborn daughter, and the weight of that solitude pressed heavily on your chest.

You tried to keep yourself busy, filling the hours with mundane tasks—cleaning, bathing, and eating in front of the small, outdated TV. The channels didn’t pick up much, mostly local news and a few old sitcoms that barely held your attention. Still, the static hum of the television provided some background noise, breaking the oppressive silence of the cabin.

Occasionally, you would spot a few barn cats prowling around the lawn outside. Their sleek forms darted through the tall grass, hunting bugs and mice. You started leaving scraps of your dinner for them whenever they came close, hoping they might stay a while. But they never did. They always ate quickly before disappearing into the shadows again, leaving you alone once more.

The loneliness had a way of making your mind wander. You caught yourself staring at nothing for long stretches of time, lost in thought. Sylus has to still be looking for me…right? Or maybe he already found me and hasn’t made his move yet…?

A more sinister thought crept into your mind: What if Clara was part of a trap?

You frowned, turning onto your side and staring at the ceiling. The possibility gnawed at you, but you tried to push it away. Clara had been kind, patient, and genuine—nothing like the calculated manipulations of Sylus’s world. Still, the paranoia lingered, refusing to fully dissipate.

You let out a bitter laugh, covering your eyes with one hand. “Wow… I’ve really lost it,” you muttered to yourself, shaking your head. You had never been this paranoid in your life. But then again, you had never been this alone before. And on top of that, you still had to give birth. The thought alone was terrifying.

You knew labor was supposed to hurt, but how much? Would you even make it to a hospital in time if something went wrong? What if Clara didn’t come back when she said she would? You tried to keep calm, but the fear was always there, lurking in the back of your mind like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

Clenching your fists, you closed your eyes and focused, willing the faint yellow sparks of your Evol to flicker to life in your palm. They appeared slowly, crackling softly like static electricity before fading away again. You stared at your hand in mild disbelief. It’s been ages since I used this…

Your Evol wasn’t exactly built for combat. It wasn’t like Sylus’s raw, destructive power or Xavier’s light-based weaponry. No, yours was subtle—an ability to enhance the strength of others’ Evols, amplifying their power when you resonated with them. It was useful in the right situations, but utterly useless when it came to defending yourself.

Would it have made a difference if I had used it back then? you wondered, your mind drifting back to the fight between Sylus and Xavier. You had frozen, standing there like a helpless child, too overwhelmed to act. Even if you had resonated with Xavier in that moment, would it have been enough? Or would it have just pushed your heart beyond its limits?

You sighed deeply, placing your hands on your belly, feeling the reassuring movement of your daughter within. “We’ve got to figure this out, kiddo,” you whispered softly, rubbing slow circles over your bump. “I’m scared too, but we can’t let it stop us. We’ll get through this. Somehow.”

But even as you tried to reassure yourself, doubt crept in. You didn’t have a plan. You didn’t know what came next. All you had was a temporary roof over your head and a growing fear that Sylus was closer than you dared to believe.

You stared at the ceiling again, your thoughts swirling in endless circles. How much longer do we have before he finds us? You didn’t know. But what you did know was that you couldn’t stay paralyzed by fear. You had to be ready. For whatever came next. You kept the gun under your pillow.

You definitely weren't afraid to use it.

The ache in your chest had been steadily worsening, and with every passing minute, it became harder to ignore. You paced the cabin, one hand clutching your belly while the other pressed against your sternum, hoping the pain would subside. Maybe it’s the stress. Maybe it’s Protocore Syndrome acting up again, you thought, grimacing. It had been worse whenever Sylus wasn’t around, but you refused to entertain the idea that it had anything to do with missing him. That was absurd.

Still, the pain was getting to be too much. You needed something—anything—to ease the discomfort. Maybe Clara could help. You rushed over to the landline, your fingers trembling as you dialed her number. The phone rang once…twice…and then clicked.

“Ah, hello! Sorry to bother, but my chest really hurts. Do you think you could—”

“Your chest?” The voice on the other end wasn’t Clara’s. It was smooth, familiar, and unmistakable. “What’s wrong, kitten?”

You froze.

The phone nearly slipped from your grasp as your heart skipped a beat. For a moment, you were too stunned to speak, your mind reeling in disbelief. Sylus. How the hell did he…?

“Cat got your tongue?” Sylus’s voice came through again, softer this time, but laced with concern.

Your shock quickly turned into rage, the heat rising in your chest overpowering the ache. “Leave me the fuck alone!” you snapped, gripping the receiver tightly, your voice trembling with anger. “I swear to God, if you come near me—”

“Now, now, don’t yell,” Sylus said gently, his voice carrying that maddening calm. “It’s not good for your heart. I’m just calling to see how you’re doing. It seems you’ve hidden in a place even I can’t find. You could make this easy and just tell me where you are, sweetie. I’m worried.”

Your mouth went dry, and anger flared in your chest, momentarily pushing the fear aside. Worried? How dare he. After everything he had done—after everything you had been through because of him—he had the audacity to sound concerned?

“Ha!” you spat, your voice trembling with both fury and disbelief. “As if…why would I willingly throw myself into another one of your punishments?”

There was a silence on the other end of the line, long enough for your heartbeat to fill the void in your ears. You expected him to snap back, to grow angry, but when Sylus finally spoke, his voice was softer than before, almost…tender.

“Honey,” he said quietly, as if trying to soothe a frightened animal. “Do you honestly think I’m going to punish you? I just want you to be safe. You’re about to give birth, and you running away doesn’t anger me. I only care about you and our daughter.”

You clenched your jaw, your grip on the receiver tightening. His words might have sounded genuine, but you knew better. You had to know better. He always knew exactly what to say to make you second-guess yourself, to plant that tiny seed of doubt in your mind.

“No,” you said coldly, refusing to let yourself fall for it. “If you really cared, you’d leave me alone.”

Sylus didn’t respond immediately, but you could hear his steady breathing on the other end of the line, a subtle reminder that he was still there—still looming over your life, even from miles away.

“I can’t do that,” he said after a long pause, his voice filled with quiet determination. “You’re mine, kitten. I’ll always come for you.”

"You fucking basta-"

“I just want to know if you’re taking care of yourself,” Sylus interrupted gently, his tone calm, almost soothing. “Landlines are a lot harder to track, y’know. If it makes you feel better, I don’t have your location, so don’t panic or get yourself worked up. I just know a few tricks…and happened to get lucky.”

His words made you bristle even more. Lucky? How dare he act like this is just some game?

There was a brief pause on the line before Sylus continued, his voice quieter now. “Are you eating? How’s the baby?”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. The nerve of this bastard, calling you like this, pretending to care—acting concerned when he was the reason you were in this mess in the first place. Rage bubbled up in your chest, your grip tightening on the phone until your knuckles turned white.

“Fuck you,” you spat, your voice shaking with emotion. “I’m alive, aren’t I? That’s all you care about, right?”

There was silence on the other end for a moment, and you imagined Sylus leaning back wherever he was, thinking carefully before responding. “That’s not true,” he said softly. “I care about more than that. I care about you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself not to cry. His words, as soft and gentle as they were, only made things worse. He had always known how to twist your emotions, how to play the part of the concerned lover even when he was the source of your pain. And yet, a small part of you hated how much you wanted to believe him, how much you wished things were different.

“You don’t get to do this,” you said, your voice quieter now but no less sharp. “You don’t get to act like you care after everything you’ve done. Just…leave me alone.”

There was another pause, longer this time. When Sylus spoke again, his tone was careful, measured. “I already said I can’t do that, kitten. You know I can’t. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Well, I am,” you bit out. “Now stop calling me.”

“I won’t call again, if that’s what you want,” Sylus said gently. “But you should know…I’ll still be looking. And I will find you. Not to hurt you, but because I want to protect you. To be there for you. You and our daughter.”

You couldn’t hold back the bitter laugh that escaped your lips. “Protect me? From what? You’re the only threat I need protection from, Sylus.”

His voice remained steady, though you thought you detected a hint of sadness in it. “Believe what you want. But if something happens, call me. Please. You have this number.”

In a fit of rage you slammed the phone back into the receiver, gripping the phone with trembling hands. You stared at it for a long moment, your mind spinning in a whirlwind of emotions—fear, anger, confusion.

I will find you.

Sylus always had a way of getting under your skin, of making you doubt yourself even when you knew you shouldn’t. And now, with his words lingering in your mind, you couldn’t help but feel the ache in your chest worsen, as though the weight of his presence still hung over you, even from miles away.

With a shaky breath, sank down onto the nearest chair, cradling your belly. Focus. Breathe. You have to keep moving forward. You can’t let him win.

How easy was it to trace the owner of a landline number? Did phonebooks still exist? Would he find Clara and threaten her? Fuck you felt like you were spiraling now. Hearing his voice made your heart beat erratically and you began to sob. Deep down, you knew that Sylus wasn’t going to give up. And the terrifying part? You weren’t sure how much longer you could keep running.

The decision had been weighing on you for days, but you finally made up your mind. You couldn’t stay here any longer. As much as you had come to appreciate Clara’s kindness, staying would only put her in danger. It made you sad—Clara didn’t deserve any of this, and a part of you hated that your life had brought chaos to her quiet little world. Still, it was for the best. You had to keep moving, keep running, and leaving meant ensuring she wouldn’t get caught in Sylus’s grasp.

You sat on the edge of the bed that night, checking the bullets in the gun Luke had so carelessly left behind. Six bullets. It’s not enough… but it’s enough, you thought grimly. Enough to slow Sylus down, enough to at least make a statement before he dragged you back to your gilded cage.

Setting the gun down on the nightstand, you lay back on the bed, trying to relax. But sleep didn’t come easily. Every time you closed your eyes, the same thoughts played over and over in your mind—Sylus’s voice on the phone, his promises, his relentless pursuit. You tossed and turned, anxiety gnawing at you, until exhaustion finally claimed you.

You didn’t know how long you’d been asleep when a sudden crash jolted you awake.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you sat up, wide-eyed and disoriented. The sound had come from the backyard—a loud, metallic clatter that sent a chill down your spine. Shit, did he find you already?

Grabbing the gun, you crept toward the back of the farmhouse, every step deliberate and silent. The cold night air seeped through the cracks in the windows, and the shadows seemed to stretch longer than they should. As you reached the back door, you peered out through the glass, your breath hitching at the sight before you.

It wasn’t Sylus.

It was something far worse.

A Wanderer.

And not just any Wanderer—a Sawshredder. Its hulking form loomed in the moonlight, leathery wings spread wide, jagged metallic edges glinting ominously. Its eyes gleamed with an unnatural light, and its claws dug deep into the earth as it stalked closer to the house.

You didn’t have time to think. Raising the gun, you fired two shots. The bullets hit their mark, causing the creature to screech in pain, a shrill, metallic wail that echoed through the night. But the shots weren’t enough to stop it.

Shit. Shit. Panic surged through you as you realized the house wouldn’t hold up for long. The Sawshredder was already clawing at the walls, tearing through wood and shingles with terrifying ease. You couldn’t stay. You had to run.

Without another thought, you bolted out the front door, the cold night air biting at your skin. You ran as fast as your swollen belly would allow, each step a painful reminder of how close you were to giving birth. The forest loomed ahead, dark and dense, but it was your only chance. If you could lose the creature in the trees, you might survive.

But the Wanderer was fast. Too fast.

Its heavy footsteps pounded behind you, and you could hear its labored breathing as it closed in. You stumbled, nearly falling, but managed to keep going. The pain in your belly was worsening, sharp and relentless, but you didn’t dare stop. Not yet.

Then, it happened.

Your foot caught on a root, and you went down hard, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs. You tried to scramble to your feet, but the Wanderer was already there, looming over you, its eyes gleaming with predatory intent.

You raised the gun again, but your fingers trembled as you pulled the trigger—nothing. Empty. The gun clicked uselessly in your hand.

Is this really how it ends? you thought, despair washing over you in heavy waves, each one more crushing than the last. You were too tired to fight anymore, too weak to keep running. The cold, damp forest floor beneath you felt like the only certainty left, and as your body trembled with exhaustion, you knew you couldn’t move another inch. The pain in your belly was unbearable, your breath came in short, ragged gasps, and the icy fingers of fear wrapped tightly around your heart.

You closed your eyes, your mind racing through flashes of memories—Tara’s warm laughter, Clara’s kind smile, Xavier’s gentle gaze, and Sylus…Sylus’s haunting voice, the way he had always loomed over your life like an inescapable shadow. All those moments, all the twists and turns, had led you here, to this dark, terrifying forest, alone and hunted. I’m sorry… The words echoed in your mind, meant for everyone you had ever cared about. You were sorry for failing them, sorry for not being strong enough.

And then…

A strange silence fell over the forest.

The pounding of the Sawshredder’s heavy footsteps stopped abruptly, the screech of its metallic wings fading into the night. Confused, you hesitantly opened your eyes, expecting to see the creature lunging at you—but it wasn’t. Instead, it stood motionless just a few feet away, its massive form looming in the pale moonlight.

You watched, breath caught in your throat, as the Sawshredder’s eyes began to dilate and contract rapidly, almost like it was struggling to process something. The faint glow in its eyes flickered erratically, as though its circuits—or whatever unnatural mechanism kept it alive—had been scrambled.

It didn’t make sense.

Your heart pounded in your chest, a frantic rhythm that echoed in your ears. The Sawshredder’s gaze, once filled with predatory intent, now seemed…unfocused. Confused. As if something had broken its singular drive to hunt you down.

Then, its gaze shifted downward—toward your belly.

You froze, too terrified to even breathe. The baby kicked wildly inside you, a flurry of frantic movements that seemed to intensify the longer the creature stared. The Sawshredder tilted its head slightly, the eerie metallic sheen of its eyes reflecting the faint glow of the moon. It took a single step closer, its jagged claws scraping against the ground with a shrill metallic screech.

Your pulse spiked, fear gripping you tighter than ever before. You instinctively placed a protective hand over your belly, feeling your daughter’s strong kicks beneath your palm. She was moving more than ever, as if reacting to the creature’s presence, or sensing the danger surrounding you both.

But the Sawshredder didn’t attack.

It simply stood there, its breathing heavy and erratic, each exhale releasing a faint plume of vapor into the cold night air. Its eyes remained locked on your belly, flickering in a way that was almost… reverent. Almost as if it could sense something—something beyond what you could comprehend.

Why isn’t it attacking? The thought raced through your mind, wild and desperate. It didn’t make any sense. This creature had chased you relentlessly, tearing through the forest with single-minded intent, and yet now…it was hesitating.

Seconds stretched into what felt like hours as you remained frozen in place, too terrified to move, too confused to understand what was happening. The Sawshredder took one last, lingering look at your belly, then slowly began to back away. Its heavy wings rustled as it folded them tightly against its body, and with a final, labored breath, it turned around.

And walked away.

Just like that.

You stared in disbelief as the creature disappeared into the shadows of the forest, its massive form blending seamlessly with the darkness. The tension in your body refused to ease, your muscles locked in place as you tried to process what had just happened.

What the hell was that?

You gasped for air, each breath shaky and uneven as your heart thundered in your chest. Relief came in a sudden, overwhelming wave, leaving you trembling as the realization sank in—you were alive. Somehow, against all odds, you had survived. In all your years of being a Hunter, never had a Wanderer just left like that.

But the moment of relief was short-lived.

A sharp, searing pain tore through your abdomen, doubling you over as a cry of agony escaped your lips. You clutched your belly, the pain unlike anything you had ever felt before—intense, all-consuming, as though your entire body was being wrenched apart from the inside.

No, no, no…not now. Please, not now.

Panic set in as you realized what was happening. The stress, the fear, the running—it had triggered something. Contractions. Early labor.

Tears blurred your vision as you leaned against a nearby tree, your fingers digging into the bark for support. “Please… just hold on,” you whispered desperately, your voice shaking. “Just give me more time…”

But the pain didn’t stop. Another contraction hit, even stronger than the last, and you cried out, sinking to your knees. The cold ground bit into your skin, but it was nothing compared to the unbearable ache radiating from your core.

You couldn’t stay out here. You had to get back to the farmhouse, had to find a way to call Clara, to get help before it was too late. Forcing yourself to your feet, you took a shaky step forward, then another, each movement agonizing.

“Come on…just a little further,” you whispered through gritted teeth, willing yourself to keep going. The farmhouse wasn’t far. You could make it. You had to make it.

But as you stumbled forward, another wave of pain hit, and the world around you blurred. Time was running out, and deep down, you knew…this was only the beginning.

You barely managed to stumble through the farmhouse door, each step a monumental effort as the sharp, searing pain in your abdomen refused to relent. Every contraction felt like a tidal wave crashing through your body, dragging you under, leaving you gasping and trembling. You clung to the walls for support, your breaths coming in ragged, shallow bursts, sweat dripping down your brow and soaking your clothes.

By the time you reached the bedroom, you were crying openly, tears of pain and fear blurring your vision. You collapsed onto the bed, clutching your belly as another contraction tore through you, this one stronger than the last. The intensity of it left you breathless, your mind reeling as you tried to make sense of what was happening.

This can’t be right. It’s too soon. It’s not supposed to happen like this… Panic gripped you tightly, but there was no time to dwell on it. Your body was taking over, forcing you to surrender to the primal, all-consuming process of labor.

Your trembling hands reached down, struggling to remove your pants and underwear, every movement slow and labored. The fabric clung to your sweat-drenched skin, and each second felt like an eternity. The ache in your lower back was relentless, a dull, throbbing pain that radiated through your entire body, while your abdomen tightened with excruciating pressure.

It hurts… oh God, it hurts so much… You clenched your teeth, trying to brace yourself for the next wave of pain, but nothing could have prepared you for the sheer intensity of it. It felt as though your body was being torn apart from the inside, a searing, burning sensation that left you shaking uncontrollably.

Time lost all meaning. All you could do was endure, ride the pain as it surged through you, again and again. Your heart pounded wildly in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears, and you found yourself gasping for air, desperate for relief that wouldn’t come.

Is something wrong? The thought crept into your mind, but it was quickly drowned out by another agonizing contraction. You tried to focus, tried to gather your thoughts, but it was impossible. The pain was too much, too overwhelming, and your body felt like it was spiraling out of your control.

Your vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges of your sight. You felt a strange mix of pressure and burning, as though something was shifting deep inside you. A part of you knew that this was it—your daughter was coming, ready or not—but the terror that accompanied that realization was almost paralyzing.

“I can’t… I can’t do this…” you whispered through gritted teeth, tears streaming down your face as another contraction wracked your body, stealing what little strength you had left.

The world around you blurred further, sounds and sensations becoming distant, muted. You tried to hold on, tried to stay conscious, but your body had reached its limit. The pain, the fear, the exhaustion—it was all too much.

As the darkness closed in around you, your last conscious thought was a desperate plea. Please… let her be okay. Just let my baby be okay…

And then everything went black.

The sound of crying pierced through the thick fog clouding your mind. It was shrill, insistent, and ear-splitting, cutting through the haze of exhaustion and pain like a blade. You stirred, feeling like your entire body had been reduced to jello, heavy and useless. Where…?

Your vision blurred as you blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of your surroundings. Slowly, shapes came into focus, and then—there she was.

Your daughter.

Writhing and crying on the hardwood floor between your legs, tiny limbs flailing, her little face scrunched up in distress. Shit. A surge of panic shot through you. How long had you been out? Minutes? Hours? You had no way of knowing, but it didn’t matter. She was here, and she was alive.

“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry,” you whispered, voice trembling as tears welled up in your eyes. You forced your groggy mind into action, adrenaline pumping through your veins. Your limbs felt sluggish, weak, but you pushed through it, reaching down to scoop up the wailing newborn. She was slick with fluids and blood, her tiny body warm and fragile in your shaking hands.

Your heart pounded as you stumbled around the room, searching desperately for something—anything—to wrap her in. Your fingers finally found a blanket draped over the armrest of a chair. You clumsily wrapped her up, hands fumbling as you tried to keep her secure despite the mess covering both of you. The umbilical cord dangled between you both, slightly swinging as you moved. Blood, sweat, and other fluids clung to your skin, but you didn’t care. Nothing mattered except the tiny life in your arms.

Is this right? Am I doing this right? You wrapped her as best as you could, securing the edges even though your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She continued to cry, her tiny face scrunched up, and you didn’t know what to do.

You sat heavily on the couch, holding her close—not out of instinct, but because you didn’t know what else to do. The room felt too big, too cold, too…surreal. Everything about this moment felt off, like you were trapped in some bizarre dream you couldn’t wake up from.

The crying didn’t stop, and a wave of helplessness washed over you. What now? What am I supposed to do? You had no idea how to soothe a baby. You didn’t know what she needed, or if she was okay. All you could do was rock her awkwardly, whispering soft nonsense in a trembling voice.

“Shh…it’s okay…” you said, your voice wavering as you tried to calm her. You weren’t sure if babies even liked being rocked, but it seemed to help a little. Her cries softened into whimpers, though she continued to squirm in your arms.

She was so small, yet somehow bigger than you had expected. Her tiny fingers peeked out from the blanket, curling and uncurling as if testing the air around her. You could see tufts of hair already sprouting on her head, the same shade as yours. You stared at her, taking in every little feature, every little detail—the curve of her nose, the shape of her cheeks. She looked so much like you.

And yet…

You couldn’t help but notice the traces of Sylus in her face, subtle but undeniable. The shape of her eyes, the faint curve of her chin, the shape of her lips. As much as you wanted to ignore it, there he was, etched into her tiny features. She looked...human? No giant claws or green skin. It relieved you. Was Sylus just human then? He couldn't be...not after-

To your surprise, she whimpered, her tiny eyes fluttering open for the first time. You froze, heart stopping in your chest as you caught a glimpse of her gaze.

A crimson red, just like his. Milky and unfocused, as all newborns’ eyes were, but unmistakably red nonetheless.

Your breath caught in your throat, and tears welled up in your eyes again. Not from joy, not from fear—just from sheer, overwhelming disbelief.

This is real. She’s real.

But instead of feeling the rush of love or relief you thought you might feel, all you could manage was a numb sort of bewilderment. You didn’t know how to process it. Everything about this moment felt… wrong. Off. Like you were too far removed from it to truly feel anything.

You weren’t ready for this.

You hadn’t been ready for any of it.

Tears streamed down your face as you stared at her, your emotions too tangled to make sense of. You didn’t feel joy. You didn’t feel relief. You didn’t feel disgust or anger or fear.

You felt…shock.

Nothing but pure shock.

Months of suffering. Months of pain, of running, of hiding, of fighting. All of it had led to this moment. To this tiny, fragile life in your arms. Its not like you hated her. How could you truly hate an innocent baby in all this? But this was all surreal. It had happened so fast you couldn't process it.

You rocked her mechanically, your mind struggling to catch up with reality. “You just came out of me,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “This is fucking crazy…”

Your daughter whimpered again, her tiny fingers twitching beneath the blanket. You watched her with wide, tired eyes, still too dazed to comprehend what had just happened. You had given birth. Alone. In a strange farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. And now, here you were—holding your daughter, with no idea what to do next.

“I…I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted softly, your voice breaking as more tears fell. “I don’t know how to do this…I'm sorry.”

She didn’t answer, of course. She just continued to breathe, her little chest rising and falling steadily, her tiny hand curling against the fabric of the blanket. She was here. She was real. And for now, that was all that mattered truly.

But even as you held her, a deep, gnawing fear crept into your chest.

What now?

Would Sylus find you? Would he take her from you? Would you even survive long enough to figure out how to be a mother? You didn’t have answers to any of those questions, and the uncertainty was crushing.

For now, though, you were alive. And so was she. All you could do now was figure all of this out. To survive.

And somehow, that would have to be enough.

[elryuse]

ANTHEM pt.5

MULTIPLE FEMALE IDOLS X MALE READER

Tags : Harem, Sedcution, Kissing, Public Sex, Multiple Female Love Interest

Words : 4, 197 Words

For The Other Parts Of My ANTHEM Series, Please Kindly Check Over Here

The morning sun filtered through the blinds of Y/n’s room, casting soft stripes of light across his face. He groaned softly, stretching his arms above his head as he woke up to another day in the whirlwind that was ANTHEM. The events of the previous night with Yujin still lingered in his mind, the memory of her laughter under the shower spray fresh and vivid. But before he could dwell on it too long, his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He reached for it, squinting at the screen. A text from Chaewon lit up the display:

“Oppa, good morning! Are you free today? I need your help with something…please don’t say no~ 🥺”

Y/n sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. Chaewon had been acting… different lately. She’d always been cheeky and playful, but recently, she’d been leaning into him more during practice, finding excuses to touch his arm or steal glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. He couldn’t deny there was something magnetic about her—her sharp wit, the way her eyes sparkled when she teased him, the way she seemed to know exactly how to get under his skin. But after everything with Karina, Wonyoung, and Yujin, he wasn’t sure if he was ready for… whatever this was.

Still, he typed out a reply: “Sure, what do you need?”

Her response came almost instantly: “I’ll pick you up in 30 minutes. Wear something casual but not too casual. Oh, and bring your mask!”

Thirty minutes later, Y/n stood outside their dorm building, dressed in a simple hoodie and jeans, his mask already in place. A black SUV pulled up, and Chaewon leaned out the window, grinning mischievously. “Get in, oppa!”

As soon as he slid into the passenger seat, Chaewon handed him a pair of sunglasses. “Here, put these on too. We can’t have anyone recognizing us, right?”

“Where are we even going?” Y/n asked, adjusting the glasses on his face.

“It’s a surprise,” she said, her voice sing-song as she pulled away from the curb. “Relax, oppa. Don’t be so serious all the time.”

They drove in comfortable silence for a while, Chaewon occasionally humming along to the radio. Y/n couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly stylish she looked, even in her paparazzi-proof outfit of an oversized sweater, leggings, and sneakers. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, with a few strands framing her face. She caught him looking and smirked. “See something you like?”

“Just wondering why you’re being so secretive,” he deflected, though his cheeks warmed under her teasing gaze.

Finally, they arrived at their destination: a small, brightly lit arcade tucked away in a quieter part of the city. The neon lights flashed against the windows, inviting them inside. Chaewon practically bounced out of the car, grabbing his hand as soon as he stepped out. “Come on, let’s go!”

Inside, the arcade was bustling with energy—the sounds of blaring game music, the clatter of tokens dropping into machines, and the excited shouts of players filled the air. Chaewon led him straight to the photobooth in the corner, its curtains slightly tattered but still colorful. “Let’s take some pictures!” she declared, already digging out a few coins.

“Chaewon, seriously?” Y/n laughed, shaking his head. “You dragged me all the way here for this?”

“Yes, seriously,” she replied, tugging him inside the booth. The space was tight, their bodies pressed together as she closed the curtain behind them. The screen flickered to life, displaying a countdown for the first photo.

Chaewon turned to him, her expression suddenly softer, more serious than he’d ever seen it. “Oppa,” she began, her voice low and quiet, “do you really not know why I wanted to come here with you?”

Y/n blinked, caught off guard by the shift in her tone. “Uh… because you like arcades?”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile playing on her lips. “No, dummy. Because I wanted to spend time alone with you. Just you and me.”

Before he could respond, the photobooth’s camera snapped the first picture. Chaewon quickly leaned in closer, her fingers brushing against his arm as she tilted her head toward him. The second flash went off. Y/n’s heart began to race, his breath hitching as she looked up at him through her lashes. “Chaewon…”

“Shh,” she whispered, her hand sliding up to cup his cheek. “Stop thinking so much, oppa. Just… feel.”

And then she kissed him.

It started soft, tentative—just the briefest brush of her lips against his. But when Y/n didn’t pull away, Chaewon deepened the kiss, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pressed closer. The world outside the photobooth faded away, leaving only the two of them and the sound of their mingled breaths. Y/n’s hands found her waist, pulling her tightly against him as he responded with equal fervor.

The camera flashed again, capturing the moment as Chaewon broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Y/n stared at her, dazed, his mind struggling to catch up with what was happening. “Chaewon, I—”

The camera flashed one final time, freezing the image of her grinning triumphantly before she pulled him back into another kiss. This time, it was fiercer, hungrier, her nails digging lightly into his shoulders as she poured every ounce of her pent-up feelings into it. Y/n groaned against her mouth, his hands slipping under her sweater to trace the curve of her spine.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their faces flushed. Chaewon rested her forehead against his, her voice barely audible over the hum of the arcade outside. “So… did you like my surprise?”

Y/n chuckled, his thumb brushing against her cheek. “Yeah, I liked it. A lot.”

“Good,” she said, her grin widening. “Because there’s more where that came from.”

Chaewon’s lips lingered close to his, her breath warm against his skin as she whispered, “So… what do you think about us? About this?” Her eyes searched his, a mix of playfulness and vulnerability flickering in their depths.

Y/n hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding. The air between them felt electric, charged with something unspoken but undeniable. He could still feel the ghost of her touch under his sweater, the warmth of her body pressed against his. “I think…” he started, voice low, “it’s complicated. You know that, right? With everything going on in the group…”

She tilted her head, her fingers trailing lightly down his arm until they interlaced with his. “Complicated doesn’t mean impossible,” she murmured, her tone soft but firm. “And I don’t care about complications if it means getting to have this. To have you.” There was a weight to her words, a sincerity that made Y/n’s chest tighten.

He swallowed hard, his mind racing. Karina’s confession, Wonyoung’s teasing, Yujin’s boldness—now Chaewon was laying her feelings bare. It felt like the walls were closing in, the web of emotions growing more entangled by the day. But with Chaewon staring at him like that, her lips slightly parted and her cheeks flushed from the intensity of their kiss, it was hard to focus on anything else.

“Chaewon,” he said quietly, squeezing her hand. “You know this isn’t just about us. The group… we can’t risk—”

She interrupted him with a shake of her head, her hair brushing against his cheek. “Stop thinking so much,” she said, her voice firm but tender. “For once, just let yourself feel. We’ve been dancing around this for weeks—maybe longer. Don’t you think it’s time we stopped pretending?”

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. She was right, wasn’t she? Every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every playful tease—they had all been building toward this. And now, with her standing so close, her body pressed against his, it was impossible to deny the pull between them.

“Okay,” he breathed, his voice barely audible. “What do you want, Chaewon?”

A slow smile spread across her face, her eyes gleaming with something mischievous. “I want you to stop overthinking and kiss me again,” she said, her tone light but laced with desire.

Before he could respond, she leaned in, capturing his lips with hers. This kiss was different from the ones before—slower, deeper, more deliberate. Her hands slid up his chest, curling around the back of his neck as she pulled him closer. Y/n’s hands instinctively found her waist, gripping her tightly as he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing against hers.

The world outside the photobooth faded away, leaving only the two of them and the heat building between them. When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads resting against each other.

“That’s what I want,” Chaewon whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “I want us to explore this. To see where it could go. I don’t care about the others right now. I just… I care about you.”

Y/n’s heart clenched at her words. He wanted to say something—anything—to reassure her, to tell her he felt the same way. But before he could, she stepped back slightly, her hands sliding down to grip his.

“But I need you to be honest with me,” she continued, her gaze steady. “If this is too much, if you’re not ready… I’ll understand. But don’t keep me hanging, Y/n. Don’t make me guess.”

He squeezed her hands, his mind racing. How could he explain the whirlwind of emotions he was feeling? The guilt, the desire, the fear of what this could mean for the group—and for them?

“It’s not that simple,” he admitted, his voice rough. “You know that. With Karina, Wonyoung, Yujin… it’s not just about us. It’s about how this affects everyone.”

Chaewon nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “I know,” she said softly. “And I’m not asking you to choose. I’m just asking you to give us a chance. To see where this could go. Isn’t that worth it?”

Y/n’s chest tightened at her words. She was giving him an out, a way to step back if he needed to. But as he looked into her eyes, he realized he didn’t want to. He wanted this. He wanted her.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice firm. “It’s worth it.”

A brilliant smile spread across Chaewon’s face, her eyes lighting up with joy. “Good,” she said, her voice full of relief. “Because I wasn’t planning on taking no for an answer.”

Y/n chuckled, pulling her closer. “You really are something else, you know that?”

She grinned, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “You have no idea,” she teased, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest. “Now, are you going to kiss me again, or do I have to take charge?”

His answer was to lean down and capture her lips once more, pouring every ounce of his pent-up emotions into the kiss. Chaewon responded eagerly, her hands sliding up his shoulders to tangle in his hair. The world outside the photobooth disappeared, leaving only the two of them and the fire burning between them.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless, their faces flushed. Chaewon rested her forehead against his, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “We should probably get out of here before someone catches us,” she murmured, though there was no urgency in her voice.

Y/n laughed softly, his hands still resting on her hips. “Probably. But I’m not ready to let you go yet.”

She smiled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Who said anything about letting go?” she said, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Meet me in my room tonight. We can continue this… privately.”

His heart skipped a beat at her words, his grip tightening on her waist. “Are you sure?”

She pulled back slightly, her gaze locking with his. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she said, her voice steady. “But only if you are.”

Y/n hesitated for a moment, the weight of her words settling over him. This wasn’t just about a fleeting moment of passion—this was a decision that could change everything. But as he looked into her eyes, he knew there was no turning back.

“I’m sure,” he said, his voice firm.

Chaewon’s smile widened, and she pressed one last, lingering kiss to his lips before stepping back. “Good,” she said, her voice full of promise. “Tonight, then. Don’t keep me waiting.”

The hallway was dimly lit, the faint hum of fluorescent lights casting long shadows as Chaewon led Y/n by the hand. Her fingers were warm and firm around his, pulling him closer with every step. Their footsteps echoed softly against the polished floor, but neither of them spoke—words felt unnecessary now. The tension between them had been building all day, a slow burn that had finally reached its breaking point.

When they reached her room, Chaewon turned to face him, her eyes dark with desire. She didn’t hesitate, pressing herself against him, her lips capturing his in a hungry kiss. Y/n groaned into her mouth, his hands instinctively finding her waist as he pulled her closer. The taste of her was intoxicating, sweet and sharp like cherry cola, and he couldn’t get enough.

Chaewon broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, “I’ve been waiting for this all night,” before dragging him inside and shutting the door behind them. The room was bathed in soft amber light, the curtains drawn tight, creating an intimate cocoon. Without warning, she pushed him backward until his legs hit the edge of the bed, and he fell onto it, bouncing slightly.

She stood over him, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she let out a low, breathy laugh. “You’re so eager,” she teased, her voice dripping with mischief. And then, with deliberate slowness, she began to undress.

First came her jacket, slipping off her shoulders like liquid silk. Then her top, revealing a lace bralette that clung to her curves in all the right places. Y/n’s breath hitched as he watched her, his body already responding to her every move. But she wasn’t done yet. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of her skirt, and with a slow, teasing tug, she let it fall to the floor, leaving her in nothing but her lingerie.

Y/n couldn’t help but stare, taking in every inch of her. Chaewon was beautiful—stunning, really—but there was something about the way she carried herself, the confidence radiating from her, that made her irresistible. She stepped closer, straddling him on the bed, her hands resting on his chest.

“Do you like what you see?” she purred, her voice low and husky.

Y/n nodded, swallowing hard. “More than you know.”

Her lips curved into a sultry smile, and she leaned down, her breath hot against his ear as she whispered, “Then don’t hold back.”

That was all the invitation he needed. In one swift motion, he flipped her onto her back, pinning her beneath him. The surprise in her eyes only fueled his hunger, and he kissed her deeply, his hands roaming her body as if trying to memorize every curve. She moaned into his mouth, her nails digging into his shoulders as she arched against him.

Their clothes disappeared in a flurry of movement, discarded carelessly on the floor. When Y/n finally entered her, Chaewon let out a gasp, her head falling back against the pillows as her body shuddered in response. He moved slowly at first, savoring the way she felt beneath him, the way her breathing quickened with every thrust.

But Chaewon wasn’t content to let him set the pace. Her hips bucked against his, urging him to go faster, harder, and he obliged, his own control slipping as the heat between them grew unbearable. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, filling the room with a symphony of pleasure.

“Y/n—” she gasped, her voice breaking as her nails raked down his back. “Don’t stop... please...”

He didn’t. Instead, he shifted his angle slightly, hitting a spot that made her cry out in ecstasy. Her eyes rolled back, her mouth falling open in an agegao expression that sent a jolt of primal satisfaction through him. She was completely lost in the moment, consumed by the intensity of their connection.

As her body tightened around him, signaling her climax, Y/n felt his own release building. With one final, powerful thrust, he spilled into her, their shared cries mingling in the air. For a moment, they stayed like that, their bodies pressed together, hearts racing in tandem.

When he finally pulled back, Chaewon looked up at him, her eyes glassy and unfocused, a satisfied smile tugging at her lips. “Wow,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were sure.”

Y/n chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Neither were you.”

She laughed softly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

Before he could respond, she propped herself up on one elbow, her gaze locking with his. There was something unspoken in her eyes, a question or maybe a promise, but before either of them could explore it further, the sound of voices outside the door made them freeze.

Both pairs of eyes darted toward the door, wide with panic. The last thing they needed was someone walking in on them like this. Chaewon quickly grabbed a pillow, covering herself as Y/n scrambled to find his boxers.

But before they could fully recover, the doorknob began to turn.

“Shit,” Chaewon hissed under her breath, her heart pounding. “What do we do?”

Y/n’s mind raced, but before he could come up with a plan, the door creaked open, revealing...

Chaewon’s eyes widened in panic as the door creaked open. Without hesitation, she grabbed Y/n by the arm and yanked him under the covers with her, pulling the blanket up to their chins just as the soft glow of the hallway light spilled into the room.

“Stay quiet,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her lips brushing against his ear. Her breath was warm, sending a shiver down his spine despite the heat pooling between them.

The sound of footsteps followed, slow and deliberate, as whoever had entered lingered near the doorway. Y/n’s heart hammered against his chest, each beat echoing loudly in his ears. He could feel Chaewon’s body pressed tightly against his, her legs tangled with his own, her skin still flushed from their earlier passion. The thin fabric of the blanket did little to hide the warmth radiating between them, but neither dared to move.

“Chaewon?” came a familiar voice—Winter. She sounded tentative, like she wasn’t sure if she should be there. “Are you awake?”

Y/n froze, his eyes locking with Chaewon’s. Her expression was a mix of amusement and mischief, her lips curling into a sly smile despite the situation. She placed a finger over her own lips, silently urging him to stay still, then turned her head slightly toward the door.

“Uh… yeah,” Chaewon called back, her voice surprisingly steady. “What’s up? I was just about to sleep.”

There was a pause, and Y/n could practically hear Winter’s hesitation. His mind raced, trying to figure out how they were going to get out of this without raising suspicion. But Chaewon seemed unfazed, her fingers tracing light patterns on his chest beneath the blanket, her touch both soothing and electrifying.

“I… couldn’t sleep,” Winter admitted finally, her voice softer now. “I thought maybe we could talk or something.”

Chaewon bit her lip, her hand stilling for a moment before she sighed softly. “Sorry, Unnie. I’m really tired tonight. Maybe tomorrow?”

Another pause. Y/n could almost picture Winter standing there, her arms crossed, her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of the situation. He prayed she wouldn’t come closer, wouldn’t notice the faint rise and fall of the blankets or the way Chaewon’s breathing hitched ever so slightly when her fingers brushed against his stomach.

“Alright,” Winter said finally, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced. “Sleep well, then.”

The footsteps retreated, and the door clicked shut, plunging the room back into semi-darkness. For a moment, neither of them moved, listening intently for any sign that Winter might change her mind and return. When it became clear she was gone, Chaewon let out a low laugh, her body relaxing against his.

“That was close,” she murmured, her lips curving into a grin. Her hand resumed its exploration, trailing lower now, and Y/n sucked in a sharp breath. “Too close.”

“You’re insane,” Y/n replied, his voice hushed but laced with disbelief. He could feel the tension coiling in his gut again, threatening to unravel as her fingers danced dangerously close to where he wanted her most. “What if she had seen us?”

Chaewon tilted her head, her gaze locking with his. “She didn’t,” she said simply, as if that settled everything. “And besides…” She leaned in closer, her lips brushing against his neck, her words hot against his skin. “Wouldn’t that have been exciting?”

Y/n groaned softly, his hands instinctively finding her waist and pulling her closer. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, though he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “What if someone else comes in?”

“Then we’ll be quiet this time,” Chaewon replied, her tone teasing but her eyes filled with desire. She shifted slightly, straddling him beneath the blanket, her weight pressing deliciously against him. “Unless you want me to stop?”

He didn’t answer—he couldn’t. Instead, his hands slid up her back, pulling her down into a searing kiss. Their lips met with a hunger that sent sparks shooting through him, her tongue parting his as she deepened the kiss. Her hips rolled against his, the friction drawing a low groan from his throat.

“Quiet,” she reminded him, her breath hitching as she rocked against him again. Her movements were slow, deliberate, designed to drive him mad. And it was working. Every brush of her skin against his sent waves of pleasure crashing through him, every gasp and sigh from her lips only fueling his need.

Her hands roamed freely now, exploring every inch of him she could reach. She kissed along his jaw, his neck, her teeth grazing his skin in a way that made him shudder. When her lips found his ear, she whispered, “You’re mine tonight,” and the possessiveness in her voice sent a jolt of arousal straight to his core.

Y/n’s hands gripped her thighs, his fingers digging into her soft skin as he held her in place. “Chaewon…” he breathed, his voice strained with need. “We can’t—”

“Shh,” she interrupted, silencing him with another kiss. Her hips moved again, grinding against him in a rhythm that left no room for argument. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

And he did. Every touch, every movement, every whisper of her name against his skin blurred together into a haze of pleasure. The world outside the blanket ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them, lost in each other.

But just as the tension reached its peak, the sound of voices outside the door shattered the moment. Y/n tensed, his eyes darting toward the door as muffled laughter drifted in from the hallway. Chaewon froze above him, her breath coming in shallow puffs as she listened.

“Quick,” she whispered, sliding off him and pulling the blanket up higher. “Underneath me.”

Y/n didn’t argue, shifting so that she was lying on top of him, her body shielding his from view. The door handle turned again, and this time, multiple voices filtered into the room.

“Chaewon? Are you still awake?” It was Karina this time, her tone light and playful.

“We brought snacks!” added Winter, her voice cheerful now.

Chaewon propped herself up on one elbow, doing her best to look sleepy and disheveled. “Can’t you guys leave me alone for one night?” she complained, though her voice lacked any real annoyance.

Karina chuckled, stepping further into the room. “Come on, don’t be such a loner. We haven’t hung out properly in ages.”

Y/n held his breath, praying they wouldn’t notice the slight indent in the mattress where he lay hidden beneath Chaewon. Her hand found his beneath the blanket, squeezing gently in reassurance.

“Fine,” Chaewon sighed dramatically, sinking back down onto Y/n in a way that made him grit his teeth. “But if you wake me up again, I’m kicking you all out.”

The girls laughed, their voices fading as they began to chatter among themselves. Y/n could feel Chaewon’s body shaking slightly with suppressed laughter, her face buried in his shoulder to muffle the sound.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” he muttered, his lips brushing against her ear.

Chaewon grinned against his skin. “Maybe a little.” She shifted slightly, her knee brushing against him in a way that made him bite back a groan. “But don’t worry… I’ll make it up to you later.”

Y/n had no doubt she would. But for now, all he could do was lie there, his heart pounding as he waited for the girls to leave—and for Chaewon to make good on her promise…

[viperwhispered]

Notes on Jamil's speech patterns

I was supposed to just pick out some examples of typical Jamil lines. How he speaks, the vocabulary he uses, things like that. Something I could easily refer to when writing to get the tone right.

But then it kinda blew up, oop – because it’s hard to talk about how a character speaks without also dipping into why they say whatever they say.

Plus then I wanted to get examples of Jamil in different moods, and could not resist some poignant things that were more related to his character or backstory rather than strictly the speech patterns themselves, so… It expanded a bit.

Anyways. Some things I noticed he tends to do:

Sighs (more than I realized)

Snarks

Tch (though could be a more general twst writing choice too)

Stutters when he’s flustered / embarrassed / caught of guard (what a cutie)

Goes ahem like an old man when he’s trying to get back on track in those off-kilter moments

Kinda formal with his manner of speech and choice of words (especially in servant mode) (I always worry I exaggerate this but he sure does do that)

But there’s still some animatedness with the way he emphasises words, for example

(so long-suffering and ready to bark out directions to Kalim oh boy - the way the directness just comes through when he loses it)

sugarcoating his opinions if he doesn’t feel like he can say them plainly (tyrant becomes rigorous, etc.)

sarcasm, sometimes with a side of deadpan, sometimes with a smirk

“Good grief” (another thing I didn't realize was that much of a catchphrase)

Very mild on the level of insults & swears honestly, (I mean, "drat"?) but I imagine this is more of a result of the game's rating (I guess for in-game reasons we can say he's been very conditioned by his upbringing)

I put the screenshots that seemed telling, and some related notes, on to a google sheet. That way one can filter and order it in various ways.

The sheet is probably best viewed on a computer or another larger screen, the screenshots might make it a bit difficult to navigate on mobile.

I did go in with the assumption that Jamil might speak differently pre-overblot (when the servant mask is firmly in place) and post-overblot (at least those occasions where he allows himself to be more honest). Like, there’s the sycophantic (as Leona calls it) flatterer, versus when Jamil’s honestly voicing his own thoughts. Which also shows in how I chose to categorize the screenshots.

Of course events are a bit wibbly wobbly in relation to the main story so can’t be placed in the timeline in the same way, but there are still those occasions where it seems you can tell the difference between the servant mask and a Jamil who’s not saying things just for the sake of appearances.

So, to explain the logic of the sheet:

First column has a screenshot of something Jamil says. The second two columns give the source.

The column for whether or not this happened before or after the overblot is only really used for main story things, since event stories are kinda murky timeline-wise.

Next is whether Jamil seems to be putting on the servant mask or speaking more honestly. This is where get more to interpretation territory, and I’ve not applied it to every screenshot (either because that didn’t seem like the relevant part for that line, or because I couldn’t tell).

The last column of the sheet is where we get most to my personal interpretations. So of course you might read these lines differently than I do, and that’s completely fine, these are simply the aspects that seemed poignant to me. Some notes are simply pointing out specific word choices or style of speech, others delve more into character analysis side of things.

Totally fine if you want to copy this file or modify it to your own needs. All I ask is that you don’t pass off anything I wrote as your own thoughts.

Order of lines is based purely on the order the pics were in my screenshots folder, so guess this is also an insight on the order I played things in, lol.

Tagging some jamil peeps in case y'all find this useful:

@crystallizsch @diodellet @moonyasnow @twstgo @lex752

@majestickitty @viperbunnies

[deepcoraldragon]

And we’re back

Hi guys, hope everyone’s doing okay on this fifth day of bullshit

I’m still kind of in shock of the level of reaction here. Think about Dream & co’s other controversies (maybe minus the cheating), the most we’d get would be a vague reference from 2-3 people, if that. Everyone was walking on eggshells, and now half the community has a quip to make about it. The dam really broke

Also, clarification: I got mixed up, that was not Rue’s twitter. Thanks to @samnooks for pointing this out!

Anyway, here goes

TapL

JojoSolos

Kara Corvus

Seapeekay

I’ve already mentioned a6d but I didn’t have a screenshot

Mithzan

Again, I’ve mentioned Ludwig before but now I have a screenshot (he went on stream yesterday)

Jameskii (this was a comment on Tommy's video)

Yammy

Scott Smajor (he was joking about it with Tubbo, Aimsey, CPK and Dtowncat on the realm)

Seapeekay, Tapl and Pangi were commenting on the whole thing in Tubbo’s chat (according to my informants) but I couldn’t find a screenshot. But I think it’s safe to say that everyone currently active on the realm, a server hosted by Tubbo, is at least on good terms with him

Mentioned it but stayed vague

Deadlox

Soupforeloise

People who worked for Tommy

So in Dream’s most recent video he accuses Tommy of not paying his editors fairly, and generally not treating them well (remember when this was about him calling us the r-slur?). What he crucially forgot is that these people have twitter accounts and no qualms about calling him out on his bs

Larry (talentlacking) (he had wayyy more to say about this on twt but this post is already long enough)

Yahiamice

Lettucesandwich

ArchieMcW

PepsB

connor (ne0neclipse)

NoGoodDavis

connie (luvconnies)

hunter-hhhh

and finally

Nope

I almost included this in the first post (I actually put it in the tags) but I thought, better not, because surely someone will come out and back him any minute now. At least his roommates? But uh. Still no one

Thanks again to various people who commented with more info! I don’t know if I’ll need a fourth post, if more ccs join in I might just put them in the comments. Or wait until this is all over (imagine that) and do a big recap, we'll see

List of ccs publicly supporting Tommy & Tubbo

(or who just spoke out against Dream in general. or both.) as of jan 13

I haven’t seen a list on here yet so here goes (I def forgot some people, and I’m missing a few screenshots but this took foreverrr)

Content creators explicitly siding with clingyduo

Jack

AverageHarry

Ranboo

Phil

Sneegsnag

MaxGGs (could not pick a favorite tweet)

Aimsey

Kwite

SophieTexas

ConnorEatsPants

Krinios

a6d

Bitzel (not that we’re surprised)

Ludwig apparently

RosannaPansino

KyleEff

Dean Withers, coming out of left field

Molly (melinks)

Its_blarg

Mysticat

ItsZoil I think

Michael McChill

Content creators who didn’t say anything explicitly but we can read between the lines

HannahRose

Quackity (idgaf undefeated champion)

Shelby Shubble (see Phil)

Vikkstar

People who aren’t ccs but still get an honorable mention

Sarah Simons (Tommy’s mom)

Rue (Tommy’s old roommate)

Ady Manifold

Andi (Punz's ex) (I had to cut the post, sorry)

And that's everyone I can think of rn! Please add on if I forgot someone, if new people speak out, or if you have more screenshots to share!

[kamaluhkhan]

HER CANINE TEETH IN THE SIDE OF MY NECK

pairing: werewolf!vi x vampire slayer!reader word count: 11.1 k summary: she's a monster, and you're essentially a monster hunter. it shouldn't work, but it does. (or — you and vi decide to escape the narrative together) warnings: ooh various mentions of fighting + blood + injuries ranging from mild to life-threatening (reader and vi are both pitfighters); reader and vi both smoke + consume alcohol; lots of dog metaphors + religious imagery + some allusions to cannibalism/consumption as love (if u watch yellowjackets and/or jennifer's body....u know the vibes); rough sex (fingering [vi receiving], oral [reader receiving], tribbing, biting, spitting ++ aftercare); 18+ ! vibes are basically buffy the vampire slayer with chaotic lesbians loving each other so much it consumes them both....in the most romantic way possible <3 a/n: i think i've been watching too much buffy and fantasizing about werewolf!vi for like,, too long,, and this unholy mess is the result. this has been sitting in my drafts unfinished for a WHILE but tonight is the wolf moon so it felt right to post now, i really hope y'all enjoy 🖤 i'll include credit for each subtitle in the tags too <33

♪: "bullet with butterfly wings" by the smashing pumpkins; "dig me out" by sleater-kinney; "taste my despair" by lesbian bed death; "i wanna be your dog" by joan jett; "fantastic" by king princess

i. sorry about the blood in your mouth

vi wakes up with a terrible motherfucking headache, which isn’t anything new. 

she doesn’t know where she is — that isn’t particularly something new, either — but what is new is the tongue slobbering all over her face. when she opens her eyes, vi sees a 50-pound black dog standing over her.

“whoa!” vi sits up abruptly, but the dog only gets more excited and jumps up on the couch, caging her in.

“sorry. she usually isn’t so enthusiastic about company.”

the voice is coming from the other side of the room, where you’re sitting on the edge of the mattress closest to the window. there’s a cigarette in your hand, and each time you exhale, you point your chin accordingly so the smoke travels outside. a crisp breeze trickles in. 

“morning, killer.”

vi swallows the heart that has jumped into her throat, takes a deep breath to steady her breathing. fuck, she literally just moved here and might already need to leave. she tries to remember if something bad happened last night. 

it wasn’t the full moon, was it? no, that shouldn’t be for another few weeks. but then why are you calling her a —

“killer?” she asks, swallowing the lump in her throat.

she stares at you, eyes trailing your injured jawline as she waits for you to respond. you do look vaguely, achingly familiar. whatever happened last night, you were probably part of it. 

“well, you’ve got a killer right hook,” you quip. you snuff out your cigarette and twist around to fully face vi. “and i’m pretty sure you killed my reputation as a pit fighting champion. i was undefeated before you.” 

fresh blood emerges from your split lip as you speak, and you’re quick to swipe it away with your tongue. 

oh. right. 

your tank top is torn at the bottom, just cropped enough that vi can see the imprint of her fist on your lower ribs. she now remembers the feeling of yours on the side of her face, and has a bloody, crusted eyebrow, painfully tender cheekbone, and the outline of your ring seared onto her skin forever to prove it. 

what kind of pitfighter wears pure silver?

vi takes note of her surroundings to get a better sense of who she’s up against: the place is small, dingy, but has a good amount of light. you’ve got a broken mirror, old books stacked in the corner, and an open cupboard filled with clothing and various weapons, mostly daggers and some wooden stakes. an intricate glass cross dangles from the centre of the window, filtering through multicolored light. there are a bunch of dried plants next to a mortar and pestle on the sill below — nightshade, juniper, wolfsbane. on the tiny kitchen counter is a silver vase filled with more wilted flowers. 

even from far away, vi can hear your heartbeat — strong, steady — as you shuffle around and gather some things. she inhales your scent. she remembers that she was slightly taken aback, in the pit when she had you pinned to the mat, that under the musk of sweat and metallic tang of blood, vi sensed something else, something delicate and floral. 

your whole apartment smells overwhelmingly of dried roses and decaying fruit, too, sweet and earthy.

“did you bring me here for round two?”

“no.” you let out a short, breathy laugh. “i brought you here so that some creep wouldn’t take advantage of you. you were pretty out of it.”  

“so you’re — what an enforcer?”

“no fucking way,” you declare, and vi can practically feel rage coursing through you, your heart pumping with reignited vigor. “like an enforcer would care enough to actually help the undercity,” you grumble. 

you shake your head and sit down at the edge of the couch, shooing your dog away so you can drop first aid supplies in her place. she settles on the floor at your feet. 

you offer vi a somewhat bruised apple. when she hesitates, you push it into her hand.

“this isn’t a fairytale,” you say, hands busy soaking a cloth in some alcohol. “i’m not trying to poison you,” you add as if reading her mind.  

“there…there are some good enforcers, though,” vi tries, trained to have such platitudes at the ready.  

you roll your eyes. “if there are, i haven’t met them.” 

vi’s not sure she believes what she had said, either. she feels her side ache, a phantom bruise from when caitlyn slammed her rifle into the very injury she had once helped heal. 

what started as you’re not like the rest of those animals. you’re one of the good ones. became you’re all the same. it’s their blood in your veins. as soon as things went downhill. 

vi bites her lip to prevent herself from wincing, and it isn’t because you’ve pressed an alcohol-soaked cloth to the cut on her nose. her sharp nails break through the skin of the apple, digging into its soft flesh until juice is running down her wrist.

“eat,” you insist, but you’re focused on removing as much dirt and dried blood from her face as you can, brows furrowed in concentration. “you ruined my reputation, so you better keep up your strength if you wanna keep yours.”

“so, you’re helping the enemy,” vi, still wary of you, wonders.

your frown softens. you place a bandage on the bridge of her nose before saying: 

“you’re not my enemy.” 

maybe it was the sincerity of your words, or the unconditional care you’re showing her, or the fact that it’s been so long since someone has touched vi so tenderly, but she decides in that moment to trust you, whoever you are. 

she takes a bite of the apple, the sweetness invading her mouth, as you lean over to search for something else in the first aid kit, mumbling to yourself about how the wound is deeper than you thought. 

“you should really be more careful,” you chide. “are you a topsider?”

vi scoffs through a mouthful of fruit. “i’m from the lanes.” 

“yeah, well this neighborhood is a different level of bad,” you tell her.

“i can hold my own — ouch.”

you start stitching up the cut on her eyebrow, one hand keeping her head steady. her cheek pulses against you as she chews, your skin calming and cool. 

“when you’re sober, maybe.”

“you didn’t have to help me,” vi grunts. “most people would’ve gone about their business.”

“i was going about my business. i was out on patrol; vampires never sleep, you know.” 

you say it so casually, almost too casually, that vi wonders if she misheard you.

“vampires?”

you raise an eyebrow at vi. “there’s a high concentration of them around here, near the hellmouth. a lot of monsters, actually —”

vi hopes you don’t notice how she shudders at the word monsters.

“ — some of whom can and will eat you alive if they get the chance,” you deadpan. “that’s kinda what i’m here for.”

“so….what are you, exactly?”

you don’t say anything for a few seconds, your expression unreadable while you finish vi’s stitches, but your heart thumps so forcefully against your ribcage, vi almost thinks she’s seconds away from hearing the bones there crack. you start gnawing at your bottom lip, let the blood gather until it starts to trickle down towards your chin. vi swipes it away with her thumb, which she then wipes against her bandaged palm. 

you inhale slowly, then exhale. your heart rate eases; still a bit higher than most people’s, but to what seems to be normal for you. 

“the correct term is slayer,” you finally say, watching vi carefully for her reaction. 

vi isn’t quite sure what that means, but it doesn’t sound good for someone like her. she’s wondering if she should make a run for it when you drop your voice an octave or two and add: 

“the chosen one standing against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness.” you clear your throat. “if you were wondering.” you break out into a cheeky grin, teeth sparkling in the late morning sun.

“you’re joking?”

“most days, i wish i was. that’s the official tagline, actually.” your smile shrinks into a sigh. “i’m the slayer. i won’t bore you with all the details, but me saving you last night? that’s kinda just what i do. my destiny, so to speak.”

“do you normally take the people you save home?”

you blink away, wipe your hands half-heartedly on the white tank top you’re wearing, smearing vi’s mess of crimson and grime.

“no,” you admit. 

vi narrows her eyes at you, shifts her body so there’s at least more space between you before she figures out what the hell to do. it’s possible that you’re lying but —

you already have her blood on your body, and vice versa, and not just because you’d been fighting each other. it’s not quite trust, but it feels like something close. something you’re willing to share without even knowing much about the other. 

“sounds like do more than slay vampires.”

“whatever it takes, i guess.”

vi puffs out her chest. “why are you being so nice to me?” 

an unspoken question: do you know what i really am? 

because if you did, vi’s sure you wouldn’t be so….friendly towards her. 

“honestly?” you gesture towards the dog who’s busy nuzzling into vi’s leg. “fangs kinda hates everyone but she seems to like you.”

her jaw drops. “you decided to be my guardian angel because your dog likes me?”

“i already had a good feeling about you before.” you shrug. “i took it as a good omen, i guess.” 

“i’m not sure you should,” vi advises. 

you’re looking out for her, so she should look out for you. it’s better, for everyone, that vi be left alone. 

she’s been good, had to learn how to be, in order to survive; that doesn’t mean she’s innocent. 

on the bad days, she can’t control her anger. on the worst days, she can’t contain her hunger.

“okay, well, maybe i’ve got a thing for strays,” you reach your hand down, run it through fangs’ thick black fur. your lips curl upwards as you look at vi, all bright-eyed and beautiful, sunlight itself emanating from your smile. 

something sparks in her chest that she thought would never light again. something that, like her, could be dangerous if it’s not controlled. 

vi decides it’s probably about time that she left, though it's difficult to tear herself from your warmth.

“so, will i see you in the pit again?” she still can’t help but ask as you accompany her to the door.

“probably, yeah.” you lean against the doorframe, and vi is about to turn the knob when you add: “but, that pub you passed outside of? the bronze? maybe we can, uh, get a drink there, afterwards sometime.”

your heart skips a beat or two as you anxiously wait for vi to say something. her entire body heats up when she realizes what’s going on.

you were….asking her out. 

the good thing is that then there’s no way you actually know what vi is because, well, would this even be allowed in your line of work?

“you promise you’re not just playing the long game? gaining my trust and then stabbing me in the back?”

you give her a playful but sincere smile and make a small ‘x’ on the left side of your upper chest. “cross my heart.”

“guess i’ll will call you my guardian angel,” she muses, her chest glowing. “i’m vi, by the way.” 

you grin, then formally introduce yourself. you reach out your hand. vi holds it, delicately, even though your grip is firm.

“one more thing, though — keep the whole me being the slayer thing under wraps? it’s supposed to be a secret.”

“why’d you tell me, then?” vi wonders, raising an eyebrow. 

you tilt your head, examining her. “like i said — i had a good feeling about you. slayers are meant to have good instincts, so i decided to trust mine.” 

vi takes a deep breath, removes her hand from yours, and glances at you once more with a small smile. she promises not to tell a soul. 

(she, of all people, knows that there are far worse secrets to keep.)  

“thank you,” vi adds. “for saving me.”

she hears fangs scratching at the door from inside the apartment after she’s gone, along with the deep rumble of your voice telling fangs not to worry, our new friend will visit again soon, like you’re so sure vi will be back. 

with the way you already have her sharp edges softening, her heart fluttering in her chest, vi probably will be. 

except —

vi’s not quite human, hasn’t been since she started bleeding between her legs at 13, since her mother told her that this was a blessing passed down to eldest daughters in their family, no matter how many people will try to convince her it’s a curse. 

it would be a few months later that her mother would be killed because of said blessing. 

really, it’s more nightmare. 

because vi knows what it’s like to pick ripped flesh from between her teeth, to have the metallic sweetness of blood linger on her tongue and throat-tearing screams ringing in her ears. 

meanwhile, you — with your good instincts, strong fists and stronger heart  —

it’s your destiny to end those nightmares. 

you’re the thing that monsters like her are supposed to have nightmares about.

ii. you’re an angel / i’m a dog

there’s an intimacy to knowing how someone fights. 

vi fights with bared teeth and burning rage, knuckles cracking against bone, elbows bruising skin without any remorse. her own wounds are half-hazardly hidden behind layers of gauze, her chest wrapped tightly to keep her heart from bleeding out. she doesn’t bother to clean the dirt underneath her nails, to wipe the blood from her upper lip after an opponent breaks her nose, to wash her face clean before smearing on more dark paint until all she sees in the mirror is a shadow of her former self. 

you, on the other hand: you’re precise and quick in how you defeat your opponents, maybe even a bit bored. vi figures that when you fight monsters for a living, it must be fairly dull, knocking out some guy with a single, well placed uppercut, even if he is twice your size. your bandages are always fresh, and you always make vi a little dizzy when she catches a whiff of rose. you walk past her with a playful grin, easily replaced by the glint of your razor-sharp canines as you defeat another opponent in the arena. she listens as your heartbeat barely increases a beat, despite the inevitable adrenaline of battle. 

you might not be as feral as her, but vi thinks you’re just as dangerous. she likes it, admires that your violence is always calculated rather than all-consuming. 

she does wonder if you’d ever let anything consume you, curious to know what’s hiding under your armor.

so, a few days after she first woke up in your apartment, vi builds up the courage to suggest: 

"whoever wins the most fights tonight picks up the tab for the bar." 

your face brightens the dim, dirty sidelines of the pit as you’re both waiting for your turn, when you answer:

"you're on, killer." 

later that night, both of your bodies are aching as vi tries to examine your injuries once you’re both done for the day, away from the roar of the crowd. 

"guess i'll be picking up the tab," you smile, your lip splitting open even more, just like the morning after her knuckles first kissed your skin. 

(she wants to kiss this wound closed, too, press her lips to your bloody ones, if you’d be willing to give her a taste.)

"i'll still take care of it, angel,” vi soothes. she rummages around the tiny locker room, a single light bulb flickering above you. finally, she finds a small first aid kit — poorly stocked, but good enough for now. “lemme take care of you first."

you must understand what vi’s implying, because your heart starts racing faster. 

it’s a routine that becomes vi’s guiding light — the two of you patching each other up after a rough day (and, regardless of the fact that you’re both strong, it’s always a rough day). you share a drink at the bronze, and then you’re off slaying vampires or whatever other nightmares will keep you awake and fighting every night. 

then, it’s another full moon, and the routine changes. 

she’s able to prevent herself from turning even in the worst of circumstances, but she doesn’t want to risk any accidents, knowing that you’re out there on the prowl. vi is confident that you’d never hurt, let alone kill her, but that’s counting on you being able to recognize her. 

vi locks herself in the basement of the bronze. spike, the bartender, let her crash in a storage closet, temporarily, no questions asked and a promise to keep it a secret.

she emerges from her isolation after three days, eyes stinging from the harsh morning sun. her first instinct is to head underground, search for you. she makes one stop beforehand, drops something off in the locker room before she’s ushered into the arena without any more preamble. 

the show must go on, and you’re already center stage. 

the lanky woman you must’ve just knocked unconscious is being dragged away. you spit out what looks like a combination of blood and saliva, and crack your neck before resuming a fighting stance, feet squared, bruised knuckles at the ready. 

you falter when you see that it’s vi who’s your next opponent. vi picks up the increased pace of your heart, the muscle worrying against your chest.  

you’ve had this conversation, though — about what would happen if you were ever up against each other again in the ring — and you both agreed: once the bell rings, the fight starts, because you both need the money to survive. 

nothing personal. winner buys two rounds of drinks at the bronze. three, if there were some nasty hits involved.

you hadn’t needed to worry about any of that until now.

the bell rings, and vi waits for you to make the first move, like you tend to do.

but, you don’t.

the first time you were up against each other, vi dodged your attack and delivered a jab hard enough to make you bleed. you had looked at her with wide eyes, fingers touching your bottom lip and becoming stained with red as the crowd roared. you adjusted your posture with a newfound interest, and a glimmer of what vi can only describe as hunger.

this time, you drop your stance like you’ve already lost the fight. you ignore the shouts and groans from the crowd as you walk away.

….

vi finds you in the locker room — and you’re not alone. 

“there a problem here?” vi asks, glaring at the guy you seem to be arguing with. 

“it’s fine,” you answer coolly. still, vi sits on the bench nearest to the door, waits for you like a patient dog. 

“fine?” the guy barks a laugh. he’s wearing topside clothes. an enforcer, no less. “you made me look like a fool.”

you scoff. “i doubt that’s hard to do.”

the guy suddenly reaches forward and snatches your arm. vi feels rage surge through her when his nails indent your skin. you must sense it, because your eyes lock with hers in a silent command not to do anything, not just yet.

“i don’t think you understand, bitch,” he seethes, face a pissed off shade of red. “i’m out more money than you’ll ever see in your entire pathetic life.” 

“i’m sure you’ll manage.”

vi follows your gaze as it drops to his belt. he’s got his badge, a standard issue pistol, and a pouch full of gold coins. 

“clearly i bet on the wrong fucking dog.” 

you force a smile. “better luck next time, officer.” 

you finally rip your arm out of his grip, push him away abruptly, effectively manoeuvring him to stumble between where you’re standing, and vi’s waiting. you gesture towards vi with a smirk, a taunting dare for this enforcer to challenge two of the undercity’s best fighters. 

vi gets up just as he’s walking out, grumbling an incoherent string of swears. she not-so-subtly knocks into his shoulder and hip, her nimble fingers still quick.

“guess we can get dinner with our drinks, now,” she quips with a toothy grin. vi tosses you the pouch, but you don’t seem too thrilled, even as you catch it effortlessly. 

“you can’t just disappear like that, vi.” your voice sharp, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“i didn’t mean to,” vi lies, walking over to open your shared locker. she pulls out a bouquet of roses, the same deep red as dried blood. 

vi pouts, gives you her best puppy dog eyes. “i’m sorry, angel.” 

the only reaction she gages from you is a quickening heartbeat at the nickname, your face still hard to crack marble. 

“this is serious, vi.” 

“i know! but —”

“do you know what’s out there? i’m not the only monster hunter around here. you need to be careful,” you rush, walking over to her and talking with your hands. “i looked everywhere for you, and….and you just left without saying anything. i thought…i thought you’d been killed —”

your blood roars in vi’s ears, your pulse close to out of control, and vi doesn’t know what else to do except bring you into her arms in an attempt to calm you down.

“i’m okay, angel. i’m here. i’m right here,” vi mumbles against your shoulder, inhaling sweat and roses.

your heart starts beating steady against her own as you exhale.

“i was safe, i promise. i was in the supply close at the bronze.”

“are you kidding?” you guffaw, unravelling yourself from vi’s body. “that basement is a hellhole.”

vi shrugs. “it does the trick.”

you chuckle dryly, shaking your head.

“well, i guess now that i lost one of my best sponsors, fangs and i might have to move in there with you,” you deadpan.

you reach around vi to pull a jacket from the locker, slipping on worn leather that vi realizes is hers. you take the flowers from her with a small thank you, and vi adjusts the collar of her jacket on you, her warm fingers subtly grazing your pulsepoint. vi can’t help the possessiveness that sparks in her abdomen: you, wearing her clothes; you, heart beating rapidly for her. 

“well…what if….i moved in with you?” deep down, she knows it’s not an ideal situation, but vi reasons: “we can pool our money together for rent. besides, what’s another stray in your home?” 

you bite your bottom lip as you mull over the offer.

“well, you did buy me flowers, ask me out to dinner….seems like the logical next step.”

“so….” 

vi wiggles her eyebrows at you, and you finally crack a smile. 

it was only been three days apart and vi already felt deprived of the sunlight of your smile. 

“okay, killer. as long as you don’t make a habit of disappearing on me.”

….

on paper, there might be reasons why you and vi, together, shouldn’t work, but the simple truth is that you do.

you still spend your afternoons engulfed in the darkness of the underground arena, patch each other up at the end of the day, share drinks at the bronze before parting ways.

now, in the mornings, you spend a few hours training together, moving furniture around so there’s enough space to spar. you try not to get distracted by how hot her skin is every time it brushes against yours, how solid her thigh is between your legs when she’s adjusting your stance, how a shattered moan emerges from her lips as you pin her to the floor after showing her a new technique to catch an opponent off-guard.

the nights are your favourite, though. like fangs, vi is able to fall asleep anywhere in the apartment, and is usually passed out by the time you’re off the clock from slayer duty. after the first few nights, you insist that vi sleep on the bed, and she begrudgingly agrees. now, you get home just before dawn, bone-tired, to find her belly up, drooling and snoring on top of the dilapidated mattress. the moonlight illuminates all the curves and shadows of her sculpted body, her skin shimmering with sweat because her body runs warm, even on the coldest nights. you can see the trail of pink hair disappear beneath her black underwear, while her dyed-black hair is a tangled mess you’re tempted to tug at, curious to see if she’d moan again for you. vi sleeps shirtless, nipples winking at you like two fallen stars with those titanium rods pierced through. 

gods, you try not to drool when you slip under the covers and fall asleep dreaming of her, all the places you would sink your teeth into, all the places you wish she would do the same. 

(meanwhile, vi tries to ignore the sound of your whimpers, the quick tempo of your heartbeat, and the overwhelming musk of desire between your legs as you sleep next to her, because she’s so sure that you would never dream of her.)

these fantasies of vi, all her warmth, all her chaos, gnaw at you from the inside out. it’s an overwhelming sense of hunger, but with vi, you also feel something else, something gentler and more fragile building between you.

it’s really the little things. 

like, vi brings you fresh roses every week, and even though you keep telling her to save her winnings for better things, she tells you that pretty girls like you are worth it, angel. they should teach you that in slayer school. 

she winks, makes you flustered, then has the audacity to blush when you leave her the ripest apples because you know that she likes them a bit sweeter. 

sometimes you open the window as you share a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the starlit twilight as you exchange stories about your pasts, about the people you’ve loved and lost. she’s the first person you confide in about how weighed down you feel by the responsibility of being the slayer, a burden that’s cost you many loved ones, and the uncertainty of whether what you’re destined to do is truly what is good for the world. she tells you about her time in prison, the lonely nights lamenting the death of her father and brothers, but keeping her strength because she hoped to one day make it back to a sister she just ended up losing, anyways. 

other times, the two of you play a game. you imagine that you’re elsewhere, that there are no such things as monsters, no reason to have to battle and bruise yourselves just to survive. instead, you have a life and a family and a home together, filled with luxurious parties, decadent dinner tables, and endless sunny days. 

you comfort her and she comforts you through the dark, morbid world you both have been fighting against, alone, for so long.

it works. it works really well. 

except — you’ve been the slayer long enough to know that nothing this good will last. it's nauseating — dangerous, even — this desire buried in you deeply like a knife to the gut, twisting and taunting you with what can never be.

you’re just waiting for the next nightmare to reveal itself.

….

vi’s hair has started to fade back to pink, so she asks you to re-dye it.

it’s easy to forget that she sits in a rickety chair in your decrepit but well-loved apartment because all she can think about is your body behind hers, solid and steady. your cool fingers work the dye through her hair, your nails scrape against her scalp, and you’re humming as fangs snores peacefully at her feet. she’s died and gone to heaven, pure bliss glowing in her chest and releasing through her throat as a deep rumble. 

she closes her eyes and indulges in a little daydreaming:

just you and your sunburst smile and your soft, rose-petal skin.

there’s a firm knock that rustles vi out of her reverie, and you tell her to go rinse out her hair while you answer it.

she can hear you talking with someone through the rush of hot water. she tries not to eavesdrop, but…it’s difficult, especially once she hears:

“it’ll be fine. silver bullets usually do the trick,” you say, without much enthusiasm. vi bites back her hurt, keeps rinsing her hair, waiting for the water to run clear instead of sludge gray. 

you’re not talking about her. 

“i’m not sure you understand the severity of the situation,” a voice with a thick british accent replies. “i’ve been on the council for fifty years — five times longer than you’ve been the slayer — and i’ve never seen something quite this vicious.”

“my guess is you don’t get out in the field much,” you quip. 

whoever you’re talking to clearly is not amused, ignoring your backhanded comment and instead offering the details of what has been witnessed in the past few days. it’s so gruesome and gory that vi herself is shivering as she turns off the shower, towels off, and gets dressed. 

when vi opens the door, she almost trips over fangs, who’d fallen asleep just outside. she gets up immediately as vi steps out, her tail wagging. the owner of the stern voice — a man wearing a very pristine looking tweed suit — is handing you a crossbow, a bunch of silver-tipped arrows already splayed on the table. you notice vi first as your grip on the weapon tightens, and the man’s gaze follows.

“you know there’s a rule about slayers keeping….pets,” the man says, turning his nose up at vi and fangs from where they’re still standing at the doorway of the bathroom. 

you glance back at the pair, jaw clenched, and then focus back on your unwanted guest. 

“mr. travers, thank you for the heads up, but i believe it’s time for you to leave,” you clip, dropping the crossbow on the table. 

“actually, i believe that we have much more to discuss, namely how you’ve allowed this mutt into your home —”

“get the fuck out of our apartment,” you practically growl. you walk towards him menacingly until his back is millimeters away from the door. “you of all people know what i can do.”

“you will be punished for this…this transgression,” travers warns, but there’s an unmistakable tremble in his voice. 

you laugh in a way vi can barely recognize, sharp and bitter. 

“fine. i’m no stranger to dealing with the council’s bullshit.” you open the door, flash an exaggerated, sickly sweet smile. “have a nice day.”

“i hope this animal is worth it,” travers huffs. 

“she’s worth it,” you reply without hesitation before you slam the door on his ass, so hard that the walls shake, the vase in the kitchen toppling over and cracking on the counter. 

vi’s seen you fight in the pit — hell, she’s been on the receiving end of some of your wicked moves — but she doesn’t think she’s ever seen you this angry. 

your chest is heaving as you pace back and forth. 

“so that sounds….bad,” vi remarks, heading over to the kitchen counter to gather the broken shards of pottery.

you freeze. “how much did you hear?” 

vi just shrugs. “just that there’s something bad out there —”

“don’t worry about it,” you say with a forced smile. you walk over and push some damp hair away from vi’s eyes. “let’s take fangs for a walk before we leave, yeah? while it’s still light out.” 

there are whispers throughout the next few days leading up to the full moon. the crowd at the arena starts to thin, most topsiders too scared to journey underground with rumors of a bloodthirsty monster on the loose. 

you’re not sleeping anymore, still fighting during the day to a half-empty arena, out on patrol at night, your rosy scent fading from the bedsheets with each passing night. even if you get home before dawn, you spend your time scouring through books and scribbling into your notebook, mumbling to yourself theories about where and how you can stop this thing. vi tries to get you to take a break, or at least eat instead of burning through shimmer-laced cigarettes to keep yourself awake.

the best vi can do is convince you to sit down on the couch with her and share a snack. you settle for doing some research, flip through yellowed pages as you take a bite of an apple, juice dripping down your chin. 

vi reaches her finger out, puts it in her mouth to suck off the juice, moaning around the salty-sweet taste of your skin. you let out a pleased hum, turning your attention back to your research, but angling your body to invite her closer. vi nuzzles into your side, puts her head on your lap, twitches in pleasure as you reach down to scratch behind her ear. 

she looks up at you, and you finally give her a real smile — the first ray of sun after a pitch dark night.

a slice of paradise vi was certain she’d never find.

….

the night of the full moon is when all hell breaks loose. 

vi tries — she begs you not to go out there, sensing that tonight, of all nights, it will be at its strongest. but you, too headstrong and too righteous for your own good, just won’t listen. 

“this thing has killed eleven people in less than a week. i don’t care what phase of the moon it is — i’m ending this, tonight.” 

“why does it have to be you? that thing is stronger than anything you’ve ever fought!” 

“which is why i’ve been preparing,” you snap.

“can’t you – can’t you just call the fucking council, or something, tell them to deal with it?” 

fangs is right there with vi, scrambling and whining as you’re meticulously arming yourself with as many weapons you can carry.

you scoff, notching a few silver blades to your belt. “it’s not their responsibility, it’s mine. where the fuck — i can’t go out only in this tank top, it’s fucking freezing — ”

vi swallows the lump in her throat.

“you’re gonna die if you go out there alone.”

“yeah, well, i’ve accepted my fate a long time ago,” you say stoically. 

you’re fairly well supplied at this point; if vi was the monster you were hunting, she’d be running scared from a glance alone. you’re only half paying attention to vi’s pleas, and sigh in relief when you find what you’d been looking for. 

“please, angel, don’t —”

“i was literally born for this, violet. if i don’t go out and stop this thing from killing more people, then my life is worth nothing.” 

“you make me happy!” she shouts desperately, forcing you to pause as you slip on her jacket. “that’s worth something, isn’t it?”

a tense silence follows. 

you freeze for a few moments, avoiding vi’s gaze. then, you walk over to the cabinet, grabbing something so quickly vi can’t pinpoint what it is and stuffing it in your back pocket. you clench and unclench your left fist, a tick of yours that vi recognizes from the arena. 

you’re planning your next move. 

in a daze, you pick up the crossbow, but you hesitate once more —

“fuck,” you exhale before letting the weapon clatter to the ground and rushing over to crash your lips against vi’s. 

you’re kissing and kissing, teeth and tongue and a pleasure so guilty, vi’s sure she’ll be damned for all eternity. vi’s lungs are burning when she pulls away first.

“wait. you should know that i’m —”

“i still have to go,” you interrupt, voice determined and sharp, cutting right through to vi’s heart.

there’s a fear curling up her throat as you watch her, your eyes the darkest she’s ever seen them. 

“then let me – i mean, i can help —”

you kiss her again. you taste so heavenly, better than she ever dreamed of, that vi doesn’t even care that it’s probably just to shut her up. 

she almost doesn’t notice that you’ve cornered her between the kitchen counter and the front door, until she hears a distinct click, feels something heavy and burning against her wrists. 

you pull away first this time, eyes glazed over as you back away to make space between you and what you’ve done:

vi, handcuffed to the exposed heating pipe. the cuffs are stronger than any vi has ever been bound by. must be made of real silver. the metal sears into her skin, down to the bone, as she struggles against them, screaming to the point of howling, watching as you pick up the crossbow and a handful of silver tipped arrows as a final hail mary.

“no!” she cries. the pipe you’d cuffed her to rattles, but it doesn’t give. “please, please don’t —”

“i’m…i’m really sorry,” you mumble, quickly wiping away a tear. vi flinches when you try to touch her cheek; she bares her teeth at you like a rabid beast, but you don’t give her the courtesy of a reaction.  

“why are you doing this?” she growls.

“because….you deserve a happy ending, violet. don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” 

you take a deep breath. you look at fangs, affectionately pat her head as she bows her head and whines, tail between her legs. “bring her the key once it’s morning,” you instruct. your eyes slide over to vi’s, for what she fears might be the last time. “take care of each other.”

with that, you’re out the door.

vi isn’t sure how much time passes. her wrists sting, her muscles ache, but still, she keeps going. she doesn’t care how, but she’s not letting you die tonight. 

a sliver of moonlight shines through the window. something claws at her ribcage. 

you’re not dying tonight. 

and vi’s been hungry for too long.

iii. all my devotion turns violent

the streets are empty, deserted due to fear and damp from the cold evening rain.

you search through the shadows, around every corner, play with one of your daggers just to pass the time, the blade weaving between your expert fingers.

all you can really think about, though, is vi, and how scared she was to lose you, and how terribly you must have hurt her — 

fuck. 

you accidentally sliced through your palm, your blood emerging as thick, black tar in the darkness. you sigh and kneel down in the alleyway, dropping your heaviest weapon so you can use your uninjured hand to wrap the other. 

something pounces on you before you can stop the bleeding. the crossbow — the weapon that was supposed to deliver a fatal blow — is now out of reach. 

you jab one of your silver blades into the creature’s side; he howls, but you manage to kick him away long enough to get to your feet, get a better sense of what you’re fighting. you’ve never seen anything like it before: a hulking mass roughly five times your size, wolf-like features, and chemical machinery woven throughout his body, a neon green liquid pumping through glass tubes. 

the beast growls at you, lunges forward once again; you jump out of his path, roll away so run, fast, and grab the crossbow. you quickly notch a silver tipped arrow, aim at his heart; you hold your breath and fire without hesitation. then another, and another, just to be safe.  

your stomach turns as you watch the creature remove the arrows as if they were nothing but splinters. he lets out a roar that shakes the earth. you’ve made him angrier.

you drop the crossbow, deciding instead to propel yourself off the wall, leap onto the beast’s shoulders and stab the glass tubes with all the force you can muster. green liquid gushes out, and the beast howls in pain, but doesn’t give up. with sharp claws, he throws you to the ground, and you shriek as he tears through the skin of your ribs. 

you’re very suddenly dizzy, bleeding out on the cobblestones, yet continue to struggle with whatever strength still courses through your veins. the beast looms over you, foaming at the mouth, and your vision is getting fuzzier by the second.

that’s when you see a flash of dark fur, almost fuschia in the moonlight, jump in front of you, knock the beast out of the way, tumble to the side. you glance at the creature that saved you — a wolf with a fierce set of teeth and beautiful powder blue eyes — before you fall unconscious. 

iv. stitch me up (touch me inside and out)

she doesn’t regret how she had to rip the heating pipe from the wall — there are nasty burns, still untreated, stinging her wrists where the silver cuffs had restrained her. 

vi barely registers that the temperature in the apartment is dropping.

it all happened so fast. there was something oddly familiar about the beast; he seemed to recognize vi, too. that’s the only explanation — for all the ruthless, bloody stories she’d heard, why else would he have let vi take you away and just disappear into the night without so much as a growl? 

she doesn’t regret transforming from human to something wild, unrestrained, in order to save you from something much worse. 

she’s still burning off adrenaline, her nervous system on high alert. it’s been a while, and she’d forgotten how exhilarating it can be.

vi doesn’t have the energy to answer such questions. all she cares about is you. she can’t get over the overwhelming scent of your blood, already spilling out onto the street when she showed up. she almost lost control, blinded by rage and a desire to kill the beast — but you were there, on the brink of death, and she just wanted you to be safe, wanted to bring you home.

she just hopes she wasn’t too late. 

vi hyper-focuses on your labored, disjointed breaths from where she tucked you in. she tried her best to stop the bleeding and dress your wounds with combinations of herbs and flowers she frantically read about in one of your books, desperate to keep you alive. 

you’ve lost blood. a lot of blood. 

vi wants nothing more than to curl up on the bed next to you, but after you saw her last night, once you realize that she’s no different than the savage beast you were so determined to kill, she’s not sure you’d want her near you. 

she’ll just stay long enough to know that you’ll wake up, and then she’ll be out of your life forever. 

dawn breaks. the sun shines through cracked, frost covered windows, and your eyes remain shut.

your heart’s still pumping blood, which is a good sign, but otherwise….

day bleeds into night, and you’re still out cold. vi manages to drip some water between your parted lips, and watches with relief as your throat reacts accordingly. you let out a gentle sigh, eyelids fluttering ever so slightly. 

“please wake up,” vi whispers. 

fangs jumps onto the bed and whimpers, nudging her nose against your arm so that she’s snuggled underneath. vi drapes a blanket over the pair of you.

another sleepless night passes.

at first light, vi changes your bandages. she struggles a bit, given her injured wrists, but she’s pleased to find you healing from what might have been a fatal injury to most humans. she tries to feed fangs, but the dog refuses. 

fair enough — vi can’t bring herself to eat, either. 

instead, to pass the time, vi glues together shards from the broken vase and places it back on the kitchen counter. there are no more fresh roses; vi decides she’ll bring you some as a parting gift once you’ve woken up. 

you’re shivering by the time darkness starts to creep in. vi piles as many blankets as she can on you and fangs, but it’s not enough. vi accepts what she had been reluctant to do: she slips into bed next to you, uses her body to keep you warm, arms wrapped around you protectively.

vi doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she wakes up late the next afternoon, to cold rumpled sheets and an even colder empty apartment. 

you must have a knack for perfect timing, because just as vi’s about to start spiralling, the front door swings open and it’s you — cheeks slightly flushed from the cold, holding a brown paper bag with one arm while your other hand grasps the key. fangs rushes through the door, too, tail wagging as she zooms around the apartment, bounces on the furniture and lets out excited little yaps.

“morning, killer.” you smile like you hadn’t been knocking on death’s door since a few nights before. “i would have waited, but you were pretty knocked out and fangs had a ton of energy to burn. clearly she still does,” you chuckle, sending a warm, fuzzy feeling through vi’s body. “i got us some food, too, and i’ll contact the landlord to fix our — whoa!”

the bag drops to your feet as vi pounces on you, engulfing your body in her arms and squeezing tightly. your heartbeat is as strong as ever, steadies her own frantic pulse. 

“s-sorry.” she pulls away and takes a step back. “i shouldn’t have —”

you just shake your head and press a finger to her lips to quiet her.

“i’m sorry,” you say. “i shouldn’t have — i shouldn’t have treated you like that; shouldn’t have used who you are as a weapon against you. you saved me, vi.” you take a shuddery breath. you place a gentle hand on her cheek. “thank you.”

it takes vi a minute to process what you’ve said. 

you thanked her for saving you. 

you apologized for using who she is as a weapon. 

what did you mean by that? 

unless —

i’m not the only monster hunter around here. you need to be careful.

she’s worth it. 

you deserve a happy ending, violet. don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. 

“you….knew,” vi realizes, and even as she says it, she can’t quite believe it. “how….how long?”

“from the first time i landed a punch on your handsome face.” smiling softly, you run your thumb over the faded burn on her cheek, the one mirroring her tattoo, the one left by your silver ring. 

“are you serious?”

“well, fine, i didn’t know what you were, not exactly, until later. i just had a pretty good feeling that you weren’t human; you had a pulse, so you couldn’t be a vampire, which meant —” 

“you knew what i was this whole time and it didn’t bother you?”

you shrug. “you knew what i was this whole time and it didn’t bother you.” while vi continues to stare at you in disbelief, you bend down to pick up the fallen items. vi crouches down with you.

“that’s different,” she reasons, handing you a soft red apple, your cold fingers brushing over her warm skin momentarily. 

“i don’t think so. not all monsters are evil and not all humans are good. i saved you from a human that night, remember?” 

“b-but you’re you and i-i’m me.” vi scrambles to find the right words. she’s still shocked at how calm you are. is it really as simple as you make it seem? “you weren’t….scared that i’d hurt you, because that’s who i am?”

you get up and place the bag of groceries in the kitchen, lean against the counter as you stare back at vi. instead of answering, you challenge her once again:

“were you scared that i’d hurt you?”

vi blinks at you. “never.”

“there’s your answer,” you declare, giving her that razor-sharp grin you flash whenever you win a fight.

fangs has calmed down, and she’s asleep on the living room couch, her snores the only sound between you as vi processes everything that’s been said. 

she feels like her entire world has flipped upside down.

this whole time…..

it went terribly when she last told someone the truth, at least anyone outside her family, and even they would sometimes walk on eggshells around her, like they were worried she might snap. 

but you….you’ve sparred and you’ve bickered and you never even flinched once. 

you welcomed her into your home, into your life. 

you kissed her. 

this whole time.

“i was scared you wouldn’t love me, if you knew,” vi admits, a whisper so soft that she’s almost sure that you didn’t hear. 

except you falter then, your confident posture melting at her confession. your lips part in a soft exhale. 

“well, it’s like you said; i knew this whole time, and i still….” you swallow the rest of your sentence, but you’re looking at vi with so much adoration that it’s overwhelming. “i still want you.”

her brain short circuits, and all vi can think to do is kiss you.

it starts sweet, your lips rose-petal soft. her lips are chapped, rough against yours and already bleeding from the pressure. you run your fingers through vi’s hair, swallow her moans. she’s dizzy with anticipation, imagining how you might do the same when she’s between your legs later. you kiss the scar on her upper lip, gently like you’re hoping to heal the permanent wound. then, your tongue laves over the cut on vi’s bottom lip, soothes her, pushes into her mouth again so you’re both tasting copper. 

but then, you bite down, and a desire buried deep within vi is unleashed: the desire to cut herself open for you so you can love each and every part of her. even deeper down, vi hopes that you’d want the same.

vi brings a hand up to your jaw, pushing you into her mouth even more. she lodges her thigh between your legs and shoves her tongue into your mouth when you gasp. one of your hands slips underneath her shirt to trace the contours of her abdomen, meticulously outlining each one.

“it’s been days since you’ve eaten, hasn’t it?” you mumble against her lips, pulling away slightly. your brows pinch together in worry, because you already know her body too well, can tell that each muscle is more defined, each edge a bit sharper. “you must be starving, baby. let’s eat something before —”

vi whines when you start to pull away even more.

“we can do that after.” she offers you her best puppy dog eyes as she pleads: “i’m hungry for something else now. i want you.”

to prove her point, vi guides your hand to her belt. your fingers dance along the metal and she eagerly awaits your response.

“fine,” you decide. “but whoever has the most orgasms makes dinner.” 

“you’re on, angel.”

her breath hitches when your hand moves down the waistband of her pants; you play with her tangle of curls, tease the tip of your fingers into her wetness. she purrs against you. 

“wait —” you pause your actions. vi whimpers when you remove your glistening fingers; you take off the silver ring on your pointer finger, grinning guiltily as you toss it on the counter behind you. “that would have been bad,” is all you say before inserting two fingers into her already slick pussy.

“ugh, ah — fuck, just like that, angel,” she moans, twitching as you ram your fingers into her. 

you hum, stuff another finger into her heat, stretching her so deliciously that her legs start to tremble. 

“such a good girl for me. aren’t you, violet?” you coo and start sucking the skin behind her ear. “you gonna make a mess, right here in our kitchen?” 

and that does it — vi’s walls tighten around you, her wetness soaks through her clothes; she’s almost sure that it drips down onto the floor. vi whines as you remove your fingers, feeling empty. you shove your syrupy fingers into her mouth instead, her tongue greedily lapping up her own cum. a string of spit follows as you rip away your fingers and press your mouth against vi’s kiss-swollen, cum-covered lips. you feel something smouldering in the pit of your stomach at her whimpers; you’re nowhere near satisfied, but her eyes, all wide and dark and desperate, are pleading at you to let her indulge in her hunger, as well.  

“what else do you want?”

vi paws at your breasts from above your shirt.

“i want to fuck you,” she declares, and you nod eagerly, your body bursting into flames. 

she gestures at you to wrap your legs around her hips, and she carries you to the bed as you kiss more fiercely, teeth clacking and tongues fighting to explore every crevice of her mouth. you tear each other’s clothes off; but the cold air doesn’t faze you in the slightess, because you have vi, hot and passionate, above you, keeping you going.

your teeth gnaw on her bottom lip as vi messily thrusts against you, your cunts sliding against each other; sticky, languid bliss. 

vi takes her time. she wants to savor every part of this, of you — the sting of your nails scratching down her tattooed back, no doubt leaving red marks in their wake; the familiar scent of your skin, sickly sweet roses, combined with the thick musk of your desire, dripping against hers so deliciously; the hoarseness of your voice, encouraging her to go faster, harder. 

she nudges her nose against the crook of your neck, salivates at how your vein pulses for her like a tantalizing butterfly. her teeth graze your pulsepoint, but she’s trembling with the amount of self control it takes not to add any more pressure.

“v-vi,” you breathe her name like a prayer. “baby.”

a guttural moan bubbles from the back of her throat in response.

you gently run your fingers through her hair, coax her to look you in the eye, the gesture a sharp contrast to the harsh squelching of your cunts against each other, melding together with each determined thrust. 

“you – ah,” you gasp as vi rolls her hips into yours with even more vigor. “you can bite me, if you want.” 

vi licks her lips, swallows the hunger burning in her throat because you must be too fucked out if you’re willing to let vi fully indulge in this craving. 

“but then you would —”

“lycanthropy is only transmitted when you’re in wolf form,” you explain through labored breaths. “so if you bite me now….and gods, i’m begging you to…..nothing’s gonna change.” 

“i have never been more thankful for your slayer training,” she growls. “you really want that, huh? for me to mark you up really good, show everyone that you’re mine?”

“o-only if i can do the same,” you manage a smirk. “or are you all bark and no bite?” you tease, buck your hips upwards. vi is willing to die for your knife-like smile alone, so of course. she’d let you eat her whole, if that’s what you really wanted. 

vi finally sinks her teeth into you, rolling her eyes back at how absolutely luscious you taste. like a good girl — your good girl — she follows your orders and bites. she bites down your neck, across your shoulders and collarbones, relishing in the imprints left in her wake.

vi knows now that she calls you angel for a reason. it’s a religious experience, watching you throw your head back against the pillow as your orgasm crashes through you. vi follows a few seconds later until you’re covered in her — she drenched the curls of your bush, her cum dripping down on your own wet pussy as she watches from above. vi can’t help it; she bends down, and you jolt slightly when her cold nipple piercing brushes against your clit. she does it again a few more times just to appreciate how you whine, rut your pussy against her perky breast, begging for more. 

but, vi’s on the hunt for something else — she splits your folds with her sharp tongue, sucks any and all of your shared essence. she lets it slosh around in her mouth before hovering over you once more, silently ordering you to part your wet lips; when you comply, so obedient, vi spits into your wanton mouth, thick and velvety. 

“swallow,” she orders, voice rough with lust. you do so quite eagerly.

and just like that, you’re back to grinding on each other, leaving a delectable mess along the skin of each other’s thighs. the tension in vi’s abdomen snaps when you wrap your lips around her nipple, suckling at your own wetness until drool dribbles from the corner of your mouth. 

after feeling her gush against you, a feral impulse rips through you. you release her nipple with a distinct pop, the cold metal still burning on your tongue as you yank vi’s hair, exposing her tender skin, glittering with sweat in the dark golden light as the sun starts to set. you pull her close, bite around the tattoo on the side of her neck, hard. vi howls in pleasure as you taste salt and iron and her, reaching your peak. 

vi waits patiently as you come down from your high, chest heaving, your neck still engraved with the outline of her teeth while yours are stained red. you crash your lips onto hers, chaotic and insatiable, kissing her like she’s your last meal. in turn, she licks into your mouth, tongue tracing your canines to savor what you’ve consumed of hers. 

“you sure you’re not a vampire? that would be quite the scandal,” vi jokes later when you’re sitting in her lap, taking time to clean each other up. vi’s only wearing a shirt, but you’ve doubled up on clothes, the apartment growing colder as night approaches. 

you already tended to the burns on her wrists (and apologized profusely for causing them; you also scolded her a bit for not tending to herself sooner). now you use disinfectant to wipe down her neck, where you broke skin; you quickly place a bandage that soothes the sting and vi presses a grateful kiss to your sternum.

you hum around the unlit cigarette in your mouth, which you had rolled beforehand with dried rose petals. with your hands unoccupied, you reach for your lighter. vi tilts her chin to gaze up at you; you’re backlit by the evening twilight, a silver halo around you as flowery smoke billows from your mouth.

“i’m sure they won’t be thrilled to know that a slayer’s fallen in love with a werewolf, either,” you muse, beaming at her. 

vi clicks her tongue. “sounds like we’re breaking some bylaws.”

“oh, she’s worth it; i’d do anything for my charming, sexy, handsome werewolf.”

you lean forward and exhale smoke into vi’s parted mouth, lips brushing against each other as you share the same breath. you sit back once your lungs are burning and admire the view. 

vi — normally all rough edges and dark shadows — blushing a delicate pink as you praise her.

“she’s got a killer right hook, too,” you continue. you offer vi the cigarette and she nods; you hold it, place it between her lips as she takes a drag. “a body so hot that it’s honestly unfair. she’s a fighter, which i love, and some people might think she’s just a scary dog, but i think she’s beautiful and brave and a total softie —”

“okay, okay,” vi coughs, the tips of her ears red. she takes the cigarette from you and stubs it out on the makeshift ashtray by the windowsill. vi rolls over so she’s on top of you, cupping your face in her hands. she pecks across your cheeks until you’re giggling; you try to turn the tables, and the two of you just end up wrestling in a tangle of sheets and laughter and tender kisses.

eventually, you both calm down. 

“you hungry?”

“not really. you?”

vi shakes her head. “we’ll make breakfast together in the morning?” 

“sounds heavenly.”

it’s dark outside, but the stars are out and the waning moon shines bright. vi positions herself behind you, her body curving into yours, chin notched over your shoulder and arm secure on your waist.

fangs must feel left out, because she shuffles under the covers for warmth before immediately falling back asleep, her fur tickling at your feet.

your thumb rubs against the gauze on vi’s wrist. you can’t help but feel regret, heavy like lead in your stomach.

“baby, i’m fine,” vi assures, already knowing what you’re thinking.

“i….i just hate that i did this to you,” you mumble, bringing her wrist up so you can kiss it. 

“you were trying to protect me. it’s what we do, yeah? protect each other?”

when you hum in agreement, vi guides you to turn around so you’re facing each other. on instinct, she parts your legs with her thigh. your sweatshirt has ridden up, so vi starts to rub circles onto your exposed hip bone, her touch soft as velvet.

“next time you go out there, i’m coming with you.”

your breath hitches as you trace the tattoos licking up her arm. “vi….”

“this isn’t up for debate,” vi declares. she reaches her hand up to caress your cheek, thumb delicately rubbing the shadows under your eye. “you almost died. whatever almost killed you is still out there. you’re strong — gods, you’re the strongest person i’ve ever met — but you don’t have to face any of this alone. not anymore.”

you let out a surprised laugh. 

“what?” she murmurs shyly, her eyes the soft, pale blue of moonlight, star-like freckles dazzling her sculpted cheeks. 

“no, it’s just….anyone who’s known that i’m the slayer either calls me delusional, runs scared, or expects me to do it all by myself. hell — that’s how it was written, how it was destined to be."

vi nudges her nose against yours. her breath tickles your lips, heats up your entire being with a warmth so divine, you wonder if you actually have died and gone to heaven. 

you’re both alive, though, a bit bruised and wounded. the world is dark and cold, but here’s this beautiful, strong girl with a beautiful, strong heart who holds you close, parts her full lips — like two rose petals, kiss-bitten and crimson — and vows:

“fuck destiny. it’s you and me now, angel.”

v. my heart is black and beats for you

TWO MONTHS EARLIER

it’s a quiet night. you spent most of it lamenting how you got your ass kicked earlier and fantasizing about the woman who did it, when you see a shadow of a person passed out at the corner of the street, and another trying to steal from them. 

someone has to stand against the forces of darkness and evil, and the universe somehow determined that would be you — a fate you’ve had to accept through bruised ribs and broken hearts and bloody prophecies, but one you’ve had to accept nonetheless. 

if that goes beyond vampires and demons, so be it. 

after you’ve managed to send the creep on the run, you recognize the person you saved:

it’s her. 

she looked more intimidating in the pit, honestly — all harsh and dark, furrowed brows and vicious snarls. 

it takes you kneeling in front of her to be able to really see it through the black face paint. you take a little pride in the bruise that blossoms on her cheek and the cut through her eyebrow, thinking that at least you got a few shots in before she took you out with a killer right hook. 

your jaw still aches and you still taste copper thanks to her, but without the roars from the crowd or the pressure of hefty prize money that you need to survive, you can see her more clearly. she’s bleeding through her bandages; she’s shivering because, gods, it’s freezing this time of year and all she’s wearing underneath a flimsy leather jacket is scrap fabric that would not be counted as a shirt; and she looks like she hasn’t eaten in days despite reeking of alcohol. 

that’s when you see a burn on her cheekbone, too, just about where your silver ring would have collided with her skin. you hold your breath, lean in closer to her chest and listen closely to check — the thumping of a strong, steady heartbeat; the gentle rush of blood flowing through her veins. 

so, not a vampire. maybe a human with a silver allergy, but what’s more likely is that she’s….something else. 

“hey.” you whisper. when she doesn’t respond, you cup her face in one hand and tap her bruised cheek with your thumb. her skin is warm; if she were a human, you’d think she had a fever. “wake up.”

you resist the urge to jerk away when she softly takes your hand in hers, the gesture a sharp contrast to her knuckles bloodied from earlier.

“five more minutes, cupcake,” she whines, her voice echoing down the empty alley.

“look, it’s late and freezing. we should really go before —”

“please. just stay with me. i promise i’ll be good.”

your chest aches at her sincere tone. did you sound the same, when you made a similar promise before to the people you’ve loved after they found out who — what — you are? did you also look so broken, so bruised when they left? 

you know the council wouldn’t approve of what you’re about to do. 

but you also know well enough from years of studying and training and fighting as the slayer that their judgement should not be taken as scripture.

in other words: fuck the council. 

(plus — you need a friend, or just….someone. it’s lonely, being the chosen one. and this girl, in front of you — when you fought, her body reacting to yours so fluidly, you had somehow never felt more understood.)

you manage to get her to her feet. 

she mumbles something incomprehensible into your neck, her breath hot against your skin. you let her lean into your body after a weak attempt at holding herself up. it’s not much trouble for you, though. it’s a cold night, anyways; her body, solid and warm, is almost comforting against yours.

you trust your instincts and carry her home. 

[impactrueno]

Do you ship beetlebabes?

anon you're one of the three people i woke up to this morning asking if i ship beetlebabes LMAO. so i guess i better address it as thoroughly as i can.

shortest answer i can give you: no. but there's a lot more to it than just that. please read on

as long as it's not kid lydia, i don't care. i'm perfectly at peace with the ship and accept it as an integral part of the fandom (i'll get to that in a second) because this isn't like other ships of its kind. there's a small sector of the shipper side of the fandom that's cuckoo bananas and i don't fuck with that but that's more about those shippers in particular and not the ship itself. and yes, i'm okay with you reblogging my art and tagging it as "beetlebabes" on your blog for your own organization purposes.

i've been lurking the beetlejuice fandom for like 20 years now, so the ship doesn't faze me in the least. especially since i shipped them myself when i was younger, and this isn't a secret or anything i'm ashamed about, because i just never thought that deeply about it back then you know?? i just knew i enjoyed their dynamic in the cartoon a lot. and i'm pretty sure this is the case for most veteran beetlejuice fans because back then 90% of the fan content was beetlebabes. the ship pretty much carried the fandom all throughout the 90s and the 2000s, and the bulk of these shippers was always goth/goth-adjacent women into gothic romances who had crushes on BJ and projected onto lydia. NOT pedophiles or groomers or anything of the sort (and i need to reiterate this every time this stuff comes up because it's really important: do not ever judge whether or not someone is a groomer based only on what they ship because that's only going to put you at risk of being groomed by a "non-problematic" shipper. a groomer can use anything to groom you, even if you're not a minor. please always stay alert no matter what circles you're in. sorry for the PSA i've just seen some stuff and i worry)

the shift in the demographics of the fandom happened when the musical came out in 2019, which brought in a new beetlejuice canon with TONS of new fans who were more attuned to what makes a ship creepy and inappropriate (again, literally no one ever thought about this stuff before the 2010s.) so obviously this new wave of fans were horrified that the ship even existed in the first place. this created a pretty big split in the fandom between shippers and non-shippers. i've been referring to the topic as a hornets nest ever since and it's the reason why i largely keep to myself in my own little corner of the fandom.

as for my feelings about the ship...that shifted a lot through the years. shipped them, then i didn't. then i thought about them again, then i was like nah. eventually i realized that i'm very picky and particular about them and i was never going to feel at home on either side of the fandom so i had to figure out what kind of content i wanted to see, how i see their relationship and if i could create something with that myself since it seemed like no one else was doing it.

so here i am now. the stuff i'm making right now with adult lydia and beej from the cartoon is intended to be "platonic soulmates" since this is what i found to be the closest thing to what i always wanted to see more of, i find it comforting and beautiful and tragically underrated. people are free to interpret it however they wish though, as long as they don't expect me to meet their expectations, because i'll be doing my own thing regardless. i'm not stupid though, i know i managed to put them in a position where they probably could organically develop feelings for each other, and people are inevitably going to be drawn to that potential. so i can't blame the people commenting with "when will they kiss, i hope they get married, etc," i just hope they don't feel to disappointed to learn that i have no plans to explore that far lol (if that's all you were here for then uhhh sorry i guess)

if i ever choose to make something that is actually beetlebabes, i would tag it as such so people know and so people who don't want to see it can block it. maybe i'd even give ample warning beforehand because i wouldn't want to spring that on my followers who are uncomfortable with the ship out of the blue like that.

if you've read my beetleposts you probably already know that i like character studies and analyzing their dynamics, so i don't mind discussing the ship and how or why i think things would be one way or the other. perhaps i'm a bit too lax about it for some people, because i've been asked to tag a couple of analyses that seemingly dipped into beetlebabes territory without me even noticing. that made me realize that what qualifies as beetlebabes varies from person to person, which makes "do you ship beetlebabes" even harder to answer, because people see what they want to see in art. you can ask my non-shipper followers and most will say they don't see anything romantic in my art, but then you ask the shippers and it can be the total opposite. just as everyone does when they watch the source material.

so in conclusion

i don't ship them (any of the canon iterations) romantically but i'm chill with the whole thing as long as people aren't rude to each other in my comments (or to me for that matter) because i'm frankly way too old to give a fuck about these things or all the proship/anti/whatever nonsense

[whysperingwoods]

I've had to block the "tarot reading" and "pick a card" and "pendulum reading" tags because otherwise the witchblr tag is completely unusable. I wish there was a way to stop those posts from showing up altogether instead of showing up but saying "this post is hidden". I also wish I could mute users without blocking them. I don't want to see AI generated crap constantly and the same correspondences posted over and over but I also don't necessarily want to ban this person from seeing my content (if there are ways to do this please let me know, I was off tumblr for a long time).

I also ran into the problem when starting to use this blog again of feeling like I needed to explain every single detail anytime I made a post, but even still someone will come onto it with an "um actually" and I feel the need to constantly justify myself with "this is MY practice and how EYE do things after 15+ years", like I can't explain 15 years of practice every single time and how I arrived at doing things a certain way.

I decided this year I'm just not doing educational posts anymore altogether. If someone has questions then I'm happy to help, and when I see questions I feel like I can contribute to I answer them, but I ended up spending so much time agonising over the perfect wording and making sure every single detail is covered so extensively that it ended up making me hate writing.

It's funny going over my posts from four years ago, there were so many actual discussions in the community and the witchblr tag was full of people just sharing their practices and talking about different methods and techniques. There was still fighting of course but it was a different kind I guess?

And there is so much constant virtue signalling it's becoming unbearable. Every few posts is calling out x behaviour or y behaviour but like I'm in the witchblr tag every day, and never see those behaviours being called out actually happening. Half the time I suspect people are making up something to be mad about or they say some ragebait thing on another site and they're posting it like it's a regular occurrence.

I think the leaning further and further into the realm of "you don't have to do anything to be a witch, as long as you feel like one" has done the community some damage. I understand this was meant to be inclusive, but at some point if you've never made a loaf of bread in your life, can you call yourself a baker? There does need to be some element of practice beyond reblogging aesthetic images in the name of a deity (I would argue that makes one more of a devotee than a practitioner?). How one practices is entirely personal, but "practice" implies there is some doing.

Maybe this is what folks are trying to do with the #advwitchblr tag? It's unfortunately still very slow moving, but I'm hoping more and more people catch on to using it. This is also why I made the Witchcraft Discussion community as an alternative to the Witchcraft community so it was focused more on discussion than memes and random stuff unrelated to witchcraft, but so far I'm the only person posting there.

Anyway sorry for rambling on your post but this has also been on my mind for a while lol

excuse my complaining but

i wish the witchcraft tags on here weren't clogged up with tarot asks and selfies and AI generated crap

bring back spells and rituals and masterposts and tarot deck reviews and people learning how to do magic for more than the aesthetic and views

please im begging at this point lmao

[sgiandubh]

Delulu vs. trululu

As expected, promo for the overall stodgy TCND just started in NYC, including with this released and then quickly deleted Instagram pic, shared by the Sassenach Spirits' account:

Not the cleverest marketing & sales move, if you ask me. Knowing this fandom's usual bigot and/or scoffing triggers (which I tend to think S & team do, and rather very well), why even entertain lurid speculation and, by the same token, an unnecessarily juvenile image of The Co-founder? Oh, how I wish they'd step up their game a bit and perhaps be more coherent with that fresh, witty sales approach that first caught my eye!

Why. A rhetorical question that never grows old, as far as SC are concerned. Take for example the latest interview released yesterday by the Fangirlish.com website, which is barely a blurb in the great Instagram tapestry. 6k followers do not a great media outlet make, I believe and they've been around since 2011 (!).

Perhaps on design or perhaps because both of them DGAF anymore, we were treated to these parallel public statements on a rarely brought about and carefully censored calibrated topic: personal lives.

[Source: https://fangirlish.com/2025/01/12/interview-sam-heughan-and-caitriona-balfe-on-jamie-claires-growth-in-outlander/]

While C ambiguously mentions what Claire's character brought to who she is now, she is probably throwing to the scrapheap that constipated but convenient braggadocio that she was 'totally able to separate between Claire and herself'. Something we kept on reading ad nauseam from EFH to the Remarkable Week-end and beyond. She now readily acknowledges she has led 'this project alongside S', all the while - which is even more telling - 'assuming everything that implies'. For some reason, I doubt she simply meant the rather decorous EP functions, but also the entire emotional burden of it all, to which this damned fandom is not exactly a stranger. As we have long surmised, they are in this thing together and they did it together (been together, loved together, lived together, lied together...) all along this tortuous path. Cue in the usual venom that they can't stand each other anymore, I don't really care, at this point in time.

S dutifully obliges as C's sounding board and takes it the needed (but completely unnecessary, Narrative-wise) extra mile: JAMMF has given him 'an incredible relationship, one I never thought I’d have'.

Surely he does not mean Flukenzie Floozy or the entire Fitness Harem panoply, Ha-wa-wee 🐰and Dubai Burlesque included. And she could have rectified on the spot or poked fun at him or anything in between. Yet, she did not: surely Tracula is again the 'very understanding' character of that plot!

Why even bring it up all of this now? Why even mention personal stuff both of them have a rather appalling PR management of, from unnecessary exposure to gaslighting an entire fandom and probably also the kitchen sink?

For the sake of an ending series?

Oh, come on - give me a break, here. We are neither delulu, nor stupid.

PS: Thank you for the pic. You know who you are ;)

Later edit: I am told with good reason that is was not Sassenach Spirits which posted that pic, but the Instagram user @stevieme88 - a bartender at that last SS event in the US. He then proceeded to go private again, but the pic was downloaded and shared by that very well informed vigilante account, which then chose to tag Sassenach Spirits (why?).

Gracias a ti, siempre.

[sweetflanfiction]

Asymetrical Symphony - Part 17

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know.

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11 • Part 12 • Part 13 • Part 14 • Part 15 • Part 16

• ··········· • ············ •

After some long minutes of silent work, Viktor placed the goggles on his forehead again and turned his face to your almost sleeping figure.

"Wake up." He threw a small piece of pink chalk at your chest.

"Is it finished?" You blinked away the sleepiness and chucked the chalk back to him.

"No... but I am cross-eyed looking at the thing." He took the goggles off his head and swiveled the bench to you. "Have you tried the new suffix I showed you?” 

The night of the dinner, he had sent Jayce a note with a new symbol to add to your runes. It was disappointing that he had come himself to give you the thing, but you knew how much he hated these events. 

You were certain that, in every universe imaginable, Viktor, co-creator of Hextech, would not be caught dead in a room full of Pilties unless under threat. And Jayce wasn’t about to threaten his life for a two-hour dinner, mostly because if your mother knew, she would threaten Jayce’s life in return. It was a give-and-take with these two.

“Yes, I did.” You turned on the couch so you were fully lying on it, drawing runes in the air.

“And…?” He leaned his elbows into his knees.

“I had to explain to my mother why my bedroom was in disarray after a whirlwind went through it.” You looked down at him, watching his warm eyes widen. “And then I had to explain to Voltaire why all the lights in the house went out for the whole day."

“The rune I gave you was how we… well… in simple terms… solidify the hex gem light into a laser.” He made a gesture with his hand, like a claw coming from his back. “Those results are unexpected. What runes did you speak for them?”

“The move made the whirlwind and the starlight made lightning, but—”

“Lightning?” Viktor was already opening and closing drawers, trying to find his notebook.

“Yup…and--”

“The solidified state of your move rune is a whirlwind, and the starlight is lightning. I need to write this down.” He interrupted, his words coming out as quickly as the lighting from the little marbles of light.

“I already did…but—

“Good, we should try it again in a more... secure place.” He finally found the book with a little 'aha' sound and opened it.

“I’m not going back in the broom closet.” You quickly added to his speech. “Neither of these two runes makes me comfortable in an enclosed space.”

“Understandable.” He nodded after a while of consideration.

“Anyway…what shined was the mending rune…”

“How so?”

Getting up from the couch, you walked over to his desk, intent on grabbing the closest piece of chalk on the table, but Viktor’s hand appeared, palming his pencils and pulling them away from you quickly.

You leaned your hip against his table, crossed your arms, and raised an eyebrow, your face a mask of inquiry.

“There are disposable pencils in the first drawer.” He said, motioning with his chin to the place he mentioned.

You opened the drawer, and six, somewhat new, charcoal pencils were stored. You frowned and took one out. They hadn't even been sharpened yet.

“These are brand new.” You showed him the pencil, and he nodded.

“Yes, and they are also Jayce’s…” You saw the mischievous grin on his face and shook your head.

“For your information, I was going to do this with chalk.” You broke the pencil in three places.

“That would be even worse!" He quickly placed all his writing utensils in a mug with Jayce's face on it. "Do you know how much I have to defend the use of colored chalk? I feel like I’m arguing my thesis…” 

“What's with the Academy and not giving its scientists what they need to survive the grueling task of mathing?” You joked and threw him the middle part of the pencil, watching him fumbling to catch it before it hit the floor.

"Would you like to do math? Because I can play the piano. We can switch one day. See who lasts longer." He jokingly pointed to the arachnid-looking machinery.

“Are you done with the pity party?" You asked, grinning at him, and he nodded brightly.

"Yes, go ahead." He stretched his leg in front of him as he grabbed the edge of the table.

"I've also been managing to speak the rune with fewer movements every time.”

“Abbreviations of words are very common.” He looked at the ground and tilted his head. "Once you become accustomed to speaking a word, you can simply say its condensed form, and it will be understandable."

Viktor gently pushed himself along the table to roll over to where you stood, the last push a little too strong as he came bumping into your side. You grabbed his shoulder to keep both of you from falling to the floor, and he instinctively moved an arm around your waist. You looked down at him, and he up at you. 

You both stood there for a while, and your hand moved closer to his neck, stroking it for a couple of seconds. He moved away and made a little laughing sound. You tilted your head to the side, raised your eyebrows, and didn't again.

"No." He moved away laughing, his hand dragging behind you, leaving a cold trail on your lower back.

And it was then you found out that this Viktor was ticklish. And that little childish detail, the way his eyes instantly filled with laughter, made you extremely happy. Viktor deserved to feel joy and happiness.

With a cough to clear your throat and get back to the present, you took the pencil and placed its pieces a little further apart than the last time, the middle part that you had discarded, missing. As you spoke the rune, you added the sustain and solidify symbols at the end. 

The tendrils came out of the rune and found the intended target, touching the two parts of the rough snapped wood and then solidifying around it until it had the consistency of a paste. After a second the paste started to grow, the tendrils now coming out like gravity-defying candle wax from both sides. They met in the middle, forming a bridge of a blue, slimy material. Once the missing part of the pencil was filled, the paste started to harden, becoming a blue, shimmery shape that connected and glued both parts together.

“It connects what's missing now.” You whispered, trying not to startle the enthralled scientist.

Viktor grabbed the pencil and looked it over from every angle against the light, even tapping on it with his nail. It was slightly translucent, and the noise resembled knocking on a piece of thick glass. He wrote with it, and it worked as it should.

“It is a solid shape, yes, but I believe it’s not a replica of the pencil.” He said, chewing the inside of his mouth. His eyes lifted for a moment, and he went to grab his crutch.

Autumn was around the corner, and the temperature change made his bones and muscles ache. He had told you when you widened your eyes at his crutch and leg brace that when the cold seasons come, he uses them more often to help him. You didn't need to touch his back to know the back brace was there too. 

The Viktor in your dimension had the same problem in his better days. Any weather change would bring his pain level up. He once told you it felt like his bones were grinding on his other and that his muscles were made of fire. It didn’t stop him from coming to the lab. 

It didn’t seem to stop either of them.

You hadn’t questioned him using the brace on the hex leg, but you’d assume it would help stabilize it and even out its weight. 

You were snapped out of memory lane when Viktor sat back down with a ‘humph’ on the stool. He quickly grabbed the screwdriver and started to separate the top side of the crutch from the bottom. In between them, there was a small mechanism. He grabbed that and showed it to you.

“This makes me able to readjust the height of the crutch. This spring makes this pin go into that hole and makes the crutch adjustment secure.” He told you and waited for a confirmation that you understood.

“Alright.” You nodded, confused, your eyes shifting from his to what was in his hand.

He took the spring out, and it left a space in the mechanism.

“Fix it.” He told you and gave you the broken thing.

Without questioning him, you made the rune and waited. The gooey magic substance attached to where you saw the spring start and where it ended, but it didn’t make the shape of the spring. It just connected those two pieces the same way it connected the pencil: with a solid blue cylindrical shape.

"Sorry." You told him, afraid you had broken his walking aid, but he shook his head.

“Interesting…” He grabbed a small hammer he had on his table and hit the new blue piece softly. “It creates new forms but not specific ones.”

“I just learned to speak it. Maybe it comes with practice.” He hit it again with a bit more force, and it broke. "It would be good to be able to actually create new forms."

Viktor nodded as he grabbed the old spring and set it again in its rightful place. He redid the aid, tried it a couple of times, and after he was satisfied, kept it between his knees, leaning his chin and his hands on the middle handle.

“I may be able to help you with that.” The scientist smiled and got up from the table, his leg brace whining at the movement. He went over to the hex core storage and came back with a small thing in his hand. 

“It’s a panel with a missing gear.” He limped back towards you and threw himself on the couch, motioning for you to do the same.

You did, your knees touching as he showed you what he had in his hand. It was a small copper panel with two gears on each side, an empty spot in the middle, and a switch. He touched the switch, and one gear moved, but without the middle one, the last kept still. He stopped off the switch and moved his hand, a gear appearing between his fingers.

“The shape.” He turned the loose gear over to you and pointed a finger at the panel. “The place."

Understanding what he meant, you nodded and grabbed the panel gently, turning it over in your hands.

“Yes, Professor.” You noticed his hand squeeze the gear quickly and then let go. You looked up at him and watched as his usually caring golden eyes turned into something fiery, like hot coals in a fireplace. You saw his gaze quickly shift downwards to your mouth and then up, and as quickly as it came, it was gone.

“Hum... Good luck." He awkwardly got up from the couch and sat back down on his stool, quickly grabbing his goggles and placing them over his eyes.

There was a heat behind his eyes. A small flash from your dimension told you exactly what it meant. There were some things Viktor would enjoy, and when he threw those glances at you, you could pinpoint what they were. It would mostly end up in something that both enjoyed. 

But your Viktor had been stubborn, and although you knew his feelings for you matched your feelings for him, there was always that little ‘I am dying’ detail that, no matter how much you told him you didn’t care, he didn’t forget. And you didn’t—couldn’t—blame him. 

In the end, the only thing you could do was respect that. 

You stayed in the lab with Viktor, trying to make a little gear out of the goo. You’d managed to make some shape out of it, but the gear was proving a little too difficult, and you could feel the tingle in your hand fade as you kept using it.

At some point, Jayce had joined in on the two of you, mumbling something about the council and their demands. Viktor had looked at him and simply passed him another part of ‘The Reader.’. 

For a few hours, you forgot this wasn’t where you belonged. These weren’t your old friends. For a few hours, this was just a normal day of yours. After leaving the orchestra, you’d come by and idly sit by them, listening to them tinkering and reading a book about whatever subject you felt like. Sometimes you’d bring a guitar or some of your father’s records.

You felt the couch sink next to you, and you tucked your socked feet under the leg of whoever had sat down, your back leaning into the arm of the couch. It was muscle memory. It wouldn’t be strange for Jayce to lean against you when he sat; his big shoulders and torso were most likely to be used as a pillow, or for Viktor to place his legs on your lap gently, the pain becoming bearable when he stretched his muscles after being sat all day.

“Oh!” 

Immediately you looked up and saw it was Viktor who had sat down, and clumsily you moved your feet away. Only to be stopped by a hand on your knee, a tired smile on his lips.

“There is no need to move.”

He moved his leg, so you could place your feet back where they were under his thigh, and then he rested his arm on your knees. Viktor leaned his back and shoulders against the couch, his neck stretching back and his long legs sprawled on the floor.

For a while, the only thing heard through the lab was Jayce’s angrily muttering against whatever he was welding. Whatever the council had asked him, he was not happy to comply.

“How is your gear making?” Viktor asked, turning his neck to look at you.

The board now was not as pristine as it had been. There were small pieces of crystal that you could get detached with the small hammer Viktor had provided. The best shape you could make was a splatter sort of circle, connecting the dents of the two other gears.

“Well, good news, bad news. Which one do you want first?” He showed you two fingers in the hand that had wrapped around your knees, indicating the second choice. “I don’t think this rune is made for creating shapes.”

“I was thinking as much. But I was hopeful it could take different paths to mend things.” You gave him the board, and he grabbed it, turning it around near his face and inspecting the blue goo on it. “The good news?”

“I can abbreviate the rune.” You smiled when he looked at you, eyebrows raised, impressed and proud.

The sound of a metal tool falling to the ground, followed by a curse, was heard on the other side of the room, and at the same time, a knock on the door. 

Viktor groaned and clumsily got up, using the arm of the couch, your knees, and then the table to get himself upright while you sat up to a less comfortable position. 

You quickly hid the small powdery leftovers of your tests and placed the glove on your hand. Even though it wasn’t as bright as before, it was still glowing. 

Jayce grumbled as he got up to open the door.

“Hello,” the bright young voice of Sky echoed in the lab. “The council has given me some more project briefings…”

“Great…” Jayce threw whatever tool he had picked up from the floor on his part of the table. Sky flinched at the sound. 

“Thank you, Miss Young.” Viktor grabbed his crutch and limped towards her, trying to appease the girl. “Is there anything else?”

“Hum…yeah…yes…” She looked at Viktor and smiled. “The council wants them reviewed right now.”

Jayce turned to look at Sky and was about to open his mouth to contest, but Viktor took several quick strides towards the woman while throwing Jayce a look you couldn’t see but that shut him up.

“Thank you. You can wait here if you want.” He pointed to the couch you were sitting at, and you gave her a quick wave.

“We’ll give them back as quickly as we can.”

She looked confused for a while when she saw you there but quickly gave you a quick smile and nodded at Viktor.

He looked back to watch her make her way to you and then smiled softly when your eyes met.

“Hello.” Sky said, sitting down next to you, her hands on her knees. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here after your appointment.”

“Hi!" You shrugged and rolled your eyes in an exasperated manner. "The gadget didn’t work properly, and Viktor is making some adjustments as he goes. Saves me the trips and the rescheduling.”

“Ah…yes…makes sense. More efficient that way. It's strange to have to add a planner to the multitude of other things we have to keep in check.” She pushed her glasses up and smiled, her expression showing her distaste for the added unnecessary work. “Oh, congratulations on the orchestra seat.”

“How…?”It took you by surprise that she knew about this since it only happened two days ago.

“Oh…My father works at the printing house, and the orchestra is doing the flyers and posters for this season. I saw your name on the roster.”

“Ah! It’s your father…of course.” In your world, her sister worked in the printing house. “The first winter show is right around the corner. Are you going to go?”

She looked at her hands and shook her hand.

“The tickets for the season's first shows are always too expensive. We’ll probably go later in the season.” 

“Let me rephrase that…” you grinned at the girl. Much like any other person you’d met in this timeline, some of their traits and likes probably still happened to their counterparts here. And you knew Sky enjoyed music. You had invited her several times to watch the orchestra rehearse in your time. It was a free concert for her, and it was worth it to see her just ramble about it afterwards. “Would you like to go to the first show of the season?”

Her eyes brightened up, and you smiled, but her elation stopped short, and she shook her head, sighing.

“There’s no need for you to trouble yourself.” She smiled sadly.

“It’s no trouble. I have 2 seats always reserved in my name. It’s a thing they do to their musicians. My mother and Willah have their box; these two have the Academy’s ticket and will likely be invited. I don’t mind giving you the seats; you can take whoever you want…maybe your sister could come…” Her face lit up again as you realized what you just said and quickly corrected. “If you have sisters…maybe a date…I don’t know…”

“Yes, my sister would love to go. Maybe my mother…I’ll ask…” She adjusted her glasses. “Are you sure? I truly don’t want to impose.”

“It’s no imposition or trouble. I would rather you have them than for them to be empty.”

“Thank you! You’ll be at the piano, right?”

You nodded, and the conversation rolled out easily. Talking about music and compositions and favorites. Sky had always been easy to talk to. She was a genuinely nice person. Had a huge crush on Viktor, which you teased him about, but unfortunately for her, the feelings he had for her didn’t reach those heights. When he became the Herald, he told you she lived in the astral world, always there in the core helping him navigate his new circumstances. He told you she was a friend; you knew she was his guilt.

A high-pitched sound was heard from somewhere in the lab, and both you and Sky looked at each other in silent confusion. It sounded like a kettle ready to boil over.

“Do you hear that?” She asked, looking around, and you nodded, looking around yourself.

She got up from the couch and took a step forward towards the two men sitting at the end of the table. The noise grew louder.

“Vik…” Sky started but was interrupted by a small explosion and three wheezing sounds coming from Jayce’s work table.

You ducked your head as three bolts carved themselves like bullets on the wall behind you. Viktor called your name, and Jayce ran to his station, turning off his still-working welder. You, however, were watching as three red stains appeared on Sky’s uniform.

You rushed forward as she fell to her knees, grabbing her just in time for her head not to hit the ground. She groaned and touched her hand in the three small holes in her abdomen.

“No, no, no.” You chanted, grabbing the blanket from the couch and putting pressure on her wounds. “Get someone!” 

Viktor limped his way to both of you and awkwardly plopped down on the floor, the brace on his leg making it difficult for him to sit down.

“Jayce! Get the enforcers we need to get her to the hospital.” Viktor shouted back as well, and you heard Jayce’s footsteps hit the ground running.

“Ouch,” Sky winced weakly, looking down at herself. “I hate blood.”

“We all do, dear.” You placed a bloody hand on her forehead. “You got to breathe and be calm. Help is coming.”

She nodded, and you looked at Viktor, a bloody pool starting to form at his knees. Both your hands were now holding the thick blanket to her midsection. You kept checking her breathing and making sure she was conscious, but the minutes seemed like hours.

In a moment of silence, you heard the sound of a crackling fire, an orange light shining above you. Craning your neck up, you saw the ceiling crack and move apart. Not like the glass shattering, but a slow movement as the ceiling pieces moved away. The crackling sound mixed with a slow bubbling of liquid. It reminded you of when your mother would boil caramel and condensed milk for her dessert. 

The mix of sounds and the slow movement of the cement was mesmerizing. Then a drop of a bright, hot, sizzling orange substance fell right into your gloved hand. For a moment you thought it would burn the leather away, but it simply got absorbed. It looked like a pebble hitting water, making small rounded waves. Before another drop fell, you quickly ripped the glove from your hand and caught the orange drip. Same effect, but before the little waves stopped, a bead of bright blue shot up to the ceiling. 

In the distance, you heard Viktor call your name, but you were far more interested in the liquid within the cracks going from red to blue.

You saw more tears of blue hit the ceiling as the sound of bubbling and crackling grew louder in your ears. Every time a drop landed, the cracks moved in a different direction. When it stopped, you saw a rune. A new rune.

Unlike the purple one, this one also had an urgency but not a devouring need to be spoken. It was more than the hunger to use it; it was the urgency of the situation. Like the arcane was telling you to trust it. It was still strange to have this outer pull to do something. The other runes didn’t have it.

The whole rune appeared, and you blinked, searing it into your memory. And when… whatever it was… knew you were gonna trust it, the world spun.

Your glowing hand was almost out, but it still had a bit of magic left, and it moved on its own. Speaking this rune was unlike any other; there was no intention, no need to flick it. You spoke it, and your hand snapped to the blanket. With a swift movement, you pushed the blanket away, blood gushing out of the wounds.

You, or better, whatever was moving you, turned your head to the wall in front of you, staring at the three little dots on the wall like there was nothing else more interesting in the world.

Your body worked on its own accord like you had felt in the council room when you wrote the runes on the ground. Sky’s blood felt warm against your hand for a few seconds, until you felt that same warmth drag up from your hand to your elbow, to your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Viktor half shouted, his bloody hand grabbing your forearm, but when your gaze snapped to him, he quieted down with a gasp. 

You wanted to watch it happen, but whatever will you had to move had been sucked out, and you found yourself staring unemotionally at your friends' worried golden orbs. 

You felt a warmth go up your arm, into your clothed shoulder, as it traveled down your torso until it reached the mirrored spot Sky was hurt. 

And then the warm feeling became a searing, white burning pain. 

You’ve been punched in the gut several times. By Vi, by an array of Noxus soldiers. Even by a beautiful white and gold construct, that one hurt more feelings than flesh. It wasn’t pleasant; it made the air inside your body come out in a huff. It was painful, but it wasn’t this. 

This was like someone took a hot knife and was carving something into your flesh. You could almost smell the burned skin.

Viktor shouted your name, but there was nothing you could do to snap out of whatever trance that rune got you into. You wanted to scream in pain; you wanted to ask for help, but nothing came out. You kept your eyes focused on your friend at his concerned gaze, trying to convey the pain you were feeling, but you weren't sure he understood it. You didn’t feel any muscle on your face move, and for a moment you panicked.

Was this what the hex angels felt whenever Viktor took command of their bodies? Was this it? This lack of control over your body as your mind screamed in pain?

You felt your body fall to the ground with a thud, your heartbeat quickly drumming in your ears. You heard Viktor shuffling to your side, but the world was quickly becoming black. As your vision faded, you saw Sky's teary eyes blink as life crept back into her.

• ··········· • ············ •

@marshy-moo @victormydarling @blueesmiski @th3stup1dcat @22carolina08 @httpstes @that-one-shitty-blog @disa-pointment @sseleniaa @moons-lighttrail @aysluxe @fae-doodle @kitewa @local-mr-frog @bakusquadobsessed @cherry-cola-100 @optimistic-but-very-realistic @seeksrsnn @thecordelialetters @notsaelty @lansy-4 @ayupfrogg @sammypotato @wnbrw @lucycarlisleswife @noxturnalmoth @ren-ren23 @furblrwurblr @kapitankarate @mynicknameisgasoline @octo-octopie @birbwithhat @kneelarmhstrung @dedicated2viktor @elvishstudies

[sooyaumvm]

interruption — summary. 'being interrupted during a intimate moment wasn't on your bingo'

characters ;; Octotrio tags ;; reader is gender neutral(lipstick is mentioned on azul's part), reader is yuu, a lil teasing, romantic/fluff

Azul Ashengrotto was a refined man

that's what he likes to think at least, he has created a great reputation for himself, he had the awesome Moutro lounge and even had his incredible contracts to offer though the position he is in right now does not match his cultured persona, in this moment he finds himself sitting on his office chair having his face smudged and marked by your new lipstick, the one he bought for you actually "Dearest I think that's enough-" you frown at his words "it's not enough, I'll know when it's enough" Azul sighs but allows you to continue on your small task that until he hears a knock on his door his eyes widen at the realization someone was at the door and he wouldn't be able to fix himself before they enter the room when you let go of his face and turn to look at the door you hear a laugh, one you learned to recognize too well by now Floyd is stading there and ready to talk when his brother interrupt him "Looks like we will have to come back later, my apologies" you can sense how Jade was holding back his own laughs while pulling his brother and the poor student they brought out of Azul's office, instantly when the door closes you feel your boyfriend melting under you "Let's remember to lock the door next time, please"

Jade Leech was a man who prouded himself

He believed he had mastered the art of observation. Initially, understanding the landman's customs was challenging, but he prided himself on his adaptability. As a curious person, his interest in you was expected, but falling for you was unexpected. Nonetheless, here we are — while you were working a shift at Mounstro Lounge, you needed money, and Azul would never refuse a new employee anyway. You've been dating Jade for a while now, and on a little break between attending orders and fetching the food, you ended up here, sitting on the counter and making out with him. You had your arms wrapped around his shoulders, and his own hands were on your waist. Your hands slowly got higher, reaching his hair and tugging it a bit. You could feel him smirking on your mouth; you don't know when he became such a good kisser until "OH- I'M- I- I WAS- I'M SO SORRY!" You abruptly let go of Jade and looked behind him. An Octavinelle student was standing there, all flustered from what he had encountered. He stormed outside of the kitchen without further warning. Jade looked at you and chuckled, "It looks like we got him a little show." The way Jade says that made you scoff before getting off the counter and going back to what you were doing before being attacked by him. "You're just going to leave me like that?" Jade says in a sad, mocking way, but with his usual smile on his face. "Yes, I will," you say before leaving

Floyd Leech was a menace

Everyone knew that, so when you first started dating him, everyone thought two things: 1. You were crazy or 2. He was threatening you. But in reality, it wasn't either of them; you just loved him. So that's why right now you're taking advantage of the time alone you two have without Grim to pick a fight with him to just enjoy your time with him. You were kissing him normally when you felt him smirk on your neck, which is not a great sign. "My turn now," he said with a grin that showed his sharp teeth. He suddenly switched positions, having you laying on the used couch of Ramshackle. He kissed you before going for your neck; he kissed you before affectionately biting you, making you gasp from surprise. But that gasp rapidly turned into a laugh when he continued to kiss and carefully bite you. When he was about to bite your collarbone, you heard a "OH!" You fastly pushed your boyfriend from on top of you to be greeted by Ace's shocked face and Deuce's flustered self. "Wow there, prefect, didn't know you had that on you," Ace said with a smirk. "Ne, Crabby, why don't you come back later? I was kind of busy here," your boyfriend said with his eerie smile. "Uh—we—I—he," Deuce stuttered. "I wanted to see my henchman! you get me?" Grim said with his fake confidence Floyd's grin widened. "I think that's enough, okay? Come here, Grim," you say, patting your side. "Thank you for bringing him, you two," you say to the duo at the door. Ace whistled. "No problem, prefect, just warn us when you're making out with your scary boyfriend," Floyd looks at him with a smirk. "Or maybe you can learn to knock?" you say to him with a smile.

im really sorry if this is not great, i think its so hard to write Floyd and Jade and its so easy to mischaracterizate them 😵‍💫