#AND HE DECIDED THAT INSTANTANEOUSLY TOO

[drlancaster]

It is so ridiculous that toichiro decided that a LITERAL MIDDLE SCHOOLER was his worst enemy. DUDE. GET A GRIP OH MY GOD

[lazysoulwriter]

holy fire - rafe cameron.

---

Rafe Cameron always thought he had you figured out. You were sweet. Soft-spoken. A little bratty sometimes, sure, but never truly mean. Never someone who would push him past his limits. His cute little girlfriend. His pretty, delicate thing.

So when he muttered, exasperated, "Can you stop being a bitch for one second?"

Oh.

He had no fucking idea.

The shift in you was immediate. Instantaneous. Like a switch had been flipped, like something dark and ancient had been stirred awake inside you. It was in the way your spine straightened, the way your chin lifted just slightly, the way your lips parted in a soundless breath—before curling into something he had never seen before.

Not a smile. Not quite.

More like the promise of a reckoning.

You stepped forward. He stepped back.

And then you laughed. Low. Cold. Devoid of warmth.

"You think I’m a bitch?" Your voice was too calm, too measured, a deadly contrast to the fury burning in your eyes. "Rafe—I’ve been nice. You don’t even know the fucking half of it."

His jaw clenched. He had never seen you like this before. Not really.

"You throw a tantrum the second something doesn’t go your way, whine like a spoiled little trust fund brat, and then turn around and call me a bitch?" Your brows lifted, mocking. "Oh, no, baby. No. You’re confused. You don’t know what being a bitch really looks like."

His throat bobbed.

"You’re so used to people catering to you, huh? Used to everyone letting you get away with your little moods, your little outbursts. Used to people folding the second you get angry." You took another step forward. He barely noticed his back hit the wall. "You think you’re intimidating? You’re not. You’re just a boy who was never told ‘no’ enough times."

Rafe blinked. He was listening—really listening—but his body was reacting to something else entirely. His pulse was racing, blood running hot, an unfamiliar tightness coiling in his stomach.

Because you weren’t just mad. You were magnificent.

"You act like you’re untouchable, like you own everything in your orbit. But Rafe, let me make one thing crystal fucking clear to you—"you don’t own me."

His breath hitched.

"I let you have me. I decide how this goes. And if you ever, ever talk to me like that again—" you leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper, "I will burn you to the fucking ground."

Silence.

Thick. Charged. Suffocating.

Rafe couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Because for the first time in his life, he wasn’t the one with the power. He wasn’t the one who held control in the palm of his hand.

You did.

And fuck—

Fuck, he was obsessed.

His lips parted, words failing him. His body had its own ideas, already reaching for you, fingers itching to touch, to grab, to worship.

A slow, delirious grin spread across his face. "Holy shit."

Your glare sharpened. "What?"

He exhaled a laugh, eyes raking over you with something dangerously close to reverence. "You’re fucking gorgeous when you’re mad."

The sheer audacity. The absolute nerve.

You could kill him. You really could.

But before you could spit another insult, before you could shove him away and leave him stewing in his own mess, Rafe grabbed you. Rough. Desperate. His hands curled around your jaw, his fingers digging into your cheeks, and then his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t a kiss—it was a collision.

Teeth clashing, lips bruising, his breath ragged as he devoured every ounce of rage still burning off you. You made a noise—part frustration, part something else—and your fingers curled into his shirt, yanking him closer as if you wanted to fight and kiss him at the same time.

Good. Because so did he.

His grip was greedy, possessive, one hand slipping to your throat, the other pressing against the small of your back, crushing you against him. You could feel the way his heart was racing, the way he was breathing like he had just run miles, like he was completely, utterly wrecked by you.

And when you bit his lip—hard—he groaned, half in pain, half in something darker.

"Fuck," he panted against your mouth. "Do it again."

And you did.

Because you might not belong to him, but right now?

He definitely belonged to you.

---

[prosypepper]

“parenting class” with kei tsukishima

this is part six of my kinktober event :3

word count: 1.5k

warnings: nsfw, timeskip tsukishima, breeding, talks about pregnancy, tsukki is maybe a little bit bad!, finishing inside, unprotected p in v. 18+ mdni!

notes: who tf was gonna tell me pregnancy scares are real

kinktober masterlist | masterlist

kei tsukishima didn’t know what had come over him.

personally, he blamed that stupid parenting class that was required, for some reason. kei thought it was idiotic, but he needed it to graduate. and they absolutely doomed him when they put both of you in class together.

there was something about you, his sweet, beautiful and kind girlfriend that had already won his heart a million times over, doing things that a mom would do. of course, they provided those dumb dolls that cried and stuff—but you seemed to be able to calm the robot baby down instantly. the smallest appearance of a smile came over his face when you’d bounce the doll in your arms, or feed it the fake food.

god forbid when they made you wear that horrible pregnancy vest, because it gave your boyfriend terribly amazing imagery of what you’d actually look like carrying his child. maybe he was weird for it, but after the few weeks of that class was over, kei couldn’t stop himself from only thinking about one thing;

getting you pregnant.

he hadn’t ever been the dad type, until now.

“do you want kids?” tsukishima had asked you, all the while focused on a homework assignment. the question was one you hadn’t talked about before. it took you by surprise, obviously, and you wondered if it was something your tsukki wanted, too.

“if you want them, yeah.”

and that reply is what led kei to his current position, deciding between two ways the both of your lives could go. but as you laid there in his dorm room, trapped under his arms, all the excuses he could make for what he was about to do ran through his head. both of you were adults, set to graduate college in a few months, along with jobs lined up the second you got your diplomas. he already had a ring for you, he’d decided he was going to marry you a long time ago—

what did he have to lose?

“are you okay? you seem out of it, tsukki,” you say, running your fingers through your boyfriend’s blond locks. you had been waiting for a few minutes now, and all kei was doing was staring down at you, the look in his eyes gradually shifting over time.

“mhm.” is the only reply you get out of him, but he finally starts to move his eyes up and down your face, skimming over your lips and soft cheeks. kei felt like he could moan aloud when you wrap your arms behind his neck and lean up to give him a small peck.

he loved how sweet you were to him, a stark contrast in his own personality. he was never one to show affection in many ways, but you made up for it with the amount of affection you gave him. you had kei wrapped around your little finger, and boy, did he know it.

wrapping your legs around his waist, you pull kei in impossibly closer, the warmth in between your legs now was prodded at by the tent in your boyfriend’s boxers. kei harshly sucks air through his teeth at the pressure, absentmindedly rutting against you, feeling your panties and the dampness behind them, absolutely soaked. kei could tell.

“i don’t have a condom,” he remarks, subtly watching how you’d react.

“oh—um, it’s okay,” you reply almost instantaneously, “i’m on birth control, tsukki.”

damn it.

tsukishima nods his head, leaning up to allow space for the both of you to strip away the clothing that was keeping him from being inside of you. scooting back on the bed, you allow him room to join you. kei climbs up on the mattress with you, slotting himself between your already spread thighs, cock immediately pressing against the warm wetness of your cunt. you whine at the teasing, though it isn’t intentional, and kei hushes your noises with a sweet kiss.

as your lips lock and your skin becomes warmer at your lover’s contact, kei’s slender hands come to grab under your thighs, situating you in a rather unexplored position—a mating press. his head draws back again, just to take in the sight of you; in his shirt, and rather everything else completely exposed to him. the small light coming from his desk lamp illuminates you perfectly, shows off how soft you are to kei, the perfect body to carry his kids—

“kei,” you whine, “are you sure you’re okay?” your question is half concern and half desperation, wanting him to either move or tell you he isn’t horny; though, the raging erection he has would say otherwise. “if you don’t wanna do it, we don’t have to—oh!”

your rambling is cut off by a harsh thrust inside, kei wasting no time to completely insert himself into you. he was never one to be too rough, maybe a little erratic, but never completely silent and impatient. you can tell there is no patience left in your boyfriend, with how he immediately begins a grueling, fast pace, slamming his length into you with unrelenting force. your pretty little brain, usually so sweet and composed, has no time to think about what’s got him so worked up, because he has you yelping out within only a few seconds.

“kei—kei!” you chant his name, it’s falling off your lips like a routine prayer, stuck on loop like a broken record.

kei’s knees dig into the fabric of his sheets, his thighs completely straightened, and it feels like he is using every bit of strength to wind his hips up and violently slam them back into you. becoming so fond of this position, you can feel him in new depths, as the slit of his cock taps – no, angrily impales – your cervix. he’s no longer calculated, or sweet, whatever had gotten into kei had made the man completely animalistic.

syrupy, soaked walls clamp around his length ridiculously tighter with every meeting of your hips, and you mewl. the first remnants of sweat creep on your boyfriend’s hairline, his glasses are beginning to slip down his nose, he’s almost silently panting. when your eyes aren’t squeezed shut, you can see the blank, mean expression settled on tsukishima’s features; it wasn’t a softened version of his face like normal.

“feels s’good, tsukki!” you manage to stammer out, arms flailing to the pillow you rested your head on to hold.

“yeah?” followed by a grunt is the only reply, the only words tsukki has given you the entire interaction. he usually liked to tease you, or have more remarks when you babbled on about how good he felt. but no, not now. not when he could feel himself getting closer from the death grip your pussy has on him, not when he can feel himself about to knock you up. “look at me.”

your eyes shoot open, despite the signals from your body telling you to keep them closed, lose yourself in the pleasure. you wouldn’t dare to disobey your boyfriend, not like this. so, of course, you lock your eyes with his, his cock still bullying its way deeper into you. kei savors the scrunched up, dirty look on your face, that of one he hasn’t seen before.

were you enjoying this that much? even if you didn’t know his intentions, were you finding pleasure in the thought of getting pregnant now, by him?

“i’m gonna finish inside,” kei states, and it’s not a request, nor a demand. it’s a simple statement, something he is going to do. you’re able to notice the passion, the need in his voice. and you think, for just a moment, that you understand his intentions.

however, the rough pounding he’s giving you leaves no time for thought.

“mm—finish in me, tsukki,” you motivate him, trying your damnedest to maintain the eye contact with him, “m’gonna cum too!” your voice pitches higher, and kei’s sure whoever’s trying to sleep on the other side of the wall probably hates him right now. but he doesn’t really care, no. he’s determined.

“yeah? close, hmm?” tsukishima teases, finally, in between heavy pants. you nod your head pathetically, not even asking for permission as you clench around him again and cum all over his cock. he’s learned you so well, he can tell when you cum, and he only speeds up the pace of his thrusting to fuck you through it.

at the sound of your pretty noises, kei loses himself, letting the feeling inside snap. thick, white ropes of his cum fly out and stick to your insides, you can feel the extra warmth from it all—it’s hotter than your insides, somehow. even as his pace slows, the thrusts remain just as hard; fucking into you all the way, he’s overstimulating the both of you. all for his greedy, reckless desires.

something had gotten into kei tsukishima, and he knew what it was now. it was all an insatiable, needy scratch inside his brain, only to be helped when in a few weeks, you take that plastic test in the bathroom of his dorm, and those two pink lines show up. he’d only be helped then.

[sai-int]

possessive sex with RTS!Simon!! angry grunts, hand over your mouth, putting you in a full nelson. just utterly overloading your senses with nothing but him

i like your funny words, magic man 🙂‍↕️

— combining this with the anon who wanted hair pulling, choking, & spanking

— very rough sex, fem reader below the cut

the more time you spend with simon, the more his edges seem to wear down. he starts to soften until you barely notice it happening.

he murmurs sweet nothings against your skin now, calls you pretty things in that reverent voice like you’re a saint. it’s all praise, all worship, and after a while, it becomes easy to forget the version of him you once knew. easy to believe that the violence doesn’t live in him anymore—that it burned itself out somewhere along the way.

but it’s still there, still simmering and latent.

simon may be gentle with you, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten who he is. and when you start to test him, when you push just a little too far—he’s more than willing to remind you.

he’ll let the other version of himself—ghost— slip through the cracks, just long enough to make sure you remember who you’re dealing with.

not because he wants to scare you.

but because he knows it works.

because sometimes, you need a reminder that sugar only ever came after the steel.

—it was ghost you initially invited in, after all.

….

he’s been on edge throughout the entirety of your outing together.

something about the way you smiled at someone too long, or the sway of your hips in that goddamn dress when you leaned over earlier. you’d felt how tense he was in the way he brushed past you, the way his eyes lingered just a second too long on your throat, your hands, your hips. but it isn’t the same kind of tense he gets when he comes home from work all dead-eyed.

it’s possessive.

by the time you get home and the front door clicks shut behind you both, the air’s heavy with it—his restraint stretched thin, about to snap.

and when it does, it’s immediate.

he crowds you fast, slams your back against the door with a thud, big hands gripping your jaw, your throat, like he can’t decide where he wants to feel you first.

“don’t even fuckin’ know what y’do t’me,” he grits out, and his voice is low, simmering with something darker than lust, something nostalgic.

you try to speak, but it’s already too late—he’s kissing you, if you can even call it that. it’s more like he’s trying to drink the sounds and spit right out of your mouth, gulp down your vocal chords before they can even muster a whimper.

his teeth catch your lip and you can feel how soaked you are, a fresh wave of heat instantaneously rolls from your tummy to your cunt. his hand slips into your hair, dragging your head back by the scalp just so he can look at you better. he’s breathing hard, like holding himself back takes more energy than unleashing.

“get y’fuckin’ clothes off.”

you blink, caught in the pull of him, but you’re too slow. he moves you and spins you around, pushes you down against the arm of the couch, yanks your underwear down so fast the waistband burns. the cool air hits your thighs and then he’s on you, thick and hard and already leaking against your entrance despite not even hearing his belt clink.

he doesn’t slide in. not yet.

instead, he pulls your arms back, strong forearms locking under yours, around your neck, locked in a painful full-nelson. you’re bent and helpless, back arched in a perfect ‘C’, legs spread, nothing but the sound of his breathing and your pulse simultaneously in your ears.

then he sinks into you.

you gasp—sharp, near-silent—but he shoves his ring and index in your mouth before it can even leave your throat.

“nah, none of that,” he grits. “neighbors don’t need to hear the kinda sounds i wring outta you—all mine.”

the pads of his left fingers move to press on the back of your tongue, making you drool uncontrollably all over him—while his right arm is still hooked under your arm, mits yanking the delicate hair at the nape of your neck back by the root.

the stretch of his cock is brutal—deep and punishing , like he’s trying to fuck himself into your spine. and all you can do is take it, feel your eyes roll back and your cunt remold itself as he sets a break-neck pace, grunting like an animal in your ear every time he bottoms out.

“so fuckin’ tight—like y’were made for me, hmm?” he pants. “this pussy remembers who owns it, don’t it?”

he pulls his hand out of your mouth, slaps your ass hard—once, twice, until the sting blossoms warm and dizzying. your muscles jump under him, breath hitching against his palm.

“answer me.”

you nod frantically, choking on your own mewls. he growls and yanks your head back harder, lips brushing your ear.

“didn’t fuckin’ hear you.”

“y–yes simon—“ you whimper into his palm, barely intelligible. “yours. all yours— fuck—”

he groans at that, full-body shudder rolling through him. you feel it in the way he fucks you deeper, harder—driving it home like he’s trying to hammer the truth into your bones.

his hand slides from your ass to your throat, fingers wrapping around your neck, just enough pressure to make your vision blur. he’s everywhere—pressing into you from behind, filling your senses, your lungs, your entire world.

and then he starts up again with that mouth of his.

“look at you. stretched out, fucked out… gaggin’ for it, girl— fuckin’ hell,” he bites your shoulder, “and y’love it, don’t you? love bein’ used like this, yeah?”

you’re barely coherent now, drooling onto the couch below, legs shaking, eyes glassy as your mind floats. this isn’t about pleasure. it’s about control. about simon fucking riley needing to mark you from the inside out, until your voice, your body, your soul only echo him. it’s not just sex—it feels like a demonic possession.

he’s knows he’s got you right where he wants you—so far gone on him that even if he let go, you’d still be reaching.

lord knows you won’t be calling an exorcist anytime soon.

[asaarii]

mark with a hyperfem girlfriend ??? or maybe she’s cutesy and shy please ^_^

ft: mainstream!mark (invincible) reader: fem wc: 1120 summary: mark and his hyperfem gf go to comic con YIPPIEE!! requested by: anon

this is highkey crack but i had fun writing it so yeah & I think I strayed a bit far from the req so I humbly apologize for that sigh do I play league of legends or write more fanfiction decisions decisions

Mark swears he can die happy right now.

Two of his favorite things in one place. You and Comic Con. This has to be a dream, he’s sure of it. Finally, for once, the world decided that even Invincible needed a damn break. Hopefully, the moment lasts long enough for him to savor it before he most likely gets pulled away again.

He has to admit, he feels incredibly underdressed compared to you, clad in his typical slacks and a Seance Dog shirt to suit the occasion. You, on the other hand, had gone all out, with bows in your hair, a soft sweater, and a ruffled skirt that had Mark practically on his knees before you left. To tie it all together, you’d even attached a small Seance Dog charm to your purse to match with Mark.

Truly, you were a woman after his own heart.

You smile softly at him as the two of you pull up to the convention center—in a car, for once, as it’s far too crowded for Mark to fly in without drawing attention. He smiles back, instinctively placing a small kiss to the back of your hand when he laces your fingers together. You giggle softly, almost instantaneously latching onto his arm as the two of you flash your passes at security.

Mark would be lying if he didn’t say he was enjoying the way you clung to him shyly. Because he was. Almost a little too much.

You were just too cute! Damn it, he needed to focus! There was a signing going on and he wanted—

“Mark, can we go check out the vendors?” You bat your eyes up innocently at him, glossed lips tantalizingly shiny beneath the bright fluorescent lights.

“Of course, baby.” His response is almost instant as he leans down to peck your lips before the weight of his words settles in. “Anything you want.”

FUCK. He was NOT supposed to say that.

But he’d feel like a monster taking it back now, especially with the way your eyes lit up like he’d just promised to take you to the moon. Which, in fairness, he had offered before, but you’d declined for obvious reasons. So, he mourns his minor loss as he leads the two of you through the crowded venue, holding you close whenever one of the superhero cosplayers got too close.

Especially the Invincible ones. He’s the only Invincible you’ll ever need in your life and no amount of spandex and fake muscle padding is going to change that. After all, nothing beats the original, baby.

Also, he is not that skinny.

His chest puffs with pride as he feels your manicured fingers grip onto his bicep, face pressed into his shoulder while he expertly leads you through the throngs of people both in and out of cosplay.

Vendors smile at passing people, making light conversation with anyone who stops by to look at their wares.

You, however, are drawn in by a certain booth tucked securely in a less populated corner. Mark trails obediently behind you, grinning dumbly when he sees what’s got your eye. It’s cute, it’s pink, and it’s so irrevocably you.

The woman behind the booth greets you both kindly before divulging in a rant about the inspiration behind her themed makeup palettes that you listen intently to, your hands finding their way to an adorable themed palette of one of your favorite characters. A character, Mark notes proudly, that he had introduced you to.

One that he’d also lost countless battles to as a plushie on your bed, but he digresses.

As much as Mark adores seeing you shy, he loves this part of you just as much. Unabashed to showing your interests, yet still retaining the girlish charm that had him falling for you in the first place.

“We also have a few superhero-themed things, if you’re interested.” Now that got his attention. And your’s too, it seems, if the way your previously timid gaze lights up is anything to go by.

“Let me guess,” the vendor says as she bends down to get a box hidden beneath her table, “Rex Splode?”

Mark is now two seconds away from crashing out, jaw dropped in an expression so offended that you have to physically shut his mouth before the vendor sees. He should’ve just went to the signing if he knew things were going to turn out like this.

“No, not really,” you laugh, the sound akin to the bells of heaven to Mark’s ears, his expression softening slightly upon seeing you smile. Still, though, Rex? Seriously?

“Oh, so Immortal maybe?” The vendor smiles unknowingly, displaying a case full of superhero-themed makeup pallets, lip balms, and press-on nails. “I’m more of an Atom Eve girl myself, but it’s always cool to know everyone’s favorite.”

Mark makes a noise beside you, a strange mix of a guttural groan and a strained scream that you’re quick to placate with a soft kiss on his cheek, the remnants of your sparkly gloss lingering in place of your lips.

“Well,” you start softly, sparing a shy glance at Mark from the corner of your eye, “I’d like to think of myself as more of an Invincible fan.”

“Oh, I see!” The vendor nods along excitably before directing you to her Invincible collection. “That guy’s pretty popular, so we make sure to carry extra stock for his themed things, but as you can see, it usually isn’t enough.” She laughs, rubbing the nape of her neck with a sheepish smile.

You hum, hands tracing over a palette and a box of press-on nails in Mark’s signature colors. “I’ll take both of these, please.”

“Amazing! That’ll be $32.76. Would you like a bag?”

“No, it’s fine,” you shake your head politely, reaching for your purse, but Mark beats you to the punch with cash in hand, thanking the vendor with a smile of his own before turning back to you. You roll your eyes, pressing a thankful kiss to his outstretched cheek with a hopeless smile as you grab your things.

“You know,” the vendor pipes up to Mark just as the two of you turn to leave, “have you ever thought about doing an Invincible cosplay? Though, you’re a bit bulkier than him, but I think it could work—”

“I just remembered that you said you wanted to go to a signing earlier, right babe?!” You drag him away without another word, hand laced tightly in his as you smile up at him. He stares back at you and how your bows and skirt flow with how quickly you drag him away, his pupils practically eclipsed by hearts.

God, he loves you so, so much.

©asarii 2025 — do not copy, steal, repost, or translate any of my works on tumblr or any other site

[kisakis-boyfriend]

Cosmic Experimentation

Author's Note: @angelesca 's post has been living rent free in my head ever since I read it. I've wanted to write something for Anaxagoras, but I couldn't figure out what to write. And now I have the best inspiration, thanks to her HCs 😚 (I'm thinking about writing a part 2 where we finger his chest hole too–)

Pairings: Anaxagoras x male reader

Warnings: Dom male!reader, sub!Anaxa, fingering unusual holes, slight thigh humping, dacryphilia

“Are you sure about this? You really don't have to you kn–”

“No — I… I'm certain that I want to do this.” Anaxagoras takes an unsteady breath before he adds, “I trust you. I trust that you will be gentle and cautious.”

You nod, taking a deep breath as well before giving Anaxa's waist a light squeeze. Then, you raise one hand up to his face, cupping his left cheek. The warmth from your palm seeps into his skin, bringing about a bit of comfort — enough to bring a small smile to his lips.

Anaxagoras' eye flutters shut at the gentleness of your touch. The ornate eye patch covering the left side of his face keeps your attention, it's chain swaying gently whenever Anaxa's head moves. Your other hand remains on his hip, holding him steady while he sits comfortably in your lap, straddling your thigh.

It's another full minute of staying as you are, lost in this peaceful moment, before you trace the underside of Anaxa's eye patch. Gently slipping a finger underneath and lifting it slightly, only to pause when your partner shudders. “Sweetie?” you prod, afraid that this area is more sensitive than he led you to believe.

“Keep going–” he reassures, holding onto your wrist now, almost as a guiding hand. You hesitate, but ultimately give in and continue reaching upwards until your fingers reach a new sensation. Anaxagoras' breath hitches, his lips pressing together tighter as you explore this new territory. It doesn't feel like skin anymore — it's damp to the touch, and somewhat cold.

Your eyes flick to your partner's gaze; he's watching you with bated breath, predicting that you'll penetrate this spot any second now. Proving him right, you apply pressure, dipping your finger into that cool, unseen space hidden under his eye patch. Anaxagoras catches a moan before it can fully exit his throat. He gulps, digging his nails into your wrist while his other hand flies to your shoulder for stability.

“‘Sensitive’, huh? It seems you were right about that.” you tease. Anaxa can't even muster a retort as you push in a little deeper, then begin to pull your finger back out, repeating the motion idly. “Do you think you can handle two fingers?”

At this, Anaxa's eye widens, and you can instantly see the blood rush to his soft cheeks. He glares at you, but makes no argument against your question. So, you decide to find out for yourself. And the result is instantaneous: an unrestrained moan forces its way out of your pretty boyfriend. All the while, his hips jut forward, dragging his clothed cock along your thigh. The action is not missed by either one of you; while it only causes him to flush an even deeper shade of red, it brings a smirk to your lips as you understand why your partner wanted to do this in a secluded area.

Several minutes pass, filled with Anaxagoras making all sorts of reserved breathy noises. The space where your fingers reside is still a mystery to you, though one thing is for sure: future experimentation is required in order to find out the best way to bring out all of Anaxa's beautiful moans and whimpers.

The sudden realization of a wet spot on your thigh brings you out of your thoughts, and you direct your gaze to where your partner has been humping you, apparently. His hips move of their own accord, spreading a wetness that has quickly soaked through his clothing. You're sure that Anaxa doesn't even realize that he's doing it, which makes it all the more adorable.

“It must feel incredible…” you murmur. Your gaze is fixed on the growing wet spot between his legs, highlighting the very obvious bulge nestled there as well. As you thrust your fingers in a bit deeper, and more forcefully, Anaxagoras clutches your shoulder tighter, letting his mouth hang open and spill every noise without restraint now. Tears fill his right eye, beginning to run down his cheek. You grip his waist a little tighter, pulling Anaxa closer and accidentally causing his dick to grind against your thigh. An action that has shivers crawling up your partner's spine.

Anaxagoras pleads in the sweetest voice, “Please…it's– hnngh!! It's warm…haaah…and hard to breathe…” Another moan escapes as you curl your fingers deeply, making your boyfriend arch his back. “C-can't…take much mo-ore…”

“Tell me what you need, my love. What do you need me to do?” you ask in a gentle tone.

Rolling his hips against your thigh, Anaxagoras shudders once more, crying “Don't stop moving them–”

Immediately, you understand what he means. You pump your fingers in and out of Anaxa's cosmic orifice, and it makes little squelching sounds as you do. His voice wavers, going up an octave as he draws closer to his release. All of Anaxa's clothing feels too tight, as if his collar is constricting around his throat, and the back of his shirt clings to his skin as a layer of sweat forms. His chest hurts with how heavily he's been breathing for the past few minutes.

Something in Anaxagoras' core burns with searing pleasure, and the tension that has been building finally snaps as you coo at your partner to “Let it all out~”. His vision is blinded by white static, and his hips thrust forward a few times before his entire body goes lax.

“Aahh…aah~” your boyfriend heaves, exhaling harshly as the aftermath of his orgasm shakes his body and mind. You're quick to kiss Anaxa's cheek where tears had previously run down, holding him tightly since you could tell how weak he was in his current state. Soaking in every last whimper from your ruined boyfriend, you rub the small of his back while you tell him how pretty he looks. Earning yourself a halfhearted glare as a result.

You slowly remove your fingers from underneath his eye patch, eyeing them curiously as they're coated in a viscous blue substance. Before you can stare at it for too long, Anaxa weakly grasps your wrist again, putting your fingers in his mouth and sucking on them in an uncharacteristically lewd display. With his eye still glazed over, Anaxa stares at you like you're his entire universe (and, let's be honest, you are). His tongue swirls around your digits, cleaning them of that blueish fluid until they're practically sparkling, releasing your fingers with a wet pop.

“Well aren't we thoughtful?” you tease, swiping some spit from the corner of your partner's mouth. A content grin plasters itself onto Anaxagoras' face, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours, taking in more of your warmth as it radiates off of your skin.

Absentmindedly, you rest your hand on his chest, rubbing it affectionately until something clicks in your head…

“Hey, Anaxagoras?”

“Hm?” he hums, not pulling away quite yet.

“This mark, is this what the one under there looks like?” you trace the outline of the cosmic design in the center of his chest, outlined with silver.

Without opening his eye or moving a muscle, Anaxagoras responds, “It is.”

You continue running your finger along the edges of this area. “Does it function the same way too?”

Now Anaxa does pull back, squinting at you cautiously. “It does…why?” And you know very well that the smirk playing on your lips has caught his attention.

No words are needed as you glance at the pattern on his chest, then up to your partner's gaze, then back to his chest, and to his gaze once more, raising your eyebrows knowingly.

The deepest blush spreads across the scholar's face, followed by a gasp. “You…!!”

[solxamber]

Receiving Gifts on White Day with: Heartslabyul

Go here for other dorms

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle stands at your doorstep, posture straight as a ruler, cheeks pink, and hands clutching a meticulously wrapped box like he’s been assigned a life-or-death mission. You blink, still groggy from sleep, while he clears his throat with the dignity of a man attempting to keep his emotions regulated.

“I have prepared this for you,” he announces, voice firm, yet slightly trembling. “In accordance with White Day traditions, as well as my personal desire to properly return the affection you displayed last month.”

You arch an eyebrow. “So… this is a strictly enforced romantic gesture?”

His grip tightens on the box. “I wanted to do this,” he corrects, though the fact that he appears two questions away from passing out begs to differ.

Still, curiosity gets the best of you. You accept the box, carefully unwrapping it, and—wait. These are homemade cookies.

Your eyes snap to Riddle. "You made these?"

“Yes,” he admits, looking only mildly tortured. “It… took several attempts.”

Several? The image of Riddle in an apron, staring down an oven timer like it personally offended him, flashes in your mind. You take a bite—soft, lightly sweet, with a hint of strawberries.

“These are amazing,” you say honestly, watching as his ears flush even redder.

Riddle exhales, relief washing over him like a well-structured legal argument. “I am… glad.”

Then, just as you’re about to pull him inside for a proper reward, he straightens and adds, “Also, do not share them with Ace or Deuce. I refuse to let my efforts be squandered on them.”

You snort, deciding to absolutely share one with Ace just to watch Riddle scold him about "unearned privilege."

Trey Clover

Trey stands at your door, looking so effortlessly charming that it should be illegal. In his hands is a basket, wrapped in soft ribbons, smelling so good that you’re nearly tempted to take it and shut the door just to hoard it all.

“Morning,” he greets, his voice warm enough to make you forget that it’s way too early to be receiving this level of boyfriend energy. “Thought I’d make you something special for White Day.”

You cross your arms, pretending to scrutinize the basket. “And this isn’t just because you feel obligated to return the favor?”

Trey chuckles, stepping closer—dangerously close. “Nah. I just like spoiling you.”

…Oh. Oh. Your brain immediately enters critical failure mode.

He hands over the basket, filled with handcrafted chocolates, cookies, and—oh, hold on. Is that a mini cake? You lift it, noting the delicate frosting swirls, and Trey watches you with that mildly smug, incredibly dangerous smile.

“I remembered you liked the cake I'd made last week,” he says, like it’s a casual thing and not an instantaneous relationship score multiplier.

You take a bite. It’s divine. You meet his gaze, absolutely smitten. “Trey, this is actually illegal. I could fall in love all over again.”

His smirk deepens. “Guess I’ll have to keep making them, then.”

You pause. Narrow your eyes. “Was this a secret proposal?”

Trey laughs, resting a hand on your waist to gently pull you closer. “If it was, you’d be the first to know.”

Oh, he’s good. You take another bite of cake to distract from how fast your heart is beating.

Cater Diamond

Before you even fully register being awake, someone pushes your door open.

“BABE, WAKE UP, IT’S WHITE DAY!”

Cater is there, standing in a power pose, holding up a pastel-colored gift bag like it’s a declaration of war. You blink at him. Blink at the bag. Then back at him.

“…Cay. What the actual hell.”

He grins, stepping inside before you can protest. “Shhh, just accept my love and devotion, okay?”

You take the bag on instinct, still trying to process why your morning has started like this. Inside, you find chocolates—and a small Polaroid. You pull it out. It’s of you two, mid-laugh, clearly taken without your knowledge.

You glance up. Cater is watching you—actually nervous. “Sooo, I was thinking… maybe we could take a pic every White Day? Y’know, to make it a thing.”

Oh.

Your heart aches at how casually sweet he is. You smile, running a thumb over the picture. “I love it.”

His face lights up. “Knew you’d say that!” Then, before you can react, he dramatically dips you, snaps another photo, and grins.

“I swear, I’m gonna be the #1 Boyfriend this year.”

You laugh, shoving his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but I’m your ridiculous.”

And damn it, you really love him.

Ace Trappola

Ace stands at your door like a man who has just been coerced into doing something cute.

He shoves a small bag at you, face slightly pink. “Here. White Day. Whatever.”

You take it, raising an eyebrow. “Wow. Such romance. My heart is pounding.”

Ace groans. “Just open it, nerd.”

Inside, you find chocolates—clearly homemade—and, oh. A plushie. Of your favorite character.

Your heart stutters. “You actually paid attention?”

Ace scowls, ears red. “DUH? What kinda boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?”

You smirk, taking a chocolate. Then, before he can react, you grab his face and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

Immediate fatal error.

Ace short-circuits, stumbling back like he’s been shot. “WH—WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”

You grin. “What, kissing my boyfriend? Weird.”

He groans, covering his face. “I hate you.”

You pop another chocolate into your mouth. “Nah. You love me.”

Ace mutters something about needing a refund, but the way he’s grinning says otherwise.

Deuce stands at your door, holding a small box with both hands, shoulders so tense you think he might pass out.

“H-Happy White Day!” he blurts, voice borderline panicked.

You blink. “Are you okay?”

"YES." He is not okay.

You accept the box, opening it to find slightly uneven, homemade chocolates. You take a bite—rich, a little messy, but full of effort.

“These are amazing,” you say, smiling.

Deuce exhales so hard it sounds like his soul left his body. “Oh, thank seven, I thought I ruined them—”

Before he can spiral, you grab his collar and kiss him.

System crash.

Deuce staggers back, bright red. “Y-YOU CAN’T JUST—THAT’S CHEATING—”

You grin. “Better get used to it.”

He groans, face in his hands. “I’m never recovering from this.”

Perfect. You win White Day.

Masterlist

[aerynwrites]

Give

King!John Price x Fem!Reader

A/N: It's FINALLY here holy shit y'all. sorry for the delay, it was just slow going mainly bc i got stuck on the smut lmao. SO, i just decided to post the bulk of the story now and then post a second smutty part later. I hope you all enjoy, and as usual I love to hear what you guys think!! Comments, reblogs and such are greatly appreacited. Also: this fic was inspired by the song Give by Sleep token as well as the song Kingdom of cards by Bad Omens! Word Count: 7.6k (oops) Warnings: Arranged marriage, mentions of past abuse to reader, reader's father is abusive, hurt/comfort, soft john price, mentions of consummation, fluff, just so much fluff.

The room is eerily silent, the complete opposite of what you expected on a day like this.

Your wedding day.

Your mother had stepped out once the handmaid that was provided to you had finished helping you with your dress - panicked when she couldn’t find the veil that she was passing down to you. Your father had entered as soon as your mother had left, and you dared not break the silence first. You know what will happen if you do. 

But you can’t stop the way you fidget, wiping your hands down the front of the bodice of your dress, tugging at the fingers of your silk gloves. You hate wearing gloves, they itch and they are too warm - but your father insisted, hand raised threatening above his head when you almost muttered a complaint. 

So. You’re wearing the gloves -

“Stop fidgeting,” your father bites, standing abruptly from the armchair in the corner to storm over to you. 

The flinch that jolts your body is instantaneous, shying away from the storm of a man approaching you. The only reason you don’t shield yourself is because even you know he won’t do anything. Not today at least. 

Can’t risk marking up the wares. 

But it doesn’t stop him from gripping your arm like a vice, his nails digging into your skin beneath the delicate fabric of the ornate gown. You choke down the whimper, but fail to hide the fear you know is present in your gaze as you stare up at your oppressor. 

“You will not ruin this for us,” he all but hisses. “I understand that decorum is a foreign concept to you, but if you so much as think about sabotaging this - me - I will-”

“I found it!” Your mother calls from the other side of the door, her voice shoving your father away from you like a storm would a willow branch. 

She breezes into the room with an elegance you could never hope to match, a beauty you could never achieve - at least according to your father. She smiles at you, and you don’t fail to notice the way she takes in your shrunken appearance, the tense in your shoulders, before her eyes flicker to her husband. 

She knows. She’s known the whole time - for she bears the scars too. 

Her smile becomes tight, but she doesn’t say anything, just comes to you with the veil raised in her hands. It’s floor length, the back so long it trails even past your dress train, the lace details so intricate you can’t imagine how long it took the original creator to tailor it. it has a front piece as well that drapes in front of your face, falling to just above your collar bone where it will stay until your future husband unveils you. 

The king. 

You have to fight the shudder that threatens to run through you at the thought. You’ve only met him once, and at the time neither of you knew you would end up wedding one another. The King rules over the land, but there are many territories, many clans - his the most fearsome of all. You’d heard whispers through your childhood of the ruthlessness of the capitol city in which the King resides. Its citizens were born and bred to fight - knights and soldiers trained to kill. 

Your father’s words ring in your ears as your mother fixes your veil to your head, fussing with the fabric. 

‘If you even think about sabotaging me…’

Any sane person would. They would probably try to run for the hills when they found out they were to wed the ruthless King, a king that has never lost a battle, a King whose Kings-guard have a reputation of gutting those who dare defy him.

But not you. Little did your father know that you would do everything in your power to escape him. 

For even death must be a better sentence than your life back home.

——

Every woman you’d spoken to back home always talked about their nerves on their wedding day. Some from fear, some from joy or just pure excitement. Some of them talked of the way they got sick just before walking down the aisle or the way their hands hook or their palms sweat. 

You don’t feel anything. 

It’s just pure numbness. As if you are outside of your body watching as the doors to the massive temple open wide, all in attendance standing immediately. You can see the King, your future husband standing on the dais in front of a priest, the incense from the thurible curling around them both as your father all but marches you down the aisle. 

You can’t feel your feet or your hands, you can’t even register your intakes of breath. The only thing that runs through your panicked mind is that at least your future husband is handsome.  You remember having a similar thought when you met him all those years ago at a kingdom wide celebration here in this very city. He was easy to spot, sitting above the jousting ring, crown atop his head, surrounded by his three kings guard. 

He takes up the whole room even now, commanding it with his very presence as the priest introduces him to the crowd - to you.

“King Johnathan Price, third of his name, King of…” you zone out again, instead focusing on the very man being heralded.

He lacks the armor he usually wears, exchanging it instead for rich garments of silk and other fine fabrics. A long purple cloak, the collar adorned with fur of what appears to be a wolf, hangs from his shoulders, held together with a heavy golden chain decorated with the sigil of his house. 

The crown still sits atop his head, golden and gleaming, each crevice and gemstone polished to perfection and nestled amongst chestnut colored locks. Only when you approach the dais do you notice the grey starting to pepper his temples and beard. 

This is also the moment that you seem to come back to yourself, your soul being sucked back into your body as you and your father come to a halt at the bottom of the stairs and piercing blue eyes capture your own despite the veil. 

He smiles, a soft gentle thing that makes your lips turn down in a frown, the action only further deepened when the priest says something about your father relinquishing your hand and soon two strong arms wrap around you too tightly for a loving embrace.

“Remember what I said,” he says lowly, and to onlookers it looks like a father telling his beloved daughter goodbye. But you know better. 

“Do not disappoint me.”

And then he’s placing a kiss to your glove covered knuckles before placing your hand in the much larger calloused one before you. 

The steps up the dais are a blur until you’re standing face to face with your fate. The priest rambles on as the king takes your other hand in his own, holding them between your bodies and all you can think about is how warm his hands are and how much larger he is up close. Your ears are ringing so loud you almost miss the prompt from the priest to say the scripted words, but your father’s threat echoes loudly in your mind and you speak the words automatically, your voice mixing with the rumbling baritone of the man before you as you recite them together. 

The priest then sprinkles a fragrant oil on your joined hands, waves the thurible around as the crowd chants some vague prayer to bless your union. And then the words you didn’t realize you were dreading until the moment they are spoken into the air. 

“You may kiss your bride.”

A hush falls over the crowd as the king releases your hands to reach for the edges of your veil. He lifts slowly, and you swear you stop breathing as he places it delicately over your head, finally revealing you to him. 

And he gives you that soft smile again, the one that’s so contradictory to the stories whispered in your ears. His eyes crinkle gently at the corners as his hands come up to cradle your face, again touching you like delicate porcelain as he dips down to press his lips to your own. 

His lips are soft, softer than you ever imagined, and his hands are so warm against the skin of your cheeks, and you feel something jump in your chest and-

It’s over so fast. 

The crowd erupts in cheers as he pulls away, giving you one last reassuring smile before you both turn to face the crowd and his hand drops to take your own before raising them both above your heads in rejoice as you both descend the dais. 

Rice and flowers and the like are thrown your way as you leave the temple, and once again your body works on it’s own set of instructions, following the kings lead and the attendants ushering you both through a maze of hallways until soon your seated at a large table in an even larger dining hall and the celebration has truly begun. 

Food, more than you’ve ever seen in a place at once is piled onto the tables, music floats merrily through the room, entertainers flooding the center of the floor to vie for their King’s attention. Only when the food has been served, the wine poured, and people start eating does anything manage to catch your attention. 

And once again, it’s those damned hands. 

One comes to settle atop your own that sits rigid in the table, fork held tightly between your fingers as you have yet to even touch the food set before you. 

“Are you alright?”

His voice is like a siren song, yet also reminding you of rolling thunder, a comforting lull that soothes the nerves that must have come crashing down upon you as the weight of today’s actions finally catches up with you. 

You turn to look at the king - no - your husband, and you have to fight the burn at the back of your eyes. 

Bright blue stares back at you, brows creased with worry as he gazes at you, and you’re suddenly aware of another set of eyes on you. You can feel them burning into the back of your head, and you can’t help but steal a quick glance, only to see the seething gaze of your father looking back at you as he gestures silently to your plate. 

Oh gods…you look down to your plate, then to the kings, and you’re just now realizing his Kings-guard is also sat at the table with you, two on your side and one on his left, and they’ve all finished at least Half their plates and you haven’t even touched yours-

“Forgive me, my King,” you rush out, sitting up straighter, and immediately moving to pick up a piece of fruit - you think it’s a strawberry but you can’t be sure, not past the buzzing in your head. “I did not intend to appear ungrateful. I’m merely…nervous that’s all.”

His brows furrow further, and that must have been the wrong thing to say.

“I just meant…I’m excited, the nerves stem from joy I assure you-”

Soon the King is abandoning his utensils all together, reaching over to take your hand in both of his own, as that concerned look never leaves his face. 

“It’s alright,” he says softly, that smile coming back to his face when he sees you relax slightly at his words. “And please, call me John,” he chuckles a little, “We’re married after all. No need for the formalities.”

You nod, “Of course, my King - John-”

“Aye, dinnae listen to him, lass,” an accented voice speaks from your right, and you startle slightly when the guard next to you leans in ever so slightly, blue eyes gleaming with mischief. “He’s full’o himself, call him ‘my King’ all ye want-”

A rough shove from the man on his right stops him in his tracks, and you can’t stop the way your eyes widen at the pure casualness of the interactions. 

“Cut it out MacTavish,” the man grumbles, leaning forward to address you now, “Apologies, your majesty, but this one-” he jerks a thumb towards the one you now know as MacTavish, “never knows when to shut his mouth.”

You go to speak, only to be cut off by John.

“Leave my wife be,” he says sternly before turning back to you. “Sorry about them,” he apologizes needlessly, “they’re…” he trails off and this time it’s you who gives him a smile, a real one. 

“It’s alright, I…” you pause, “thank you. For checking in with me and…thank you.”

You turn back to your meal before John can respond, missing the way his brows furrow again at your words as you finally start eating, trying and failing to ignore the way his earlier words made your heart stutter and you can’t tell if it’s good or bad.

My wife. 

——

The celebration went on for what feels like days, music and more entertainers and more gifts from more lords and ladies than you could name. They served dessert, and then the dancing began and John had even asked you out to the floor for a dance. It was one you knew the steps to, thank the gods, and by the end of it both of you were smiling so wide even you couldn’t deny the way the earlier trepidation seemed to melt off of you. 

That was until the night started to draw to a close. It was slow, but soon guests were retiring, coming up and giving their well wishes and goodbyes before leaving. With every guest that left it felt like a second closer to your perceived doom. 

You aren’t a fool - you aren’t some naive maiden - you know what happens on one's wedding night. You know what’s expected of you as a woman - as a queen now. And that thought is made all the more terrifying when your father and mother come up to bid their own farewells. 

Your mother is first, and John is chivalrous enough to give you some space, although he never quite leaves your side, just steps a few paces back as your mother envelops you into a hug. You can’t stop the tears in your eyes as her arms wrap around you, as you know this will be the last time you see her for a while, your fathers territory being many months away. 

“I love you more than the entire world, my star,” your mother whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheek as she pulls away, hands coming up to cradle your face in her gentle grasp. “You will make an excellent queen.”

You pull her into one last hug before your father is impatiently tugging at you, though not in an obviously rough manner - he must keep up appearances after all. Even the large smile he wears as he pulls you into him is fake, full of deep seated hatred and loathing for a daughter he only ever saw a nuisance, a means to an end. 

His grip is crushing, and you don’t miss the way his fingers dig into your sides again, his breath disgustingly warm against your ear as he pretends to whisper his goodbyes, but instead whispers words you would never dare repeat. 

It feels like an eternity before he lets go, and he only does so because another hand settles on your shoulder, tugging you gently. 

“I fear it’s time for us to retire for the evening,” John says, voice tight as he gazes at your father in a way that makes you suspect he isn’t as stupid as all the others your father has fooled in the past. 

Your father bows, all reverence and kind smiles and posterity. 

“Of course, my King.”

And then you’re gone, being whisked away from the only life you’ve known into an all new and terrifying unknown one. 

——

Your footsteps echo loudly in the hallways as you follow John through what feels like a maze. This castle, just like the capitol itself is massive, larger than any you’ve ever been in. If it wasn’t for John, you feel like you might get lost in the twists and turns forever. You try to remember where he’s leading you - this is your new home after all, you will need to learn your way around. But with each turn and door your pass through it just gets more confusing. Did you turn left or right before or after the door-

“Don’t worry,” John speaks up, breaking the tense silence that had befallen you both, “you will learn your way faster than you think.”

You turn to him then, surprised that he caught on to your internal intentions. But he’s perceptive, that’s at least one thing you know about your new husband. 

You try to return the small smile he gives you as you nod, looking around once more. 

“I have no doubt I will learn my way eventually,” you agree, letting out a small sigh, “It’s just so…big. I’ve never seen a palace so magnificent. I can’t even begin to imagine what all the rooms hold…”

A small chuckle meets your ears, the sound surprising you slightly as you turn to look back at your husband as he speaks. 

“Well, I would be happy to give you a proper tour tomorrow. I have a feeling you may enjoy the library the most,” he says, eyes twinkling in the dim light of the sconces lining the hallway. 

You do perk up at that. “A library?” 

John hums, nodding. “Yes I…” he clears his throat, and if you didn’t know any better you would think that he appears almost…nervous. “I noticed the multiple trunks of books among your things as the servants were bringing it in this morning. I’m almost worried that our selection of books might be too small compared to your own.”

You shake your head, another real smile tugging at your lips. “I highly doubt that,” you say softly, “And I…I will be most happy with anything you deign to show me. You are most kind.”

John only hums again, and another silence envelops you, this one much more pleasant. Only when you take a few more turns does he speak up again. 

“Here we are,” he says, gesturing to a large wooden door a few paces away at the end of the hallway. There’s another door that you passed a few steps back, both of them having a guard posted outside of them. The same guards that shared dinner with you earlier. 

As you approach the door John directs you too, the guard standing outside stands straighter, nodding gently to you and the John, “your majesties.”

John smiles at him, returning the gesture as he addresses him, “Garrick,” he reaches up placing a hand upon his armored shoulder, “Go join MacTavish will you? Make sure he doesn’t need any help patrolling.”

The guard hesitates for a moment, eyes flicking to something behind you both before John speaks again. 

“Don’t worry,” he assures him, “Ghost is back there.”

The guard, Garrick, you try to remember nods, offering a curt bow before taking his leave and walking in the direction you and John came from. The clink of his armor fades until it’s just you and the King again, and you only realize you’d lost yourself again when gentle words greet your ears, this time in the form of your name. 

You look up from where your eyes had fallen to the ground to see John standing in the doorway to the room, holding the door open and looking at you gently. A clear invitation to enter. You clear your throat, offering a small apology as you enter, eyes flitting about the space.

It’s a large bedchamber, clearly your own if your things placed neatly about have anything to say about it. The four poster bed is larger than any you’ve ever slept in, gauzy fabric draped prettily from the ceiling and down around the tall wooden posts. Furs, dozens of them adorned what was no doubt a feather mattress, made up to perfection. A fire roars in the fireplace across the room from the bed, a table and two chairs sitting off to the side of it near a stained glass window. A yewer of  wine and two glasses sits atop the table, and if your stomach were roiling you’d make a beeline for the substance. 

By all accounts the space is warm, welcoming even, leagues better than the single hard mattress in the tiny room of your old home. But all your eyes can seem to focus on is the bed, and the towering presence behind you. And as the solid wood door clicks shut behind you, it feels like the tolling of the bell, the final nail in your coffin as your spirit seems to leave your body once more. 

You can hear John talking, voice soft as he rambles about how he tried to have the servants place your things in the best places, have them organized. You think he also mentions something about how the nights here get cold so the fires were always going. He eventually walks over to the table by the fireplace, pouring two glasses of wine, all while you struggle to breath, your eyes only leaving the bed when he calls your name again, somehow even softer this time as he offers you the second glass. 

You walk over instinctively, taking the glass in your gloved hand, giving a wobbly smile as he taps his glass with your own before taking a small sip. 

You follow his actions before you take a sip of your own. But the wine is good - it’s slightly spiced and warm and if you are to face the coming moments then you need all the courage you can get - and before you know it the wine is gone and you're turning back towards the bed. You notice a small dressing table off to the side of the large armoire and walk to it on unsteady feet. 

John is speaking again, but you can’t hear him, not over the rush of blood in your ears or the breath stuttering in and out of your lungs as you reach up to pull the veil from your hair. You drape it across the table delicately, hands trailing over the fine embroidery before your hands fall to the laces of your dress. 

Let’s get this over with.

You’re just thankful the dress laces in the front, at least you could do that by yourself. But as you tug at the strings, you find you can’t - your hands shake and the damned gloves…

You yank off the delicate silk, ignoring the raised white scars that glare back up at you as you try and manage to succeed this time in tugging the laces loose. The bodice of the dress loosens around you, the weight of the gown pulling it down slightly, the only thing holding it up being the sleeves on your shoulders. You reach up, still shaking to pull those down next, when warm calloused hands stop you. 

He’s calling your name - he’s been calling your name but you couldn’t hear him over your own panic. But you hear him now, and the sound of it falling from his lips along with the grounding warmth of his hands holding your own brings you back to yourself. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, and you notice now that he’s standing before you, having turned you away from the dressing table to face him, blue eyes swimming with confusion. 

But you’re the confused one, your brows furrow as you look up at him. “What am I…?” You pause, looking down at yourself and then back to the bed behind you. “The…the consummation. I thought-”

Strong hands squeeze your own, and you look back to the man before you. He’s still dressed, you finally notice, and he’s looking at you like a delicate piece of glass, that you might break at the gentlest breeze. 

And maybe you would.

“Do you want to?” He asks, question sincere, brows raised slightly as his thumbs brush over your knuckles. 

The question startles you. Never had it even occurred to you about wanting this or not. Of course you didn’t want this. You just met this man - this man who is constantly contradicting every horrible thing you’ve heard whispered about him. This man who is a stranger but has been so kind. 

You’ve never been asked what you want. 

You shake your head, convinced this is a trick. Like one of the cruel ones your father would play on you - asking you a question that only had one right answer and then punishing you when you got it wrong. 

“I…” you trail off, fighting with yourself. You want to tell the truth, something screaming inside you that you can trust him while the other, the years of experience tells you otherwise. 

The latter wins out. 

You swallow thickly, eyes falling to the floor, unable to look him in the eyes as you lie. 

“Yes, of course. It’s my duty to-”

He squeezes your hands again, this time dropping one in favor of reaching up to cup your cheek, urging you to look at him once more. 

“Love,” he breathes, voice gentle, “You’re shaking like a leaf.” 

He takes a deep breath, as if stilling a rage inside of him as he takes in the sight of his broken bride before him. 

“I didn’t ask about your duties,” he practically bites the word. “Do you want this?”

Gods, you can’t do it. You can’t look at him and his kind eyes and remember his soft smile and feel the way he holds you so gently and lie to him. Your lower lip wobbles, and tears burn at the back of your eyes as you internally prepare for the consequences of your next words. 

“No.”

It’s whispered so softly that if he weren’t standing so close to you, there’s no way he would have heard it. But he does, and his hands are pulled from you so quickly that your eyes slip closed, prepared for a strike or a harsh word or something. 

But it never comes. 

Instead a tense silence falls over the room before his hand is taking one of yours in his own again, and your eyes open ever so slowly. 

“That’s it then,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I’ll send for your handmaid, she can help get you ready for the night.”

You can’t stop the shake of your head, mind refusing to accept that this is it. That he is just going to leave you be. 

“I don’t…I don’t understand.”

John smiles, and you don’t miss the flicker of sadness in his gaze. Pity, maybe?

“I won’t start our marriage off by forcing myself on you. I don’t…” he looks away then, “I’ll wait. until you’re ready.”

You speak the next words before you can think. 

“And if I’m never ready?” 

John smiles, leaning down to place a gentle kiss to the back of your hand, either ignoring or choosing not to acknowledge the multitude of scars adoring the skin beneath his lips. 

“I’ve waited this long,” he says simply, “Forever doesn’t seem like much longer.”

And then he’s gone, slipping from your bedchambers just as a handmaiden takes his place. 

——

The same handmaid as the night before is the one to wake you, Ilora if you remember correctly. She says that the King has requested you join him to break your fast, as she’s already searching through the armoire for something for you to wear. It's a somewhat silent affair as she helps you get ready, tying your corset, brushing your hair. She even offered you a pair of gloves when she sees you staring at the ones from yesterday, but you decline. 

He’s seen them anyways, and if he hadn’t it was bound to come out at some point. 

Maybe the conversation will come easier over tea and sweet rolls. 

You follow Ilora as she leads you through the still winding passages of the castle until you eventually come to a door that opens into an open courtyard. It’s still confined by the castle walls but the ceiling is open, allowing sunshine to pour down onto the cobbled pathways that wind between a multitude of flowers and bushes and even fruit trees. 

It’s like a tiny paradise hidden within the walls, sequestered away from the grim stone walls of the building itself. Birds chirp happily, flirting from one branch to the next; and you even spot a butterfly, bright blue and fluttering so prettily in the air before you. It makes you halt in your steps, watching the rhythmic beat of its wings as it floats in the gentle breeze around you. 

You reach up before you can stop yourself, fingers held poised as you reach for the small creature. It flutters about for a moment before settling onto your offered hand, and you can’t stop the smile that splits your lips as its wings beat lazily against your knuckles. 

Soon, another presence joins you, and a familiar hand reaches up to mimic your own, a calloused finger tracing the delicate wing of the insect. Your eyes leave one color of blue only to find another, surrounded by familiar crows feet at the corners of his eyes as John gazes softly at you. 

“Pretty as a painting,” he murmurs softly, his words making the butterfly take flight, continuing on its earlier journey. 

“It was beautiful,” you agree, watching the winged creature until it’s out of sight. 

John only chuckles, reaching over to place a hand lightly on your back. 

“I wasn’t talking about the butterfly, love.” 

His words and the meaning behind them make heat rush to your cheeks, and you look at him in surprise before dropping your eyes to the floor when you catch his playful grin. 

“Come on then,” he says, breaking the tension, “let’s eat,” he turns back to your secret, “Thank you, Ilora.”

Ilora offers a small bow at the dismissal and takes her leave as John leads you a few steps further into the courtyard to reveal a stone table laden with food and only two chairs. Once again you’re slightly taken aback by the abundance of food. Yes, you were a daughter of a noble house, your family was wealthy, your father a lord of some land. But you never saw this side of that life - the life of luxury. Your father made sure of that. 

John must take your hesitance for nervousness rather than curiosity, because he smiles that warm smile and places that familiar hand on your back to urge you closer. He doesn’t force though, never pushing you if your feet did not want to go. He merely encourages, like trying to placate a scared animal. 

Maybe you are one. 

“I figured you may want to break your fast away from the prying eyes in the dining hall,” he says simply, moving to pull out your chair when you finally concede to his invitation. 

You nod politely, eyes still scanning the vast array of food before you until John takes his seat in the chair across the table. “Thank you,” you say softly, eyes flitting to the attendants that seem to come from nowhere, pouring your drink, placing silverware, and even placing a napkin in your lap before retreating once more. 

A silence befalls you both then, and you can’t help but want to shrink under the awkwardness of it all. It’s as if neither of you know what to say - what do you say to your husband or wife that - until less than a day ago - was a stranger to you. 

Thank the gods John speaks first, your throat to dry with anxiety to do so.

“Do you like blueberry tarts?” He asks, hand already reaching for one of the flaky pastries in the center of the table, “they’re our baker’s specialty,” he chuckles as he leans to place one on your plate when you offer no refusal. “If you don’t, I’m sure you will after you try this.”

You snag the olive branch offered to you, smiling as you pick up your fork. 

“I do,” you say, cutting into the delicate treat, “They’re…They’re my favorite, actually. But we…”you trail off, remembering how once your father found out your affinity for the tarts, they had all but disappeared from the tables during meals. 

You clear your throat, “the ingredients were hard to find where I’m from,” you lie smoothly, avoiding  John’s gaze. “So they were a luxury.”

You look up when he doesn’t respond right away, and find the usual upturn of his lips absent in place of a scrutinizing gaze. Not a harsh one, but one that made it clear he was studying you, watching for…something. 

But it was gone as quick as it came, that pleasant warmth back in full force. 

“Well,” he says, placing a pastry on his own plate, “I’ll make sure there’s never a shortage.”

And on the meal went. 

Conversation flowed easier after that, John picking up on when you were unsure of a particular dish or food, explaining it to you and watching in utter amusement for whether you would like or dislike a particular one. He’d let out a particularly hard laugh when you’d tried a rather odd looking dish, promptly trying and failing to spit it out in as ladylike a manner as you could. 

Blood pudding he called it - making you let out a disbelieving laugh at the withheld information, playfully tossing your napkin his way. 

He’d caught it easily, offering you a much sweeter fruit to wash the acrid taste from your mouth. 

It felt like the morning lasted forever, and truthfully, you never wanted it to end. It’s…nice, talking to someone without the fear of reprimand or a strike for saying the wrong thing. And John he…he listens to you. Truly listens and seems to enjoy the things you talk about. He asks you questions about yourself; your favorite food, your favorite color, things you like to do to pass the time, places and things you wish to see.

And he listens to all of it, seemingly absorbing every word as if he’s a man in the desert dying of thirst and you’re the oasis he’s been searching for.

It goes on like this for the rest of the day, the rest of the week, and soon weeks bleed into months and it seems like your past gets further and further behind you as this future you and John start to build gets closer.

He shows you the library like he promised, and it’s where you find yourself spending most of your time when separated from John. The first few weeks you both are nearly inseparable, claiming he wants to spend time getting to know his wife. But a kingdom cannot run itself and eventually he has duties and things to tend to, which you respect. 

It doesn’t mean you don’t miss him though. 

It’s a shock when the feeling first hits you. It’s the third day in a row of only  seeing him in the morning to break your fast together. It’s late, and you are as usual, sitting in the armchair you claimed in the library. You’re reading a romance novel, one that you confessed guilty to John early on that you enjoyed reading. Most people back home (your father) hated them - claimed they were undignified, unfitting for a lady to fill her head with stories that would never come true. 

John had hundreds of novels shipped in over the next fortnight. 

The one you’re reading now is a short one, a cliche about a knight and a low born woman. But it’s sweet, and when you get to one particular part, you find yourself looking up from the page, chuckling lightly to yourself and wanting to share it with John. 

But he isn’t here. 

And as you look up and notice the darkness outside the windows, the only light being the fire a few feet in front of you, you feel a pang in your chest. A longing you’ve never felt before, never thought you’d feel in your lifetime. 

You miss him.  

And on this night, it appears as if he misses you too. Because, like a siren's call, as soon as you stand, marking your place in your book to retire to bed, the door to the library creaks open. You expect one of the guards, probably Kyle, as he too seems to be fond of the library, having found him in here on several occasions when he was off duty. 

So, when you look up from where your book sits on the side table, you are surprised to see John slipping into the room, hair tousled, and looking as if he had just come straight from the stables. Riding boots caked in mud, light armor still adorning him. When he spots you, it’s as if the world itself falls from his shoulders, he sags beneath the relief and walks to you with sure even steps until he’s less than an arms length away. 

“John, what are you doing?” You ask, looking down at his muddy boots and back up to the weary expression on his face. “What’s…is something wrong?” 

He pauses for a moment, a flicker of something flashing in his eyes before it's gone, and those piercing blues are softening and crow's feet appear at the corners as he reaches for you, taking your hands in his own gently. 

“Nothing, love,” he says, that nickname that’s become more frequent making your heart flutter. “Just missed you, is all.”

His admission makes warmth spread through you, like warm honey on freshly baked bread. And you can’t help but lean into him, relishing in the way his hands move to wrap around your waist. 

“I…I missed you too, John,” you tell him softly, as if the words will scare him away. 

But they do the exact opposite, they make the man beam brighter than before, fingers squeezing your sides gently as he steps ever closer, eyes falling from your own down to your lips. 

Your breath hitches as he inches closer, and you can feel the heat of his words as he speaks, air brushing over your lips. 

“Can I kiss you, love?”

You haven’t kissed since your wedding day. Not other than the chaste ones he’d press against your knuckles or your cheek on occasion. He’d respected the vow he spoke to you on your wedding night, never pushing you, never forcing you. He waited. Waited until you made the decision. 

The nod you give him comes quicker than you thought it would, and his lips are on your own in an instant. They’re warm and slightly chapped from the ride he no doubt went on today, but to you it’s…perfect. It’s warm and gentle and all consuming, and even though it isn’t heated or rushed or rough you suddenly understand the passion that all those romance novels wax poetry about. 

He doesn’t dominate you or control it in any way, he moves with you - coaxing you at times perhaps, smiling against your lips when you let out a small whimper. His hands never stray far either, only moving to wrap further around your or caressing up and down your spin, maybe toying with the hair at the base of your neck before finally coming to cradle the apple of your cheek in his calloused palm.

Only then does he pull away, and you flush at how breathless you are, the embarrassment only soothed when you see he is just as affected as you are. He rests his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering closed as his thumb brushes softly against your cheek. 

“Maybe I’ll have them move my desk in here,” he says after a comfortable silence. “That way even if I have things to tend to, I can still spend some time with you.”

You pull away from him only enough so he can see the smile on your face; and the next day when you come to the library, John is sitting at his desk, right next to your arm chair. 

———

Another thing that has changed for the better is your dreams. Nightmares used to be a constant for you before the wedding, waking up in cold sweats, fear making your very bones ache. But after the first few nights in the castle…they disappeared. Once you realize that the danger you used to live amongst  each and every day is no longer present, it’s as if your body finally allowed you to rest. 

Maybe that’s why this one is so much worse. 

You’d been lulled into a false sense of security, your body's survival instincts failing you, telling you that you were safe when you should know better. It’s the very thing he screams at you as he strikes you down in this hellscape. The bitter words he spits upon you as blood splatters across the stone flooring, as the toe of his boot meets your stomach again and again. 

You naive, stupid girl - you’re nothing! 

You want to scream out at him, tell him that it’s not true, that you are something and that someone loves you and cares for you. But the words are stuck in your throat like tar, and copper floods your tongue and any and all protests crumble like ash in your mouth as you see his guard raise the whip above his head. 

You wake up screaming. 

Throat raw, the taste of copper still coating your tongue and making you gag as you fight against the furs and blankest tangled around your legs. It’s pitch black, the fire having died out to nothing but embers. So when a pair of hands finds you in the dark you can’t stop the wail that slips from your lips.

He’s come back for you. He’s come to take you away-‘

“It’s me, love stop-” the voice is muddled, far away from your panicked mind. 

You fight the grip on your wrists, only stilling when one lets go to cup your cheek. Calloused hands, warm…they speak again.

“You’re safe, it’s me. Love, it’s me…”

“John?” 

His name is but a whimper on your lips, and when he assures you that it is him, you fall apart like glass when it meets stone. Shattered into a million little pieces. 

But he catches you, he catches and holds each and every piece of you as you sob in his arms, tears soaking the skin of his neck where you hide your face, fingers clutching desperately at the thin cotton of his shirt. He holds you so softly. Always soft, always gentle. His hands run up and down your back, over your shoulders, through your hair as he shushes you softly, cooing reassuring words into your ear. 

And when you finally do calm, sobs ebbing away into ugly sniffles and hiccups, he still doesn’t let go, shifting instead to lay back against the pillows with you tucked into his side as he pulls the covers around you - a safe cocoon against the world - against the things that still haunt you. He only stops speaking, stops humming some small random lullaby he had started up, when you begin to speak. 

He didn’t pressure you, didn’t ask - he’s never asked. The whole time you’ve spent together, and you know John is a perceptive man - he knows things. You assume he’s worked most of it out himself; yet, he never once asked you. Even now, when your screams no doubt jerked him from his slumber, or when you cried into him like a terrified child. He never once asked. 

So you tell him on your own. You tell him of your childhood, of the hatred your father held for you, of the cruelty he subjected you and your mother to. You told him of the scathing words and the nights sent to your room without supper and maybe even days without anything but a simple loaf of bread and some water. You tell him of the things you swore you’d never tell anyone, of the blood and torment and beatings and the whip. 

And in the darkness of your bedchamber you pull away from his embrace, slipping your shift from your shoulders as you tell him about the scars. He’s seen the ones on your hands but…as he traces the jagged angry marks on your back, your ribs, your stomach in the darkness…you can practically feel the rage radiating off of him like the sun on a hot summer’s day.  His hands shake, fingers trembling as they trace over the evidence of darkness, of pure evil. You tell him everything, until the tears finally prevent you from saying more and he’s tugging your shift back up your arms and turning you back to face him and kissing them away with a reverence you never imagined possible for you. 

“You will never come to harm here,” he swears, voice terrifyingly calm and steady. “And if you do, gods help the man to do it, for I’ll hunt him down and slay him where he stands.”

 He pulls you tighter then, lips pressing against the crown of your head as arms wrap around your waist, soft words urging you back into slumber. 

And despite everything….you sleep, and dream this time of warm hands and kind words and a future worth living for.

[ghstyles]

Off | H.S

Boyfriendrry | Smut | One shot | HS1 Harry | Masterlist | Yours

["Can't blame a man for having a natural reaction to his gorgeous girlfriend," Harry continues, still not looking up. "Especially when she's being a little tease."]

The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts warm shadows across the hotel suite bedroom. Outside, the faint sounds of the city create a gentle backdrop to their quiet evening. Harry and Y/N are nestled in the plush king-sized bed, the white duvet tangled around their legs. Harry is sprawled across Y/N, his long limbs completely enveloping her smaller frame, his head resting on her chest as her fingers lazily trace patterns through his curls.

Harry's breathing is deep and content, his considerable weight pressing her into the mattress in that comfortable way she's grown to love. One of his legs is thrown over both of hers, effectively pinning her beneath him, while his arm is wrapped possessively around her waist. It's their favorite way to cuddle–him using her as his personal body pillow.

A mischievous thought suddenly crosses Y/N's mind. Her lips quirk into a subtle smirk as she decides to have a bit of fun with him.

"Harry?" she asks softly, her voice deliberately neutral.

"Mmm?" he hums against her collarbone, not bothering to open his eyes, clearly half-dozing in his comfortable position.

"Can you get off of me?" Y/N says, working hard to keep any hint of laughter out of her voice.

The effect is instantaneous. Harry's head flies up so quickly he nearly gives himself whiplash. His green eyes are comically wide with shock, eyebrows shooting toward his hairline as he stares at her with such profound offense it's as if she's just suggested they burn his entire designer wardrobe.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?" he asks, his voice pitched higher than normal, absolute betrayal written across his handsome features.

Y/N bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, maintaining her straight face. "I asked if you could get off me."

Harry's mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Without another word, he dramatically peels himself away from her body, each movement exaggerated for maximum effect. He rolls to his side of the bed with such theatrical flair that any stage director would be impressed.

He doesn't stop there. Harry continues his wounded retreat, scooting until he reaches the very edge of the mattress, as far from her as physically possible without falling off. He turns his back to her with an exaggerated huff, curling into himself like a kicked puppy, his shoulders hunched defensively.

The sight of Harry Styles, global superstar, heartthrob to millions, pouting like a petulant child because his girlfriend asked him to move is too much for Y/N. The laughter she's been suppressing erupts from her in uncontrollable waves, her entire body shaking with it.

"Oh my god," she gasps between fits of giggles, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "You should see your face! I was just joking!"

Harry doesn't move, his back still firmly turned to her, though she can see the slight tension in his shoulders that tells her he's listening.

"Baby," Y/N coos, still giggling as she scoots across the bed toward him. "Come back. I didn't mean it."

Harry remains motionless, his silence only making her laugh harder.

"Harry Edward Styles," she says, reaching out to run her fingers down his bare back. "Are you really going to sulk because I played one tiny joke on you?"

He glances over his shoulder, his green eyes narrowed, but she can see the twitch at the corner of his mouth that he's trying to suppress.

"You wounded me," he declares dramatically, turning back away from her. "My girlfriend, the love of my life, the woman I worship daily, just rejected my cuddles. I may never recover."

Y/N bursts into fresh laughter, wrapping her arms around him from behind and pressing kisses to his shoulder blades.

"I'm sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all. "Please forgive me. I love your cuddles. I love being crushed by your lanky body. I miss you terribly all the way over here."

Harry makes a show of considering her words, his body still rigid in her embrace. "I don't know if I can trust you anymore. This is a serious betrayal, Y/N."

She slides her hand around to his chest, feeling his heart beat strong beneath her palm. "What can I do to make it up to you?" she whispers near his ear.

Finally, Harry rolls over to face her, his façade cracking as a reluctant smile tugs at his lips. "You're evil, you know that? Absolutely fucking evil."

Y/N grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You should have seen how fast your head popped up. Like a meerkat spotting a predator."

Harry narrows his eyes playfully before suddenly pouncing and caging her beneath him again. "You think you're so funny, don't you?" he growls, though his eyes dance with amusement.

"I'm hilarious," she confirms, beaming up at him. "And you're so easy to mess with."

Harry shakes his head, his curls falling into his eyes. "You're lucky I love you, because that was some cruel and unusual punishment."

Y/N reaches up to brush his hair back, her expression softening. "I love you too. Even when you're using me as a mattress."

"Especially then," Harry corrects, lowering himself to reclaim his position sprawled across her body, his weight settling comfortably on top of her once more. "And just for that little stunt, I'm not moving for the rest of the night. You're trapped now, love."

Y/N wraps her arms around him, perfectly content with her punishment. "Promise?"

Harry presses a kiss to her collarbone, his lips curving into a smile against her skin. "Cross my heart."

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · · 

Harry remains sprawled across Y/N, his weight pleasantly pinning her to the mattress. The room is quiet except for their breathing and the distant sounds of the city below. After several minutes of comfortable silence, Y/N becomes distinctly aware of a growing hardness pressing against her thigh where Harry's hips are settled against her.

She smirks to herself, running her fingers lightly up and down his spine before breaking the silence.

"I thought you said you won't move," Y/N says with playful accusation in her voice. "What's this that I feel poking my thigh, huh?"

Harry doesn't lift his head from her chest, but she can feel his lips curve into a smug smile against her skin.

"That's not me moving, love," he drawls, his voice a low rumble against her collarbone. "That's just my body showing its appreciation for the canvas it's lying on."

He shifts his hips ever so slightly, deliberately pressing his growing erection more firmly against her thigh.

"Can't blame a man for having a natural reaction to his gorgeous girlfriend," Harry continues, still not looking up. "Especially when she's being a little tease."

Finally, he props himself up on his forearms, hovering above her with that signature cocky grin spreading across his face. His green eyes have darkened slightly, pupils dilating as he gazes down at her.

"Besides," he adds, voice dropping to that gravelly timbre that never fails to send shivers down her spine, "I said I wouldn't move. I never said parts of me wouldn't...rise to the occasion."

Y/N rolls her eyes at his terrible pun, but can't suppress her laugh. "That was awful, even for you."

Harry's grin turns positively wicked as he dips his head closer to hers. "Want to know what's not awful? The things I'm thinking about doing to you right now."

His hand slides under the oversized t-shirt she's wearing, one of his, naturally, and his warm palm glides up her bare thigh.

"Still want me to get off you?" he teases, his lips hovering just above hers. "Or would you prefer I get you off instead?"

Y/N's breath hitches as his fingers trace maddening patterns along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, deliberately avoiding where she's beginning to want him most.

"I'm waiting for an answer, baby," Harry murmurs, his curls falling forward to frame his face as he watches her with hungry eyes. "Should I stop moving altogether? Including this?"

His hand stills on her thigh, his thumb resting mere centimeters from the edge of her underwear. The smirk on his face makes it clear he knows exactly what he's doing.

Y/N narrows her eyes at him, recognizing his game. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

"And yet you suffer me so beautifully," he counters, leaning down to place a feather-light kiss on the corner of her mouth. "So what'll it be? Am I getting off or getting you off?"

He rolls his hips again for emphasis, the hard length of him pressing insistently against her thigh through the thin fabric of his boxers.

Y/N reaches up, threading her fingers through his curls and tugging just hard enough to make his eyes darken further.

"I think you know exactly what I want," she whispers, pulling him down until their lips are just barely touching.

"Say it," Harry demands softly, his breath warm against her mouth. "I want to hear you say it after that little stunt you pulled."

Y/N wraps her legs around his waist, effectively trapping him against her and aligning his hardness exactly where she wants it.

"Don't you dare get off me," she says, her voice both challenge and invitation. "Not until you've made me come at least twice."

Harry's answering grin is positively sinful as he closes the minuscule gap between their lips.

"Now that," he growls against her mouth, "is an order I'm happy to follow."

Harry's lips move hungrily against Y/N's, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth before delving inside. His hand continues its teasing journey up her thigh, fingers dancing along sensitive skin. Y/N smiles against his eager kiss, pulling back just enough to look into his darkened green eyes.

"Do you ever say no?" she asks with a knowing smirk, her voice laced with amusement. 

Harry pauses, his curls falling forward as he cocks his head slightly, considering her question with mock seriousness. His thumb traces lazy circles against her inner thigh.

"To you? To this?" he responds, rolling his hips deliberately against her core for emphasis. "Not a fucking chance."

Y/N laughs softly, her hands sliding up his bare chest. "Even when you were dying of the flu last month? You could barely stand, but you still managed to—"

"Best medicine I've ever had," Harry interrupts with a wolfish grin, not a hint of shame in his expression. "Doctor Styles recommends regular doses of his girlfriend's perfect pussy for all conditions. Worked better than any of those pills the actual doctor prescribed."

He dips his head to nip playfully at her neck, his voice dropping to that gravelly rumble that vibrates against her skin. 

"Besides, if I remember correctly, you weren't exactly pushing me away when I had my face between your thighs that night."

He pulls back just enough to gauge her reaction, his dimple appearing as his smile turns smug.

"I was delirious with fever, and you still came twice," he reminds her, clearly proud of himself. "Thought I was going to pass out afterward, but bloody hell, it was worth it."

Y/N rolls her eyes, though her cheeks flush at the memory. "You're insatiable."

"Only for you," Harry counters, his expression shifting slightly, a rare glimpse of vulnerability beneath the bravado. "Two years and I still can't get enough. Probably never will."

His hand slides higher, fingers finally brushing against the damp fabric of her underwear. His smile turns victorious when she gasps softly at the contact.

"The day I say no to you," Harry murmurs, pressing his forehead against hers, "is the day you should check my fucking pulse, because I've clearly been replaced by an imposter."

He pushes her underwear aside, running a finger through her slick folds, his breath catching slightly at how wet she already is.

"Now, are we going to keep talking about this," he asks, circling her clit with deliberate precision that makes her hips buck upward, "or are you going to let me give you what we both know you want?"

Y/N threads her fingers through his hair, tugging lightly as she pulls him back down toward her lips.

"Less talking," she whispers against his mouth, "more doing."

Harry's answering chuckle is dark and full of promise as he presses two fingers inside her, swallowing her moan with a deep kiss.

"Yes, ma'am," he growls against her lips. "Whatever you want, you know I can't say no."

His fingers work skillfully inside Y/N, curling to hit that spot that makes her back arch off the bed. His mouth trails heated kisses down her neck, occasionally nipping at the sensitive skin beneath her ear. Her breathy moans fill the dimly lit room, a symphony that drives him wild with need.

Between gasps of pleasure, Y/N manages to find her voice.

"Harry," she moans, her words punctuated by his insistent kisses. "I want to be on top today. Please."

Harry pauses, lifting his head to meet her gaze. His green eyes are nearly black with desire, his curls disheveled where she's been gripping them. A slow, appreciative smile spreads across his face.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice rough with want. "Yes."

In one fluid movement that speaks to his strength, Harry rolls onto his back, taking Y/N with him. His hands grip her hips as he positions her to straddle him, her thighs now bracketing his narrow waist. He looks up at her with unabashed hunger, taking in the sight of her hair cascading around her shoulders, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his large hands sliding reverently up her sides, pushing his t-shirt that she's wearing higher up her body. "Fucking gorgeous."

Y/N reaches down and pulls the shirt over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. Harry's breath audibly catches as she sits above him, naked except for her underwear. The soft glow of the bedside lamp bathes her skin in warm light, highlighting every curve of her figure.

"Much better," she says with a teasing smile, grinding her hips down against his prominent erection, still confined in his boxers.

Harry hisses at the contact, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips. "You're trying to fucking kill me, aren't you?" he groans, his accent thickening with arousal.

Y/N's smile turns wicked as she reaches between them, slipping her hand beneath the waistband of his boxers to wrap her fingers around his length. Harry's eyes flutter closed briefly, a low curse escaping his lips.

"Not kill," she corrects, stroking him slowly. "Just torture a little."

Harry's eyes snap open, dark and challenging. "Two can play at that game, love."

His hand moves between her thighs, pushing her underwear aside once more. His thumb finds her clit with practiced ease, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves until Y/N's movements falter and a broken moan escapes her lips.

"Take these off," he commands, tugging at her underwear with his free hand. "Want to see all of you."

Y/N rises slightly on her knees, allowing Harry to slide the damp fabric down her thighs. She has to shift to get them fully off, and Harry takes advantage of the moment to rid himself of his boxers as well. When she settles back over him, they both groan at the sensation of skin against skin, his hard length pressed against her wet heat.

"Now who's torturing who?" Y/N breathes, rocking her hips to slide along his length without taking him inside.

Harry's jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck standing out as he exercises restraint. "Y/N," he warns, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Don't make me flip you back over."

She laughs softly, enjoying the rare moment of having the upper hand with him. Slowly, deliberately, she reaches between them to position him at her entrance.

"You wouldn't dare," she challenges, sinking down just enough to take the tip of him inside her.

Harry's entire body tenses beneath her, his green eyes locked on hers with an intensity that makes her breath catch. "Try me," he growls, though his hands remain firmly on her hips, guiding her movements rather than taking control.

Y/N places her palms on his chest for leverage, feeling his heart hammering beneath her touch. With agonizing slowness, she lowers herself onto him, taking him inch by inch until he's fully seated inside her. They both moan at the sensation of him filling her completely.

"Fuck," Harry breathes, his head falling back against the pillows. "That's it, baby. Take what you want."

Y/N begins to move, setting a rhythm that has Harry's fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave marks that she secretly loves finding the next day. She rolls her body in a way that brings him deeper with each movement, her hands braced on his firm chest.

"God, look at you," Harry groans, his eyes drinking in the sight of her above him. "Riding my cock like you were made for it. So fucking beautiful."

His vulgar praise sends a thrill through her as she increases her pace, chasing the building pleasure. One of Harry's hands slides from her hip to where they're joined, his thumb finding her clit once more.

"That's it," he encourages, feeling her inner walls beginning to flutter around him. "Take your pleasure, love. Want to feel you come on my cock."

His crude words combined with the dual stimulation quickly push Y/N toward the edge. Her movements become less coordinated as the tension builds low in her belly.

"Harry," she gasps, her head falling back as the first waves of pleasure begin to crash through her. "I'm—"

"I know, baby," he growls, his hips thrusting up to meet her movements. "Let go for me. Wanna feel it."

Y/N shatters above him, her inner walls clenching around him as she cries out his name. Harry continues guiding her hips through her orgasm, prolonging her pleasure as she trembles above him.

Before she's fully recovered, Harry's patience snaps. With a swift movement that showcases his strength, he sits up, wrapping one arm around her waist to keep them connected while his other hand tangles in her hair.

"My turn," he growls against her lips before capturing them in a bruising kiss.

He begins thrusting up into her with renewed vigor, the angle hitting spots deep inside her that have Y/N gasping into his mouth. Her oversensitive body quickly builds toward a second peak as Harry sets a relentless pace.

"Gonna fill you up," Harry pants against her neck, his rhythm becoming erratic as he nears his own release. "Gonna come so deep inside you."

His crude promises push Y/N toward the edge once more, her nails digging into his shoulders as she holds on for dear life.

"Yes," she moans, meeting his thrusts with equal fervor. "Please, Harry. Come inside me."

Her words are his undoing. With a deep groan, Harry buries his face in her neck as his hips stutter and he pulses inside her. The feeling of his release triggers Y/N's second orgasm, her body clenching around him as they fall apart in each other's arms.

For several long moments, they remain entwined, breathing heavily, bodies slick with sweat. Harry peppers soft kisses along her shoulder and neck, his hands now gentle as they stroke her back.

"Fuck," he finally murmurs against her skin, a hint of laughter in his voice. "Maybe you should tell me to get off you more often if this is the result."

Y/N smiles, resting her forehead against his as they both catch their breath. "Noted for future reference."

Harry gently brushes her tangled hair away from her face, his touch surprisingly tender after such intensity. "I meant what I said earlier, you know," he says quietly, a rare moment of post-coital vulnerability. "Two years and I still can't get enough of you. Don't think I ever will."

Y/N's heart swells at the sincerity in his eyes, so different from his usual cocky demeanor. "Good thing I'm not going anywhere then," she replies softly.

Harry's answering smile is genuine and warm as he carefully lays back, bringing her with him to rest on his chest.

"Good thing indeed," he murmurs into her hair, his arms tightening protectively around her. "Because I'd follow you to the ends of the earth, love. Fame and fortune be damned."

The soft afterglow envelops them as they lie tangled together, their breathing gradually returning to normal. Harry's fingers trace lazy patterns along Y/N's spine as she rests against his chest, their bodies still connected in the most intimate way. After several minutes of contented silence, Y/N begins to stir, pressing gentle kisses up the planes of his chest.

She sits up slowly, their bodies separating with a shared shiver of sensitivity. Harry makes a small sound of protest at the loss of contact, immediately moving to follow her upward motion. His hands reach for her waist, clearly intending to pull her back into his embrace.

"Stay," Y/N commands softly, placing a firm hand on his chest to push him back down.

Harry's eyebrows raise slightly in surprise, but an intrigued smile plays at the corners of his mouth as he settles back against the pillows. His green eyes, still dark with lingering desire, track her movements with hungry attention.

"What are you up to, love?" he murmurs, his voice still rough from their previous activities.

Y/N doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she moves with deliberate purpose, shifting her position until she's straddling his chest, her knees on either side of his shoulders. Harry's eyes widen in understanding, his hands automatically coming up to grip her thighs.

"Fuck," he breathes, his gaze fixed on the glistening evidence of their shared pleasure between her legs. "You're not giving me a break, are you?"

Y/N smiles down at him, a mixture of innocence and wickedness that drives him wild. She reaches forward, tangling her fingers in his disheveled curls and gripping firmly enough to elicit a hiss of pleasure from him.

"You said you never say no," she reminds him, tugging gently on his hair. "I'm just testing that theory."

Harry's laugh is low and gravelly as his hands slide up her thighs to grip her hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh with possessive intent.

"By all means," he drawls, licking his lips in anticipation, "test away."

He helps guide her forward until she's hovering just above his mouth, her grip on his hair tightening as she positions herself exactly where she wants to be. Harry's eager breath ghosts over her sensitive flesh, making her shiver in anticipation.

"Greedy girl," he murmurs appreciatively, his eyes locked with hers from between her thighs. "Still want more after two orgasms? What am I going to do with you?"

Before she can respond, Harry grips her hips firmly and pulls her down to his waiting mouth. The first broad stroke of his tongue has Y/N gasping, her head falling back as pleasure shoots through her still-sensitive body.

"Oh god," she moans, her fingers reflexively tightening in his hair.

Harry groans against her in response, the vibration adding another layer of sensation. His tongue works with practiced skill, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks against her clit. His grip on her hips is firm but not restrictive, allowing her to rock against his mouth at her own pace.

"That's it," he encourages briefly, barely pulling away before diving back in. "Use my mouth, baby. Take what you need."

Y/N begins to move more deliberately, rolling her hips against his talented tongue. The visual of Harry Styles, global superstar, heartthrob to millions, eagerly pleasuring her with his mouth while she essentially rides his face is almost as arousing as the physical sensation itself.

Harry's enthusiasm is palpable, his groans of pleasure vibrating against her most sensitive parts. His hands slide around to grip her ass, encouraging her movements as he devours her with single-minded focus. The combination of his skilled tongue, the slight scratch of stubble against her inner thighs, and the way he's looking up at her with pure hunger in his eyes quickly pushes Y/N toward another peak.

"Harry," she gasps, her thighs beginning to tremble around his head. "I'm close already."

He responds by doubling his efforts, his tongue circling her clit with precise pressure before sucking gently on the sensitive bundle of nerves. The sudden increase in intensity has Y/N crying out, her grip on his curls bordering on painful as her orgasm builds rapidly.

"Don't stop," she pleads, her voice breaking as she feels herself teetering on the edge. "Please don't stop."

Harry has no intention of stopping. His hands tighten on her ass, holding her firmly against his mouth as he works her toward her peak. When he feels her begin to tremble in earnest, he slides two fingers inside her, curling them forward to hit exactly the right spot as his tongue continues its relentless attention to her clit.

The dual stimulation is too much. Y/N comes with a broken cry of his name, her body shuddering violently as pleasure crashes through her in waves. Harry groans against her, the vibration prolonging her orgasm as he continues to work her through it, easing up only when her oversensitized body begins to pull away.

As the intense pleasure subsides, Y/N's grip on his hair loosens. Her body feels boneless, utterly spent as she shakily lifts herself from his face. Harry looks up at her with undisguised satisfaction, his lips and chin glistening with evidence of both her pleasure and their earlier activities. The sight should be obscene, but on him, it's nothing short of glorious.

"Still think I might say no?" he asks with a cocky smirk, swiping his thumb across his lower lip before sucking it clean with deliberate showmanship.

Y/N laughs breathlessly, collapsing beside him on the bed. "I think you've made your point."

Harry rolls to his side, propping himself on one elbow to look down at her with affectionate amusement.

"Three times," he says proudly, counting off on his fingers. "That's one more than you demanded earlier. Always exceeding expectations, me."

Y/N rolls her eyes at his self-satisfaction, though she can't suppress her smile. "You're insufferable."

"Ah, but you suffer me so well," he counters, echoing his earlier words as he leans down to place a gentle kiss on her forehead. "And I'd say you just reaped the benefits of my particular brand of suffering."

She smacks his chest lightly, though there's no real force behind it. "Your ego is almost as big as your—"

"Heart?" Harry suggests with a waggle of his eyebrows, cutting her off. "Talent? Collection of Gucci boots?"

Y/N laughs, the sound full of genuine joy and affection. "All of the above."

Harry's expression softens as he gazes down at her, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from her face with surprising tenderness.

"Only for you, love," he murmurs, his voice losing its teasing edge. "Only ever for you."

He pulls her into his arms, arranging them so she's tucked against his chest, her back to his front in their favorite sleeping position. His lips press a gentle kiss to the nape of her neck as his arm wraps possessively around her waist.

"Now get some sleep," he whispers against her skin. "Because I fully intend to wake you up in a few hours for round two."

Y/N smiles sleepily, already feeling herself drifting off in the safety of his embrace. "I thought this was already round two?"

Harry's soft chuckle vibrates against her back. "Baby, we're just getting started."

Taglist: @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinemaa @bethiegurl19 @sstylezzz @spargelhund @myfavfanficsever @spinnic @catmomstyles3 @mads3502

[universefcb]

hey! Can I ask some arguing with Pedri? for the reason you want, please <3

Have a nice day!

↬❥ Pregnancy stress

Pedri Gonzalez x Reader!fem

Synopsis: You are expecting a baby, and because of the pregnancy hormones and the stress of the game, you and Pedri end up fighting.

a/n: I don't know what to write here.

REQUESTED

warnings: no.

And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for!

The clock was almost nine o'clock when Pedri entered the house, his shoulders tense and his eyes tired. Training had been tough, and his head was a mess. He barely had time to take off his boots when he heard his girlfriend's impatient tone coming from the kitchen.

“Have you finally decided to show up?” she said, her voice breaking.

He sighed, tossing his boots aside. “Please don’t start.”

She turned to face him, her rounded six-month belly exposed beneath a tight blouse. Her eyes were bright, not just with anger, but with frustration and exhaustion.

“Don’t you start? Do you have any idea what this day has been like? You promised you would come early. I felt sick, I was alone, I could barely eat... and you didn’t even send me a message!”

“I’m doing what I can!” he snapped, his voice louder than he intended. “You think this is easy? I’m killing myself in training, trying to keep my head on straight, and I still have to deal with this?”

She recoiled as if she had been slapped. The silence between them was instantaneous, heavy. Tears began to stream down her face, and she turned away, offended, hurt.

“This? I’m ‘this’ now?”

“No... no, that’s not what I meant,” he tried to correct, but it was too late. She trudged up the stairs, refusing any attempt he made to follow her.

Night fell, cold and silent.

Hours later, Pedri was still on the couch, staring into space. Guilt was eating away at him. He couldn't get her face out of his head, hurt by the words he had said in the heat of the moment. He wasn't like that. Not with her. And especially not now, when she needed him the most.

He went upstairs slowly, his heart heavy. He opened the bedroom door carefully. She was lying on her side, discreetly wiping away another tear.

“Love…” he began, his voice cracking. “I’m an idiot.”

She didn't answer right away, just stared into the darkness. He walked over to the bed and knelt down beside her.

“I’m so tired… so stressed… but none of that justifies what I said.” His voice broke. “Seeing you cry because of me… it destroys me. I love you, and I swear to you, I’m trying to be strong for both of us. But today, I failed. And I hate myself for it.”

She turned slowly, seeing his face wet with tears, his eyes red and sincere.

“I just wanted you here,” she whispered. “Not perfect, not solving everything. Just… here.”

Pedri lay down next to her, hugging her with all the care in the world, as if he were holding something sacred. Silently, he slid his hand over her rounded belly, feeling the warmth of her skin and the small life growing there.

“I’m sorry, little one,” he murmured, closing his eyes, his palm resting on his belly. “Daddy promised to be better for you and Mommy. I promise I’ll try.”

She let out a sigh, her eyes filling with tears, but this time it wasn't from sadness—it was emotion.

And then, as if understanding the moment, the baby moved. Pedri's eyes widened, a weak, surprised smile escaping her lips.

“She heard me,” he whispered, chuckling softly.

“Yes…” she replied, with a small smile. “And so do I.”

He continued to caress her belly, placing a soft kiss there, before resting his forehead on her rounded belly.

“I love you both,” he said, his voice breaking.

And in that silence between two tired hearts and a third beating strongly inside her, Pedri knew that he would never again let the weight of the world make him forget what really mattered.

Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @p4uul0vr @nngkay @meganesanchez @bymerinott @htpssgavi @luvvpedri @moonvr @joaosnovia (If you want to come in, just ask!)

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt. 20

Word Count: 21.7k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, tw for postpartum depression, vomit, pain and injury, manipulation, coercion, kidnapping, xavier appears, caleb appears

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh @eliasxchocolate @nozomiaj @yuuchanie @sylus-kitten @its-regretti @starkeysslvt @yarafic @prince-nikko @iluvmewwwww75 @zaynesjasmine1 @honnylemontea @altariasu @sorryimakira @pearlymel @emidpsandia @angel-jupiter @hwangintakswifey @webmvie @housesortinghat @shoruio @gojos1ut @solomonlover @mysssticc @elegantnightblaze @mavphorias @babylavendersblog @burntoutfrogacademic @sinstae @certainduckanchor @ladyackermanisdead @sh4nn @lilyadora @nyumin @kiwookse @anisha24-blog1 @weepingluminarytale @riamir @definitionistato @xxhayashixx @adraxsteia @hargun-s @cayraeley @palomanh @spaceace111 @euridan @malleus-draconias-rose @athoieee @shddyboo @lavcia @wooasecret

AN: Sorry this chapter took forever! I had some health issues pop up. Worrying about my health had started to affect me mentally, and I had no motivation to complete editing. But now, Im feeling a little more energized and decided to finish the next part for my readers! I had originally made this chapter 42k words long and had decided to split it into parts but one of my beta readers suggested for better reading experience, that I split it into two chapters! So enjoy two uploads instead of one!!

"Love is a feeling a monster like you wouldn't know about." The reaction was instantaneous. There was no sound, no preparation. Just a blur of red mist, impossibly fast, and then a large hand snapping tight around his face. Sylus had crossed the room in the blink of an eye, a predator uncoiling from shadow to strike. One of his hands wrapped around Xavier’s throat and jaw, pressing with precise, terrifying force. Xavier’s breath hitched violently, a strangled gasp ripping from his chest as his head was yanked upward. His jaw protested under the weight of Sylus's grip, every bone in his face throbbing as if it might crack apart. His eyes watered instantly. Every instinct screamed to pull away, to fight—but he was restrained, helpless. Trapped. “I wouldn’t push my buttons right now,” Sylus snarled, his voice low, guttural, and thick with restrained violence. The kind of voice that made your blood turn cold. Each syllable carried weight, a slow-dripping venom laced with threat.

Check my masterlist for the other parts!

You drove without direction, tires humming against the half-frozen road as Windsor City slowly blurred around you in a haze of grays and whites. The winter sun, low and anemic behind a curtain of overcast clouds, offered little warmth or light. It merely hung there in the sky like a dying bulb, casting pale, desaturated light over the streets and buildings. Everything outside the car looked lifeless—leafless trees clawing at the wind, pedestrians bundled in layers and hurrying through the cold, and storefronts half-closed as the city dragged itself through another bone-chilling December morning.

The car’s heat wheezed from the vents, barely keeping up with the cold pressing in from every corner. Fog gathered stubbornly at the corners of the windshield, making you swipe at it every few minutes with your sleeve. Your fingers trembled, not from the cold, but from nerves—coiled tight beneath your skin like electric wire. You couldn’t remember how long you’d been driving now. It felt like hours. Maybe it had been. Or maybe your mind was just playing tricks on you, stretching minutes into eternities.

Your adrenaline hadn’t faded. It was still thrumming inside your chest, a low, relentless buzz that made your heart beat too fast and your breathing feel shallow. You were strung tight, like a bow pulled back but never released. Every red light felt like a trap, every passing car a threat. The ghost of that morning still clung to you—standing on that porch, heart in your throat, the weight of your decision crushing you from all sides. Leaving Sylvia there had felt like tearing your own soul in half.

And taking her back had felt like trying to stitch yourself together with shaking hands.

“Haaaah... ehhh...”

In the backseat, Sylvia made a soft, breathy coo. The sound barely rose above the hum of the engine, but it pierced straight through your fogged brain like a needle. Your eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. There she was—curled beneath the blankets you’d wrapped her in, one tiny fist peeking out, her face slack and peaceful. Her little chest rose and fell steadily, mouth slightly open in the kind of sleep only babies and the dead were capable of. Her warmth and fragility, her innocence, made something in you buckle.

It hurt to look at her. Really, deeply hurt.

You’d given her up. You had stood at that porch and walked away. And now here she was, in the backseat of your car, her existence a silent forgiveness you didn’t deserve. How had you done it? How had you ever let her go?

You clenched your jaw and gripped the steering wheel tighter. The leather groaned beneath your fingers. Shame flooded you in waves—thick, choking, unrelenting. You weren’t some rookie who cracked under pressure. You were a Deepspace Hunter, for godsake. You had been trained to track and eliminate high-risk Wanderers across the galaxy. You’d survived deadly missions, solo extractions, and hostile environments that had reduced others to husks. You had fought tooth and nail against Wanderers that tore through entire cities. You had never once hesitated.

And yet a crying infant—your own infant—had sent you spiraling.

The memory of her screaming rang in your ears. The hours without sleep. The sheer terror of not knowing how to comfort her. The voice in your head whispering that you weren’t enough, that you would fail her, that she’d be safer with someone else. It had consumed you. The guilt of yelling at her.

Broken you down until you’d made the unthinkable choice.

And now you couldn’t stop thinking about it. The guilt was a living thing inside you.

But you couldn’t let yourself fall apart again. Not now. Not with her here. Not when you had no room for mistakes.

You squeezed your eyes shut for half a second, breathing through the panic. The cold air inside the car bit at your cheeks, grounding you. You needed to stay clear. Alert. Every second counted now.

You took a huge breath and tried to think logically as you drove, your fingers tightening around the steering wheel as the hum of the road buzzed beneath your tires. The city outside your windows blurred past in streaks of washed-out gray and brittle winter light, the sun barely visible behind a thick layer of cold, suffocating cloud. Your jaw clenched as you turned aimlessly down one street and then another, your heart beating a little too fast, your thoughts spinning like wheels stuck in ice.

You had already abandoned the motel without looking back. That place had begun to feel like a trap anyway—too many routines, too easy to track. It hadn’t felt safe anymore, not after what you’d done. Maybe it never really had been. The idea of staying in one place for more than a day made your skin crawl now.

It had been few days since then. You had decided the best course of action was to just lay low, live in the car in case someone in that house had done some investigating about the strange woman and baby on their porch.

There were too many cameras on the street corners, too many people who might ask the wrong question. You kept imagining Sylus’s voice just behind you, his eyes on your back, his fingers wrapping around your spine. You had no evidence he was near, but it didn’t matter. The paranoia lived inside you now.

You weren’t just hiding anymore—you were surviving. Reacting. Calculating. Scraping together a plan out of broken pieces and adrenaline.

You needed to find a way to get documents. That had to be your next step. Something official. Something real. Something that would hold up to scrutiny if anyone stopped you in a hallway or flagged your ID at a checkpoint. Surely Windsor City had a vital records office—a building where identities were filed away in steel cabinets and forgotten by the world.

It was a long shot, but it was a start. A place to begin forming the edges of a life you might be able to live.

It wasn’t ideal. God, it was the last place you wanted to be—walking into a government office, vulnerable and exposed, where clerks might ask for forms you didn’t have and memories you didn’t want to share. What was your last address? Place of birth? Employer? Marital status? Were there any complications with the birth? You could already hear the questions echoing in your head, each one scraping raw nerves. You hated the thought of giving anything away. But what choice did you have?

It was a step. One you couldn’t skip. If you ever wanted to get on a plane, to disappear into the world without leaving a blinking red trail behind you, you needed paper. You needed proof you and your daughter existed.

You glanced into the rearview mirror again, eyes immediately drawn to Sylvia. She was still asleep, her tiny face soft and flushed, one hand curled into a fist beside her cheek.

She was perfect. Beautiful. Yours.

And still—still—the image of leaving her on that doorstep haunted you. The stroller, the blanket, the note. Her red eyes blinking open as you turned your back. You remembered how it felt to walk away. Like your bones were breaking from the inside out. You had torn and that note into pieces, letting it blow away in the winter wind.

As much as you didn’t want any physical record of her—no footprint, no paper trail—it was too late, wasn’t it? That line had already been crossed. Sylus knew she existed. He’d known for weeks. There was no hiding from that reality now. And while the thought of her name being filed in a database made your stomach turn, the alternative was unthinkable. No identity meant no rights. No school. No protection. No future.

And if you wanted her to live a life that wasn’t shaped entirely by running and hiding, she’d need to be someone. Officially. Legally. Even if every part of that word made your skin itch.

She’d need an identity. A birth certificate. Something that would let her see a doctor without suspicion, enroll in school, walk through life without having to lie about who she was. She couldn’t live as a shadow the way you had. She deserved better than that.

You had to give that to her.

You weren’t doing it for yourself. You were doing it for her. And you’d drag up every painful piece of your own past if it meant giving her a future.

The wheel vibrated faintly beneath your palms as you took a right at the next light, beginning to scan the signs more carefully now. Searching for any street name, any marker that might lead you toward what you needed. You didn’t have a plan yet. Not fully. But you were done driving in circles.

This time, you were going to move forward.

It didn’t take long for you to give up and eventually ask someone where to go. After circling the block a few times and mentally chastising yourself for stalling, you finally pulled into a gas station and walked inside, heart pounding. A middle-aged woman behind the counter, wearing a frayed fleece and tired eyes, looked up. You approached her cautiously, nearly flinching when she made eye contact. But she only offered a polite, tight smile, and when you stammered something about looking for the local municipal office, she nodded and pointed you in the right direction with the kind of quiet efficiency that made it clear you weren’t the first lost soul to wander in that day.

The interaction lasted less than three minutes, but it lingered. As you stepped back into your car and closed the door behind you, you realized you could finally take a full breath. Your chest loosened, like a rubber band slowly releasing its tension. Maybe this would be okay. Maybe you could handle this.

You weren’t nearly as nervous as the last time you’d tried asking for help. Progress, maybe. If you were going to get anything done or get anywhere, you needed to stay grounded. You couldn’t let the gnawing anxiety of small talk and suspicious glances keep eating you alive. Not everyone was out to get you. Not everyone was a spy for Sylus. You repeated those words like a script, like armor, hoping they'd settle your racing thoughts. Whether it was true or not didn’t matter—believing it helped you function.

Still, the paranoia scratched beneath your skin like a rash you couldn’t ignore. Constant, needling, lingering. You were painfully aware of how threadbare you’d become—worn down, brittle at the edges, like a page in an old book handled too many times. You’d definitely need some serious therapy after all this. That thought almost made you laugh. Therapy. Normalcy. Appointments. Schedules. People asking how you feel without it being a trap. The very idea felt absurd, but the ache for it ran deep.

“Okay…drive straight two miles, take a left at the light…then another left,” you murmured, whispering the directions to yourself as if reciting a protective spell. You gripped the steering wheel tight, your eyes darting to every street sign like you expected them to morph into something threatening.

The streets stretched long and cold, each turn making you feel both closer and farther from something that might resemble stability. Finally—after what felt like an entire lifetime spent navigating Windsor’s gridded mess of boulevards and backroads—you saw it.

The building squatted between two taller offices like it had been forgotten, designed to disappear. Pale gray concrete walls, narrow, smoked glass windows, and a battered metal plaque out front that read: Windsor Bureau of Vital Statistics and Public Records. The font was peeling. The air felt colder here, somehow heavier. It matched the dull weight in your chest.

You parked in the farthest spot from the door, half by instinct, half from habit. Always stay near an exit. Always keep your line of sight clear.

“Waahhhhhh!”

Just as you reached down to unbuckle your seatbelt, Sylvia’s cry ripped through the silence. Sharp, raw, and immediate.

Your heart jerked. Panic surged. That all-too-familiar jolt hit you like a switchblade—tightening your chest, punching the air from your lungs. You turned, eyes wide, already reaching for the baby bag in the back.

“Ah…right,” you whispered to yourself. “Have to feed and change you.”

Her wailing continued, loud and furious, her tiny fists flailing as her face scrunched up in agony. You fumbled with the straps of the car seat, your fingers unsteady as you lifted her up and cradled her against your shoulder. Her body was hot from crying, her little breaths hitching. You felt guilt coil like wire around your ribcage.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” you murmured as you pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “You're not gonna wither away, I promise.”

You quickly laid her down across the passenger seat, using a worn blanket to line the space, your hands clumsy but practiced. The cold air made her shriek louder. Your movements felt too slow, too fragile. Your fingers trembled as you undid the diaper and reached for wipes, whispering reassurances to her between shallow breaths.

Each motion felt like it took forever. Her cries scraped at your nerves like claws, making you sweat despite the cold. You worked with robotic focus, pushing past the shaking in your limbs, trying not to snap from the rising pressure of it all. You cleaned her quickly, efficiently, your hands gentle even though your mind was racing.

When the fresh diaper was on, you scooped her back into your arms, cradling her with the practiced awkwardness of someone who had no choice but to learn as they went. You positioned her against your chest and tried not to flinch when she squirmed and twisted.

And then, finally—finally—she latched.

The sound of her rhythmic sucking was like a switch being flipped.

You exhaled hard, your body sagging against the seat in pure, unfiltered relief. Your head rested back, and your arms curled tighter around her. Her warmth pressed into your chest like a heartbeat syncing with your own. The tension drained from your shoulders in waves.

She was feeding. She was safe. You were here. You hadn’t failed—not this time.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away. One thing at a time. You held her close, ran your hand gently across her soft hair, and focused on the steady sound of her breathing, of her swallowing.

Outside the car, the wind moved lazily across the lot, stirring a few scattered leaves. The building waited in silence.

Inside, your world narrowed to one precious, fragile rhythm. Her body against yours. Her trust. Her need.

As Sylvia fed, nestled in your arms with the comforting, fragile weight of her tiny body warming your chest, she stirred slightly. Her eyelids fluttered—long, damp lashes trembling like the wings of a moth—and then, slowly, with a soft squint against the morning light spilling through the windshield, her eyes opened.

They caught yours.

For one suspended moment, the world fell away. The buildings beyond the car vanished. The weight in your lungs, the gnawing ache in your spine, the bitter residue of adrenaline—all of it evaporated. Her gaze, soft and unfocused, wandered across your face, as though trying to recognize you from some distant dream. The red of her irises gleamed like rubies, so startling and vivid that it nearly stole your breath.

Your chest constricted. A dozen feelings swelled inside you at once, colliding in a dizzying storm—happiness so sharp it stung, guilt so deep it rooted in your gut, anxiety that whispered of everything you’d done wrong, and pride so intense it threatened to knock you flat. You had no idea how one look from her could unravel you so completely. She looked so peaceful. So present. So trusting.

Even after the doorstep.

Even after the note.

Even after the moment you’d nearly chosen fear over love.

She was here, breathing quietly, feeding from your body like nothing had ever gone wrong. Like her world had never fractured. Like you had never fractured.

Things between you both were still complicated. Just because you went back for her didn't mean everything was perfect now. But you were managing your emotions with her a lot better. You were becoming less frustrated with her too. There were still so many mysteries to unravel about her, but at the very least...she hadn't warped your mind again. You definitely wanted to avoid that again, so you had been quick to meet all her needs within a timely manner.

Were you doing it out of guilt or true determination to be a better mother? Both? You didn't know.

You realized then—sickly, with a weight that settled deep in your bones—that you still weren’t used to talking to her. To really engaging with her as a person, not a responsibility. A baby, yes—but still a person. A soul. You’d barely spoken to her these past six weeks, almost seven weeks. You had muttered things here and there, halfhearted reassurances, commands out of desperation. But actual words? Connection? You hadn’t given her much of that.

You were too wrapped in survival. Too broken. Too afraid.

But now, sitting in the relative quiet of the car, just the two of you wrapped in warmth, you found your voice again.

“Hi, Sylvie,” you whispered, your voice soft and low, thick with something unnamable. You tilted your head toward her, letting your cheek rest against the top of her head, breathing her in. A soft, tentative smile tugged at your lips. Her skin smelled faintly of milk and that warm, earthy scent unique to babies—like sunlight and life.

You had even gave her a little nickname. It helped when you had something just between the two of you.

Sylvia made a tiny grunt in response, her brows twitching slightly, and her gaze flickered once more across your face. Then, out of nowhere—like a miracle or a mercy—her lips curled into the smallest, most imperfect smile.

It was crooked. Fleeting. Probably accidental.

But it obliterated you.

Your whole soul cracked open. Emotion surged through your chest like floodwater bursting a dam. It was nothing, really. A twitch, maybe. A newborn’s experiment in facial movement. You weren’t even sure how well a six-week-old could focus yet. Most days she seemed lost in her own haze of sensations, unable to fully see or respond to much at all.

But right now? You let yourself believe.

You let yourself believe it was for you.

A smile.

Your breath trembled out of you in a soft, shaky exhale as you reached a hand up to gently cup her cheek, your thumb brushing the faintest smudge of milk from the corner of her mouth. She blinked once, still suckling, completely unaware that she’d just altered something essential in you.

That belief—that impossible, miraculous belief—held you together. It gave you just enough strength to breathe. To sit upright. To think about unbuckling your seatbelt. To carry her into that building that terrified you.

Because if she could still look at you like that—smile at you like that—after everything… then maybe you weren’t too far gone.

Maybe this wasn’t irreparable.

Maybe you could do this.

Just as you were soaking in the sweetness of the moment, letting that rare flicker of peace settle over you like a soft blanket, Sylvia’s little body stiffened slightly. Her previously contented breathing hitched, her limbs tensed, and then she let out a low, gurgling sound that immediately yanked you from your fragile calm. It wasn’t the normal whimper of discomfort—it had an edge to it, a wetness that sent your nerves bristling. Instinct surged through you like electricity. Your arms moved before your brain even fully caught up. You quickly shifted her upright in your lap, your hand moving to support the back of her neck as your other gently patted her tiny back.

She had been drinking far too quickly. You’d felt it—the frantic, greedy rhythm of her feeding, the desperate pulls, the hurried swallows. It had struck you as intense even in the moment, but you’d chalked it up to hunger. She hadn’t eaten much milk earlier and between the chaos figuring out the next steps and the long hours of driving and hiding, you couldn’t blame her. Her hunger had built up like pressure in a bottle, and now her body was protesting the flood.

You murmured to her in a low, trembling voice—reassuring, repetitive noises, something between a lullaby and a prayer—as she stiffened again. You gently rubbed her back in small, slow circles, whispering, "It’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re alright now, just breathe, baby girl."

You reached one hand into the baby bag, fishing blindly for a wipe or burp cloth, anything soft to clean up the thin trail of milk that had begun to bead on her lips. You were still focused on her face, on the tiny gasps she made, on her furrowed brow—when it happened.

Without warning, she jerked forward in your arms and let loose a shockingly powerful stream of vomit. It came out in a burst, hot and wet, and splashed directly onto your chest and shirt with a sickening sound. The sheer force of it startled you so much that your whole body went rigid.

"Shit…" you muttered, breathless and frozen, staring down at the warm, curdled mess soaking through the front of your clothes. The smell hit you a second later—sour milk, stomach acid, and a faint trace of whatever she’d digested. You blinked, stunned, trying to mentally catch up with what had just happened.

Sylvia, on the other hand, looked utterly unbothered. In fact, she seemed relieved. Her tiny shoulders relaxed, her limbs going slack in your arms like all the tension had drained from her. She sighed—an actual sigh—as if she'd just finished a long, exhausting task. Her eyelids fluttered halfway shut, and her mouth opened slightly in post-vomit serenity.

You sat there for a long second, silent, staring at your ruined shirt, the puddle of spit-up slowly cooling against your skin. A strange calmness settled over you, and you weren’t sure whether to burst into laughter or tears.

And then you laughed.

It came out of nowhere—sudden, raw, and breathless. A laugh born of exhaustion, disbelief, and something close to joy. You looked at her peaceful face, at her complete indifference to the chaos she’d caused, and you laughed harder. A genuine laugh. The kind that broke through tension like sunlight cracking through storm clouds.

"Bound to happen eventually… right?" you said aloud, more to yourself than anyone else. Your voice was dry, touched with rueful amusement, but also something deeper—gratitude, maybe. Relief that this moment was normal. Messy, gross, inconvenient—but normal.

Still chuckling softly, you reached back into the bag and pulled out a wipe, then another, and began the careful, resigned process of cleaning yourself up. You wiped her mouth, wiped your shirt, grimaced at the wet patch now clinging to your skin.

Sylvia let out a soft coo and shifted slightly in your lap. Her little hands clenched and unclenched as if she were trying to reach for something.

You exhaled through your nose and shook your head, still smiling despite everything. For all the unpredictability, the fear, the danger—you had her.

And for now, that was enough.

You were grateful, at least, that you’d had the foresight to keep all your things packed in the car. In the chaos of recent days, that simple bit of planning was now saving you from a total breakdown. It made the aftermath easier to handle, even if only slightly. A clean shirt was within reach, tucked into one of the outer compartments of the large canvas bag you’d crammed with every semi-useful item back at the motel—extra layers, diapers, wipes, a few granola bars, and whatever baby supplies you could hastily gather when you'd left. You changed quickly in the front seat, your movements jerky and mechanical, more instinct than energy. Your fingers were cold and a bit stiff as they gripped the fabric, and you shivered as you peeled off the damp shirt, the vomit now cool and sour-smelling against your skin. You muttered under your breath as you tugged the clean shirt over your head, trying not to gag.

Sylvia blinked sleepily in her car seat, her little hands twitching now and then, her expression blissfully neutral—completely unaware of the havoc she'd caused. The mess on the backseat wasn’t terrible, all things considered. Most of it had landed on you and a small patch of the passenger seat. Still, you had to act quickly. A few wipes and a lot of elbow grease later, the worst of it was cleared. The faint smell lingered, though—acidic and sour, impossible to ignore. You cracked the windows slightly, letting in a gust of freezing air that made your eyes water but cleared your head.

By the time you’d cleaned yourself up, redressed, and strapped Sylvia snugly to your chest using the wrap carrier, the sun had crept higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the lot. Mid afternoon, by the feel of it. The cold still bit through every exposed surface of your skin—your ears, the tip of your nose, your fingers through your gloves—but at least the sun was shining. A weak, pale thing, obscured by hazy clouds, but there was still something hopeful about the way it filtered through the brittle winter branches and glinted off the rooftops.

You took a moment before closing the car door, pausing with one hand on the handle. You adjusted the wrap so it covered more of Sylvia’s head, tucking the edges gently around her ears and forehead. The sunlight wasn’t harsh, but her skin was so sensitive, and the cold air sharp enough to turn her cheeks cold. She didn’t fuss at your touch—just squirmed a little and then nuzzled closer into your chest with a soft grunt that might’ve been a complaint or a sigh. Her head rested just under your chin, and the warmth of her against your body grounded you more than you expected.

You let your hand linger at the base of her neck for a second longer, feeling her heartbeat through the layers of fabric. It was a tiny thing—fluttering, steady—but unmistakably strong.

You exhaled slowly and looked toward the building looming ahead.

It was every bit as unwelcoming as you'd imagined. Square and severe, its exterior was coated in a dull shade of municipal gray, the kind that made everything around it seem colder. The narrow windows were tinted to the point of opacity, revealing nothing of the life—or lack thereof—inside. A weather-worn metal plaque, bolted beside the front doors, read: "Windsor Bureau of Vital Statistics and Public Records." The letters were faded and scratched, nearly invisible unless the light hit them just right.

You stared at the sign for a long beat, swallowing hard. This was it. The next step.

You started walking.

Each step toward the entrance felt heavier than the last. Not physically, not yet, but emotionally. Every stride forward meant leaning harder into this fragile, unsteady future you were trying to piece together. You could almost hear your past trailing behind you, whispering doubts, dragging its feet. But you didn’t stop.

Sylvia shifted slightly against your chest, her fingers curling and uncurling as she adjusted herself in sleep. For once, her presence didn’t send your nerves into overdrive. It brought you back to earth.

You stepped into the building and were immediately greeted by a rush of warm air that wrapped around you like a blanket, instantly thawing the sting in your fingers and the stiff tension in your spine. The contrast from the biting cold outside was a small but welcome relief, and your shoulders relaxed just slightly as the door clicked shut behind you. The lighting was a harsh fluorescent glow, casting long, sterile beams over the linoleum floor, but it somehow felt less intimidating than you’d feared. The air smelled faintly of old paper, musty heating vents, and hand sanitizer—bureaucracy in scent form.

Reminded you of the UNICORNS building back in Linkon.

You allowed yourself a moment to just breathe. The silence of the hallway echoed behind you, and with it, the cold, frantic chaos of the outside world seemed to fall away for the briefest of seconds. Here, in this dull municipal bubble, you might pass as just another citizen going about her mundane business.

A single long hallway stretched ahead of you, flanked by grey walls and cluttered bulletin boards with notices and out-of-date posters. The scuffed linoleum floor reflected the overhead lights in dull streaks. Arrows on suspended signs pointed in different directions—"Vital Records," "Marriage Licenses," "Archives." You didn’t hesitate. You followed the signs toward the section labeled Vital Records, adjusting Sylvia slightly against your chest as she stirred, her tiny fingers curling briefly in her sleep before going slack again.

The hallway opened into a modest foyer, a wider space filled with the low buzz of conversation, the rhythmic tap of typing, and the soft hum of copiers and printers working in the background. Several rows of people stood in slow-moving lines before tall glass service windows, each marked by a glowing number panel above. The counters were manned by clerks in light-blue button-ups and name tags, heads bent over keyboards, flipping through papers, or answering questions in tired monotone.

You joined the line near a touchscreen kiosk mounted against the wall, where numbers were being distributed in order of arrival. As you waited, you gently rocked back and forth, pressing your hand instinctively against Sylvia’s back, feeling the warm, steady rise and fall of her breathing through the wrap.

What were you even going to say?

You glanced around the room, heart pounding, eyes scanning for inspiration or some fragment of a believable lie. You couldn’t afford to falter here. Every word you said would be documented, possibly scrutinized if you said too much—or too little. You needed a reason. A story that would justify your lack of documents, of mailing address, of medical records, of anything. You needed something solid, something human, something they wouldn’t question.

Your eyes drifted upward to the small flatscreen television mounted in the corner above the waiting area. The volume was low, little more than a murmur behind the quiet buzz of the room, but the headline scrolling across the screen snagged your attention like a hook in the skin:

"Wanderer Attack Engulfs Eastport — Thousands Displaced in Wake of Sudden Influx of Wanderers. Emergency Services Confirm Partial Evacuation Zone. Local Government Declares State of Emergency."

Footage played silently beneath the banner: smoke billowing into the sky, scorched streets littered with debris, emergency responders hosing down rubble that had caught fire, carrying soot-covered survivors away from the devastation. Aerial shots showed entire blocks of broken remains, neighborhoods reduced to skeletons of what they’d been. Thousands of dead Wanderers littered the streets. Families huddled under blankets in makeshift evacuation centers. The kind of disaster that sent records into flames and people into the wind.

Your breath hitched. Holy shit.

Eastport. It wasn’t far—only an hour or two from here probably?

Your pulse spiked, both from nerves and a spark of relief. It was a tragedy. A very real one. And yet, it could be your salvation.

This was it.

The perfect excuse.

A plausible, well-documented reason to have lost everything—paperwork, identification, official documents. No need to invent something convoluted or fake. This was current, verifiable, and public. A tragedy large enough to create chaos, to make bureaucratic systems glitch. It would explain the lack of consistent medical records for Sylvia. It would explain your missing IDs. It was sad, and chaotic, and it made you someone in need of help—not someone to be suspicious of.

You could say you’d been staying with a friend temporarily in Eastport when it happened. That your apartment building had been stormed by hundreds of Wanderers. That you’d barely made it out. That you’d had no time to grab your things—just the baby and the diaper bag. The rest had been lost in the attack. You were now displaced, like thousands of others. Trying to recover your life, one paper at a time.

Besides. It wouldn't technically be a complete lie. Something very similar happened to Linkon when you were a child. It made you shiver just thinking about it honestly.

Your hand tightened just slightly around the curve of Sylvia’s back. She shifted and let out a soft, sleepy sigh, nuzzling deeper into your chest, unaware of the storm of planning and fear churning beneath your skin.

You swallowed hard, keeping your gaze fixed on the screen for a moment longer as your thoughts fell into place.

The lie was forming—built not out of malice, but necessity. Not fiction, but survival. And it might just be enough to carry you through.

You turned back to the line, took your ticket from the kiosk when it buzzed, and exhaled as you moved to take your seat.

You kept your eyes fixed on the television screen in the corner, trying to distract yourself as the minutes crawled by. The disaster coverage had ended nearly fifteen minutes ago, and in its place was now something drastically more cheerful—a baking competition show complete with overly chipper hosts, colorful kitchen sets, and dramatic close-ups of collapsing soufflés and half-burnt pastries. You didn't really like this particular show. Something about the forced drama of icing disasters and cake deadlines never sat right with you. But today, the distraction was welcome. Even the artificial tension of poorly piped frosting was enough to keep your mind from spiraling into dark places.

Sylvia stirred softly against your chest, her tiny body radiating steady warmth through the wrap. She let out a small sneeze that caused her whole body to tense. You adjusted the wrap slightly, tucking the edges a little closer to her cheek, and eased deeper into your seat.

The ambient noise in the room—shuffling feet, low murmurs, the occasional cough—was muted beneath the sounds of baking commentary and whirring mixers. You let it wash over you, a dull, constant hum that helped blur your nerves.

Until you heard something that didn’t belong.

Voices.

Not the low, tired voices of people discussing forms and documents. Not the customer service tone of a clerk giving instructions. These were sharper, more urgent. Male voices, speaking in hushed tones that carried just enough authority to slice through the ambient fuzz of the room.

“He’s here? Should we secure the building and get everyone to leave?” one voice said, tense and clipped.

There was a pause. Then a second voice answered, steadier. Measured. Unfazed.

“No. He shouldn’t have gone far. Probably hiding in the bathroom. He won’t make a scene. I’ll make sure of it.”

Your whole body tensed. The voice—it scratched at your memory like claws on glass. Familiar in a way that made your skin crawl. You couldn’t place it right away, but the tone, the cool confidence—it lodged itself into your brain like a splinter.

You held your breath, ears straining to pick up more, but the voices faded, swallowed by the hallway behind the frosted glass door labeled STAFF ONLY. Still, the fragments were enough to spike your pulse. A heavy unease settled in your stomach, tightening with every beat of your heart.

Who’s here? you wondered, panic rising in your throat. And why did that voice sound so—

Your thoughts were abruptly cut off by a mechanical chime and the calm, automated voice overhead.

“Number 245, please step forward.”

The words hit you like a jolt. You blinked, disoriented, as if yanked out of a dream. You looked up to see the digital sign blinking a number. that was your number. It was your turn.

You stood slowly, every muscle in your legs stiff and uncertain, your grip tightening around Sylvia instinctively. You adjusted the wrap again, ensuring she was secure against your chest, even though her breathing remained steady and undisturbed. You could feel your palms beginning to sweat.

The walk to the glass window felt longer than it should have. Each step echoed faintly in the tile-floored room, your boots sounding too loud, too deliberate. You passed other waiting faces—some bored, some distracted, others half-asleep—and felt like they were all looking through you.

You forced yourself to put one foot in front of the other.

You tried to focus. Tried to remember the story you were supposed to tell. The reason you were here. The fabricated narrative you’d rehearsed in your head so many times it should’ve felt natural by now.

You shuffled quickly to the designated window, your boots squeaking faintly against the floor. The glass barrier felt taller than it should’ve, imposing and cold under the overhead lighting, but you forced yourself to push through the nerves and meet the eyes of the clerk on the other side. A young woman with warm brown skin and tight curls pinned neatly behind her ears looked up and offered you a bright, practiced smile, the kind that conveyed both efficiency and a touch of warmth.

Her desk was modestly decorated, personalized in the way someone tried to make long hours in a bureaucratic setting feel less sterile. A small potted succulent stood proudly by her monitor, its leaves glossy and thriving. A coffee mug, half full and still steaming faintly, rested beside a stack of neatly organized papers. And right in the corner, propped up beside a tiny calendar, was a framed photograph of her and a little girl. The child sat perched on her lap, both of them dressed in matching summer dresses, their cheeks pressed together as they grinned wide for the camera. The sight tugged at something deep within you—an ache that was equal parts admiration and grief.

"Hi there!" she chirped, her fingers already flying across the keyboard with a kind of fluid, practiced speed that told you she had probably done this routine a thousand times. Her voice had a lilting cheerfulness to it, soft but energetic, and she looked genuinely ready to help. "How can I help you today?"

You took a step forward, shifting Sylvia in her wrap as your hand instinctively came up to rest on the back of her head.

"Hi, um...I’m here to get copies of—all my personal records," you said, your voice quieter than intended, the edges of it raspy with the effort it took to sound composed. It wasn’t exhaustion that weighed on you now, but anxiety. You watched the clerk carefully for even the slightest flicker of suspicion. But instead of narrowing her eyes or pausing with wariness, she nodded and glanced at her screen, fingers continuing their soft clacking rhythm.

"Sure thing," she said with casual ease, not looking up yet. "Do you have any form of ID with you, or...?"

"I...was in the Wanderer attack last week," you interrupted, the lie sitting on your tongue like something half-swallowed. You swallowed hard. "I lost everything. For me and my daughter."

You hoped the tremble in your voice read as emotional trauma rather than nerves from bending the truth.

The clerk paused, her hands stilling over the keyboard. Her brow furrowed, not with skepticism but something gentler—concern, empathy.

"God," she said softly, shaking her head slightly. "I’m so sorry. That must’ve been terrifying."

You gave a slow nod, willing your throat not to close up. Even if it was a lie, the reality you were drawing from—the loss, the fear, the displacement—was all real. Just from another disaster. Another monster. One with a name.

"It was," you whispered.

She nodded again and leaned slightly toward her monitor, tapping a few keys as her eyes scanned the screen. "Okay, we’ll get you and your little one squared away. Don’t worry, you’re not the only person we’ve had in this week from that area."

Your eyes widened slightly, the tension in your shoulders relaxing by a fraction. So the story wasn’t even unusual. You were just another statistic to her, another face among many, and that worked perfectly in your favor.

"Let’s start with the basics. Birth certificate? ID? Social? Insurance records? What do you need replaced specifically?"

You gave a small nod, more confident this time. "All of it, please."

"Alright," she replied, her tone shifting into something more formal now as she began guiding you through the process. "We’ll start with your name and date of birth, then we’ll move on to anything related to your daughter. Just answer as best you can, and we’ll get everything submitted for reissue."

As she began entering your details into the system, you followed her prompts, giving your answers carefully and evenly. The routine helped. The predictability of her questions gave your mind a break from its endless looping of fear and speculation. For the first time in what felt like weeks, you were moving forward—however cautiously.

But beneath the veneer of calm, a single thread of unease remained knotted in your chest.

Because the voice you’d heard in the hallway—that voice still echoed in your mind.

And no matter how normal this moment felt, no matter how helpful the clerk was, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched.

As you began reciting the basics—your name, date of birth, and other simple identifying details—you found your voice becoming steadier with each answer. The familiarity of the information, the rote memory of it, was almost soothing. It gave you something to hold on to amidst the ever-churning uncertainty. You had rehearsed this part in your head countless times while driving aimlessly through Windsor’s streets, while Sylvia slept in the back seat and your hands gripped the steering wheel hard enough to ache. Repetition had turned these facts into a script. You could say them half-conscious now.

The clerk nodded along, her manicured fingers dancing across the keyboard with the precision of someone who could do this job in her sleep. Her eyes flicked occasionally to the screen, then back to her monitor, her expression calm and efficient. There was something almost comforting in her rhythm, in how little she seemed to think twice about what you were saying. No suspicion. No hesitation. Not yet.

But then she paused.

"So I looked you up in the system," she said, her brows pinched slightly in focus as her fingers slowed their pace. She clicked a few more times, scrolling through records, her lips moving subtly as she read silently. "And it seems your last recorded address was in…" Another click. Her gaze narrowed slightly. "Linkon City? Is that correct?"

You felt your breath catch like a hook in your throat. Panic curled low and tight in your belly.

You took in a slow, deliberate inhale, then nodded, fighting to keep your expression composed. "Yes," you said quietly, your voice thin and just above a whisper. "I was staying with my friend when it happened. I was planning on moving down there...that’s why I had most of my stuff with me."

The clerk offered a sympathetic nod, apparently satisfied with the explanation, and resumed typing. Her gentle smile never wavered, and you exhaled softly through your nose, clinging to that flicker of relief. You told yourself she had no reason to doubt you. People lost everything in disasters all the time. Stories got jumbled. Details fell through the cracks. Your narrative wasn’t suspicious. If anything, it was all too common.

"What did you say your daughter’s name was?" she asked, voice soft, still focused on her screen.

"Sylvia," you said, clearing your throat. You instinctively pulled her a bit closer, her sleeping form nestled against your chest, a grounding weight.

"Last name?"

Your stomach tightened into a knot. There it was. The moment you’d been dreading.

You hesitated just a fraction too long. The clerk didn’t seem to notice, but your silence rang loud in your ears. You grimaced but pushed through it, forcing the words out. You told her your last name, almost too quickly. It didn’t sound right—foreign, dissonant—but you hoped it would pass.

The clerk nodded and typed, humming thoughtfully.

"Place of birth?" she asked next, glancing up at you for just a moment before returning to the screen. "Was she born at a hospital? If she had a birth certificate, I should be able to look up her record of birth"

You froze.

The room felt suddenly too quiet, too still. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead grew louder in your ears. A cold sweat prickled at the back of your neck. Your heartbeat began to thud unevenly.

Your mind flashed violently to that night. Clara's house. The Sawshredder outside. The creaking floorboards. The way you’d groaned and writhed on the floor. The burning pain, the overwhelming fear, the way your hands had trembled so badly you could barely hold her when you woke up. There had been no monitors. No nurses. No ID tags or sterile sheets. Just you and her. And the blood. And her first cries.

There was no record. No digital footprint. No hospital signature.

Shit.

Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. The clerk looked up again, blinking in gentle expectation, as though waiting for something routine.

You blinked, your mouth suddenly dry, and you gave a brittle smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The weight of the silence between you stretched unbearably, and you knew—whatever you said next had to be good. It had to hold. Because everything, absolutely everything, now depended on it.

You blinked rapidly, scrambling for something—anything—that wouldn’t raise suspicion. You couldn't afford to freeze now. Swallowing hard, you forced your expression into something resembling calm, even as your mind spun with panic. Sylvia stirred softly against your chest, as if sensing your tension, her little fingers curling into the fabric of your coat.

"She wasn’t born at a hospital," you said quickly, your voice hushed but steady, latching onto the first version of the story you’d rehearsed. "I did get her registered, though. It was...not the smoothest process. They took forever to send me her documents, and honestly, I’m not even sure they ever fully completed the registration. It felt like they were rushing everything—said they were overwhelmed at the time."

You watched the clerk’s expression closely. Her fingers, which had been flying across the keyboard with practiced ease, slowed a bit, her brow knitting as she processed the information.

"That happens more than people think," she said thoughtfully, her voice softening into something close to maternal empathy. "Especially with smaller clinics or during emergencies. I can check the system for partial entries or flagged submissions. If there’s even a temporary file, we’ll find it."

You gave a small nod, forcing a smile despite the sweat beginning to gather at the base of your neck. You could feel it trickling down your spine, cold and anxious. Keep calm, you told yourself. Just keep calm.

But then, just as you thought you were in the clear, the clerk’s fingers paused mid-keystroke again. Her smile faltered slightly as her eyes flicked up to meet yours.

"Wait—sorry, I’m just confused for a second," she said, tilting her head a bit. "You said earlier that her documents were lost with yours during the attack, didn’t you?"

Your stomach dropped like a stone.

Shit.

The inconsistency had slipped past you. You’d been so focused on staying calm, on controlling your tone and your body language, that you hadn’t noticed you were contradicting yourself. The panic that surged through you now was sharper than before, laced with the bitter taste of regret. You should have been more careful.

You let out a small, nervous laugh, raising a hand in a sheepish gesture as if to wave away the error.

"Oh! Silly me," you said, your voice climbing half an octave too high. You forced a breathy laugh to try and smooth it over. "Sorry—I’m still pretty shaken up from the attack. I probably didn’t word that right. I meant—I meant all of our stuff in general was lost. Not the documents specifically. Everything happened so fast, I’ve barely had time to breathe, let alone think straight."

The clerk studied you for a moment, her eyes flicking briefly to the baby snuggled against your chest, then back to your face. The moment hung in the air like a fragile thread, the weight of her silence heavy.

Then she smiled again, the tension in her expression easing.

"No worries," she said, her tone light once more. "Happens to the best of us. Trauma messes with your memory—especially with little ones to take care of. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve heard similar stories just this week. We can get her registered here!"

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from sighing too loudly in relief. That had been close. Too close. You glanced down at Sylvia, who had settled again, her tiny mouth forming a contented "o." Her trust in you, her innocence—it was both a balm and a burden.

But for now, you were still in the clear. No alarms. No scrutiny. The clerk returned to her typing.

She walked you through the rest of the process with practiced, gentle efficiency, her voice steady and calm as she guided you through the checklist of required documentation. A steady stream of questions came your way—some routine, some unexpectedly difficult—and you did your best to answer each one with clarity. Internally, though, you repeated dates and details like a mantra, clinging to them as if they were a lifeline. Sylvia’s birthdate came back to you without hesitation—burned into your body as much as your mind, a moment etched into your bones. You gave it confidently, though your heart was still pounding from the earlier stumble with your story.

When the clerk asked about the place of birth, you said Brunswick. That, at least, wasn’t a fabrication. Clara's house had technically been just outside the town’s limits, and given the rural sprawl of the area, it wasn’t hard to imagine things falling through the cracks. You leaned into that. Small towns didn’t always run on precise systems. Overworked staff, underfunded facilities, patchy digital records—it was all plausible. And that plausibility was your shield.

As the more technical, verification-heavy questions began to taper off, you felt your muscles start to unwind, just slightly. It was subtle, like your body had only just remembered how to breathe again after hours—days—of holding itself rigid. The tension in your neck began to loosen. Your jaw unclenched. Your fingers, once curled into trembling fists, finally relaxed their hold on Sylvia’s wrap. For the first time since stepping into this sterile, fluorescent-lit office, you allowed yourself the faintest flicker of hope.

Sylvia would be a legally recognized person.

Even if something happened to you—if Sylus found you, if you were forced to run again, or worse—your daughter wouldn’t be invisible anymore. She wouldn’t be a ghost in the system. She would have a name. A record. A tie to the world that no one, not even him, could erase. You’d fought so hard for that. Even in your most uncertain moments, that mission had kept you upright.

The clerk glanced over her screen one more time, eyes darting quickly through the final forms before giving a small, approving nod. She smiled again—a warm, tired kind of smile—and pressed one last key with a soft click that felt louder than it should have.

"So, I’ve got everything put down here," she said, her tone friendly but clipped by the weight of bureaucracy. "Unfortunately, we’re pretty backed up right now. Budget cuts and overflow from the Eastport evacuees have really slowed our timelines. So, pickup option won’t be available for these. I’ll need a residential address to send the documents to..."

You blinked.

Residential address.

Your stomach dropped. That wasn’t good. Not at all. Panic flared low and fast in your chest, though you kept your face neutral.

"And," the clerk added, tilting her head slightly in sympathy, her tone softening further, "it’ll be at least three months before the documents arrive. Possibly longer, depending on processing delays."

You nodded, slowly, though your mind was already spinning.

A residential address. Three months. Possibly longer.

You didn’t have an address anymore. Not a real one. Not one you could afford to leave on record. The idea of staying in one place for that long—of anchoring yourself to any location—felt dangerous. Risky. Almost laughably naïve. You’d been moving spots every few days, never lingering too long in one spot. Leaving a trail, even a bureaucratic one, could lead him straight to you.

But this—this was the cost, wasn’t it? This was what it meant to try to pass as normal. To forge a place in the world for your child, even when you were living on borrowed time and fractured nerves. You wanted Sylvia to grow up with a paper trail, with records and identity and rights. You wanted her to have a shot at the life you never had a chance to build.

You swallowed hard, forcing down the panic rising steadily inside your chest. You couldn’t afford to freeze again. Not here. Not now.

You’d figure something out. You had to.

You felt the tears begin to well in your eyes before you could stop them. The tightness in your chest, the pressure building in your throat—it was too much. You hadn’t slept properly in days, hadn’t eaten anything meaningful, your nerves frayed to the brink. And now this? Another obstacle. Another reminder that even the most basic steps forward could slam you back into helplessness. It was all too much.

“I obviously don’t have an address,” you said, the words tumbling from your mouth more forcefully than intended, your voice cracking at the edges. You blinked fast, trying to keep your vision from blurring. “Look—I’m not trying to be difficult. There has to be some other way, right? I can pay. For pickup here. If that’s what it takes, I’ll pay.”

Your voice pitched higher, edged in desperation. It wasn’t loud, but the emotion behind it was palpable—raw and trembling. The kind of desperation that made people lean in with pity or recoil with discomfort. You hated how vulnerable you felt in that moment, exposed and powerless, standing in a sterile office with your baby strapped to your chest and the weight of your past pressing on every breath.

The clerk’s expression softened even more, her brows knitting together as her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She didn’t seem irritated or skeptical—just sad. Understanding, even. Then, gently, she reached to the side and grabbed a tissue from the small box next to her monitor. Her movements were slow and considerate, like she was afraid moving too fast might make you shatter. She passed it to you through the opening at the bottom of the glass.

“I’m really sorry,” she said quietly, her voice laced with genuine empathy. “If there was more I could do for you, I would. I promise. But unfortunately, I’ll need an address to process the request. Otherwise…you’ll just have to come back once you have one.”

You took the tissue with trembling fingers and clutched it in your palm, your grip tight enough to crumple it. You barely remembered to wipe your cheek as the tears spilled anyway, hot and unwanted. One streaked down your jaw and dripped onto the collar of your coat. Your other hand clenched into a fist at your side, your knuckles turning straining as you tried to steady yourself. Tried to keep your knees from buckling under the weight of everything. Tried to keep breathing.

You nodded, the motion robotic, your mind blanking from the surge of stress. You couldn’t afford to fall apart here, in front of strangers, not with Sylvia nestled against your chest, warm and oblivious to the tension bleeding off of you.

“I… I—” you stammered, the words failing to materialize. You didn’t even know what you were trying to say. That you’d figure something out? That this was your only chance? That she didn’t understand what it meant to be on the run from someone like him?

Then, you felt it.

A hand on your shoulder. Firm. Familiar. Too familiar.

You turned sharply, your body reacting faster than your brain, prepared to shake off whatever well-meaning stranger thought now was the time to offer a hug or unsolicited support. But your breath caught the moment your eyes locked onto the figure behind you.

Dark brown hair, slightly tousled. The faintest smile on his face. And those eyes—violet-tinged, unmistakably sharp, framed by the sort of concern that wasn’t just polite but personal.

Your heart stuttered in your chest. Your limbs went rigid.

Your mouth parted, the air thick in your lungs, barely allowing the name to escape.

"Caleb…?"

The name felt foreign on your tongue, like saying it out loud might somehow conjure ghosts. His presence here, in this city, in this exact building, felt like a dream. He couldn't be here. Had you fully lost it now? The smoke...the fire...the heat...he was supposed to be dead.

But there he was.

His hand didn’t leave your shoulder. He glanced at the clerk behind the glass, his tone calm, controlled.

"Go ahead and send that to 4511 Skyhaven Avenue," he said, his voice clear, with the calm conviction of someone used to stepping in, taking charge.

You stood frozen, your entire body caught between disbelief and confusion. Caleb’s voice—steady, familiar—cut through the chaos in your mind like a knife, grounding you and knocking the breath out of you all at once.

Sylvia whimpered and squirmed on your chest, and you clutched her instinctively, your eyes locked on Caleb as if he might vanish the second you blinked.

What the hell was he doing here?

"You're...alive?"

There was no light, no warmth, no sense of time. Only a vast, numb stillness that stretched on without end, like being submerged beneath miles of water, every sound muffled, every thought sluggish and thick. The world—if it existed—was far, far away.

Xavier floated in a formless abyss, a space that wasn’t quiet so much as deafening with its lack of coherence. Sound came and went like faint radio static, warped and distorted beyond recognition. He wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t awake. He lingered in that strange liminal space in between, caught in a fog of fractured awareness. The boundaries of his own body felt blurred, uncertain. Thoughts came slowly, as if through molasses, fragmented and surreal. Somewhere in the background of his mind, he was dimly aware of sensation: flashes of motion, phantom pain crawling up his spine, and bruises he couldn't fully remember getting.

Voices came in and out, like memories from another lifetime—low and masculine, muttering in that warped underwater tone that made it impossible to discern individual words. The cadence was both foreign and familiar, like deja vu teasing just beyond reach. Then the voices stopped. The silence that followed was heavier than the murmurs—oppressive and ringing in his ears, pressing down on him like a physical weight.

Had they left?

Had he died?

Was this death? Not a dramatic end, but something slow and dissolving? A drift into nowhere?

He wasn’t afraid. There was no terror or resistance. Just the cold numb question lingering in the back of his foggy mind. Was this what the end felt like—endless gray, nothingness that neither hurt nor comforted, just lingered?

But then something shifted.

A whisper of sensation returned to him—a creeping awareness that crawled through his chest and down his arms. The gray veil around his mind began to peel back, just enough to let a flicker of the real world seep in.

Cold.

Hard.

A jolt of physical discomfort dragged him back. His cheek was pressed against something rough and unyielding—concrete or rusted metal, damp and freezing. It leached warmth from his skin, chilling him to his bones. His senses flared with sudden urgency. The air smelled sharp and metallic, like cleaning supplies. The longer he stayed still, the more vivid the world became. The ache in his limbs grew sharper. The numb fog began to burn away.

He tried to move. Just a twitch, a flex of his fingers, anything to prove to himself that he was still there. His eyelids fluttered. His jaw clenched, stiff as if it had been sealed shut for days. A sound escaped his throat—a broken, gravelly groan that startled even him. It sounded hollow, foreign.

He tried again.

He managed to shift his arm slightly—but it jerked to a halt.

Chains.

The clatter of iron links scraped against the ground and echoed into the walls. The noise, sudden and sharp, cut through the dullness like a blade. Panic stirred in his chest, low and simmering. He pulled again. The iron bit into his wrists. Pain flared, sudden and searing. The cuffs were tight—too tight—and heavy. His shoulders screamed from the strain, tendons stretched far beyond what was natural. Every small movement was a battle.

Breathing became a conscious act. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Each breath shallow, filtered through clenched teeth and an aching throat. He blinked harder this time. Light—faint and jaundiced—filtered in. A bare bulb, dangling from an exposed wire, swung overhead, casting erratic shadows that danced across concrete walls.

His head throbbed. His vision swam. The floor beneath him was cold enough to make his muscles seize. His body trembled not just from the chill, but from sheer exhaustion.

He lifted his head fractionally, groaning under the effort. His surroundings began to take shape, and for a brief second, confusion furrowed his brow. A basement, yes—but not the mold-infested, mildew-soaked dungeon he expected. The walls were smooth concrete, clean, almost sterile in their presentation. No visible mold, no dark smears of blood or old rust, no stench of decay. The floor was swept, free of clutter or filth. Not what he'd grown used to in his nightmares of captivity.

It was strange—how much worse that made it feel.

There was still no furniture. Just a lone toilet. No hint of humanity or comfort. Just four clean, lifeless walls and a light that buzzed faintly overhead. And he was still shackled like an animal. The cuffs bit into his wrists and ankles with familiar, cold cruelty. There was nothing kind about the room, even in its cleanliness. It was a place made to contain. Not punish—not yet. But to keep. To wait. To watch.

Everything hurt. From his skull to the soles of his feet. His back throbbed, his neck stiff, his wrists blistered. The soreness wasn’t just physical—it bled into his mind, into the memory of what had happened before he blacked out.

Right. He had walked himself to the outskirts of Linkon. Then those twins...

But he was alive. The bitter irony of that fact sank into his chest like a weight. His life had been chosen for him, preserved deliberately, like something kept on a shelf until needed. Not by chance. Not by luck. Someone had made the decision to keep him breathing, to chain his limbs instead of ending them, to watch instead of bury. And that meant only one thing—

He was still useful.

Sylus still needed something from him.

That thought carried more dread than the agony in his bones, more than the raw cold of the floor biting into his skin. Because whatever it was he wanted—it wouldn’t be with mercy. It wouldn’t be with kindness. No one went to this much trouble for a man they planned to let go.

The realization chilled him in a way the concrete never could. Not just physically, but to his core. Every beat of his heart felt like a countdown.

He wasn’t dead.

Not yet at least.

His body felt like it weighed a thousand tons, every limb anchored by exhaustion, pain, and the unbearable stiffness that came from hours—maybe days—of lying in the same position. A dull, bone-deep ache radiated through him, his joints pulsing with inflammation, his skin raw and oversensitive. Time was a blur. For what felt like an eternity, he didn’t even try to move again—only focused on the slow rise and fall of his chest, the rasp of cold air entering his lungs. His face was pressed to the ground, the concrete gritty against his cheek, and each breath brought the sharp scent of dust and disinfectant into his nostrils. It was sterile in a way that unsettled him—not dirty, not grimy, but empty. Intentionally so.

Eventually, through sheer force of will and stubborn instinct, Xavier shifted his weight. It was an agonizing process—his muscles screamed with protest, brittle with disuse, and every tendon felt pulled tight like overstretched wire. He gritted his teeth, sweat beading along his forehead, and began the slow, punishing journey to sit upright. Groaning, he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog that hung behind his eyes like a dense curtain. The overhead light—flickering in uneven intervals—stabbed at his senses, making his vision swim and his head pound.

He leaned onto one hip, trying to adjust, but the movement dragged his arm taut with a sudden, heavy jolt. Chains clinked loudly, echoing through the otherwise silent room. The iron cuff around his wrist tugged painfully at the skin, already rubbed raw. He lifted his arm as far as the restraint allowed, and the weight of the steel links pulled against him with mechanical indifference. The metal was cold and unyielding, too snug to slide over his wrist, too strong to force open. He could already feel the bruises deepening where the cuff dug into the bone. Any attempt to free himself without help—or a weapon—would be an act of self-mutilation.

Then came the ache. Deep, molten, and all too familiar. Something inside him stirred—unwelcome and instinctive. His Evol. It pulsed faintly under his skin like a second heartbeat, responding to his distress with a violent hunger. He watched helplessly as jagged scales emerged along his forearm, their edges gleaming with a faint iridescence. Crystalline shards bloomed alongside them, radiating a cold shimmer that lit the underside of his arm. The mutation brought with it a wave of agony, a boiling heat that surged from the base of his spine to the tips of his fingers.

He gasped sharply, his breath catching in his throat. The intensity of the pain broke him, sent him toppling backward with a thud that reverberated off the clean walls. His back hit the ground and the wind left his lungs. The chains followed him down, clinking in a rattling metallic cascade. He lay there again, his body limp, chest rising and falling in jagged, uneven breaths. Sweat slicked his brow, the warmth doing little to soothe the burning in his limbs. He felt like he was disintegrating from the inside out.

Seconds—or maybe minutes—passed before he dared open his eyes again. This time, he focused. The world returned in slow, deliberate pieces: the sterile concrete floor, the stark white-gray of the walls, the buzz of the bulb overhead. Everything was sharp in its emptiness. No furniture. Nothing but an expanse of cold space designed to contain, not comfort.

And then he saw it.

In the far upper corner of the room, subtle and quiet, almost camouflaged by the pale wall, sat a camera. Its lens pointed directly at him—watching, recording. A single red dot blinked steadily at its center, a mechanical heartbeat pulsing in time with his dread. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of adrenaline coursing through him.

Someone was watching. Had been watching. Probably since the moment he was dumped here.

He stared at the blinking eye for what felt like an eternity, his body frozen, his breath shallow. Anger stirred in his chest, mixing with fear and confusion. It settled in his gut like molten metal, heavy and slow-burning.

So. He wasn’t alone after all.

He was being observed. Studied.

"Get it over with, Sylus. Seems you were intent on killing me in the end anyway," Xavier rasped, his voice raw and ragged, scraping up from somewhere deep within his chest. Every word tasted like blood and metal, each syllable heavy with months of suffering. His eyes drifted shut, the lids leaden with exhaustion, his lashes crusted with sweat and dried tears. The weight pressing down on him wasn’t just physical—it was everything. The trauma. The hopelessness. The haunting repetition of pain. He braced himself for the inevitable: the soft click of the door, the precise footfalls of his tormentor, and finally, the unmistakable presence of Sylus, as cruelly composed as always.

He could picture him already—red-eyed and immaculate, hands folded behind his back, his lips curled in that smug, patronizing smile that always preceded something awful. Sylus never rushed. No, he was the type who liked to savor his victories, to drag them out. And what greater victory than watching Xavier crumble? He could almost hear the bastard’s voice now: calm, deliberate, dripping with theatrical smugness as he justified it all. As if it wasn’t pure sadism masked behind pretty words.

But there was no sound. No footsteps. No movement.

Only silence.

It stretched so long and thick it became unbearable. Even the low buzz of the overhead light seemed to fade into it, swallowed whole by the stillness. There was no key rattling in the lock. No shadows moving under the doorframe. Nothing but the echo of his own shallow, uneven breathing—harsh and rasping in the too-quiet room.

Xavier let out a breathy, bitter laugh that caught in his throat. His chest rose and fell in weak tremors. Of course. It was never that simple. There would be no swift end. No final blow to take it all away. After everything—the pain, the experiments, the dehumanizing silence, the betrayal—there was no mercy left for him. No release. The suffering would simply continue, unbroken, a slow unspooling of days filled with waiting and aching and dread.

His face contorted with pain as he shifted slightly, pulling against the cuffs instinctively before the sting reminded him of their bite. The bruises on his wrists pulsed in protest. He shut his eyes tighter, willing the thoughts away, but his mind wouldn’t let him rest. It spun back, like it always did, to the only image that offered warmth and torment in equal measure: you.

He remembered your face—not the version that was tear stricken when he last saw you, but the version he saw when things still made sense. When you fought side by side. When a future was still possible. He remembered the softness in your voice, the quiet steadiness that could settle even the chaos inside him. He saw you again, holding the baby. His chest twisted violently at the memory.

Were you somewhere in this house?

His eyes snapped open, sudden clarity cutting through the haze like a blade.

Were you and the baby nearby? Just through one of those walls? Could he scream loud enough to warn you? Would you even come if you heard him? Was that why he’d been brought here, not for torture, but for leverage?

His breathing hitched sharply. It felt like something inside him lit up—weak, small, but undeniable. Hope. It was dangerous. It was stupid. No way in hell Sylus would risk any chance that you knew he was here.

He let the thought hang in the air like a fragile thread, afraid to fully grasp it for fear it might unravel. Yet the possibility clawed at his insides. If you were here—if she was here—then he couldn’t give up. Not yet.

Even in chains. Even beaten and broken.

If there was a chance to protect you, to reach you, to somehow undo even a fraction of the damage Sylus had done—he would take it.

His muscles trembled as he shifted again, testing the weight of the chains, biting back another groan. It didn’t matter that he could barely move. It didn’t matter that he was alone and bruised and had no idea what was waiting for him beyond this moment.

He was breathing.

And that meant he still had a chance.

A reason to hold on.

A reason to fight.

So he waited.

There was nothing else to do—no sense of time, no stimuli beyond the fluorescent glare of a ceiling light that buzzed like a low, nagging headache lodged behind his temples. The world had shrunk down to this box, this moment, this airless silence. Xavier lay flat against the concrete floor, every inch of his body weighed down by soreness and bruises, his limbs heavy with fatigue. Sleep came in sputtering flickers, never fully arriving. The light wouldn’t let it. The ache in his spine wouldn’t let it. The chain tugging at his wrist every time he so much as shifted was a leash that yanked him back into this reality before his mind could wander too far.

He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to escape the sterile glare. Behind his eyelids danced fragmented images—flashes of fire, the scent of blood, the sound of you laughing once in the distant past. None of it stayed long. None of it stayed clear. Time passed like fog: weightless, formless, and cruelly slow.

It wasn’t until the low metallic groan of a door opening shattered the stillness that he shot upright, heart hammering. A jolt of adrenaline spiked through his system, sharp enough to override the pain for a moment. The sound of footsteps followed—slow, measured, deliberate. Heavy boots on concrete. The cadence of someone confident. Someone who didn’t have to rush.

Xavier twisted to see, but the chains dug in fast. The metal cuffs snapped against his skin, the linked restraints tugging him short. He hissed, body recoiling against the burn.

"I wouldn't struggle too much," came a voice—smooth, composed, tinged with dry amusement. "Those cuffs are programmed to detonate if removed or broken any other way besides the button I hold here."

Sylus.

Even before Xavier fully turned, he knew.

The voice alone was enough to coil his gut with revulsion. But as his eyes landed on him—on Sylus standing there at the entrance of the cell—it solidified something visceral. The bastard looked almost exactly the same, and yet entirely different. He still wore his signature composure like armor—his coat sharp, tailored, his posture upright—but there were cracks now. Fatigue hung under his red eyes, darkening them. His shoulders, though squared, carried something more than just authority now. Weight. Maybe even regret. But Xavier didn’t believe in it. Not from him.

Sylus held up a small black device between his fingers. Its blinking green light pulsed like a heartbeat.

Xavier stared, breath sharp and unsteady. He scanned the man from head to toe. Same white-grey hair, neat and well styled. Same crimson stare that always seemed to see too much. And yet, there was a stiffness to his stance. A tension that hadn’t been there before. It was subtle, but it was there.

"You’ve certainly seen better days, Sylus," Xavier muttered, voice rough as gravel, thick with disdain. The words tasted sour in his mouth.

Sylus arched a brow, the hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

"Likewise, Xavier," he said coolly, stepping farther into the room. The sound of his shoes echoed with every movement, punctuating the silence. "I suppose we’re both long past silly introductions, aren’t we? Doesn’t take much to see that."

The way he spoke, casual and deliberate, set Xavier’s teeth on edge. He wanted to stand. Wanted to lunge. But the cuffs burned at his wrists, the pain humming louder the more he tried to resist.

Sylus circled him slowly now, never quite closing the distance, like a predator sizing up a wounded rival. His gaze drifted over Xavier's frame with clinical curiosity, pausing at the edges of protruding scales, at the jagged shards still embedded in his forearms.

"You’re deteriorating faster than I expected," Sylus mused. "Though, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You were always somewhat reckless. Becoming EVER's free guinea pig wasn't your smartest choice."

Xavier didn’t respond immediately. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched tight. The pain in his body flared again, but he pushed through it, breathing through his nose. So what? Sylus was here to gloat? To revel in his misery?

"That was simply the price I had to pay to help the girl that I love," Xavier snarled, his voice edged with desperation and fire, words scraping out through a throat still raw from hours—no, days—of silence and pain. His bloodshot eyes blazed with fury, his chest heaving as he leaned forward despite the pull of the chains that dug brutally into his skin. He could feel the cold bite of the cuffs, but he didn’t care. He needed Sylus to hear that.

He needed him to know what love actually looked like, even if it came from a broken body.

"Love is a feeling a monster like you wouldn't know about."

The reaction was instantaneous.

There was no sound, no preparation. Just a blur of red mist, impossibly fast, and then a large hand snapping tight around his face. Sylus had crossed the room in the blink of an eye, a predator uncoiling from shadow to strike. One of his hands wrapped around Xavier’s throat and jaw, pressing with precise, terrifying force. Xavier’s breath hitched violently, a strangled gasp ripping from his chest as his head was yanked upward.

The pressure was immense.

His jaw protested under the weight of Sylus's grip, every bone in his face throbbing as if it might crack apart. His eyes watered instantly. Every instinct screamed to pull away, to fight—but he was restrained, helpless. Trapped.

Sylus’s face hovered mere inches from his own, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable but laced with menace. His right eye burned with unnatural intensity, casting a faint, eerie glow over both of their faces. It wasn’t just fury—it was a promise. A warning.

“I wouldn’t push my buttons right now,” Sylus snarled, his voice low, guttural, and thick with restrained violence. The kind of voice that made your blood turn cold. Each syllable carried weight, a slow-dripping venom laced with threat.

Xavier's limbs jerked uselessly beneath the restraints, his wrists bruising against the chains as he instinctively tried to pull away. But there was nowhere to go. His vision began to darken at the edges, the pressure in his skull mounting rapidly. It was happening again. That same choking force he’d felt back during that first car ride with Sylus—the moment he understood just how easily this man could end him.

It was power. It was control. And it was terrifying.

But just as the edges of his consciousness began to fray, Sylus released him. The sudden lack of pressure sent Xavier reeling, and he hit the floor with a harsh, echoing thud. The chains clattered loudly as his body collapsed, curling in slightly from the force. His back arched in reflex as he choked, struggling to suck air back into his lungs. Each gasp was ragged and painful, like breathing through shards of glass. The burn in his throat was unbearable.

His body convulsed once, twice, before he coughed hard, the sound ripping from deep within. His chest ached with every breath, and his mouth tasted of iron. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the stars from his vision, the light overhead swimming in and out of focus.

Then he heard it.

Laughter.

Low, dark, rich with cruelty—it echoed through the sterile room like a haunting. Sylus’s laugh was deliberate, drawn out, the sound of someone who reveled in their dominance. Someone who wanted his victim to know just how powerless they were.

The sound slithered into every corner of Xavier’s mind, crawling down his spine like ice water. He grit his teeth, fists clenched even within the shackles, as that laughter grew louder, filling the cold void of the basement like smoke.

"How pathetic of you to think you'd ever get the chance to raise my daughter with her," Sylus said, his tone low and deceptively measured. It carried the same cold steadiness he always used to wield power, but this time it trembled at the edges. There was something fractured beneath the surface—tension collecting in the way his jaw flexed with restraint, in the twitch beneath his right eye, in the deliberate control of each word that dripped with contempt. The venom in his voice was no longer just performative. It was personal. Deep-rooted. Raw.

Each word landed with precision, the kind meant to cut more than hurt—meant to scar. Designed to bleed.

Xavier lay sprawled on the floor, struggling to catch his breath, his chest heaving in irregular intervals as he fought to still the trembling in his limbs. His face was damp with sweat, blood matting near his jawline where the earlier chokehold had left its mark. He could still feel the ghost of Sylus’s grip lingering like a brand. Gasping through parted lips, he blinked hard, clearing the blur that refused to leave his vision. Every part of his body ached. Every nerve was screaming.

And yet, through it all, his mind remained sharp enough to catch the implication. Sylus knew. Somehow, impossibly—he knew about the dream. The one where Xavier had held her. You. And Evia. A world that had felt so distant, so unreal, like a fleeting fantasy stitched together by hope and desperation.

How did he know?

It didn’t take much to connect the dots. That cursed eye. That glowing crimson orb that stared too long and too deeply. Sylus’s Evol—Xavier had suspected it gave him insight beyond human limits. Maybe it let him glimpse into thoughts. Or dreams. Or fears. Maybe it was more than just sight—maybe it was surveillance of the soul.

Whatever it was, Xavier understood now that nothing he had imagined—nothing he had hoped—was truly private anymore.

Still, he said nothing. Not out of fear. Not out of submission. But because he recognized something in Sylus’s posture that chilled him more than any threat: unpredictability. The man looked composed, yes. But it was a hollow kind of poise, the kind that trembled at the seams. Xavier could see it in the tightness of his stance, the over-controlled cadence of his breath, the rigid way he stood as if restraining something primal. Rage. Jealousy. Something worse.

The Sylus Xavier had fought before was a strategist. Calculated. Unshakable.

This man? He was volatile.

And Xavier knew better than to provoke a man already dancing on the edge.

He drew in a slow, pained breath, the metallic tang of blood thick in his mouth. He could feel it trickling from his split lip, dripping in uneven lines down his chin. The chains binding his wrists had already rubbed the skin raw, and every movement felt like it peeled another layer away. But worse than the physical pain was the humiliation of being brought so low in front of him—of knowing that Sylus had glimpsed the one fragile piece of peace Xavier had left. And was now poised to crush it.

Sylus stepped forward again, each footfall deliberate, echoing in the sterile stillness of the basement. He loomed over Xavier like a stormcloud given form—his shadow stretching long across the cracked floor, swallowing the light.

"You're lucky you still have purpose," he hissed, the softness of the words belying the danger behind them. "Otherwise, I'd skin you alive for even daring to have such thoughts."

Xavier flinched—not from fear, but from the force of the words. They lashed through the air with lethal grace, razor-sharp and merciless. Each syllable seemed designed to dig into the already-bleeding cracks in Xavier’s mind, pressing down where it hurt the most.

And yet, he didn’t look away. Even battered, bruised, chained, Xavier met his gaze with a quiet defiance. His breath trembled. His body throbbed with exhaustion. But in his eyes was the one thing Sylus couldn’t steal, couldn’t shatter: resilience.

Even if Sylus saw every thought, every weakness—he would never see surrender.

Not from Xavier.

"What purpose?" Xavier choked out, his voice gravelly and hoarse, the words barely making it past the raw, burning tightness in his throat. His muscles trembled from exertion and pain, but he still managed to shift just enough to spit a glob of blood onto the concrete floor at Sylus’s feet. The thick smear hit with a wet splat, blooming into a vivid red against the pale gray surface. He hadn't done it out of defiance, his mouth was simply pooling with blood. Xavier tensed, preparing to feel more of Sylus's wrath.

Sylus stared down at the blood, his expression unreadable at first. But a flicker passed through his crimson eyes—disgust, annoyance, something colder still. His upper lip curled as though Xavier's very presence offended his senses. Then, without warning, Sylus turned his back. It was a calculated dismissal, a move laced with contempt, as if Xavier didn’t deserve the courtesy of his gaze any longer.

“In due time, you’ll find out,” Sylus said over his shoulder. His voice was clipped and deceptively calm, but it lacked the polish he usually wore like armor. There was strain beneath the words, subtle but unmistakable. The way his shoulders tightened with each syllable, the too-careful pace of his breath—he was close to unraveling. “However, my patience has worn thin. I can’t stand to be in the same room as you much longer.”

He strode across the sterile chamber with slow, deliberate steps, the echo of his shoes cracking through the silence like a judge’s gavel. From the inside pocket of his dark coat, he pulled a sleek black phone and raised it to his ear. His other hand twitched slightly at his side, fingers clenching and releasing as if trying to bleed tension out through the knuckles.

“Get down here,” he said flatly into the receiver, voice devoid of emotion. “Feed him. Clean up the mess.”

There was no confirmation, no acknowledgment—just silence as he ended the call and slipped the device back into his coat with mechanical ease. As though it were nothing more than a task being crossed off a list. Then, without another glance at Xavier, he exited the room. The heavy metal door shut behind him with a resounding, echoing thud, followed by the finality of a lock clicking into place. The sound reverberated through the chamber like a sentence being passed.

Xavier let out a slow, shaking breath and slumped back against the wall. His entire body trembled—not from fear, but from pure, crushing exhaustion. His muscles were taut with soreness, and every joint screamed when he moved. Still, a bitter, exhausted scoff bubbled up from his chest. For all the pain, for all the unknowns, at least Sylus was gone. For now.

Finally. Solitude.

The tension that had wrapped around him like steel wires began to loosen, though the cuffs still bit into his wrists. He let his head fall back against the cold stone wall, the surface unyielding but familiar now. The air was thick with the sterile scent of concrete and copper. The dim light overhead buzzed like a warning, flickering faintly.

His mind, though, was anything but still. The question echoed in his skull like a drumbeat: What purpose?

He had expected torture. Had braced for it. Even welcomed it in some small, masochistic part of his heart that believed it would end the waiting, the not knowing. Pain he could handle. Pain was familiar. But this?

Sylus didn’t want to break him quickly. No, this was a longer game. There was strategy in his tone, a measured control in his words. That terrified Xavier more than any threat. Because it meant Sylus had plans. Plans that involved him. Plans that were unfolding in real time.

And he didn’t know what any of it meant.

He exhaled shakily, closing his eyes. What if it wasn’t just about leverage? What if Sylus didn’t intend to kill him at all—but use him? Twist him into something unrecognizable? A pawn? A weapon?

The thought made his skin crawl.

His jaw clenched, and the pain flared across his face where Sylus’s hand had been. Blood still trickled from the corner of his mouth, sticky and metallic, a reminder that the moment had happened. That he wasn’t imagining any of this.

But beneath the haze of pain and fear, something deeper pulsed. Anger. Not just at Sylus—but at himself. For being caught. For being weak. For letting things get this far.

He wouldn’t let it happen again.

Whatever Sylus’s plan was, whatever he intended to do—Xavier would find a way to survive it.

And if the opportunity ever came…he would make damn sure Sylus didn’t walk away from it.

After what felt like hours, the heavy metal door groaned open again, the noise slicing through the sterile stillness of the basement like a jagged knife. The hinges cried out in protest as if they, too, resented the interruption. The sound made Xavier’s skin crawl, but he didn’t move. He stayed exactly as he was—slumped against the wall, one leg half-curled beneath him, the other limp, his breathing shallow and even. Every instinct told him to stay still. To wait. To observe. This wasn’t Sylus. The room didn’t change the way it did when Sylus entered. It wasn’t as suffocating. The air didn’t grow thick with menace.

This presence was looser. Less practiced. Careless.

He risked cracking one swollen eye open just a sliver.

Two figures strolled inside like they had no reason to be afraid of anything at all. Their laughter bounced against the cold concrete, crude and unfiltered, totally at odds with the grim emptiness around them. Boots scraped lazily across the floor as they made their way in, the rhythm casual, their voices pitched just high enough to carry but not enough to echo with purpose. They were comfortable here. That fact alone made Xavier’s blood simmer.

“Luke...does he look dead to you?” one of them whispered in a mocking tone, the edge of his voice curling with amusement.

Xavier could feel the vibration of the man’s footsteps near his shoulder. His head throbbed harder, and he focused on keeping his expression slack.

“Nonsense,” came the other voice, drier and with a hint of sarcasm. “He’s clearly breathing. Boss man didn’t rough him up that bad. Honestly, we probably did worse getting him here.”

That earned a raucous round of laughter from them both. It was loud. Thoughtless. Disrespectful. It grated at Xavier’s nerves, but he willed his body not to react. Not yet.

Then, a sharp nudge to his shoulder—a boot.

“Hey. Time to eat.”

Xavier exhaled slowly through his nose before opening his eyes. The overhead light burned into his retinas, and it took a moment for his blurred vision to adjust. He blinked up at the two men now fully in view.

They stood over him with the easy arrogance of people who thought themselves untouchable. Matching dark uniforms, tactical boots, gloves tucked into belts. One of them—a man with a bird mask—crouched down and shoved a tray across the floor with the toe of his boot.

On it sat a dented metal bowl filled with a grayish mush that steamed faintly, along with a cup of cloudy water. Xavier eyed it without interest. The smell that wafted up was bland, but functional—protein, starch, possibly canned vegetables. Engineered survival food.

“It doesn’t look the best,” the man said with a shrug, beaming like he’d delivered some gourmet dish. “But I can promise it’s a balanced blend. Veggies, meat, and uh... basically everything a person needs to live. I think.”

He paused, clearly waiting for a reaction that never came.

With a small stretch, the man gestured between himself and the other. “I’m Kieran, by the way. This here’s my brother Luke. Figured we’d get properly acquainted since, y’know, this is our third time meeting.”

Xavier stared up at them with blank intensity, his lips parted slightly but silent. His expression betrayed nothing, but internally a sharp jolt passed through him.

Of course. The brothers.

Now, the pieces clicked into place. The masks. The ambush in the woods. The taunting voices, one slightly higher-pitched and manic, the other more grounded but no less cruel. It had been these two. The ones who’d started all of this—dragged him out of his last safe space, beat him down, and delivered him like cargo to Sylus.

Now they stood before him, still masked. Names to go with these hidden faces. Kieran and Luke. He was certain he had already learned their names at some point. Wasn't it you that had told him more about these two? He wasn't sure anymore. Everything was fuzzy. The reminder was nice nonetheless.

A part of him, somewhere deep in the frost-laced pit of his chest, locked that detail away with razor-wire certainty.

He’d remember them. He wouldn't forget again.

He’d remember everything.

"How am I supposed to eat if my wrists are chained?" Xavier grumbled, his voice gravelly and hoarse, thick with exhaustion and barely concealed irritation. He shifted, the effort straining muscles that had long since gone stiff from disuse and cold. The cuffs chafed against his raw skin, their metallic bite unrelenting. Still, he managed to push himself into a slightly more upright position, grimacing as a lance of pain rippled through his back and down his shoulders. Even that small movement felt monumental.

Kieran, now crouching near the edge of the room, paused and theatrically tapped his chin with a finger, adopting a comically exaggerated motion of contemplation. His face flicked toward his brother as if sharing a joke too obvious to put into words.

"Good question," Kieran said with a drawl, dragging out the words like a bad actor in a farce. "Let me think..." He snapped his fingers suddenly, as if struck by divine inspiration. "I guess you could eat it like a dog. Looks like dog food anyway."

Luke, still kneeling a few feet away and casually scrubbing the bloodstained concrete with a grimy rag, perked up at the sound of his brother’s joke. He looked over at Xavier, laughing and raised his gloved hands in mock imitation of dog paws.

"Woof woof!" he barked, twisting his head in a sloppy pantomime of a canine, eyes likely glinting with malicious amusement behind his mask. 

Their laughter burst out in harsh, grating peals, bouncing off the sterile walls with a cruel sharpness. The sound was more suffocating than the silence had been. It infected the air with a twisted levity that clashed violently with the grim reality of the room. It wasn’t just mockery. It was sport. It was entertainment at Xavier’s expense, and they were enjoying every second of it.

Xavier didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t lift his head. He let his chin drop to his chest, shoulders hunched forward, as though the weight of the chains were finally dragging him down. But his silence wasn’t defeat—it was calculation. His breathing was slow and deliberate, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles along his neck stood out in sharp relief.

Was this part of the plan? Was this Sylus’s idea of a good time? A psychological breakdown delivered through cruelty and humiliation? Xavier couldn’t shake the feeling that every second in this room was being scrutinized, evaluated. That the pain, the food, even the taunts, were just variables in some twisted equation Sylus was solving. Even his food was grinded into mush. There would be zero sensory enjoyment here, even down to being allowed to chew his meals.

His eyes flicked upward, barely shifting from their downward cast. There it was. The camera in the corner, its red indicator light blinking steadily like a heartbeat. Watching. Recording. Judging.

Sylus was out there somewhere. Watching this unfold from a monitor, probably lounging with that self-satisfied smirk he always wore when he knew he had control. Xavier could almost hear the bastard's voice in his head, dripping with smug superiority.

And what was he now? Some lab rat, stuck in a basement while his captors jeered at him like children poking at something half-dead?

He inhaled through his nose, long and quiet, and clenched his fists again within the confines of his restraints. The metal bit deeper into already inflamed skin, but the pain was grounding. A reminder that he was still here. Still fighting. Still himself.

He could endure this. He would endure this.

“Anywaysss. If you need to use the bathroom, the toilet’s over there in the corner. Just call out. Someone will help you with your, uh... pants. Not me though. One of the other staff. I’m not doing that,” Kieran said as he dusted off his hands, grinning with the self-satisfaction of a man who believed he was the highlight of his own joke. His voice was filled with artificial levity, the kind that grated against Xavier’s ears, like nails skimming across glass. He stretched with a long, theatrical groan, arms arching above his head as if this—mocking a chained man—was just another mundane part of his day.

Luke approached him, snapping something cold and metal across his neck. Ah. Evol sealing neckbrace. Xavier sighed. At least it might keep his Evol under a bit more control.

“Goodnight, Xaviey. Sleep tight!” Kieran added, his tone sugary and high-pitched, voice echoing off the sterile walls with a grating cheerfulness that felt almost grotesque in the stark, metallic gloom.

“Don’t let the Wanderers bite!” Luke sang out behind him with mock enthusiasm, practically skipping after his brother. He slowed just before the threshold and leaned in toward Kieran with a stage whisper, “Wait...isn’t he technically a Wanderer now?”

Their snickers overlapped like the laughter of schoolyard bullies, fading into the corridor beyond as the door swung closed. The thick metal clanged shut with a deafening finality, locking Xavier back into silence.

The fluorescent lights overhead continued their incessant hum, casting a harsh, clinical glow across the room. No shadows softened the hard corners. No relief from the brightness or the cold. It was a kind of prison designed not just to contain a person—but to strip them.

Xavier sat still, chained, silent. The tension from their presence had barely begun to recede, but the echoes of their cruelty lingered. He exhaled shakily, shoulders sagging, eyes drifting toward the plate of lukewarm slop in front of him. The mushy, unidentifiable meal—grayish, gelatinous—sat congealing slightly on the metal tray. Nutrient-rich, maybe. Palatable? Not in the slightest.

It mocked him. Everything in this room mocked him. From the restraints that cut into his wrists, to the food that reminded him he wasn’t even afforded the dignity of utensils. From the hard, flat surface beneath him to the surveillance camera blinking steadily in the corner like a watchful, unblinking eye.

He was no longer a man here. No longer a hunter, a soldier, a friend, or even an enemy. Here, he was a chained beast.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the wave of frustration and nausea crest and fall. His body still ached. The scales pushing through his skin hadn’t retracted. The cold energy within him still pulsed faintly, a constant reminder that something inside him was wrong—fundamentally changed. His very biology had turned against him, and now even eating required humiliation.

He had wanted to scream. Still did, somewhere deep in the pit of his chest. He wanted to rip these chains, tear the room apart, and freeze every last one of them to ash. But the scream wouldn’t come. There was no space left for it. It would only echo back at him, swallowed by the same walls that swallowed his name.

None of that mattered in this moment.

Right now, survival mattered more than pride. More than appearances. If he couldn’t move forward, he could at least endure. And if he could endure, he could plan. And if he could plan, he could escape.

So with grim resolve, Xavier leaned forward, jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin line. He glanced briefly toward the camera again—one more time—as if daring it to watch what came next. Then, like the creature they thought he was, he lowered his head and began to eat.

Mouthful by mouthful, he lapped at the food like a starving animal, each bite a new bruise to his dignity. It was cold, chalky, and textureless, clinging to the inside of his mouth like paste. The water wasn’t much better—lukewarm and faintly metallic. But he drank it. Forced it down. Because he had no choice.

Every movement was slow, mechanical, filled with silent fury. He could feel the soreness in his limbs, the sting of the manacles, the ache in his jaw where Sylus’s hand had nearly crushed it. But none of it stopped him.

Every disgusting mouthful gave him just a little more strength. Every swallow, a little more clarity. Because somewhere beyond these concrete walls, there was still something left to fight for.

And he’d be damned if he died in this cage before he saw you again.

Before he made Sylus bleed.

Anger didn’t even begin to describe what Sylus felt—it seethed deeper than mere rage, tighter than frustration. It was disgust, acidic and venomous. The memory of standing in the same room as Xavier clung to him like the stench of blood, thick and sour. He had scrubbed his hands twice already, and now the steaming water from the rainfall shower poured over his broad shoulders and down his spine, but it wasn’t enough to wash away the revulsion coiling in his gut.

He tilted his head back under the cascade, shutting his eyes, fingers pressing into his scalp. Every time he blinked, he saw it again—those flickering remnants of thought buried in Xavier’s battered mind. He hadn’t even needed to pry deep. They had been floating on the surface, plain and raw. Fantasies. Longings. Delusions.

Xavier, dreaming of family. Of redemption. Of her.

The thought of him holding her—his daughter—in his arms, of raising her in some laughably domestic life as if she belonged to him, made Sylus’s stomach churn. His jaw clenched hard, neck tensing beneath the stream. The very idea of Xavier imagining himself as your partner, as his daughters father, was offensive beyond measure.

It had taken every single ounce of restraint not to snap Xavier’s limbs again. Not from vengeance—he'd already gotten that—but from pure disgust. And yet, Sylus had stopped himself. Not out of mercy. Never mercy. But strategy.

As much as he would have liked to break the man further, Xavier’s body—weak and deteriorating—was already near the edge. In his current condition, he was hardly suitable for anything. He could barely move. His Evol was destabilizing rapidly, even while he had been passed out. The evol sealing collar would be enough to keep it in check for now but...he wasn’t bait. Not yet. He was a liability. And Sylus had no use for liabilities.

Still, there were options. A carefully framed image, perhaps. One that showed Xavier just conscious enough, just bloodied enough to be unmistakable. A single photo, slipped into an envelope. Left somewhere you would find it. Just a glimpse to unhinge you.

But to send that image, he needed to know where you were. And that part…that part was still a challenge.

He opened his eyes and turned off the water with a sharp twist. Droplets still clung to his pale skin, steam curling from his chest as he stepped out onto the heated tile. He grabbed a black towel and wrapped it around his waist, the fabric clinging to his hips as he moved with practiced grace into the bedroom.

The room was pristine. Cold. Just like he liked it. Black walls, darkened windows, and shelves lined with weapons and relics of battles past.

He needed a distraction—something sharp enough to slice through the gnawing urge to storm back down into the basement and wring Xavier’s neck until something gave. The bastard had pushed him close to the edge. It wasn’t just the memories Sylus had seen crawling around in that decaying mind—it was the gall of it all. The images Xavier clung to. The fantasy of raising his child. The fantasy of her choosing him. That kind of delusion should’ve been burned out of him long ago when his bones were snapped in half.

But Sylus had been patient. He hadn’t crushed him, not completely. Not yet. There was still use to squeeze from him if he played his cards right.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, pacing the edges of his room like a wolf trapped too long in its own den. Muscles tense. Breath shallow. The sharp, controlled fury that usually simmered beneath his exterior now bristled just below the surface, straining to break free. His reflection in the black glass of the monitor glared back at him—eyes red-rimmed with fatigue, jaw clenched tight, but still burning with that unmistakable glint of control. Fragile, but intact.

That’s when he remembered it.

The bolt.

It struck him with the clarity of a blade to the ribs—small, insignificant in the moment, but impossible to ignore. He pivoted, strides sharp and deliberate, and crossed to the small chest of drawers near the far wall. His fingers yanked it open with a force that made the contents rattle. Inside, nestled between a stack of outdated burner phones and backup weapon chips, sat the tiny piece of metal.

The bolt.

Unassuming. Worn, but clean. Slight corrosion but not much. Not dusty. It looked almost...recent. Found near the front gate the morning he returned from that ride. He had dismissed it initially. Just another loose part, maybe from the garden maintenance bots or one of the older vehicles. But something about it had stuck. Like a thorn under the skin.

He had pocketed it on a whim, almost out of habit. Told himself he’d inspect it later. Then he'd got caught up in affairs with Onychinus and dealing with Xavier's pending arrival.

But now? Now he had time. More importantly, now he had reason.

Sylus stalked to the adjacent couch, sat heavily onto the cushions, bolt still curled in his palm. He reached forward and grabbed the matte-black laptop on the table. It sprang to life the moment his fingers touched the keys, biometric access bypassing every lock in milliseconds.

His fingers moved with quiet efficiency, navigating to the server directory of his estate’s surveillance network. The interface was as cold and clinical as the man himself—window after window of time-stamped footage. He ignored the motion alerts and scrubbed manually. Day by day. Hour by hour.

He wasn't finding anything useful. Just mundane, monotonous footage. The kind that would normally bore him to the point of turning off the system altogether. Grainy clips of his staff entering and exiting the property at their usual hours, security drones drifting lazily across the edge of the estate grounds, and of course, a fleeting shot of himself mounting his motorcycle and tearing down the drive. Nothing suspicious. Nothing interesting. The kind of predictable routine that was supposed to bring him peace.

But tonight, it didn’t. Tonight, it only fueled his irritation. The hum of the laptop’s fan seemed to roar in his ears, the glow of the screen burning into his vision. It was a monotonous loop of nothing. And still, he kept watching. Kept scrubbing through, as if the next frame might contain something—anything—to justify why he had let a loose bolt become a fixation.

It was absurd. He wasn’t the type to obsess over meaningless details. He ruled through power and precision, not paranoia. And yet here he sat, half-naked and damp from the shower, hunched over a screen in the dead of night, hoping a bolt would lead him to some revelation. He exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers twitching toward the trackpad to shut the whole thing down.

But something held him back. A flicker in his gut. A pulse of instinct that he’d learned never to ignore.

So he scrolled forward. Just a little more. One more half-hour block.

And then...

His breath caught hard, sharp enough to sting.

The screen shifted, and suddenly the mundane became impossible. His spine stiffened. The edges of the laptop dug into his palms as his grip tightened involuntarily. There, moving toward the steps of his home, unmistakably real in the camera footage—

Was you.

Clear as day. No disguise. Just you, in the flesh, in the wind, eyes scanning the porch like someone trying not to wake a sleeping beast. Your shoulders were hunched, your pace uneven. And then—

You weren’t alone.

You were pushing a stroller.

Onto his porch.

Of his estate.

Sylus didn’t move. Couldn’t. His fingers stayed locked around the edges of the laptop, his breath shallow. It felt like the world around him dropped into a vacuum—silent, weightless, frozen in time. The drone of the screen was gone. The slight creak of the couch beneath him might as well have been thunder.

His pupils blew wide. His heart thundered in his chest like it was trying to crack open his ribs. This wasn’t something he could’ve prepared for. Not even in his wildest, darkest dreams.

You. And the baby.

He leaned forward so quickly the laptop nearly slid off his knees, eyes narrowing as he tried to see more—to absorb more. You paused at the steps. Your head tilted downward. Your hand hovered over the handle. Your hesitation was palpable, even in silence. The camera angle was angled just enough to obscure the inside of the stroller, but Sylus didn’t need to see it.

He knew. His whole being knew.

That was her.

His daughter.

The one he had only imagined until now. The one he had mourned in silence. The one he had never held.

His gaze locked onto the subtle, telling details—the way your hands shook slightly as you adjusted the blanket over the stroller’s edge. The way your lips moved, like you were whispering to her or maybe to yourself. The way your body swayed on the porch like the very act of being there was threatening to collapse you.

What were you thinking?

What were you whispering?

Was it an offering? A surrender? A cruel test?

He couldn’t know. And the uncertainty drove a spike through the center of his chest.

He watched with aching fingers, knuckles pale with pressure, as you turned away from the stroller. You hesitated—just a beat. Your shoulders curled inward, and your mouth moved like you were whispering something, maybe to her, maybe to yourself. There were no microphones on this camera angle. No way to catch what you'd said. Just the shape of your lips and the way your chest rose and fell like every breath was a battle. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, devouring every twitch of your body, every flinch, every faltering step.

And then you bolted.

A full sprint. Wild. Desperate. Like the act of leaving her behind had torn something loose inside you. Like the pain of it was so unbearable that you couldn’t risk even one more second spent near the weight of what you were doing. The image of your fleeing figure blurred slightly as the camera struggled to track the motion. But Sylus saw it all.

His breath caught in his throat. His chest didn’t rise. He didn’t blink.

Sylus stared, unmoving, as the image played out. He didn’t rewind yet. He didn’t need to. That single moment burned itself into the back of his eyes like a scar. Like it had been carved into the walls of his skull.

You had abandoned her.

And for a moment—just a brief, stuttering second—his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. It felt like being punched by something invisible, something heavy and cold. A familiar chill slid up his spine. That pain, sudden and sharp, twisted into something darker. Why? Genuinely, why had you done this? What had possessed you to bring her here, to his home, only to flee like a ghost in the wind?

Did you resent her? Was it guilt? Was it fear? Had the burden of motherhood broken you? Or was this some sick test—an emotional punishment? No, surely you had no idea he was here.

Why not come to him?

He felt himself spiraling, breathing quickening, the pulse in his throat pounding hard. His jaw clenched so tight he felt the pressure all the way into his temples. His assumptions had been correct. He knew you would fracture. He knew you were nearing your limit. Sharing a dream with you even momentarily had told him that. But this…this act had ripped away every fantasy he’d allowed himself to indulge in about your reunion. The longing in your eyes, the apology, the slow surrender. Gone. Disintegrated like ash.

The reality was far crueler.

You had come to him unknowingly, only to vanish again. Leaving only questions in your wake.

And yet—beneath all of that emotion—another thought screamed loudest:

Where was his daughter?

Because when he returned to the estate that morning, the porch had been empty.

Completely, inexplicably empty.

There had been no sign of the stroller. No cry. No warmth. Just silence and cold concrete.

A baby had not been waiting for him.

Sylus’s spine snapped straighter, and his fingers flew over the keyboard, chest tightening with an anxious fury that made his skin feel tight. He scrolled forward in the footage, jaw set, eyes narrowing as he swept minute by minute, second by second, across the timeline. He combed through each camera, shifted between angles, recalibrated the zoom, and adjusted contrast where needed. He was scanning everything—the porch, the driveway, the shadows at the edge of the frame. Anything. Any motion. Any shape.

Where had she gone?

Who had taken her?

What time exactly did she vanish?

Had someone else known about the drop? Was someone watching you? Following you?

Had someone taken his daughter out from under him while he was gone?

And more importantly—how the hell had he missed it?

His vision tunneled as he scrolled, sweat beginning to bead at the base of his neck. This wasn’t just a failure. This was personal. He had set every trap, tightened every net, and you had still managed to slip through. And worse yet—so had she.

No.

He wouldn’t accept that.

He would find the moment. He would find the frame. He would find the person responsible.

He scrolled forward with eyes like daggers, skipping minute after minute with surgical precision. The footage blurred together in a grayscale haze, just the same still image repeating itself like a nightmare that refused to shift. The porch sat quiet. Abandoned. That damned stroller, tiny and immobile, perched like a ghost on the doorstep. Each time he clicked forward, he half-expected something—someone—to enter the frame. A stranger. A threat. A mistake that would haunt him.

But then—

Movement.

It was small at first. A flicker of motion just outside the lens's periphery. He slowed the playback to a crawl, eyes narrowed and breath caught like a fist around his lungs. You stumbled back into view, breathless, shoulders heaving with the effort of running or perhaps holding yourself together. Your face twisted in agony, jaw trembling as if caught between sobbing and screaming. Even with the grainy filter of surveillance, the rawness of your pain bled through.

The way you collapsed beside the stroller—it was like watching a woman break open. You dropped to your knees so hard he winced reflexively. Your hands fumbled with the blanket as if needing to confirm she was real, still there, still breathing. Then you lifted her, clutched her to your chest with the urgency of someone who had just been dragged back from the edge of a cliff. Your cries were silent through the footage, but Sylus could almost hear them. Like echoes bouncing through his own chest.

You rocked her with trembling arms, your lips moving fast—pleading, apologizing, murmuring some sacred litany only the two of you could understand. You curled your entire body around her, shielding her from a world you’d just tried to abandon her to.

And Sylus watched. Completely still. No breath, no blinking.

You had come back.

The emotions that flooded him weren’t easy to untangle. Relief surged first, sudden and searing like a brand against his ribs. It made his eyes sting, though he refused to acknowledge it. You hadn’t left her. You hadn’t followed through. You had broken—but not completely. Not in the way that truly mattered. He let that fact settle in his chest like a weight he’d been carrying for years had suddenly lightened.

But it didn’t take long for the warmth of that relief to curdle into something darker. Disappointment twisted its claws into his gut. Frustration throbbed hot beneath his skin. Because even now—after everything—he still couldn’t see her clearly. The way you held her, hunched forward, swaddled tightly, made it impossible to glimpse her face. The blanket covered her head entirely. No skin. No hair. No visual anchor. Couldn’t even tell if she had your nose, eyes, nothing. And that mystery gnawed at him like a splinter under his skin.

His jaw clenched as he sat forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. The air felt electric with tension. You were right there—mere feet from his door, your presence bleeding into his reality in a way no dream ever could. You had returned. Held her. Spoken to her. And then what?

So what the hell had you been thinking in the first place?

Had you truly intended to leave her there forever? Had the weight of motherhood crushed you so completely that this—this act of near-abandonment—felt like the only option? Had you convinced yourself she’d be safer without you? With someone else?

The recklessness of it made his blood pressure spike. What if someone else had found her? What if she had rolled off the porch? What if it had rained? What if a dog had wandered up? What if—

The what-ifs piled on like ash after a fire.

He dragged a hand down his face, nails scraping his chin. A groan left his throat before he could suppress it. His anger felt dulled. Muddled by the sheer relief that you hadn’t gone through with it. That you’d come back.

He watched as you gently placed her back into the stroller. Your hands still shook. Your body moved like it no longer belonged to you, like you were some specter haunted by your own choices. And then—

The stroller hit the stair.

It was subtle. Barely a jolt.

But the front wheel caught. Bounced. And a small cylindrical object tumbled from the side and hit the step with a faint metallic clink.

The bolt.

His eyes locked onto the screen.

There it was.

That was the bolt he’d found. The one that had bothered him without explanation. It had come from her.

From you.

The footage froze in his mind like a sacred portrait. A visual confirmation that this had all been real. No hallucination. No misreading. You had been there. With her. At his home.

His heart clenched, aching with a tidal pull of need and disbelief. His head spun with a thousand conflicting thoughts. Rage and yearning. Worry and vindication.

And above all—

The overwhelming, undeniable truth that you were close.

So close.

Despite the sharp rush of relief still humming through his system, Sylus was overcome by something far heavier—grief. It settled into him like a stone dropped into deep, black water. It rippled out slowly, endlessly, touching every corner of his thoughts with its cold ache. He couldn’t shake it. It pressed into his bones, deep and raw, making it hard to sit still, hard to think. You had been so close. Close enough that he could’ve touched you. Close enough that he could’ve taken her into his arms and ended the madness right then and there.

His daughter. His blood. His creation. His future. Right there on his doorstep. A few feet of air, one wall, one locked gate had been all that separated them. He should’ve been there. He should've come back sooner. He should’ve caught you both before you disappeared again.

Instead, he’d returned to silence.

And yet, instead of staying, instead of lingering just a little longer or checking if someone would answer the door, you had turned your back. You had made your decision. You had placed the child you had carried back into a stroller and walked away. Just vanished like a ghost into the fog. Of course, you hadn’t known it was his home. That part was almost laughable in its cruel coincidence. But still, the gesture cut deep. You had decided she was better off with anyone else. Anyone who wasn’t you. Anyone who wasn’t him.

The betrayal cut deeper than he’d expected. It was sharp enough to feel unreal. Disorienting. Like the world had tilted under his feet.

His lips curled into something ugly—something that was almost a laugh but tasted like blood. Cold. Bitter. Hateful. The irony stung. It was almost funny, wasn’t it? That fate, cruel and twisted as ever, had dragged you right back to him. And you hadn’t even realized it. You could have picked any home. Any street. Any wealthy stranger’s doorstep to place her on. And yet, you had chosen his.

As if part of you knew.

As if something inside you—some unconscious sliver of instinct—had remembered who he was. Who she was. Where you both belonged.

If only he had come home just a little sooner.

The thought hit him like a hammer to the chest. A wave of self-loathing curled in his stomach. He’d been distracted. Too caught up in orchestrating Xavier’s capture, in arranging his little play of vengeance, too focused on revenge and punishment and proving a point. And because of that distraction, he had missed the most important moment of his life.

You had given her to him. And he hadn’t been there to receive the gift.

He had been too wrapped up in the past to see the future trying to walk through his front gate.

A quiet snarl escaped him. His grip on the laptop tightened, fingers digging into the plastic casing. The screen groaned under the strain. A thin crack spidered outward from the corner, jagged and white. He didn’t care. He didn’t even feel it. The physical pressure was nothing compared to the emotional one pressing down on his lungs, on his spine, on his very soul.

This wasn’t just anger. This was grief—twisted with yearning, wrapped in guilt, painted with desperation.

How long did you plan to keep doing this?

How long were you going to keep ripping pieces out of him with your absence? How long were you going to dangle the idea of peace, of family, of completion, only to snatch it away like a mirage the moment he reached for it? You were meticulously punishing him without even realizing it.

And yet—

Even after all the chaos and heartbreak and betrayal, after every wound you’d carved into him with your absence, after the sleepless days and the spiraling thoughts and the breathless fury that came with missing you—he still wanted you back.

It was a kind of wanting that didn’t feel survivable. A hunger stitched into his marrow, feral and constant. He didn’t just crave your presence—he ached for it. Like air he couldn’t breathe, like a shadow he couldn’t touch. Every cell in his body screamed for you. For the sound of your voice. For the heat of your anger. For the sharp edge of your defiance. For the hollow silence of your forgiveness.

It was maddening. He had taken you into his life, and now your very absence was draining him.

His soul had been marked by you, branded with your laughter, your fury, your scent, your fear. He could still feel the echo of your heartbeat when he closed his eyes.

You were absence incarnate—and he was drowning in it.

And still, he would tear down cities to have you back in his arms. To have his baby in his arms. Not as images on screen. Not as regrets. But as his.

But he knew better than to act reckless.

His eyes dropped back to the screen, the image frozen on your tear-streaked face as you held the baby to your chest. You were hunched like someone shielding their last flame from the wind, as if she were the only warmth left in your world. You rocked her with trembling arms, eyes squeezed shut like you were praying. Like it was her that could save you.

Maybe she could.

But she wasn’t just yours.

She was his too.

And Sylus had no intention of letting this moment be the end of your story. No. He would rewrite it. He would build it from the ashes if he had to.

One thing was for certain now. As much as it twisted his insides to admit it—even in the privacy of his own thoughts—you were a danger to his daughter. Not in the obvious, violent sense. No, he didn’t believe for a second that you would ever lay a hand on her. That wasn’t your nature. But danger came in many forms, and yours was subtle, buried deep in the cracks of your unraveling mind. In the way your emotions clouded your judgment. In how easily you were driven by panic instead of reason. In the wild, reckless choices you made when fear took hold.

You weren’t well. That much was unmistakable now. And it terrified him in a way few things ever had.

Because even if you loved her with every atom of your soul, love wasn’t always enough. You could still make decisions that endangered her. You could still walk her into disaster. It wasn’t malice—it was instability. You were fragile, volatile, a ticking time bomb with a tender grip on a child too young to even understand what danger looked like. And for Sylus, who had built his world around control, precision, and dominance—your unpredictability was the most dangerous thing of all.

He clenched his jaw, pacing the length of his bedroom like a predator in a cage. He needed something from this. A thread. A hint. A clue. But he knew better than to act impulsively. Not now. Not after watching that footage. If he rushed, if he descended like a shadow over your fragile little world, you might do something drastic. You might disappear completely. Or worse—you might destroy yourself in an attempt to escape.

And that was a risk he would not allow.

This wouldn’t be a violent reclamation.

It would have to be slow. Patient. Surgical.

He would find you. That part was inevitable. A fact written into the foundation of this reality. But once he did, he wouldn’t pounce. He’d observe. Track your every move. Study the new rhythm of your days, your patterns, the cadence of your wandering. He would dissect your choices and pick apart the places you went like puzzle pieces. You wouldn’t know he was there—until the moment he decided to make himself known.

He had planned to nap after his shower. Just a short recharge, a way to clear his mind and reset before his next steps. But rest was a fantasy now. A luxury he no longer had the patience for.

The footage looped again and again.

Each pass pulled him deeper into obsession. Every twitch of your hand, every angle of your shoulders, the silent tremble of your lips—he studied it like a sacred text. Your pain was evident, etched into every motion, and it only fueled the storm inside him. His mind replayed it obsessively, trying to decode you, trying to understand how you could’ve gotten to this point.

You were beautiful in your despair. Terrifyingly so. A shattered version of the person he once held in his arms—and yet still you. Still unmistakably you.

He kept zooming in on his daughter. His child. Frame by agonizing frame. But your grip on her was firm, shielding her like a barrier against the world. The blanket swaddled her tightly, and your body blocked nearly every viable angle. The security camera wasn’t designed for moments like this, and it infuriated him how little he could glean from it.

Still, he tried.

Her head shifted. Her arm flinched. There—a flicker of skin, just beneath the fold of the fabric. He paused the video, leaning so close his breath fogged the screen. It was all he could see.

A finger.

Tiny. Delicate.

Perfect.

Fragile.

His.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

He sat back slowly, eyes burning, chest tight. That single image—the sliver of her existence—meant more than any speech, any confession, any apology you could’ve offered for leaving her. It was proof. It was real. She was real. And she was close.

If only he had come back sooner.

The thought echoed through him like a wound that wouldn’t close. He would trade everything—his power, his rank, the empire he’d built—for just one chance to be holding her now. Rocking her gently in the quiet dark, feeling her tiny breath rise and fall against his chest.

He imagined finding her asleep on the porch, small and soft and impossibly real. It wouldn't have taken long for him to realize who she was. He’d have scooped her into his arms without hesitation, her warmth grounding him in a way nothing else ever had. Orders would’ve gone out within the hour. His men would’ve begun constructing a nursery—no expense spared, no delay tolerated.

He would’ve been there, singing to her in a low, unsure voice. Memorizing the curve of her cheek, the flutter of her lashes, the way her hand might curl instinctively around one of his fingers. He would’ve learned her—every sound, every breath, every small detail in her face.

But he hadn’t been there.

And now, the silence left in his absence felt endless.

Soon, he whispered to himself.

Soon, the ache in his chest would quiet.

Soon, you both would be home.

And nothing—nothing—would take you two from him again.

[rotapathetic]

HIMBO RAFE does blind unboxing with you

himbo introduction

RAFE stared intently at the box, lips pursed in concentration. “hm. . i think i’ll be fine with this one, but i really want the dude with the goggles, he’s sick. don’t want any of the ones without something in their hands, that’s boring.” he pointed at the images as he spoke, then showed it to the camera, even doing the little youtuber hand.

the kubo, mr bone, and hirono figures are the ones rafe has been into, while you can’t get enough of skullpanda right now.

it wasn’t a surprise when rafe came up to you, showing you videos of people doing unboxings and asked if you two could shop for some. well, more like pleaded. he was in such adoration walking through the store, picking up boxes, examining the series’, and calling out ‘woah,’ while tapping you to point at a box he thought looked cool.

he ended up grabbing more than you did and paid for both of you guys, smiling excitedly at the person at checkout. you, having seen the videos as well, decided it would be fun to record, and rafe was of course down to show off his finds.

you tapped your lip, looking at your box. “i want the one sitting on the grass, how cute is that. i’ll honestly be fine with any one of them. . not the one with the umbrella though,” you squinted at it in a way of telling it not to come out of the box.

“okay,” rafe signaled you two to start opening the boxes, then once the packages were out, you looked to rafe to start the countdown. “one, two, three. .” and you were both tearing them open, then pulled out the figures you got.

rafe gasped then immediately ‘aw’ed with a pout at not getting the one he wanted. you, on the other hand, got the one you wanted, and you smiled, showing rafe. his frown instantaneously flipped at your joy. “that’s the one you wanted, right? dude, that one is cute,” his smile was bigger than yours. “i don’t even care about mine, i’m just happy you got yours.”

you frowned, looking at his figure. “that one is cute too, no?” rafe looked at it, shrugging, “he’s alright, not mad at him.” he tossed it to the side, grabbing another box from a different series.

you did the same, then you both examined the boxes. rafe repeatedly tapped his finger excitedly on the box, “now i don’t wanna get my hopes up, but i really like this dude with the headphones. i wouldn’t even mind getting any of these. except this freak with the glasses,” he showed the camera with a cringe. he turned to you to see which options you had. “ooh, that pink one is pretty. . and that red. which do you want?” he leaned back on the couch, throwing an arm over the back and tilting his head to still see the box from behind you.

“yeah, that pink one is cute. i like them all too, yay.” rafe sat forward, putting his elbows on his knees and poising his hands to open the box. “okay, ready?” you nodded, and instead of counting down, you both just started opening the boxes.

“wait, close your eyes,” rafe told you, putting his hand over your eyes. you giggled out an ‘okay,’ and closed them, then rafe removed his hand. “open yours and i’ll let you know if you got it.” rafe couldn’t stop grinning at how cute you looked with your eyes closed, all excited. “okay,” you ripped open the package, pulling the figure out. rafe turned to the camera, giving the audience a shocked look.

“baby, look.” he told you, and you opened your eyes to see the pink one you two both liked. you turned it to rafe, eyes wide. “no way,” you laughed.

“you’re so lucky at this, and i’m so lucky i get to see you all smiley,” he poked at your cheek. you put your figure aside then clapped excitedly, “okay, your turn.”

rafe let out a little breath through his nose, then turned his head away as he pulled out his figure, showing you. “what is it? if it’s that freak with the glasses, i swear. .”

“you got it,” you squealed out, and rafe turned his head to see he got the guy with the headphones. “yes!” he proudly showed the camera, then put his hand next to yours, looking at your figures side by side. “they’re like us in figure form. can they sit together on the shelf?” he gave you the pleading eyes.

like you would ever say no to him, “of course they can.”

[mari-lair]

I was wondering! Bout the AU! [I really like the concept by the way and I am VERY interestedddd] Does someone else take the lead instead of Siffrin to avoid possibly looping again? Or do they allow him to still take the lead and only intervene when a possible loop approaches?

Siffrin is no longer allowed to take the lead.

They used to have the babysitter approach and let him lead but siffrin is... a handful, he shouldn't be let loose, after a few loops everyone decides "we are not letting our VERY CURIOUS and VERY FAST low-level rogue poke around and keep dying" and so they don't.

As for Siffrin's self-steem being affected by being out of the loop! you hit the nail on the head, they are having a terrible time. I am doing a comic about it right now (it will probably be the very next comic I finish since i didn't like how my wip for the pineapple comic turned out) so if you want to wait for it, i'll leave the more in dept reply/ wip of a part of the comic, below.

Siffrin self-esteem is brutally beaten in this au.

if the party dismisses Siffrin for the sake of efficiency too much, Siffrin will gain a new memory.

The party gains a lot of insight into his issues from this memory. They confront Siffrin and get a pretty sweet bonding moment with him!

If this dismissive approach happens in later loops and they ignore him cause they 'don't have time to babysit sif' the traveler will slowly become desperate to be helpful, going as far as to lose HP trying to read the forgotten language, since it is the one thing no one can do in the party.

In the last stage of the "dismiss siffrin, he won't remember this loop anyways" route, if NOTHING is done to make him feel loved or needed or at least comforted, he'll learn the skill [I can help!] which makes him steal someone's damage in battle. It's... not a very useful skill since he is the character with the lowest HP in the party and things that will seriously damage any party member would instantaneously knock Sif down.

EDIT: Siffrin abandon his weapon and uses rock craft when using [I can help!], the idea was taken from @/dailysiffrin art. This one!.

[robinminustherichard]

"The 36 Questions That Lead to Love"

A BuckTommy fix it

T | 13k Words

Read below or on A03

Summary:

After Tommy reads the entire article, he decides that he has to wait at least until his next day off to confront Evan about trying to sneak-lead him to love with a New York Times article from 2015.

Tommy learns a lot about Buck, a little bit about himself, and enough to know that he never should have walked away.

Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?

Evan texts Tommy the question on a Wednesday in the afternoon, likely when Evan is on a shift and Tommy is taking a five minute break from yard work. He hesitates for a moment with his reply, unsure of the goal here. Knowing Evan, there's no way he sent it to Tommy by mistake, but he's still feeling a bit like a coward after his latest dead-tilt sprint away from love, so he tries to wiggle out of this anyway.

Did you mean to send that to me? Is what he goes with. Evan takes barely any time at all to reply, and with a wave of frustration-guilt-dread spreading from the crown of his head to his finger tips, Tommy reads Evan's short and blunt reply of Of course I did, Tommy. and tries to come up with something to say that effectively shuts this down yet isn't rude.

I don't know, Evan. Are you sure you want to be talking to me?

This reply takes longer than five seconds so Tommy slips his phone back into his pocket and puts it out of his mind in favor of starting up his lawn mower. It's more than ten minutes later that he feels his phone vibrate again in his pocket while doing a sharp turn at the edge of his grass, but he's determined to finish so it's another thirty minutes on top of that before he answers.

And another ten minutes on top of that because Tommy puts off looking at what he's sure will finally be an acceptance of Tommy's inherent terribleness and Evan giving up on him; and heads inside for the afternoon.

Tommy's wrong, of course, because when has he ever been right about Evan Buckley when it comes to Tommy?

If I wasn't sure I wanted to be talking to you, I'm sure I would have texted someone else. Eddie's name isn't even close to yours in my contacts.

It stings, a bit, but damn if it doesn't make a laugh punch it's way out of Tommy's throat too. Evan is sweet, immeasurably so, but if there's one thing Tommy has managed to do it's drag Evan down to his level now and then.

He's surprised that Evan hasn't double-texted him in the time it's taken Tommy to pluck up the courage to look at the message, and Tommy has to admit that he's a little impressed by the courage Evan's showcasing here. He takes a second to think about an answer to Evan's original question before typing it out, Colonel John Dewalt, and sends it. Evan’s reply is instantaneous.

Military pal?

Tommy breathes out harshly, walking to the sink to grab a glass of water.

He taught me to fly. Haven’t seen or heard from him since I left service.

Cool

Tommy chugs the water and waits, but Evan doesn’t respond. Hours pass and when Tommy is sitting down to a sad dinner for one of chicken and broccoli, he almost considers asking Evan what he really wanted. He doesn’t, and Evan doesn’t send anything more.

It’s two days later that Tommy hears from Evan again, another question out of the blue with no explanation and no lead up.

Would you like to be famous? In what way?

This question is possibly weirder than the first, Tommy thinks, but he finds himself responding anyway. He’s off again today and his yard is done, he finished re-tiling the kitchen backsplash, and he’s kind of bored out of his mind sitting on his couch and watching reruns of Naked and Afraid.

God, no. I don’t even have social media.

Evan types for longer than expected on this one, but his response makes Tommy snort.

Yeah, I think I actually could have guessed that one.

Tommy waits for more, for another question, for an answer. When none comes, he feels the frustration of their last conversation and this weird communication slam into him--he impulsively types out a message and hits send before he can second guess himself.

What are you doing, Evan?

Again, Evan doesn’t respond. Tommy doesn’t even see the little dots on his screen that Evan is thinking about replying.

Tommy doesn’t know what to do with that, so he gets up and goes to the garage to find something to do with his hands. He leaves his phone on the coffee table.

The next question is the first one that Tommy doesn’t get the chance to answer for several hours because it arrives in the middle of back-to-back medevacs and paperwork that Tommy doesn’t get a minute of peace during. When he finally is sitting down to eat dinner before he drives home, Tommy is scrolling through his phone and sees that he has one new text. He must have swiped away the notification at some point earlier and forgotten about it.

Before making a telephone call, do you rehearse what you’re going to say? Why?

The question gives him pause, and he can’t help but send one back.

Do people actually do that?

Yes, it’s pretty popular online.

Armed with that baffling answer, Tommy looks over to where one of the younger mechanics is waiting for a truly heinous looking Hot Pocket to finish heating up in the microwave.

“Felix,” He calls, voice rough from being so tired, “Question. Do you rehearse what you’re going to say on the phone before you make a call?”

“To like, doctors and shit?” Felix says, glancing at him before hearing the ding of the microwave and fishing his Hot Pocket out; taking too big of a bite without even attempting to let it cool. Tommy grimaces. “Yeah man, I hate phone calls. They’re the worst.”

“Interesting.” Tommy says, contemplating this as Felix continues to methodically inhale the Hot Pocket. “Why?”

“Dunno. They’re just weird.” Is all Tommy gets before Felix gets called by the head mechanic and races off across the hanger. ‘See ya!”

“Bye.” Tommy calls after him, and looks down at his cellphone. Once again, there’s nothing more coming through from Evan.

The next text technically comes in the next day, but it’s a near thing since Tommy’s phone buzzes at 12:08 AM with it. Normally he wouldn’t be awake, but the shift had really taken it out of him and he stupidly fell asleep on the couch at 7:30 PM. Now he’s watching Naked and Afraid again, contemplating if he wants to work out or just go straight to the shower and try to go back to sleep.

What would constitute a perfect day for you?

This one, admittedly, throws Tommy a bit. Is Evan fishing? Does he want Tommy to say a day with you? What is Tommy supposed to say to that?

Like, a day off or?

Is that your answer?

No, that’s me begging for literally any clarification or context about why you keep asking me these questions.

Tommy sighs, watching someone he didn’t catch the name of catch a fish and celebrate it, blurred out body parts flashing across the screen. Evan doesn’t respond, and Tommy stops himself from send another, sure to be bitchier, second text. He gives up and grabs the remote, turning the TV off and stretching as he stands. There’s no way a shower is going to put him to sleep if Evan Buckley is on his mind; and while jerking off in the shower usually works he doesn’t want to go sadly jerk off about his ex, so he resigns himself to a half-hour workout at midnight on his Peloton.

He moves quickly to his bedroom, plugging his phone into the charger by his nightstand and slipping into the sneakers he keeps by the machine in the corner of the room. He’ll just do a solo-ride, no videos, and he won’t think about Evan one bit for the next thirty minutes.

He fails wildly, of course, and by the time he’s done on the bike he’s just mad, so instead of a sad jerk off in the shower, it’s a frustrated one. Eventually though he’s scrubbed himself clean and stared at the tile long enough that he can confidently get into bed and be ready to fall asleep as soon as his head hits the pillows around 2:15 AM. It’s when his mind is going foggy does he realize with sharp clarity that he never answered the question.

He groans into the quiet and stillness of his bedroom before reaching a hand over to grab at his phone and type out a response.

A morning flight with no emergency attached to it. A Faceplant Burrito from Hellbender’s. Live music at a bar near my house, two drafts while I’m there. Finding out the Lakers won. Sex, TV, then in bed by 11:30.

Sleep is pulling at him harder than before, so he sends off the text without thinking too much about it and falls asleep when he sets his phone back down.

In the morning, and for a day-and-a-half after that, there are no further messages.

When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?

The latest text comes in while he’s working out at Harbor, and he reads up until When did you last sing... while finishing his set of pushups. He rolls his eyes and lets his phone go dark, counting out his set before he drops to his elbows on the mat and drags the phone towards himself.

You know I don’t sing is what he decides to send back, not letting himself get sucked into the insanity of this again. Evan will give up eventually, he decides, nodding to himself and his maturity in this.

Well now that’s not true. This only works if you tell the truth, Tommy.

Actually, fuck maturity.

What works? What do you mean not true? I think I would know if I was lying about this

I heard you singing while you were making me breakfast, when I dislocated my shoulder. Is that the answer to both then?

Air hisses out of Tommy’s teeth and his face heats up.

You were clearly on painkillers and hallucinating

I don’t think you hallucinate while on ibuprofen

Damn Evan, never letting him get away with it. He doubles down anyway.

Maybe it was Billy Boils haunting you

A man who died over a century ago was haunting me by singing ‘The Dance’ by Garth Brooks?

Tommy let his head fall to the mat, and just breathed in the unfortunate scent of sweat and gym equipment as self-punishment for his unfortunate moment of thinking about Dale Earnhardt that day and getting himself caught singing along to the youtube video of the memorial he had found while waiting for the mashed avocado to set. And for falling for, and failing to run from, a man with a steel trap for a memory and a bratty streak a mile wide.

I am taking that as your answer then.

Tommy’s convinced that the second question, which comes bright and early the next day at 6 AM while Tommy is struggling to wake himself up out of the bunk room at harbor, was sent as some sort of psychological torture device.

If you were able to live to the age of 90 and retain either the mind or body of a 30-year-old for the last 60 years of your life, which would you want?

And, like, what the fuck Evan? It’s 6:30 AM, is what Tommy thinks. And what Tommy sends back.

It’s okay, take your time. I’m sure as soon as your coffee with seven sugars kicks in you’ll be fine.

Tommy spits out said coffee when he reads that, and sends back six to be petty.

Oh, did you do the caramel creamer then?

Tommy glares at the text, and then glares at said creamer where it’s still sitting on the counter.

When the coffee does indeed kick in and he’s got a few minutes waiting for the shower to warm up before he hops in, Tommy decides he’ll try a new tactic and just be annoying to try and get Evan to finally break.

What happens when I turn 91? I lose the mind and body?

How about a 100 year old with the mind of a 50 year old?

If I choose body do I have to hide from the government because I don’t age?

Tommy lays his phone down and gets in the shower, content to let Evan stew over his texts.

He is, of course, annoyed himself when after the shower there’s no response. It’s worse when an hour of helicopter maintenance passes with no response. It’s the worst when a total of half a shift has gone by and Evan never rose to the bait. Tommy cracks when he’s packing up his stuff to head home for four straight days off and three on call.

Fine. Body of a 30 year old. They won’t let me fly with a 90 year old body.

That finally gets him a response, and he scoffs, but a part of him knows that Evan has also been on shift and is relieved.

Sorry, massive pile up, had to get a lot of bodies out of cars. I’m not surprised by that answer.

Tommy pauses and swallows down whatever response he was going to immediately come up with. He hesitates a moment, but sends back a quick You alright? and sighs when all he gets is a I’m good in response.

The next questions all arrive quickly together, as if it’s the first time in a while that Evan has had time to sit down and send them. There isn’t much discussion between the answers, but a few bring out more than just another question from Evan. Over two days he reads them and reels from them and answers them and still has no idea to what end this is all hurtling towards.

Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?

Probably in some convoluted scheme made up by my old coworkers he tries for levity.

Name three things you and I appear to have in common. this is the first one that really brings Evan into it, so Tommy tries to be extra careful on that one and not give himself away too much.

We both are firefighters, we both came out later in life, we both love a Farmer’s Market.

For what in your life do you feel most grateful? this one, on the heels of no response on the last one, gets his hackles up.

The house that I own is his response. It garners no reply.

He’s out at a bar with a few guys who go to his Muay Thai gym when the next few come in.

If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?

That one socks him in the chest. Everything slips from his mind to his fingers and is sent off into the world before he can stop it. The next two don’t let him up from his place pinned under a microscope, studied and exposed.

In four sentences tell me your life story in as much detail as possible.

I was born in Washington state, outside of Olympia, but grew up closer to Seattle in a suburb. I’ve been gay a long time but my father would have beaten the shit out of me if he knew. I joined the military and it really fucking sucked under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. I landed in LA at a shitty fire house that isn’t shitty anymore and I led a woman on up until an engagement and then transferred houses and things got better but things got quieter too.

He made a mistake about an hour ago of having a third beer, and it’s loosening him just enough to be reckless with his responses. He knows he shouldn’t, this is his ex, they aren’t even dating anymore; what is Tommy doing handing the codes for his destruction over? What is Evan doing to him?

Evan must decide to have mercy on him, because despite typing for a long time after that, what comes through is just another question.

If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be?

Tommy laughs, feeling like he’s going to cry, and puts a hand up to the bartender to settle his tab.

The ability to be a better person

After that, Tommy doesn’t hear from Evan for four days. He thinks he’s finally done it--finally convinced Evan that he just isn’t worth it.

Tommy’s been trying to forget about his embarrassing vulnerability when he overhears something that stops him in his tracks. He’s working on some routine checks in his helicopter and there’s two of the mechanics working on the engine. One of them, Alice, is giving advice to James, who always seems to be in the middle of a fight with his wife.

“I’m telling you, try it man. It worked for me and Felicia,” Alice is saying while James is shaking his head.

“I don’t know,” he says, reaching into the engine and tightening something or other, “If they’re questions that lead to love wouldn’t I already be past them?”

“Nah, they’re more than that,” Alice says, talking around a wrench that she’d stuck in her mouth while she reaches for something else in their tool kit, “it’s about learning new things, things you never thought to ask. Like, one of the questions is this weird one about whether or not you would choose to have the body or mind of a thirty year old for sixty years. It’s about asking them things that lead to bigger conversations, so you learn about them and learn to love them deep down.”

“I don’t know, Al, I think deep down she might hate me more.”

Tommy feels like some thick and viscous is pouring over him from the top down, and he stumbles out of the helicopter, almost braining himself on the door.

“Whoa, Kinard, you good?” James asks, reaching out a hand to steady him. James and Alice are both looking at him with concern, and he shakes his head and tries to give them a smile but knows it’s probably pretty grim and not very reassuring.

“Yeah, sorry, totally fine. What, uh, what are you guys talking about?” He asks, aiming for nonchalant and landing somewhere between crazed and desperate.

“Uh,” Alice starts, pulling the wrench from her mouth and wiping her wrist across her lips. “I was telling James about this New York Times article I read a few years back called 36 Questions that Lead to Love . They’re these questions that you ask someone you’re with, or I guess want to be with, in order to get to know them better. Me and my girlfriend did them and there were some good conversations, ya know?”

Tommy is nodding, already pulling his phone out of his flight suit and googling.

“Wow, that is so interesting, Alice. I am definitely going to check those out. Thank you.”

Before she can respond, he’s booking it for the break room and clicking on the link that Google pulls up.

After Tommy reads the entire article, he decides that he has to wait at least until his next day off to confront Evan about trying to sneak-lead him to love with a New York Times article from 2015.

Luckily, Evan never stopped sharing his calendar, so Tommy knows that his second day off lines up with one where Evan has a shift starting at 4 PM.

Tommy knows that on 4 PM shift days, Evan works out in the mornings, eats breakfast, showers, and then spends the rest of the afternoon cleaning until he has to leave at 3 PM to make it to the station on time and give himself a buffer to change and settle in before the shift change. Tommy times it just right and calls him at 2:35 PM.

“Uh, hello? Tommy?” Evan answers with uncertainty. His voice is low and slow and Tommy has gone too long without sex because hearing three words from his ex should not make him slightly horny. He shakes himself and focuses, speaking clearly without so much as a hello.

“If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?”

“If Buck is surprised that Tommy’s found him out, he doesn’t show it. He answers automatically and without hesitation.

“What’s my purpose when the whole reason I was born didn’t work? Like, what do you do when your supposed purpose gets shot to hell before you turn two?”

“In true Evan Buckley fashion, he has rendered Tommy a little speechless. But in true Tommy Kinard fashion he dredges something up to say. It’s not very elegant, but it works.

“Jesus Christ, kid.”

“Kid, huh? Haven’t heard that one in a while, Daddy.”

“Okay, you never called me Daddy so don’t you dare start now.”

“Yeah, fair enough.”

“There’s quiet for a moment, Evan is clearly doing the dishes in the background. Staying on theme with this whole thing, Tommy caves first.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re asking me the 36 questions that lead to love?”

“I would, but you chose to call me twenty minutes before I needed to leave for my shift. I don’t think we’ve got enough time.”

“Evan--”

“Oops, now we’re down to five minutes and I’ve got to grab my bag. Why don’t you ask me later?”

“Before he has a chance to argue, Evan hangs up. Tommy is left just as confused and frustrated as he was before, but unfortunately much more horny.

A few hours later, the next question in “Set II” of the 36 questions arrives on his phone. Tommy debates just flat out calling Evan to argue with him some more, but Tommy knew before and is really starting to accept that if Evan Buckley really wants something, he’s going to chase it doggedly until he’s given an absolute no. And Tommy knows himself enough that he can’t lie and say that he wants to give out that absolute no.

Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?

Now at least the element of surprise is gone--Tommy has read through all of the questions at least four times and has spent time thinking about how he would answer them. This one was easy.

Fly coast to coast in a helicopter. I haven’t done it because it’s stupid expensive and the paperwork is insane.

While he’s resigned to answering the questions, he can’t ignore the fact that Evan’s answer had brought him right back to the moment when they first decided to give it a second shot and they had admitted that they barely knew anything about each other. He’s just sitting around on his couch with Ice Road Truckers on, so he pulls up the article again and sends the next question.

What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?

Becoming a firefighter, no competition. I was pretty aimless before that, didn’t really have any accomplishments.

Not graduating high school or college?

High school graduation in Hershey, Pennsylvania was boring. Penn State Harrisburg was only subjected to me for less than a year.

Tommy had had no idea whether or not Evan had went to college, and definitely didn’t realize it was Penn State.

Nittany Lions, huh? What even is that

Not sure, they didn’t exactly discuss the mascot origins at parties

Tommy thinks about digging further, but he’s gotten the impression that they aren’t really doing that, so he holds off on his curiosity and anticipates the next question so much that he’s a little annoyed it takes three hours to receive it. They must have had a call.

What do you value most in a friendship?

The ability to take a joke

No wonder you and Eddie got along so well, you both love bullying me.

I don’t know if bullying is the word.

Tommy’s a bit surprised Evan is bringing up Eddie in a friendship lens after Tommy accused him of being in love with the guy.

No, I think bullying is accurate. I do know my best friend pretty well. Not biblically, but. Pretty well.

There it is.

Okay, yeah. I deserved that.

What do you mean? I just want to make it clear, since I have to with everyone apparently, that I’ve never had nor wanted to bone my best friend.

No, no, keep it coming. Punish me baby.

So sue him, he gets testy when he’s being insulted and Ice Road Truckers is really boring.

Ask the next question, asshole.

Tommy, probably for once in his life, lets it go. He sends question number 17 next.

What is your most treasured memory?

Evan types for a while, and then stops typing long enough that it’s clear that he’s gotten caught up in something outside of his phone. Tommy is halfway done with the crossword in the NYT games app when he finally gets a response that reads like the introduction to a novel.

When I worked on a ranch, there was this horse that was being rehabilitated after it was rescued from an abusive situation. It wouldn’t let anyone near it, humans or other horses. It was making its recovery really difficult because it kept injuring itself by pulling away from the trainers and veterinarians, and half the time it was too scared to eat. One day I was writing my usual postcard to Maddie on this big rock near its private fenced in area, and I wasn’t paying any attention--I was mid word when the horse had snuck up on me and sniffed me so hard it knocked the cowboy hat off my head. After that, the horse was stuck to me from sun up to sun down; and it would let the doctors and the trainers near it if I was there. It ate if I sat next to it, it let me brush it and eventually let me ride it. The owner of the ranch told me she had never seen anything like it, and that if I ever wanted to come back I’d have a place there.

Tommy feels a little floored, reading the message. It wasn’t hard to imagine Evan working on a ranch with a cowboy hat on his head, out on a prairie somewhere with a scared horse following him around and learning to ask for care. Tommy doesn’t quite know what to say, and he doesn’t like the direction that particular train of thought is taking him in. He decides to dodge emotion in the best way he knows how.

Ranch hand, huh? Still got the chaps?

Unsurprisingly, Evan doesn’t rise to the bait. He doesn’t answer for a while, but when he does it's just the next question. Tommy figured this one was coming, and he knows what he could say--the time he dealt with a bombing in the military, any number of bad calls he’s had, when he went down on ropes for a recuse and cracked his arm clean in half when he slammed into a cliffside--but it’s almost 10 o’clock and Evan and the nighttime are apparently a very dangerous combination for Tommy.

What is your most terrible memory?

He types out “When I was in the military, we had a bombing...” and “My first loss in the helicopter, it was a twelve year-old...” three times before he sighs at himself and goes for broke. Evan shared that damn story about a scared horse and Hell, maybe Tommy wants to see this through too.

When I was in bootcamp, I got a summons to the main office to take a phone call. It was the Sheriff's office back home. They were calling to tell me that my family was in a car accident. I needed to come home right away because my step-mom and half sister were in pretty bad shape. They died when I was on a plane somewhere over Oregon, twenty minutes apart and just 15 minutes before I landed. When I landed, a deputy picked me up and took me straight to the hospital. It wasn’t until I was standing in front of my father, who was cuffed to his hospital bed, that I learned that he was driving drunk and ran them into a telephone pole.

After it’s sent, Tommy’s hit with a great mass of regret and wishes he could swallow it back up into his chest and never talk about it again. It’s out there though, it’s in Evan’s tender and clumsy hands, and Tommy thinks he knows how that horse felt.

The text box bubbles, and bubbles, and bubbles. Then it stops, and it stays still long after Tommy has dragged himself to the bedroom and fallen asleep.

When he wakes up, the response he’s gotten from Evan is expected and unexpected all at once. Tommy holds off on reading it until he’s halfway through an omelet and ready to stomach this on-going emotional torture of a conversation. Evan’s starting to fall back into his old texting patterns, and a smattering of messages are waiting for him to read like an op-ed piece.

Set II is kind of more emotional, huh.

I’m up next to answer “If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why?” so I’ll just get into that, maybe make up for making you talk about that.

Which, thank you, Tommy. Genuinely. For sharing that with me, or trusting me with that.

I’m sure that wasn’t easy to share. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you went through that. I know sorry doesn’t cut it, but I am.

Okay, right. My answer.

I thought about dying a lot after I actually, you know, died. For three minutes and seventeen seconds. So, anyway, this question and situation kind of scares the shit out of me. Like it’s really dangerous for me. I never want to know if I’m going to die, because I’ll blow my life up. I’ll spend all my savings and I’ll hug the 118 goodbye and I’ll be gone. Obviously that isn’t good, right, because my family should get to see me before I’m gone forever, but if I know I have an expiration date I can’t continue to just live my life like normal and wait for it to happen. I’d want to get to all the places I never got to see--Mexico City and a good chunk of Route 66 and Grand Teton National park. I’ve got to go see Halliehurst--that’s the horse I mentioned, and Mary; she owns the ranch. I would ask Conner and Cameron if I could spend an afternoon with their son. He’s kind of also my son. Genetically, not legally. I’d beg my parents to tell me where Daniel’s grave is so I could apologize. I’d stop by Texas to see Eddie and Chris and I wouldn’t tell them why I was there. I’d sell everything I have and put it into trusts for Chris and Jee and her brother. I’d forgive my parents, too. I’d tell you I always loved you. I wouldn’t stop moving until the day I couldn’t.

Evan’s words feel like an avalanche, and the sudden sore throat Tommy feels makes him realize that he had started reading Evan’s text out loud in a horse whisper. He’s stuck reading the second to last sentence again and again. I’d tell you that I always loved you, I’d tell you that I always loved you, I’d tell you that I always loved you. Leave it to Evan to take Tommy ripping his chest open and letting him observe his insides and respond in kind with much more dangerous information. He thinks about texting back, but even Tommy “run like your life depends on it” Kinard knows that they’re a little beyond texting.

He swipes into his calendar app and pulls up Evan’s, checking his schedule. He should be getting off shift right about now; so Tommy makes a call. He’s disappointed yet relieved when it goes to voicemail, but he’s determined. He leaves a voicemail telling Evan to come to his place--he’ll have an omelet and coffee waiting for him.

Evan never comes over, but it’s for the best because it’s only twelve minutes later that Tommy gets a call in anyway.

Later, when Evan sees him, neither one says anything about the questions--it’s all work. The 118 is holding the line between the city of Los Angeles and a group of men hell bent on killing at least half of it. They had caught them in the middle of a small pile up outside of the stadium, one of them with a detonator in his hand and his car rigged to explode canisters of deadly gas and release it into the air. The man was too volatile to talk down and S.W.A.T. was too nervous to get his hand off the trigger with a dozen others ready to explode it and complete their mission however they could.

It was decided that they would need to fly the car out of the city, and Tommy’s experience as a military pilot had him at the top of the list to help complete the mission. The helicopters they had wouldn’t be enough to lift it on their own, it would take two flying in a precarious formation until they could set it down outside of the city and the detonator’s range in the desert. Evan wasn’t on shift with the 118 when they headed out to the crash, having been alternating shifts with Chimney to help Maddie in her recovery and pregnancy; but he was with Athena when she caught wind of the plan caught Tommy on the rooftop at sunset he had been told to take off from to avoid two choppers coming from the same direction and arousing suspicion. When they stood face to face, Tommy didn’t know what to say that could convey how he was feeling that morning, how much he wanted to finish their conversation.

“You deserve to hear my response verbally, Evan. I can’t do that right now--not with all of this. But meet me back here and I will then. I’ll know what to say, I promise.”

Evan looked like he wanted to argue, but from the look on Athena’s face behind them Tommy could guess that she had already told Evan that he couldn’t say anything to Tommy to talk him out of this mission.

“What does friendship mean to you?” Is what Evan says, and for an insane moment Tommy thinks he’s speaking in code. “That’s the next question for you. S-so you better have answer for me, when you get back, Tommy. I’m holding you to it.”

Tommy has to laugh at his surprise of a man, always throwing him for a loop.

“Okay, Evan. I will.”

Tommy does think about it, on the way to the road in front of the stadium where the cars around the bomb car have been cleared away and a ground team is waiting to rush in to secure the car to both helicopters. If radio chatter is to be believed, the 118 minus Evan is distracting the group inside the stadium and acting as de facto negotiators for the sake of the city of Los Angeles.

He arrives in tandem with the S.W.A.T. helicopter and he hovers and drops the line, the team below him securing the car for lift off. It seems like everything is going well and he gets the all clear easy enough, confirmation from the other pilot to begin lifting coming through. He hears a loud pop and feels a searing pain in his stomach and up through his back, and feels his helicopter jolt suddenly to the side.

“Kinard! What’s going on up there?” The voice of a S.W.A.T. agent crackles through the radio, and Tommy takes a second to breathe before adrenaline floods his veins and he reigns the chopper in, feeling the car sway dangerously between the two birds.

“I think you’ve got gunmen down there, officer. Get your people out of the road.” Tommy replies through gritted teeth, then calls out to the other pilot to let him know that Tommy is good to go. They begin flying toward their destination.

“Are you hit, Kinard? Can you fly?” The same officer’s voice rings out, and Tommy doesn’t have time for this.

“Mission is a go, Officer.” Tommy calls back, trying to skirt around the bullet hole that he definitely knows he’s bleeding out of. He knows Evan is right next to Athena, and as much as he knows he’ll have hell to pay about getting shot in the first place, if Evan hears him say that he’s been hit, he’ll kick up enough of a fuss to get himself arrested.

“Godspeed, Kinard, Smitherson.” The Officer signs off, and Tommy vaguely registers that Smitherson is the other pilot. Good to know who he’s carrying a deadly chemical weapon into the desert with.

Pushing at top speeds, the get to Joshua Tree in a little less than an hour. It’s pretty impressive that the military has managed to secure some sort of tent that they’ve got ready to surround and seal the car once it’s touched down safely. Tommy’s so relieved to see it that he barely registers when Smitherson comes over the radio and says “Let’s get ready to set ‘er down, Kinard.”

“Copy that, Smitherson.” Is what he manages to say, just glad to finally pull his hands back from pushing his bird as hard as it would go while also managing to give it as smooth a touch as he could manage. He’s been sweating for the entire fight and he knows that adrenaline is the only thing keeping him going. He hopes like hell that they cut the car loose quickly and he can get the bird down as soon as possible. He knows that he doesn’t have much time.

The military cutting the car from the birds and getting it surrounded passes in a blur, and Smitheson is telling them that they are cleared to land. Tommy wants to argue, wants to get back in radio range so he can say what he needs to Evan, but he knows that they don’t have enough fuel.

He pulls far enough away from the excitement and puts his chopper down where they tell him. When his bird is shut down and it’s safe to exit, Tommy pulls his radio off and unbuckles himself; which unfortunately is not a good combo with the group of soldiers that yank his door open. Tommy goes tumbling onto the road he’s just landed on, and the soldiers around him shout in surprise. One of them grabs him and shines their helmet flashlight on him, right in his eyes.

“Pilot, are you hurt?” He yells out, and Tommy’s having some real flashback to his own tour in the military and he is not enjoying it one bit.

“Shot through the stomach,” is what Tommy manages to grit out, and instantly there are hands on him compressing his wound. The voices around him are calling out for medics. Everything past that point is heavy and foggy, and Tommy is loosing the thread of the night very quickly. He thinks to himself, Evan was right, I never would have wanted to know this was happening.

Tommy manages to grab the soldier that spoke to him earlier, and mumbles out a final message before he passes out.

“Tell Evan I’m sorry, and tell Colonel John Dewalt he owes me a dinner.”

After that is just darkness.

Contrary to what you see in movies, waking up from a serious injury is way harder than just miraculously opening your eyes and revealing your love for the person next to you. For one, it’s definitely Howie and Bobby Nash sitting at his bedside talking over him in starts and stops that his exhausted brain can’t make heads or tails of. Two, Tommy might be technically awake, but his eyes won’t open and his mouth won’t move, so he quickly gives in to his body’s desire to fall back asleep.

The next time he wakes up, Tommy does manage to open his eyes, but again it’s not the person he wants to give some crazy bedside confession to at his bedside; it’s Athena Grant, Hen Wilson, and Maddie Han. Athena clocks him first, and her eyes widen.

“Oh no, do not wake up for me Tommy Kinard, I am not dealing with your man about it. You and he are just as crazy as the other, you just go back to sleep until he gets back from the cafeteria.”

“Athena!” Maddie says, scandalized and laughing at once, and Hen calls out ”I’ll call the nurse.”

Tommy doesn’t hear anything after that, falling back asleep quickly.

He dreams in fragments, things that don’t make sense--Evan in the helicopter with him, Evan being the one shot, Howie being the person with the detonator. Though, there was a particularly fun one where Evan was very excited and grateful to see him return and met him on that rooftop with an enthusiastic kiss.

When he finally drags himself awake fully, Evan is there. Along with Eddie. Tommy vows before he opens his eyes and lets them know he’s awake to not say anything monumentally stupid about this.

“You can stop pretending to be asleep now. Your heart rate is giving you away, man,” Comes Eddie’s voice. Tommy groans.

“Le-et me ha-ave som-e mystery, D-Diaz,” it what Tommy says in response. Well, it’s what Tommy tries to say, it’s really only “mystery, Diaz” that comes out through his desert-dry throat.

“Don’t bully him, Eddie, he’s injured.” Evan says, and suddenly he’s holding a straw to Tommy’s lips. Tommy opens his eyes finally and is looking right up into Evan’s. He feels himself settle and he drinks from the straw.

“What, like you’re not gonna bully him about flying for an hour while shot and not telling anyone?”

“Yes, but I’m going to do it later after he’s more awake. It’s called tact.”

“Yeah well my return flight is tomorrow morning I don’t have time for tact. Tommy, you’re an idiot.”

“I’m gonna kick you out.”

“You can’t, I only get this time to see him before I leave.”

“Well maybe it wouldn’t feel so urgent to see him if you hadn’t stopped being his friend for months before you moved to Texas.”

“Damn, Buck, you’re kind of mean when someone’s in the hospital.”

“Eddie, I swe--”

“Guys,” Tommy croaks, imploring them to shut up and stop contributing to his already significant headache that had made itself known after opening his eyes.

“Sorry Tommy.” They both say, eerily similar in tone in a way that tells Tommy that he isn’t the first to receive a double apology from the two. He’s feeling a little out of it, so he’ll blame that feeling later on what he says next even though he definitely thinks he told himself he wouldn’t do this,

“I’m so stupid for ever thinking you could be in love with Eddie, you’re kind of a bitch to him. You’re much nicer to me, Evan baby.”

There’s silence, sweet silence for Tommy’s pounding head, but then it gets even worse when Eddie lets out a sound that can only be labled as a squawk and start spluttering.

“You WHAT--”

“Hello Mr. Kinard!” a woman in blue comes bustling in and bodily shoves Eddie away from the bed, Evan moving back with him and pushing him out of the room by the shoulders. Tommy can hear Evan saying, “Okay Eddie why don’t you go get some coffee while the nurse checks on Tomm--” and the rest is cut off when they both leave the room and Evan kicks the door shut behind him.

Tommy watches them go and then focuses on the nurse, who is checking his vitals and then starts to go into information on his injuries. Shot, bullet was lodged in his shoulder bone but they extracted it, lost a little blood but weirdly enough the seatbelt seemed to have put just enough pressure on the hole to stop him from bleeding out, a really lucky experience all around.

He was in Palm Springs at a trauma center closer to Joshua Tree, but now that he was awake he could be assessed by the doctor within the hour and then moved back home to Los Angeles in the morning if everything seemed alright. Tommy let her words wash over him and apologized when he yawned three times in a row.

“Don’t worry, honey. From what I hear you saved the city of Los Angeles. I think you’ve earned a nap.” She pats his arm, marks something down on his chart, and then tells him the doctor should be in soon. Before she leaves completely, she looks out the door and turns back to Tommy. “Those two are coming back in. If I were you, I’d close my eyes and get back to sleep.”

Tommy laughs, but when she opens the door he does as she says. He’s not quite ready to face all of the trouble his mouth and actions have gotten himself into right now.

He doesn’t fall asleep immediately, so when Eddie and Evan come back in, he hears Evan’s disappointed “Awh, he fell back asleep,” and Eddie’s answering “Coward, he knows I was going to call him out for saying the most insane shit I’ve ever heard”.

Tommy breathes slowly and uses every ounce of the yoga knowledge he has from that yoga instructor he dated for four months once to keep his breathing in.

“Oh my god, Eddie,” Evan says, sounding bratty in the way only he can pull off, “He’s like, high on pain killers don’t blame him. Also, if you say something to him you have to say something to Maddie because she also made a comment about how it ‘wouldn’t be crazy’ that I was in love with you.”

“Dude, gross. What is wrong with your people?”

“You were Tommy’s friend first,” Evan points out, and Tommy has to hand it to him for that, but Eddie quickly responds with “and you’re the one fucking him so,”

“We aren’t currently fucking!” Is the only defense Evan offers, so Tommy retracts the point he gave Evan earlier.

“Yeah, not according to Chim, apparently you wasted no time christening my house!”

“I am not talking about this with you, also I’m killing Chim and Maddie when I see them again.”

“Oh, now you don’t want to tell me details I don’t want to--”

 Tommy starts to go foggy, and he realizes that at some point the nurse definitely pushed more painkillers. He wants to hear more of this argument, but sleep grabs him and swallows him whole before he has the chance to even try to put up a fight.

Tommy finally comes to and feels alert and actually awake the next morning. He realizes he slept right through the doctor check up, and he hopes that means he’ll be headed back to LA today.

 This time, he actually gets what he wants. It’s near silent in the room, with only the hum of machines and soft snores coming from a roll-away bed set up on the right side of the room permeating the quiet.

 The windows are open and like some choreographed scene in a romcom, Evan is laying on the extra bed; deeply asleep with sunlight trailing through his curls, highlighting his birthmark. His lips are red a slightly open, and his upper half is covered in a hoodie that Tommy knows says Kinard across the back even though he can’t fully see it.

Evan lets out a particularly loud snore and his hand comes up to swat at his nose. Tommy can’t help but be charmed.

 He reaches over with a very sore arm to grab a cup of water that has been placed on the table next to his bed, greedily sucking down the water until the straw makes a grating noise when there’s no more liquid in the cup. The noise jolts Evan awake, and before Tommy can blink Evan is flailing (falling) out of the extra bed and throwing himself into the chair next to Tommy.

 “H-hey Tommy, how are you feeling?” He says it quietly, bringing a hand up to run his fingers through Tommy’s no doubt disgustingly greasy hair.

 “M okay, Evan,” he says, and stretches his neck left to right. He swallows before saying the thing he’s really been thinking of this whole time.

 “Friendship is being there, when things are hard.”

 Evan looks confused, in the way he usually does when he wakes up, but he smiles before too long and nods.

 “Yeah, yeah I agree.”

 Evan pushes the call button, and pats Tommy’s hand like he understands just how important it was that Tommy got that out. He probably does.

 The doctor bustles in and introduces herself, and tells Tommy how lucky he is, and says that Evan can take him home.

The ride back isn’t too long, just under two hours, and Tommy is eager to stay awake after four days asleep so he and Buck finish out “Set II” and begin on “Set III” of the 36 questions. Evan unsurprisingly has the list memorized so when it’s his turn he easily gets his questions out, but Tommy has to pull the list up again after he’s responded to all of the texts he received during his heroics and healing. It’s weird at first hearing the answers in person; and it’s honestly harder to ask the questions themselves, but Tommy feels good as they do it.

“What roles do love and affection play in your life?” is how Tommy kicks it off, and Evan answers deeply and thoughtfully, which is at odds with the way he’s shoving a donut into his mouth as he pulls onto the highway.

“For a long time, it felt really conditional in my life. I’ve talked a lot about this in therapy. I felt like my parents never gave me affection and love unless they had to in order to keep up appearances or only when they felt really bad for me, like when I was injured. Maddie was really the only one growing up that gave me love and affection without something having had to have happened first. And that? Sucked. Then I got older and Maddie left, so there was a real love and affection vacuum in my life. Unfortunately that led me to a lot of meaningless sex and hook ups. It wasn’t until I settled in at the 118 and I met Abby that I started to realize that love and affection don’t have to be contractual. Er, well, Abby maybe didn’t help with that actually but she did snap me out of my sex-additct ways.”

Tommy tries hard to say things back to Evan that are genuine and aren’t the first things that come to his head, so for this first one he says, “I can understand that. I’m glad you don’t feel that way any more.” and that gets him a grin from Evan as he pushes his sunglasses back into place and changes lanes, so Tommy thinks he’s doing alright.

Evan has the next question with, “Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items.” which is one for both of them and breaks up some of the heavy air in a way that Tommy and the hole in his abdomen that is pulsing a bit with all of the emotion coming out of them appreciate. To be fair, Tommy starts but they’re off pretty quickly, alternating. They decide to share five each.

“I appreciate how you chase after things that are important to you.”

Evan nods in acknowledgement before following with, “I really like how capable and calm under pressure you are.”

“I’m amazed at how positive you are, even when you’ve dealt with really difficult things.”

“I like how you can look at something and have a good idea of how to fix it even before you know what’s wrong.” That one makes Tommy’s cheeks heat a little, and he pauses for just a moment before sharing his next one.

“You’re unimaginably sweet, and very selfless.”

“I think that’s two, but okay,” Evan chuckles, “You’re so funny, genuinely. Even when it’s at my expense.”

Tommy doesn’t know what to say to that, so Evan follows up with, “Which, honestly I think I kind of need in my life? Like you aren’t actually mean to me. But I do think I need someone to laugh with me about me sometimes.”

“I like the way you take up space unapologetically. You’re never afraid to be you.”

“I love how solid you are. I had this dream a few times where I got injured on the job and you’d be able to carry me out no problem.”

“Hmm, might have to wait a few weeks for that,” Tommy says, trying to ignore the way that one made his throat tighten. Evan laughs softly and nods. “I really like how observant you are. There are so many things I miss in everyday life but you always seem to be paying attention and cataloguing everything you see.”

“I love the way you love rom coms. It’s kind of amazing to watch you watch one with the intensity you have towards the Lakers.”

Tommy laughs out loud at that one, and looks down at his phone. He asks Evan question number 23, “How close and warm is your family? Do you feel your childhood was happier than most other people’s?”

Evan gives him a look, and says “I think you can extrapolate from my earlier answers; but my family isn’t really close and warm. They’re better now, but there was always something off. I just didn’t know it was a dead brother. My childhood wasn’t awful--but it was one that was haunted by a nine year old boy I couldn’t save. So, yeah.”

Tommy swallows, and lets that sit as long as Evan wants it to. He isn’t sure they’re there yet--where they can comment on each other’s childhoods. Evan clears his throat and barrels forward.

“How do you feel about your relationship with your mother?”

Tommy is quiet, thinking about how he wants to answer this. He decides that if Evan can be sharp about his childhood brush with death, so can he.

“She died when she gave birth to me. She was too young, only seventeen, and there were complications. I made it but she didn’t.”

It’s Evan’s turn to be quiet, and before either of them can come up with what they want to say, he pulls off at and exit and says “gotta get gas.”

They stop off long enough for Evan to get gas and Tommy to hit the restroom and grab some snacks. He gets back in the car and hands Evan a flavored water and protein bar, and tears into the oatmeal creme pie he got for himself.

“Nice, I love these protein bars,” Evan says, happily ripping open the packaging and taking a bite, “Thanks, Tommy.”

“I remembered,” Tommy says around his snack cake, trying not to choke as some does down his throat.

Evan hums, choosing to actually chew and swallow before talking.

“I used to think that we didn’t know anything about each other, you know.” He says before shoving the rest of the bar in his mouth and chewing and swallowing again. “But, like. With all of these questions

I did realize we knew some things about each other. Yeah there’s a lot we’ve learned and still need to learn, but there’s more there that we knew than I ever thought.”

Tommy lets that wash over him, doesn’t comment. He finishes his snack and chugs half of the Coke Zero he grabbed for himself before pulling his phone out.

“Um, on to ‘Set III’ then?” He asks, suddenly unsure. Evan nods so Tommy pushes on. “Make three true “we” statements each. For instance, “We are both in this room feeling...”

“We are in this car feeling...awkward. We are in this car feeling...vulnerable. We are in this car feeling...hopeful?” Evan says the last one with a questioning lilt in his voice and doesn’t look over at Tommy.

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees, and he sees Evan’s shoulders relax. Evan nods before asking the next one.

“Complete this sentence: “I wish I had someone with whom I could share ...”

“My life,” Tommy blurts without thinking, so quickly that Evan’s eyes dart over to him and stay there for a few seconds before returning to the road. “I wish I had someone with whom I could share, uh, my life.”

Evan doesn’t say something, and Tommy is glad. He just lets the answer hang there until Tommy collects himself enough to ask the next question.

“If you were going to become a close friend with your partner, please share what would be important for him or her to know”

Evan tilts his head and glances at the GPS, taps his hands on the steering wheel. It’s the longest he’s taken to answer a question in person.

“W-well,” He starts, voice not very confident, “I think it would be important for them to know that they have a place in my life that’s different than the other relationships in my life. I would want them to know that every relationship in my life is different and doesn’t threaten theirs, and that I want them and only them...in that specific, um, friendship.”

Tommy is honestly kind of impressed at the way that Evan managed to shoe horn that in, and he almost allows it. But he also knows that if they want this to exist beyond just this car and the hospital bed and their text messages, he needs to be ready to have tough conversations.

“Can we talk about it?” Tommy says before he can chicken out. Evan lets out a gusty breath and sags downward.

‘Yeah, please?” He says, sparing Tommy a glance for a s ling as he can manage and still watch where they’re going.

‘That was really, unbelievably stupid of me, Evan. I should have never implied that you were in love with Eddie. I knew it wasn’t true. I think I was just scared because it seemed like in that moment everything was too easy--you agreed to try again and I didn’t even need to do anything to convince you--”

“--Oh I think you did something to convince me,” Evan interjects with an unmistakable leer.

“--you know what I mean. I was just, afraid of screwing it up so I just torpedoed it instead. Which, I know, is counterproductive.”

“Thank you for saying that, Tommy. I want you to know that you never have to worry about that. But, I also want to be honest with you. I did cheat on a partner once. It was stupid, it was a drunken kiss when I knew better. But I need you to know the second I did it I regretted it, and I’ll never do it again.”

That gave Tommy pause, but if he wants to try this he needs to not let small things get to him.

“Thank you for telling me that, Evan. I want to be better, with you. I promise no more accusing you of having feelings that I know you don’t.”

“Thank you. I promise that I won’t say things I don’t mean just to hurt you.”

“Good, okay,” Tommy chokes out, and it feels like a weight is gone from the car. He looks at the GPS, and they’ve only got about 17 minutes left on their drive. He makes a decision for both of them.

“I think we should have the last questions for later, huh? We’re almost there.”

“Yeah, that’s good with me,” Evan says, and he gently turns the radio up so that there's music softly playing as they venture further into the city that they saved.

Evan stays the night because it’s late, and in the morning Tommy is treated to a Faceplant burrito from Hellbenders. It’s sausage and frito and nacho cheese goodness, and if Tommy wasn’t already hopelessly and complicatedly in love with the man, the burrito would have sealed the deal. It’s of course when he’s got half a burrito in his mouth and Evan is watching him with a look that’s half-disgust and half-fondness that he hits Tommy with a question.

“28, Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time, saying things that you might not say to someone you’ve just met”

 Maybe Evan knows him too well, and he waited until his mouth was full to give Tommy and excuse to think for a moment.

 “Didn’t we kind of already do this one?”

 “Yeah, there are some ones with similar points, I think that’s on purpose.” Evan then attempts to eat his own burrito in one and a half bites and theres only the sound of chewing for a moment. Tommy swallows and speaks.

 “I really like how thoughtful you are. It’s kind of insane how much you remember about others and act accordingly. You know my favorite foods and brands; you always leave the TV on the channel I watch in the morning. You remember every birthday of everyone in your life and could easily get them a gift that is perfect for them with no notice. Sometimes I think you get wrapped up in things and feel guilty when someone feels slighted, but that’s so unfair to you because you are so incredibly thoughtful all of the other times. It’s okay to slip up once or twice.”

 “I-” Evan stutters, seemingly at a loss for words. Tommy is propelled on by a sense of wanting to right a wrong.

“And sometimes it’s not even your fault, because you aren’t working with all the information. Like, I know you felt bad because you thought you forgot our 6-month anniversary. But honestly, I got luckily and was looking and my calendar that morning and calculated it. I never set a precedent that we would be celebrating that. That wasn’t on you.”

 Evan is quiet for a long moment, and Tommy almost gets to the point of regretting his words. But Evan’s got a tiny little smile on his face, and he eventually lets out a quiet, “Thanks, Tommy.” so Tommy is counting this one as a win. He decides to keep the questions going since Evan isn’t due in to the 118 until later that afternoon and the stitches in Tommy’s abdomen and shoulder have him grounded for a while yet to come. He pulls the article up on his phone.

 “Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.” He says, and then takes the final bit of his burrito into his mouth.

 Evan groans and scrubs a hand down his face before shoving the rest of his own burrito in his mouth in a hurry. Tommy smirks but doesn’t comment.

 “Okay, don’t judge me too harshly.” Evan implores eventually, laying his hands out flat on either side of his burrito wrapper. “So, you know the bombing and my leg and everything. What I didn’t tell you is that stupid, hot-headed Buck took over after I found out that Bobby was the one keeping me from going back to work. There was this lawyer,”

 “Oh, Evan,” Tommy can’t resist saying.

 “Oh, Evan is right. I called him and I threatened to sue the LAFD. I thought it would be just a threat and Bobby would finally take me seriously; but they dragged everyone through the mud, and made the 118 hate me. It was awful, and I’m still so embarrassed about it.”

 “Well, I’m sorry about that Evan.”

 “Why? It was my fault, I’m the idiot who called a sleazy lawyer and almost ruined every relationship I had in my life at the time.”

 “No, I mean, I’m sorry you felt like you had to do that.”

 “What, what do you mean?” Evan asks, sincere and admittedly adorable with his eyebrows pulled together.

 “C’mon, anyone who’s met you could tell you that your job means everything to you. There’s no way you would have jeopardized it like that without a really good reason. Were you ready to go back? Did Bobby have a leg to stand on--” he pauses and winces, “--sorry, no pun intended, when it came to keeping you out of the job?”

 “Well, no, but--”

 “Then there you go. I’m sure you felt justified at the time, and unfortunately you got taken advantage of by that lawyer. And if you’re still hung up on it like this, clearly you learned from it. But, you don’t hurt people on purpose, Evan.”

 “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

 Tommy nods, drinks down the rest of his orange juice, and lets Evan determine if they’ll keep going. He seems to have decided that he doesn’t want to be the only vulnerable one here this morning, so he says “when did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?”

 Tommy tilts his head, honestly trying to remember, and says “I genuinely don’t cry that often.”

 Evan just hums and encourages him to continue.

 “I think...the last time I cried in front of someone else was when I saw a movie a few years ago. I don’t even remember the movie, but I definitely remember bawling with the rest of the packed theater.”

 “Yeah, fair enough,” Evan says, grinning slightly. “What about alone?”

 Tommy genuinely tries to think of the last time he cried alone, and he feels dread fill him when he realizes when that was.

 “Uh, well. It was definitely more recent,” Tommy starts, trying to be delicate, “I think it was...after we, uh, christened Eddie’s house.”

 For a moment, Evan is too caught up in his phrasing to feel bad about it, letting out a strangled “you heard Eddie say that--” before finishing with a lackluster, “Oh. Uh. What I said?”

 “Yeah, sorry.” Tommy says, lamely.

 “No, don’t be sorry!” Evan says, stumbling over his words to get them out in a rush. “It’s okay, that’s the point of these questions right? It’s okay.”

 “Right, definitely. Maybe the next one is a little less heavy,” Tommy tries to say to lighten the mood. He looks at the article and zeroes in on question 31 before reading it out to Evan, “Tell your partner something that you like about them already.”

 “Oh. Well, I mentioned a few already, but those were pretty deep. So, if we want to lighten the mood a little...I really, really, like your body.”

 Tommy sputters a bit but can’t help but grin at Evan, who’s sporting a matching one.

 “You are so hot, and strong, and the way your hands feel on me makes me a little crazy.”

 “Just a little?” Tommy shoots back, feeling the simmering level of horny that has been a constant companion in his life since Evan waltzed into it begging to ratchet up. He has to keep himself in check and not hurtle them towards a repeat of the thing that made Tommy cry on his own just a month ago.

 “Or, you know, a lot,” Evan says, grin turning wicked and sharp at the corners, eyes drifting down to said hands where they rested in front of Tommy.

 “Christ, Kid, I’m injured, take it easy on me,” is the only thing Tommy can think to say to cool the conversation down. Evan doesn’t help when he bites his lip and shrugs.

 “Suit yourself,” he says lowly, getting up to gather their trash and throw it away in the kitchen--swinging his hips just a little more than usual on the way (Tommy is sure of it).

Evan asks, “what, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?” while they’re on the way back from Tommy’s latest physical therapy appointment.

 “Drunk driving,” Tommy says, no need to think about that one.

 Evan hums, and reaches over to put his hand comfortingly on top of Tommy’s. They let it hang there, and Tommy thinks of a million things he could say--thinks about telling Evan more about Shelly and Annie--but he lets it go. Evan just holds his hand, and hums along to the song playing lowly on the radio.

 For the first time in a long time though, Tommy lets himself think about them.

It’s later that night and they’re on Tommy’s back porch listening to the ambient sounds of his neighborhood, trying to catch glimpses of stars in the cloudy sky. Tommy doesn’t have a lead up, so he just asks, “If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?”

 Evan looks at him, and for a moment Tommy thinks that they’re finally going to talk about it, they’re finally going to break through the dam that’s holding back every thing they do and don’t want to say about their relationship. Just when Tommy has prepared himself for it, Evan curves with his answer.

 “Probably a lot of things, like how proud I am of Maddie and whether or not I really do forgive my parents. How happy I am that Hen and Karen got Mara back, how awesome Bobby has been for me. How much I admire Athena, how much I think May is going to be a kick ass adult. How much I want Chim to promise me to take care of Maddie. So much happens in our lives that I miss out on so many pockets of time to tell people things. They all just kind of build up in the back of my head. So...probably a lot of things.”

 “I can understand that,” Tommy replies, a hint of a joke in his voice, “your life is kind of insane, Buckley.”

 Evan lets the joke be what it is and laughs, agreeing before posing the next question to Tommy. He gestures towards the house behind him.

 “Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be? Why?”

 Tommy thinks about this one, thinks about that morning in the car.

 “After my stepmom and half-sister, Shelley and Annie...after they died, and my dad was still in the hospital, I went back to his house and I took everything that mattered to the two of them. Shelley’s perfume that she always wore and these dangly earrings she said her mom gave her; and Annie’s baby book and her favorite bear that I had picked up from a dollar store for her; I took it all and I’ve still got it, along with some pictures of them.”

 He pauses and breathes deeply. Just like in the car, Evan reaches over across the patio chairs and grabs at Tommy’s hand, he squeezes it and Tommy continues.

 “It’s in a box up in my bedroom closet. I don’t know what to do with it all, but I knew that I couldn’t leave it in that house with him--if he got out of jail I knew he would toss it all. So I kept it in a storage container two towns over until I left the military and then I brought it here to LA with me. I’d run back in a burning house for that.”

 Evan looks like he wants to ask a question but is fighting himself not to at the same time. Tommy breathes out slowly and nods. “You can ask.”

 “Is your dad still in jail?”

 “Yeah, he got fucked because it turned out that the judge on his case was best friends with Shelley’s father. No one really likes that kind of bias in the courts, but if it keeps a mean drunk who took the lives of a woman and her baby in jail, no one bats an eye. He was up for probation once, but I took a few days off to go and talk at the hearing. He was so mad when he saw me, and he had no remorse. I told them in no uncertain terms that my father deserved to die in jail. With any luck, he will.”

 Evan doesn’t respond at first, but he gets up and kneels in front of Tommy’s chair. He’s so beautiful, and his eyes are just a bit glossy, and Tommy feels all at once too exposed and safe.

“Let’s go to bed, huh?” Is what Evan whispers, and Tommy lets him lead them back into the house.

Evan is making dinner in Tommy’s kitchen when Tommy asks the next one.

 “Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?”

 “Maddie,” Evan says without a hint of hesitation. It’s not until after he’s said it that he pauses his hands and frowns. “Right?”

 “Are you asking me?” Tommy says from his position at the island where he’s been regulated to simply watching Evan chop vegetables for their stir-fry dinner.

 “Um,” Evan starts and stops, looking unsure. His eyebrows furrow and he shakes his head. “No, definitely Maddie. Of course. Or, well. Maybe Jee-Yun. That one would be pretty scary. I don’t know how I could handle that. I don’t know if I could.”

 “Evan--” Tommy starts, but Evan is looking pretty closed off. He doesn’t want to push more than necessary, not with this fragile thing starting to knit itself together in between them.

 “Let’s talk about something else, please.” Evan says, and Tommy allows it. For all Evan has clearly considered his own death, it seems like the deaths of those around him are unfathomable.

 Tommy shifts the conversation to the latest call Evan had told him about, a fire in a theatre during the second act of Julius Caesar, but he continues to look at the way that Evan’s shoulders haven’t quite come down from his ears yet. Tommy sighs as he listens to Tommy talk about the props and how the person playing the soothsayer had gotten a little too close to a lit candle and had their robes go up in flames; then was stripped almost naked by Hen and Chimney in a bid to get them off.

 Tommy has learned so much about Evan in this little experiment of his, but often he’s reminded that these questions won’t be enough for either of them. When he does unravel this elaborate net encompassing them, there’s still going to be them on the other side of it--whether they’re ready for that or not.

Over a week passes and Evan doesn’t ask question 36. After the way question 35 went, Tommy won’t push it; too afraid to shatter the facsimile of peace and healing that’s fallen over his house. Evan is there in between all of his shifts, helping Tommy with his physical therapy and cooking for him, staying in the guest bedroom when Tommy doesn’t protest.

It’s been a good facsimile, all things considered, but it’s slowly eating Tommy alive through uncertainty. Half of him wants to go on pretending forever but the other half keeps him up at night, wondering which morning is going to be the last one Evan spends with him. If Tommy were an outsider looking in, he’s sure he would tell the person in his shoes now that there’s no way Evan would walk away now--he’s spent too much time, invested too much energy into this relationship just to walk away. But being an outsider is a lot different than being in it. He’s too close, too scared to ask what’s next.

Evan wakes up from sleeping off his last shift before two days off when he finally starts to make noise about what’s going to happen now that Tommy is facing down going back to work and integrating back into normal life.

“So, Tommy,” Is how he starts, grabbing Tommy’s empty breakfast plate with own and stacking them in preparation to be taken to the kitchen. He sets them down on the coffee table and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re all healed up, back to work in a few days. I guess I, uh, should start staying back at my house.”

Tommy nods, and hums in agreement, before replying with “yeah, I guess that’s right.”

It feels inadequate, but Tommy never learned how to really fight for what he wants without being given express permission to do so. He wants Evan to ask him the last question. In a fit of courage, he tries.

“Do you want...do you want to ask me number 36? We should finish it, right?”

Evan looks a bit heartbroken, for just a second. His eyes close and his mouth turns downward. His body slumps just slightly forward. It all vanishes as quickly as it came though, and he wipes a hand down his face and then turns to look at Tommy directly, faux casual in the way he poses.

“Yeah, of course. Okay, 36. So it’s ‘share a personal problem and ask your partner’s advice on how he or she might handle it. Also, ask your partner to reflect back to you how you seem to be feeling about the problem you have chosen’.

“I want to try again, with someone I think could be the love of my life. I hurt them a lot though, and even though we’ve covered a lot of ground, and we know each other more than we ever did, and have gotten to somewhere I think is good, I’m still afraid to ask them outright if they could give me one last chance. What do you think I should do? How do you think I’m feeling about this?”

Evan looks at him, blue eyes and wine-colored birthmark and face full of hope and all. He smiles and blinks quickly, like his eyes have started to sting.

“I think it’s okay to be scared,” Evan says, leaning forward. “I’m scared too. But...please, please ask me, Tommy.”

“Evan,” Tommy starts, “If it’s okay with you I’ve got a 37th question. Will you try again with me? Now, after all of these questions? Do you like the person you learned about enough to try again?”

The look on Evan’s face is like sunlight breaking through the clouds; a grin stretching across his lips with no hesitation, eager determination in his eyes. “Yes, yes, of course, Tommy. I would love to.”

Any other words are quickly silenced by their lips meeting, hands grasping and hips and arms, desperation and homecoming all at once.

If someone needs to know me, Tommy thinks as he pulls Evan impossibly closer, I’ll be safe if it’s Evan.

[pathologicalreid]

the space between us | S.R.

previously

The adjustment between never being home and always being home seems to take a toll on you.

who? spencer reid x fem!retired!reader category: flangst content warnings: the events of stuck between a rock and a hard place apply, briefly mentions a baby, reader trying to cope with a 180-turn in life, anxiety word count: 2.16k a/n: i meant for this to be fluff and it's definitely a tad angsty. good thing i'm obsessed with spencer and retired!reader. they'll be back.

Slowly but surely, you convinced yourself that the dark green walls of the apartment were closing in on you. Sitting up in bed, you looked at the time on your phone before quickly scrolling through the notifications, half expecting a text from Andi Swann asking you to come in.

She wouldn’t do that though, because she’s not your Unit Chief anymore, and you no longer work for the FBI.

The only text message you saw that piqued your interest was from your husband, letting you know that he was flying home.

Tossing your blanket off of your legs, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. Hissing at the feeling of the cold hardwood floors beneath your bare feet, you wrapped your arms around yourself and made way for the kitchen. Creeping slowly on your way, you made sure to keep your footsteps light.

Gingerly, you flipped the light on, wincing as the fluorescence flooded your vision. As your eyes adjusted, you reached up to the cabinet, grabbed a cup, and set it on the counter.

“You’re sneaking around again,” a voice said from behind you.

Jumping, you put a hand over your chest and spun around, “You scared the shit out of me.” You frowned at Spencer, “I thought you were flying home. I just got your text.”

He nodded, walking into the warm light of the kitchen, “I texted you four hours ago that I was flying home from Connecticut.” His hair was messy, and he had already taken his contacts out, telling you that he had been in the bathroom – he had passed by you while you were sleeping.

Your lips tightened to form a small “o”. Leaning back against the counter, you crossed your arms in front of your chest, “How was Hartford?”

Intently, you watched Spencer as he pushed his glasses up on his nose. “It was fine, the UnSub’s in custody, we’ll build the rest of the case from Quantico.” His tone was strictly no-nonsense when he repeated himself, “You’re sneaking around again.”

Letting your arms fall to your sides, you shrugged helplessly. “I don’t do it consciously, you know?” You told him, reaching behind your back to hoist yourself up so you’re sat on the kitchen counter, legs dangling in the air.

“I know,” he said gently, stepping forward so that he was standing directly in front of you. You parted your knees so that he could stand flush with the counter, allowing for minimal space between the two of you. “The fact that you’re doing it subconsciously makes me wonder if there’s a part of you that feels like you need to be quiet in the apartment,” he murmured, reaching up and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You pursed your lips for a moment, thinking about an answer before you responded, “It’s late, I don’t want to bother anyone by walking too loudly.”

Based on the look in his eyes, you can tell that he doesn’t believe you, “It’s an old building, the floors are thick and well insulated. Also, the apartment below us is vacant, and you know that.” His words are borderline accusatory, and rightfully so. “Do you feel safe here?”

Surprised, your eyes flittered up to meet his, “Yes,” you answered almost instantaneously.

“Do you not feel at home here?” He asked, further pressing his agenda.

When you and Spencer decided to move in together, you were living in a studio apartment, so his place just felt like the obvious choice. At the time, you weren’t home long enough to make it home, and now it seemed like you were past the point of no return. “Can we go to bed?” You asked softly.

Spencer tenderly placed his hands on either side of your waist, “You’re deflecting. What’s so wrong that you don’t feel like you can talk to me, baby?” You should’ve known better than to answer a question with a question.

Averting your eyes, you looked up at the ceiling in hopes that the action would quell the tears that were filling your waterline. “I just feel so out of place,” you answered, emotion closing your throat.

“In the apartment?” He whispered softly.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, you shook your head. Giving up on your dreams of stopping your tears, you bowed your head and let them fall. “In my life,” you clarified. “I thought it would be easy to just go from being an undercover agent to being at home. Maybe that was a lost cause, but I didn’t think it’d be so hard.”

Never wavering, Spencer stayed resilient with you as the dam broke, letting you lean your head on his shoulder and rubbing soothing circles on your back as you cried. “You’re going through one hell of an adjustment period right now.”

Nodding tearfully, you pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, “I feel like I haven’t been a real person in almost ten years. I don’t know who I am without that fucking job and it’s mauling me.” Briefly, Spencer stepped away from you, filling the cup that you had gotten out with water and handing it to you. “God, I’m a disaster. I’m so sorry,” you muttered, looking down at the glass of water you’d clasped in both hands.

“You are not a disaster,” he insisted. “You’re going through an unfathomable experience and you’re not giving yourself enough leeway,” he stressed, hooking a finger beneath your chin, and lifting your head.

Everything about him seemed soft, and you felt like pieces of broken glass – flying around and damaging everything in sight. You lifted the glass in your shaky hands, bringing the lip of the cup to your own and downing half of its contents.

Spencer studied your facial expression before he spoke again, “I know exactly who you are. You are the single most selfless person I have ever met,” he told you earnestly. “You spent nine years of your life rescuing tens of thousands of people, giving up holidays and birthdays and time with loved ones for the benefit of total strangers.”

Sniffling, you shook your head, “Spence,”

“No, this is true, and I need you to listen to me,” he urged. “One time, you had gotten back from five weeks undercover and, before catching up on sleep, you went to Henry’s birthday party. Solely because you had missed it the year before.” Hesitating for a moment, he resumed singing your praises, “You’re brilliant and funny and beautiful, but I need you to stop being so magnanimous.”

You pulled back, furrowing your brows in innate confusion, “What?”

He nodded, affirming his point. “I need you to be selfish. Operate with your self-interest in mind. Use that to discover yourself. If you keep throwing pieces of yourself away in order to make the people around you happy, then you’ll never really identify your adult self.”

“I don’t know where to start,” you confessed. You were always working; the FBI was your life. “Everyone is telling me to do different things,” you murmured. Spencer wanted you to be selfish, your mother wanted you to have a baby, and every single one of your friends had offered their stress relief methods – most of them unsolicited.

The understanding in his expression made your chest ache, “I think you should talk to someone. Not me, not Garcia, definitely not your mom, but a professional. You should talk your experiences out with someone who can help you work through it, not just like you do with me. I know you hold back details when it’s with me.”

Uncertain, you tried to wrap your arms around yourself again, but Spencer didn’t let you close yourself off. “Okay,” you ventured, “I’ll look into it.”

Putting his hands up, he smiled softly at you, “That’s all I ask.” He stepped back, allowing you to get off of the counter and stand. Spencer gently ushered you into the living room, sitting down next to you on the couch.

Instinctively, you leaned into his warmth as he draped an arm over your shoulders. “I need a hobby. Something to do other than sit at home all day,” you thought aloud.

“We can look for ideas in the morning,” Spencer offered. “Maybe we can go to the store this weekend for supplies.”

Turning your head to face him, you pressed your lips into a thin white line, “Hey, Spence?”

He hummed, “Yes, love?”

“We could get a house,” you proposed. “It could be a good new start for the both of us, and we have the money,” the more you spoke about it, the more you liked the idea. A new start for the new you. Technically, the two of you were still newlyweds, it felt like something you were supposed to do. “We wouldn’t have to keep your books on the floor anymore,” you murmured, absentmindedly drawing shapes on his t-shirt with your index finger.

Your eyes flickered up to see him smiling. “We absolutely can get a house, and you won’t have to tip-toe,” he said pointedly, “it’ll be our space.”

Mirroring his smile, you adjusted slightly on the couch, “Our house.”

As you tucked your feet underneath yourself, you felt his eyes on you, “Are you sleeping alright?”

Groaning, you wiped a hand down your face, “You worry too much. We were doing so well.”

“Did you know that your coping mechanism is avoidance?” He remarked, a hint of teasing in his voice.

You rolled your eyes, “I sleep fine,” you answered simply. It was true, once you were asleep, you slept perfectly fine until the morning. It was falling asleep that you had a hard time with, lying awake and wondering if when you finally fell asleep you would be greeted by nightmares. Nightmares that you had been waiting weeks for but had yet to come. “Let’s uh… let’s call it a problem for the professional,” you faltered.

He nodded understandingly, “You just let me know if there’s anything you need, okay? Anything at all.”

Allowing your body to meld into his, you hummed, “How are you doing with all of this?”

“I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, just to make sure you’re still breathing,” he confessed. Adjusting his glasses, he pulled you a little closer to him. “I’ve seen you more in the past six weeks than I had the previous year, and, selfishly, I’m glad that we get more time together.”

With one hand, you reached up and cupped his cheek with your palm, “I am too, love. It’s new, even though we’ve been together for years, I think we’re lucky to have something that feels new.”

He turned his head to press a kiss to the center of your palm before taking your hand in his, “I think I’m lucky to have you.”

“Sweet talker,” you teased lightly.

You nudged him gently when he went quiet. “I love having you be at home when I get home,” he whispered as if it was a secret. “I suppose I never really thought much of it because it always seemed like an unattainable fantasy.”

But now you were home when he came home. He took time off to spend with you right after you had gotten out of the hospital, but for the past six weeks, every time he walked in the door, you were around. It was almost like the two of you had entered your honeymoon phase. Although, you supposed you had, “Did anyone ask you about the party?”

Spencer chuckled, “Of course they did.”

Part of you supposed it was your penance for getting married in secret – mostly secret, everyone always seemed to forget that Rossi was there – that the BAU was insistent on giving the two of you a wedding. “I never knew profilers had such great memories,” you pondered. “No one else asks me about it.”

“They just want to make sure you’re alright before turning it into a celebration,” he explained. “For the BAU, taking a step back is a big deal,” he leaned his head to the side so that his chin was resting on the top of your head, “you know that, though.”

Nodding softly, you shut your eyes, “I don’t suppose they’d be willing to do a combo housewarming and wedding celebration.”

“Not a chance,” Spencer answered almost a bit too quickly.

You sighed in mock defeat, “We’ll just have to have a party a weekend until Garcia runs out of ideas.”

Slowly, you felt yourself falling asleep again, “Do you want to go to bed?” Spencer murmured.

There was just a moment before you hummed, “In a minute.” You pulled on the sleeves of your sweatshirt so they would cover your hands, “Hey, Spence?”

“Hm?” He said, drowsiness growing in his voice.

You tipped your head back and looked up at him, “I love being home when you get home, too.”

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[occamstfs]

Spanish Shortcuts

Heyo, Here’s a Latino cultural/racial change, also my first foray into a possession transformation! Lessons to be learned about clicking dodgy links and letting spirits walk all over you!

¡Espero que lo disfrutes Atajos en Espanol! -Occam

The foreign language requirements of any American high school are guaranteed to be lackluster. It is no wonder that a nation so fixed on instilling American and English supremacy was so wont to neglect the study of foreign languages and culture. For his part Claude had just about forgotten all the Spanish that he learned not too many years ago. At the present moment he is browsing the web looking for some way to reclaim and improve on his meager knowledge. Despite his desire however, he is shockingly unwilling to do much at all to pursue this end.

Rather than the tried and true method of studying each day Claude is instead looking for not only the easy way, but an instantaneous way to regain his lost knowledge. This is obviously a beyond foolish endeavor, though having long heard tales of people waking up speaking in languages they hadn’t learned he was deep in rabbit holes online scouring for a ticket to bilingualism. Unwilling to admit that they were just old wives’ tales or shitposts he clicks link after link sure the next one will lead to some fruition.

Deep in websites he certainly should not be visiting without a firewall he actually stumbles on a thread in Spanish. Hastily translating the page through Google it promises the fluency of a native speaker through a single click. Claude scratches his cheek wondering whether or not to go through with it, could be malware, probably just a link to a meme or the like. He looks at the link in blue text, it’s just a name: Carlos Herrero. With little further ado Claude decides fuck it what’s the worst that could happen and clicks the name in blue.

The lights in his room flicker as his hand holding his mouse is promptly shocked. He pushes away from his desk shaking his hand in pain as suddenly there is a chill in the air. He shivers as he hears a voice, deep and unknown, whispering in his ear. “Hola hola hola mi perrito.” Claude shakes his head feeling the tickle of a beard on his cheek and swats at the air. “Ay! Lo siento, ah- ¿cuál es su nombre? Claude ¿Verdad? ¿Me entiendes?” (Ah! Sorry, uh- What is your name? Claude, is it? Can you understand me?) 

Claude looks around his room in shock at this mysterious voice, immediately assuming he’s lost his mind. He shakes his head trying to wake up or come to his senses, after a few shakes he feels a cold powerful hand grasp his jaw. He hears the voice continue to speak in words he couldn’t understand and did his best not to process lest it worsen the state of his mind. His eyes widen in shock as he stares into the space, feeling the skin on his face contort in response to a hand that is not there. He feels the grip tighten and his breathing  accelerates as he starts to hyperventilate.

As if in response to his fear the hand disappears from his face and he feels a heavy arm around his shoulder. “¿No querías saber español?” (Do you not want to know Spanish?) Claude’s ears pick up as he hears Spanish he can just about recall. In doing so his brain immediately reprocessed the preceding events in order to maintain any semblance of sanity. The link must have worked! This is just a dream or something that will end with him knowing Spanish, just like a video game. He just needs to play along until he wakes up. Neglecting how real everything clearly is he addresses the voice, willing himself to believe whatever it is that it’s not malevolent. “Okay, uh I’m down for whatever, thanks for your help, uh, ghost?”

“De Nada, Claudio.” With this Claude’s visions flicker as the chill in the air fills him. He gasps and sees his breath condensate as every inch of his body is ice cold. Claude falls out of his chair and scratches at himself, instinctively trying to claw something out of his body. He rolls onto his hands and convulses, retching as if trying to throw something up. As the seconds pass he feels his body rapidly warm from the bitter freeze, unsure if this is a mirage of heat like the comfort one feels in the throes of hypothermia he paws at his chest.

Before finding confirmation in any way Claude hears the alluring whispers once more, though this time not tickling his ear. Rather it is now a voice within his own head. “Testing testing, ah would you look at that. Now I’m speaking a language you can understand huh? Hahah!” Claude’s brow furrows as he wipes spit from his mouth. This was not the easy nap and wake up anew process that he was promised. As if it had access to his thoughts the voice responds to this. “Ah sorry if I misled you little guy, this is going to be a bit of work. Trust though! It will certainly be easier and quicker than wasting your time studying!” Claude rolls his eyes before remembering since this is probably a dream that at the very least in reality this will be over briefly. 

Claude then tilts his head and asks out loud to the voice in his head, “Why are you speaking in English now?” It sounds just like the one he heard earlier, if not a little more playful as it responds, “Ahh language processors, something or other- Don’t worry your little head about it, in time we both will be thinking in Espanol ya? In the meantime why not jumpstart it!” Claude purses his lips trying to find the inscrutable voice’s intentions as he does so the heat in his body begins to convert to energy.

He suddenly feels as if he’s had enough caffeine to power a body three times his size. He feels every muscle in his body demand attention and exercise as his hands start to shake. “Oh would you look at that! If it’s any help any time I used to get excited or stressed I’d always hit the gym, ya dig?” Already motioning to get changed for the gym to blow off some of this energy Claude pauses to once more try and understand the implications of the voice’s statement. “Sorry, what do you mean you used to?” 

There is then a jarring silence in his mind. Claude stands, gym clothes in hand, without a thought in his mind before the voice replies trying its best to disarm him despite its deep gruff tone, “Ah well, you know how these things go, it’s just dream logic right? This is all lucid dream, the quicker you stop questioning the sooner you’ll be a pro.” He feels a vein of chill air dash through his mind once more and he nods in agreement. His eyes lose their sharpness as he decides to just listen, throwing on some clothes and heading out.

Heeding the voice he endeavors not to question his circumstances. He gets in his car and does not wonder why, if he is truly dreaming, that he did not just poof over. Feeling his heart start to beat quickly in his chest, in response to anxiety in his chest or to the energy only continuing to course through his veins he is not sure. He looks in his rearview mirror to calm himself and sees the same reflection he always has. Claude smiles at himself seeing at least his appearance is static in this dreadful dream and heads in to get this over with, the voice in his cheering him on as he makes his way in. Increasing in fervor and volume with each step towards the door.

Once inside he Claude is shocked as the voice suddenly drops out of his head leaving him once more with the harsh silence of but his own thoughts. After having such a loud visitor in his mind he is almost uncomfortable with the feeling. Stepping up to the counter to check in he greets the receptionist, “Heyo! It’s Claudio hermano!” The receptionist tilts his head as for a second it’s almost like two voices came from the man in front of him. Claude looks down at himself and clears his throat before trying again, “Lo, Urgh, Sorry about that, Um It’s Claude Smith.”

The receptionist checks him in and Claude goes off to stretch. He doesn’t usually spend much time at the gym, just enough to stay thin. But something inside him tells him that today will be different. Something inside him. His head twitches to the side as the idea washes across his mind. Looking around the room to ensure he’s alone he tries talking to the voice, doing so he does not notice that his pitch has lowered, “Hey uh, I know you told me not to ask questions. But did you make me call myself Claudio earlier?” Having paused his stretches he feels a burning in his arms and legs demanding they keep moving. Obeying the pain, his lips quiver as if he’s about to speak and the voice responds, “Ay ¿Crees? (You think so?)Es just a slip of the tongue ya?”

Claude continues stretching carefully, taking deep breaths to assuage the anxiety building in his chest. He is facing away from the wall of mirrors, unintentionally or through some subtle manipulation. Otherwise he may notice as his hair slowly begins to darken to a deep shade of brown. The blonde locks he has always been proud of maintain their length as they darken unnaturally. The thought pops into his head that he would look good with brown hair si? He shakes it away as soon as it appears though, biting his lip to avoid voicing his concern at how much power this “voice” has over him.

Trying to center himself he closes his eyes as he continues to stretch. The companion in his mind is thankfully quiet as he pushes away the discomfort at the silence and instead appreciates the freedom. Little does he know the presence is simply acting on him in other avenues as he stretches. Claude smiles as he feels the burning relief of his stretches, grunting quietly enough that he notices not how his voice has continued to deepen, inching closer to the voice that is not his own. 

The pleasant burn of his legs as he stretches them becomes almost intoxicating as he leans against the mirrored wall. Were his eyes open he would see his calves begin to grow beyond those that he wakes up to every morning. They begin to bulge larger and longer as he extends them. Muscle the size of a baseball forces its way onto them as he stands smiling dumbly. His thighs then stain larger to match pace as they expand to hold the weight of someone a foot taller than he. The soothing burn of stretching hides the soreness that should be apparent and Claude begins to sweat as if he has been heartily working out for some time now.

Not to be outdone there is a whisper in his head that he should stretch his arms as well. Without a further thought, almost without his mind even sending the order to do so, his arms are out in front of him. Each second his arms lie extended they stretch further out from his torso. Claude motions to stretch his shoulders, wrapping one arm around the other, his biceps rub against each other as he squeezes his arm tight to his chest. His arms begin to show a bulge of muscle as he stands there biting his lip at the pleasure being wrought upon him through simple stretching.

Finally he raises his arms above his head to stretch his meager chest, struggling to do so as his larger muscles have begun to impede his dexterity. With his arms in the air and his pits exposed he notices that something has begun to stink up the locker room he’s been stretching in. Claude opens his eyes looking for the assailant, to no avail. He turns his head to the side thoughtlessly putting his nose in his pit, finding the scent closer he takes a deep breath before finding himself starting to chub at the scent. The voice in his head laughs, “¡Jajaja! ¡Nice brazos (arms) perrito! ¿A ti también te gusta mi olor, eh?” (You like my smell as well huh?)

Despite his best efforts at centering himself during his stretches, he is once more consumed with anxiety. He looks down at his body that he knows should be petite but instead finds one that does not go two days without hitting el gimnasio. He flinches as his mind automatically went for the word in Spanish. Wait, did the voice in his head just say his smell!? He sniffs the air and a thought forces itself to the front of his mind, Well this is what I wanted wasn’t it? His ears ring as he is not sure if those are his thoughts or ones implanted by whatever monster is doing this to him.

Claude feels an itch on his hand and he looks down to see the hand that clicked that link some time ago as it begins to darken. He sees a rich tan begin to spread up his suddenly muscular arm as veins throb down it aiming to increase the mass. “Q- What es, happening!?” Claude turns to look in the mirror and finds the tan racing across his body. He sees the patches of his unmistakably white skin tone become naturally sunkissed as his eyes widen in shock. He freezes up and the voice in his head takes advantage and tries to seize control outright, flexing his arm and revealing the thin patch of blonde hair in his pit as it grows dark as the hair on his head and thickens beyond the pale. The voice speaks in his mind deeper and stronger than ever as he begins to outright vie for control, “Tranquilo Claudio. (Chill out Claudio.) Let us see what I can do jaja!”

It takes a bit of concerted effort but the voice, who outs himself unsurprisingly as Carlos himself, step by step forces Claude’s body across the room in his catatonia. Claude feels a smirk on his face as Carlos positions him at the bench press. He clumsily lays back on the bench before checking the weights. Looks like some cabrón left his weights on the bar, though actually it's fortunate as Carlos doubts he has the ability to do such complex motor functions as he feels Claude start to wake from his stupor.

Carlos feels an itch on Claude’s face and he begins to smirk as he feels facial hair begin to grow, “Ay he might have cojones yet jaja!” Claude feels his mouth move of its own accord and finally notices that his voice has lowered considerably and he feels his body struggle as he tries to gasp as hears it develop a deep accent.

Before Claude can wrestle control back Carlos grabs for the bar and starts to do a rep. He grunts as he realizes this body is simply not strong enough at the moment to manage the weight that was left on the rack. As the pole is just about to pin him however Claude senses the peril and both minds in the body force the bar up. “¡Bien Claudio! Let’s see what we can do juntamente si?” (together yes?) Claude tries to grunt out a protestation but is suddenly racked with pain as his body must grow larger to force the bar up.

Both men feel as weight begins to pile onto the twink’s only recently muscled body. Claude feels as pecs develop on his chest, totally ripping the tank top that had grown tight while stretching. Carlos feels as his biceps surge larger than the thighs this weak body had not two hours ago. The expression on his face flickers between ecstasy and concern as he lies on the bench doing repetitions as his core strengthens and puts on mass.

After his chest and arms grow large enough to send existential fear into Claude’s mind and a hungry lust for more into Carlos’ balls, Claude stumbles off the bench and falls to the floor, letting the weights crash next to him. He feels pin pricks as tattoos begin to stain his tanned skin and he cries out in his changed voice, “No! Este es- This isn’t right!” with each word his voice cracks deeper and the English words become a tad more difficult to maneuver his mouth around. Without a beat, Carlos immediately takes control of his mouth and responds as his voice finishes changing to match the one in his head. “Ah, ahí estás equivocado amigo. Esto es perfección.” (Ah, there you are wrong friend. This is perfection)

Claude stands to stare in the mirror watching sweat trail down his body and ink rise in his skin. He looks at his chin as a beard begins to shadow his face. He sees his eyes as they flicker and begin to darken to a deep cacao brown. His lip quivers as if he is about to cry before without any input from him it turns to a sneer as he feels Carlos chastise him without words. Claude feels a pit in his chest as not only does he not need to hear them, he begins to feel the disdain himself. As if the will of Carlos was starting to become his own.

This causes a surge in his crotch as he feels in that regard Carlos has already wrestled full control. He feels his balls that are not his begin to grow and demand attention. They feel full and needy as pre begins to leak out of his growing erection. That happens anytime he goes to the gym si? As his eyes shift down to see his bulge make itself known his facial hair expands and his pubes begin to crest above his waistline. The small bush of pit hair begins to grow into a jungle as his balls work overtime to produce testosterone to power his poderoso body.

Feeling the hormones from Carlos’ balls pump through his veins Claude realizes what a losing battle he faces. He feels his thoughts begin to mingle with the man he foolishly allowed into his body as he begins to feel himself overwhelmed with the pressure and lust issuing forth from his crotch. He feels his fluency in English begin to wane as Carlos begins to overpower every aspect of his personality. Claude continues to stare at his reflection in the mirror and the anxiety and fear rapidly dissipate as he enjoys the power that he wields. “¡Dios estoy tan chacondo!” (God I’m so Horny) The two men voice as one, his voice reverberating through his chest as he feels power continue to surge through him.

Claude watches as his body flexes itself in the mirror without a single thought or any input from him. Not that he minds, it’s doing exactly what he would be doing anyway si? He smirks seeing his cock bob up and down as he struts across the gym floor. Every thought in his head is in fluent Spanish as he feels his identity fully mingle with Carlos’ as they truly become one. Despite this originally being Claude’s body he feels himself shrink and mold as he becomes an aspect of Carlos’ personality. Every action, every word, every movement will be crafted by the two of them. Though altogether Claude will just about always find himself thinking just as Carlos does, and both minds will more often than not be ruled by the powerful hormones coming from below.

“Debería haber preguntado sobre los términos y condiciones, Hermano.” (Should’ve asked for the terms and conditions bro.) He thinks to himself as he makes his way to the gym’s showers to pump one out. Over time even Carlos would forget that this has not always been his body. Each day he would continue to make it his own, increasing his mass and power. Outgrowing a wardrobe of clothes he would never be caught dead wearing. It did not take long at all to establish his supremacy as Carlos Herrero. Though there was some inherent difficulty navigating this land only knowing Spanish, Carlos managed well enough, confident that if needed he could perhaps let his passenger breathe enough to regain some English. At this point however it’s hard to say if any remnants of Claude remain, and moreover if he would even desire to emerge back into his own mind, it is of course much easier to simply indulge in the ceaseless pleasure he has found for himself within Carlos’ mind.