#at least for the hurt they caused each other

[zara-renata]

And everything that is now already existed then | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: Sylus shows you his favorite parts of his house, you are haunted by a strange feeling of familiarity, you spend some time with the twins and Noah, you learn about the bet they have going, no this is not a wattpad bet story that will be turned into a multi-part tv series even though i love that trope so much, the self control i exerted should be acknowledged if not praised. This part has less humor than other parts, I've been in a contemplative mood recently, sorry. Part 17 of the Sylus series.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, second person POV, some Sylus POV. They/them pronouns are used to refer to reader as a placeholder for your preferred pronouns. The slowest of slow burns friends-to-lovers. This story contains: angst, fluff, banter, poetry, questions of morality, video game violence, discussions of real life violence, profanity, alcohol mention, self-harm mention, mc with self-esteem and guilt issues.

The water is warm. The man underneath you is warm. Your heart, you realize, is also warm. Quiet. Nothing hurts. You marvel at the feeling. How long can you get away with this? Plastered against Sylus’s big body, his rough hands just resting on your back. You feel guilty for keeping him from doing something else. For not being at work. For doing absolutely nothing useful to anyone. For feeling so good.

Sylus holds you, seemingly content to just sit here with you as the water laps against the sides of the pool.

“Don’t you have business to attend to?” you reluctantly ask, because you’re incapable of just trusting that good things can last. That the fulfillment of your deepest desires won’t be snatched away when you least expect it, so you push, push, push, seeking the weakness that will ultimately crack and cause the moment, finally filled, to break.

Sylus holds you a little tighter. “No.”

You wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. You should just accept it. Just enjoy this moment. All you have in this life is each moment—that’s all there is. Why can’t you just experience each one, savor it, suck it dry, until the next? Why must you always waste the pleasure of each moment by being in such a rush to get to the inevitable end?

But you can’t just accept it. You don’t know how. Your whole life has taught you that the moment you trust the permanence is the moment that the moment shatters. Might as well ruin it first, instead of fearing the end. And who are you to complain? What have you done to deserve it in the first place?

“Business slow in the Onychinus economy?” you ask.

“Tch,” he responds, seemingly indignant at the mere suggestion that his business isn’t printing him money even as he canoodles in a hot tub with you. “Business is booming, darling. The human capacity for cruelty is an endlessly growing market.”

You press your cheek harder against the sweaty skin just under his collarbone. You don’t want to think about what he offers people to enable that endless cruelty right now.

“Then how do you have the luxury of lazing about with me?”

“I’ve tasked Aidan with handling business that requires executive decisions for the foreseeable future. As much as it annoys me, I will likely have to answer calls like this morning, but I’ve informed him that I will not be leaving the base unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

You lift your head, curious. He looks down at you, relaxed, eyes glowing in the low light from the pool.

“Why?”

One corner of his beautiful mouth lifts. “Guess.”

You stare at him. He’s taking time off, not pursuing new deals, not focusing on growing his wealth… for you? Ridiculous. 

“What will you do while you’re not doing business?” you ask, not able to bring yourself to guess out loud that he took time off for you, to spend time with you while you’re staying with him.

“What do you want to do?” He runs his fingers along your temple, brushes a lock of hair behind your ear, traces the shell of it with a fingertip.

“That’s not an answer,” you say, softly.

“Yes, it is.”

You can’t believe it. The man who is always on the go, from one deal to the next, disappearing for weeks at a time, doing who knows what, who knows where—the man who probably gets bored out of his mind while instigating a riot—says that he just wants to do whatever you want to do. You, whose idea of excitement is a new pair of sleep pants and a night off to watch let’s plays of horror games that you don’t have the time and energy to play yourself anymore.

“You can’t mean that.” You frown at him.

“Try me,” he challenges.

You try to think of something that he’d hate just to prove your point that he doesn't actually mean it when he says he’ll do whatever you want.

“Oh, kitten’s plotting,” he snickers after seeing your expression.

“I want to watch every Justin Bieber documentary ever produced,” you say defiantly. You really don’t. But you’re sure he’ll balk at this outrageous suggestion.

He shrugs a little. “Okay. We can see if they’re on demand in the theater room. If not, I’m sure we can pirate them.”

You narrow your eyes. He can’t mean it. Fuck, if he’s going to call your bluff, you’re going to have to actually sit through who knows how many hours of Justin Bieber: Our World. You barely suppress a shudder.

“Actually, I want to fly to a warm seaside resort and swim with dolphins,” you try, the picture of casual entitlement. You do not want to do this. You’re fucking tired. The last thing you want to do is get on an airplane.

“Dolphins can be as vicious as humans, but if you really want that, we can pack some things now and be on our way by dinner,” he says calmly. As if the suggestion isn’t utterly outrageous.

Is he being as petty as you, intent on not admitting that he didn’t actually mean it when he said he would do whatever you want, or does he actually want to do whatever the fuck you want? You can’t read him at all right now.

You’re desperate and stubborn. “Actually, I think the amusement park in Linkon City is having a furry event all week. I’d like to dress up as our respective fursonas and ride the roller coasters all day.” 

Sylus doesn’t even blink. “Do you have a fursuit already, or do we need one tailored before we can go?”

You laugh in disbelief and rest your forehead on his shoulder. “What about you? Do you have a fursuit already?”

“No, I don’t have a fursuit, because I’m not a fucking furry,” he says drily.  “But I do think I’d make a very majestic caracal cat. Which goes nicely with your kitten fursona.”

You blink. “That's quite self-aware of you." And then you scowl. "My fursona wouldn’t be as lame as a kitten.”

“Oh? What animal do you think accurately portrays your personality?”

You lift your head and think. You’ve never really thought about it. Something small and mean, probably. “A mongoose.”

He tilts his head, considering. “That actually fits you quite well. Good at hunting snakes, and very, very cute.”

You can feel yourself blushing. “Yeah, well. I’m not a furry, so it doesn’t matter even if it doesn’t fit,” you mumble a little.

“And yet you want to go to the furry event at the amusement park,” he lifts an eyebrow. 

You stare at him, mulishly. You’re not going to admit that you’re trying to poke holes in his patience because you can’t trust nice things.

“But I don’t think that’s what you actually want to do,” he continues, with a gentleness that hurts your heart. He urges you to wrap your legs around his waist. “When I said you could test me, this is not exactly what I had in mind,” he teases. “How about you test me by telling me what you actually want to do, and then you’ll see that I mean what I say when I refrain from complaining about being bored while we do them?”

You wrap your arms around his neck as he stands gracefully, the water sliding down both your bodies. “I don’t want you to just not complain about being bored,” you argue. “I don’t want you to be bored at all. You don’t have to entertain me while I’m here. You can do whatever you really want to do.” You mean this. It’s enough, just being in the same house as him right now. Knowing that in the evening he’ll end up in the same bed as you. You don’t want him to tire of you too quickly by insisting that he spend every moment with you.

“Then I repeat—what do you want to do?”

Okay. Okay, he asked for it.

“Show me your favorite things to do at home, when you’re not being a warlord.”

He looks surprised. “That’s it?”

“Yeah. I’m really tired. I never get a chance to just relax. I don’t want to go anywhere, or do anything exciting.” You bite your lip, unwilling to admit that you’re desperate to learn more about him and that worried he’s going to think you’re boring. 

He leans forward and catches the side of your lip not caught in your own teeth with his. With your lip between his sharp teeth, he pulls back, gently, until you release it from your own. He pauses, inhales, and then lets go, licking your bitten lip with a quick, soothing flick of his tongue.

“That’s my spot,” he murmurs, pulling back.

Your brain is offline. You have no idea what you were just talking about, or what just happened. All you can feel is the slick of his saliva on the plush of your lip.

Fuck.

You want to fuck him so badly.

You search his face. Can he tell? Does he feel the same way? He touches you like this, and then does nothing. What does he want?

If he can tell what’s going on in your head, he doesn’t comment on it. “Then we can stay home. I’ll show you what I like to do when I’m tired and don’t want to do anything exciting.” His faint smile is tinged with self satisfaction.

“Okay,” you choke out. You will not slide down his body, push him onto the soft moss, and jump on him. 

“But first, I will feed you.” The tendrils of his evol bring the fluffy towels to his waiting hand, and he wraps one around you, all while you cling to his torso. He just drapes the other around his shoulders, over your arms still wrapped around his neck. His evol then ferries the two cocktails that remained untouched for the whole time you were in the hot tub, following you back through the pool room and into the chill hallway as Sylus carries you to the kitchen. Between the heat of Sylus’s body and the towels blanketing you, you’re still warm. You watch the drinks following you over his shoulder, and then glance at him.

At your look, he says, “What? It would be a shame to let perfectly good drinks go to waste.”

“What time is it? Don’t you think it’s a bit early to start drinking?”

He shrugs. “It’s probably past midnight, sweetheart. That’s when one normally drinks alcoholic beverages, isn’t it?”

You sigh. “So it’s basically noon in your day-night cycle.”

“Time is a construct, and inherently meaningless,” he says serenely.

After this insufferable response, you give up trying to save his liver for the moment.

____________________

Later, after Sylus serves you a meal packed with protein that pairs nicely with the cocktails as the fire crackles pleasantly and the clouds, reflecting the N109 Zone’s bright lights even at night, sweep across the sky outside his kitchen windows, after you’ve showered and put on warm, comfortable clothes, you find him in the sitting area of his bedroom, reading a book, the Beatles playing on his record player. You recognize the song— The long and winding road. 

You stop, suddenly overcome with an overwhelming sense of sorrow. He looks up from his book and watches you curiously.

You left me standing here, a long long time ago

You feel like you’re forgetting something very, very important. Like your dream last night, but not about your family. About the man watching you inquisitively, his long, graceful fingers holding the book gently, the outline of his aquiline nose limned in the soft lighting of his bedroom.

Don’t leave me waiting here, lead me to your door

You suddenly can’t bear to be separated from him for one more second. You pad to him on your freshly bandaged feet, knock the book out of his hand, clamber into his lap, and hug him.

His arms come around you as if he doesn’t mind that you’ve just bulldozed your way onto his lap. After a few minutes, the song ends, and a new, more upbeat one begins.

You feel like you can breathe again.

You sit up, looking down into his face. You want to kiss him so badly. You’re afraid that he’ll gently push you away, as he pushed your hand away from the tie of his sleep pants that you were fiddling with recently. With such kindness, but a loud, resounding rejection of what he perceived to be you offering your body to him.

He’ll bite your lip, but you’re so scared that he doesn’t want to kiss you. Sometimes it seems like he wants you, you, not just a body, not just anyone praising him or challenging him, but you. Do you really still not know? My beloved is perfect to me.  

But what if you’re wrong? What have you done to earn this incredible man's devotion?

“Will you tell me what you’re thinking right now, without the guessing game?” he asks softly. 

You shake your head. “No. And I don’t want to play the guessing game right now.” You can’t bear to think about what you may be forgetting as you look into his blood-bright eyes. You can’t bear to reveal how badly you want to kiss him, only to be rebuffed.

“Not even a hint?” He nudges your nose with his. “Otherwise I’ll spend every free moment sitting around reading, listening to classic rock music.”

You look at him in confusion. “Why?”

“It seemed to work in luring a kitten into my lap this time. Maybe it works every time.”

Your heart is doing something funny. It doesn’t hurt. It feels… it feels so fucking warm. Like in the hot tub. What is happening to you? 

“The music made me sad,” you offer this truth, as a reward for his sweet response.

“Not a fan of the Beatles?” He fiddles with the hem of your shirt, his knuckles brushing against your skin underneath.

“I do like their music. My gran used to listen to them a lot.”

“Is that what made you sad?”

You give him a look. “I said I didn’t want to play the guessing game.”

“I’m just asking questions,” he protests, the picture of innocence. “Is it a crime to want to get to know you?”

You gaze at him. Weren’t you just thinking about how you’re desperate to know everything about him? “Not one I’d arrest you for,” you say, looking down, smiling a little.

He laughs softly. “Lucky me. It would be hard to uphold my end of our deal and show you the music room, the library, and my favorite part of the greenhouse from behind bars.”

“That sounds like a busy itinerary,” you say, lifting a finger, tracing his clavicle revealed by his soft v-neck sweater.

His knuckles sweep over your skin just above the band of your soft pants.

“We have time—we don’t have to do everything today. Which one do you want to see first?”

You don’t care. Your heart is being weird and Sylus is touching you, and you’re touching Sylus. You could just sit here, forever, and enjoy whatever this… feeling is. But you’re afraid you’ll ruin it. Like you always do. If you take too much, he will actually get bored. You should pick one.

“Library,” you say firmly.

“As you wish,” he says, standing, holding you all the while. You can’t bring yourself to protest. You can walk on your own feet. Your feet already feel a little better after just a day. But he’s warm. And he doesn’t seem to mind at all. You drape yourself over him, and let him carry you through the dark halls to his library.

He sets you down outside one of the ubiquitous black doors, and then opens it for you. 

His library, like the greenhouse, the pool, the room like a mountain hot spring, is lovely in a way that the rest of his house simply isn’t. Soaring ceilings, heavy built-in wooden bookcases lining the walls, a huge fireplace, electric as opposed to the wood-fireplace from the kitchen, at one end of the room. A wrought iron spiraling staircase leads up beyond the heavy wooden rafter beams to a space you can’t see. Deep red, plush rugs in antique designs hush your footsteps. Plush, deep seated chairs and loveseats, side tables with Tiffany lamps gently illuminate the space. One wall of his preferred floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the N109 Zone night, the red moon bright in the sky as the clouds scuttle past. 

It’s like a library from an old, prestigious university. The kind of university you always wished you could have gone to, if you lived in another world. If this world didn’t need people prepared to kill and die for existential threats to humanity. Where you could study something functionally useless, but enriching to the human experience. Like French literature or poetry. The room smells of wood oil, old paper. 

You turn in a circle and find Sylus leaning against a bookcase, watching you take in the room. “This is one of your favorite spots in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s quiet. The twins aren’t big readers, so they don’t come in here. It’s a good place to think, and concentrate.”

“Have you read every book in here, like you’ve seen every film in your collection?”

He straightens from the bookcase and walks to you. As he comes to a stop in front of you, he reaches for your face, holds your cheeks gently in his hands. “No. This room is more about the future. Books I’d like to read when life is a little less busy. I’ve read some, but not as many as I would like.”

“Do you think that someday your life will be less busy?”

“If I have my way, yes.”

“And you’ll spend your days quietly reading in the solitude of your lovely library?”

“Not in solitude. But yes. You think it’s lovely?”

You look at him strangely. Didn't he just say he enjoys it because it's quiet and no one bothers him here? “Of course I do. It’s like someone designed it just for me.”

He looks down into your face, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones.

“Like I said. This room is about the future.”

You tilt your head at his non-sequitur. What does your loving the library have to do with his quieter future?

It almost sounds like…

The moment is full. You refuse to shatter it by considering such outrageous thoughts. You will enjoy this moment for what it is. A peek into the mind of this enigmatic man. The opportunity to explore a beautiful, private space in his home.

“Read to me,” he orders, striding to one of the soft couches and plopping down.

You snort. “What do you want me to read you, your spoiled highness?”

“Anything you want. Look around, pick something that catches your interest.” He lets his head drop onto the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded as they follow you walking to one of the bookcases, as you let your fingertips run along the spines of book after book. You see a lot of titles you don’t recognize. You see a lot that you do—classics as well as newer publications. You and Xavier spend enough time in the bookstore that you know a lot of titles by sight, even if these days you rarely have the time to read beyond the manga you share with your partner.

Your eyes catch on a familiar title.

“Oh,” you breathe.

“Find something?” Sylus asks languidly.

“One of my favorite poets. Gran had a copy of this.” You pluck the book from the shelf and walk back over to where Sylus is sprawled on the couch. The moonlight through the windows makes his eyes look even brighter than usual, glowing in the soft light.

“You’re a fan of poetry?” he asks, eyebrows lifting.

“Don’t act so surprised. I’m not entirely uncultured.”

“Your manga collection could have fooled me,” he teases.

“Manga is art. You’re a pretentious fool if you can’t recognize that.”

“No need to get your knives out, kitten,” he smiles, one sharp tooth peeking from behind his full lip. “I have a collection of manga here as well.”

“You do?”

He just steadily stares at you.

“Where?”

He closes his eyes. “Guess you’ll have to stay long enough to explore and find it.”

You stand over him, drinking in the sight of him. Surrounded by the scent of books, polished wood, the moon’s red light rendering him slightly otherworldly.

You want to stay long enough to find out. It’s only been two days, and you want to live in this moment forever. You're so greedy. You're so unworthy.

“Still want me to read to you?”

Instead of answering, the tendrils of his evol wind up from your ankles to your waist, lift you, deposit you on the seat next to him. He scoots down, places his head in your lap.

“You could have just said yes,” you say drily. “No need to be dramatic.”

“I don’t hear any reading. Chop chop.”

Oh hell no. You scowl down at him, but his eyes are closed. “Lap service costs extra.”

“Good thing I’m filthy rich.”

You scoff. “I don’t want your money.”

He opens his eyes. “I suspected as much. It makes taming you all the more difficult.”

You look at him curiously. “Is that what you’re doing? All of your generosity, in order to acquire a tame hunter?”

“What use is a tame hunter?” He dismisses your suggestion. “Your imagination is distressingly limited.”

“Once again, I disappoint,” you murmur. He clearly isn’t in the mood to answer your questions.

He tsks and closes his eyes again, wiggles a little to get more comfortable in your lap. “Make up for it by reading your favorite poetry to me.”

You want to lean down and kiss the smug look off of his face. You don’t want him to turn away if you do.

You begin to read.

“Try to praise the mutilated world.

Remember June's long days,

and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.”

He interrupts you. “I see why you like Zagajewski. Someone else who shares your taste in middling wine.”

“No comments until the end, thank you,” you jostle his head by bouncing your thigh a few times.

He scowls, places one big hand on your thigh and presses down. “Stingy. This should be interactive storytelling.”

You ignore the howling need in you to grab his hand, to guide it further up your leg. You continue to read.

“The nettles that methodically overgrow

the abandoned homesteads of exiles.

You must praise the mutilated world.

You suddenly think of the N109 Zone and all of its misery. Paying the price of some shitty corporation’s greed. But you keep reading.

You watched the stylish yachts and ships;

one of them had a long trip ahead of it,

while salty oblivion awaited others.”

You pause, thinking about Sylus’s wealth, the wealth of people like him, and everyone else. The yachts, versus the ships that will sink.

“That’s not the end. Why have you stopped?” Sylus's voice jerks you out of your thoughts.

“You know this poem?”

“I own the book, don’t I?”

“You said you hadn’t read everything in here.”

“Point,” he concedes. “But yes, I know this poem. I’m also an admirer of the poet.”

You think about him calling you kindred spirits, when you first met. How angry that idea made you. Now, you want to lean down and kiss him. You shake your head a little. You keep reading.

“You've seen the refugees going nowhere,

you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.

You should praise the mutilated world.

Remember the moments when we were together

in a white room and the curtain fluttered.”

Sylus interrupts you again. “I always liked the imagery of the moments spent together, the simplicity of the white room, the curtain fluttering. What more can one desire, when at their love’s side?”

You don't think you've ever heard him say something so romantic. But why would you have? You're not in a romantic relationship with him. Your heart doesn't seem to understand that fact—something inside you thrills that his idea of romance mirrors yours so closely. But his focus on the gentle moment, instead of the rest of the poem, strikes you as strange. “That’s what you see? Not the lovers enjoying simplicity, safety, while the refugees are going nowhere, and the executioners are singing joyfully?”

“The point of the poem is that you must wrest joy from an imperfect world where you can. You’re not helping the condemned by moping about their fate.”

“Is that the point? Perhaps the point is that all you can do is try to praise the mutilated world, but it’s fruitless. If that were the point, he would have entitled it 'Praise the mutilated world,' not 'Try to praise the mutilated world.' ‘Trying’ isn’t succeeding—try all you want, but it’s impossible to praise the world as it is. Better to use your yacht to save those drowning in the salty oblivion.”

“Idealist,” Sylus scoffs, as if the label is a profanity instead of a compliment.

You jostle his head again. “Cynic,” you retort.

“You’re not done,” he sniffs, closing his eyes again.

You resist the urge to buck your hips in order to dump him on the floor. You read again.

“Return in thought to the concert where music flared.

You gathered acorns in the park in autumn

and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.

Praise the mutilated world

and the gray feather a thrush lost,

and the gentle light that strays and vanishes

and returns.”

You finish, filled with a strange feeling. You’ve loved this poem ever since the first time you read it with the sunshine gushing into your gran’s living room on a slow summer day. As you grew, you loved it for different reasons, for its ambiguity, its hope and its resignation, its acknowledgment of the horrors of life and its simple pleasures. It always felt familiar to you, but the specific imagery reading it this time around is familiar in a way that feels concrete. 

You think about the gray feather, the light that strays and vanishes and returns. You think about the feeling while listening to the Beatles, that you’re forgetting something important. You think about Sylus’s casual dismissal of the suffering of others.

Calling suffering fate seems like a convenient excuse to you. Why bother trying to make the world better, if fate deems that it should be miserable?

You think about sipping the rosé, biting the strawberry Sylus offered you. Your curtains fluttering in the breeze in your room, when Sylus has come to your place at night. These things you have enjoyed, as people suffer beyond the safety of your apartment and Sylus’s fortress walls. 

“Stop torturing yourself, darling,” he says through your racing thoughts. He turns his head, presses his lips against your thigh, inhales deeply. It’s not a kiss, but you feel the press of his mouth through the fabric of your pants as if it were. You resist the urge to spread your thighs further.

“Should I read another?” you ask quietly. You don’t want to think about these things. You want to live in the moment. What kind of person does that make you? The desire to ignore the cost of this pleasure, your enjoyment of Sylus's home, proves that you don’t deserve it. 

“Of course,” he says, but his phone vibrates in his pocket. He grunts unhappily as he reluctantly sits up, sliding the phone from his pocket. “Keep exploring,” he says, heading to the door. “I’ll try to make this quick.”

So you do. Wandering amongst the books, finding other titles that are your favorites, but so many that you’ve never read, never heard of. Many of them are not in your native language. You wonder how many languages Sylus speaks.

After a surprisingly short amount of time, he returns. "Read more to me," he orders, sprawling on the couch once more.

You look back at him, admiring the wrought-iron staircase spiraling up, the moon through the windows, his long, strong body casually stretched along the couch.

“Can we light the fire?”

“Of course. Fire," he says, and the fireplace flares to life at his command. You wonder if such a system is in place in each room. You wander back to the couch, and he pulls you down. You read him the rest of the poems from this collection, arguing here and there, learning his favorite parts, both matching and diverging from your own. Until your stomach growls, causing him to nuzzle it, insist on taking you to the kitchen and feeding you another meal. After you're once again full, he offers to show you the conservatory.

“Okay,” you say, relaxed, satisfied. He wraps his arms around you, lifts. You let him, wrapping your legs around his waist. You think about a gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns. What are you forgetting?

He takes you to the music room. It’s behind another black door. You would never be able to guess, walking through his solemn hallways, each expansive room unfolding behind each uniform door.

As you walk into the beautiful space, you’re struck with the realization that Sylus’s home is strange in many ways, and not just because it serves as both his home and his fortress, an armory and an indoor playground. The halls are winding and despite the height of the ceilings on each floor, they’re oppressive. There is no open floor plan for the house itself. Each room’s door can be closed, barricaded, turning the room within into a bunker. But behind each door, each room fans out, soaring windows, high ceilings, glass giving way to a savage view of the harsh landscape in a way that renders even the ugliness of the N109 Zone beautiful in a stark, barren-planet kind of way. You suspect that the glass is bullet-proof. You wonder what kind of impacts it can withstand beyond firearms. Could it survive a thrown grenade? A direct strike from a drone? Would anyone dare actually wage a full-on assault on the leader of Onychinus’s home?

“Not even the greenhouse rendered you speechless, kitten. Does that mean you like it, or hate it?”

You blink. You had been so busy wondering about the strategic choices of Sylus’s architectural design that you hadn’t even begun admiring the metal support beams, curling like vines in a distinct art nouveau style between multiple panes of glass, each meeting at the pinnacle of a glass ceiling. Two of the larger glass panes are not the standard window glass, but are stained glass, continuing the art nouveau theme, depicting colorful curls of plants, flowers, as well as animals—beasts from mythology, dragons, phoenixes, winged chimeras. Luscious potted plants scattered along the white marble floor. A white grand piano sitting in the center of the circular space. Instruments of all kinds, from all parts of the world, hung or resting on more organically wrought metal display mounts along two-thirds of the glass walls. A seating area, filled with comfortable, low furniture, carved blond wood in flowing, plant-like designs, sits between the piano and the view of the landscape through the clear glass, framed by the murals of stained glass.

It’s breathtaking. But you’ve had your breath taken by the greenhouse, the pool, the room with the hot tub, the library. Each in a distinctly different style from the rooms of the house that see daily use by their owner: Sylus’s bedroom. The kitchen. The hallways. The imposing dining room and its equally imposing banquet table. The cave-like theater room. Each dark—black marble, maroon accents, deeply masculine, modern, abstract art. But the rooms that have taken your breath instead of making you feel oppressed are so startlingly different from Sylus’s often-used spaces.

You can’t accept the moment. You can’t stand not knowing, even as you are afraid to know. You have to ask. “I don’t understand,” you say, turning to him.

He glances around the room, and then looks back at you. “It’s a home conservatory, sweetheart. Not a trick question.”

You ignore him. Your curiosity will eat you alive if you don’t ask him. You want to know. You don’t want to know. “Why does it feel like two different people designed your house?”

His eyebrows lift in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Half of your house is edgy, big-dick rich vampire man-cave, and half is this,” you sweep an arm to indicate the delicate yet sturdy steel beams, organically curving into the height of the room, the chairs carved like palms, stained glass, the lush vegetation.

“Can one person not appreciate more than one style of home decor?” he asks, walking over to you, winding an arm around your waist.

You stare at him. Nothing Sylus does is by accident. You know this much by now. You know a lot about him by now. You don’t know enough about him by now.

“The parts of the house you spend the most time in reflect your style. But the other parts… the parts that wait for an owner that rarely comes. Did you choose the design yourself? Or did you let your architect run wild?”

His smile is faint as he gazes down at you. “How very observant of you, darling. But I designed every room in this house. The architect modified the plans where necessary to ensure the structural integrity was sound, but I chose the decor.”

You wait. It sounded like he ended that sentence with a ‘but.’

“You’re right. I didn’t have just my preferences in mind as I was planning each room.”

You want to know. You don’t want to know. What if you’re wrong? The very idea is insane. Presumptuous. How could he possibly know? You only met him a few months ago. This base isn’t newly built. You have no idea how long I’ve already waited, his voice whispers through your mind.

“Whose preferences did you have in mind?” you ask, your heart doing that thing again. That weird thing that doesn’t hurt but scares you with how good it feels. Don’t leave me waiting here, lead me to your door.

His smile widens, just a little. “Do you really not know?”

You can’t process this. How could he have known?

It’s like these oases in his dark fortress of a home were designed with your deepest heart’s desires in mind. 

You want to kiss him. You want to resonate with him again. You want to drop to your knees in front of him.

The enormity of your feelings is terrifying.

What if you’re wrong?

How much worse will it be, if you let yourself believe, and he turns you away. What if he designed all of this for someone else. Because how could he have known, before you met just a few months ago—how could he have known the contours of your tastes, the things that make you most comfortable, the yearning of your heart in your small apartment, of what you’d give yourself if you could ever afford to make your home exactly how you would want? A refuge from the harsh world. Space to breathe.

Your feelings are choking you. You step away from his embrace, turn. You have time. He said he’ll wait. You focus on this room.

It’s beautiful. Because of course it is. You don’t recognize even half of these instruments.

You turn back to him. He has moved to the piano, straddling the white bench, legs spread, just watching you.

“Do you know how to play all of these?”

He shakes his head. “No. Most of these are collector’s items, antiques. But I do know how to play the piano.”

You stand, resisting the constant pull towards him. You want to go to him, run your hands through his hair, tug his head back, expose his throat, bite.

“Only the piano?” You satisfy your need to move by walking over to the sitting area, forcing yourself to sit away from him. You need to control yourself. You plop down on one of the beautiful chairs, carved like a ginkgo leaf.

He turns, sitting properly on the bench in order to face you, and opens the cover over the piano keys. He leisurely presses down on one key, and the note resounds through the lovely room.

“I can also play the organ,” he murmurs, before beginning to play in earnest.

You don’t recognize the piece. You know you’ve never heard it before. But the longer he plays, the more you’re overcome with the sense that you know it. The blood under your skin, your lungs, your bones—you feel pulled to him, to his long fingers sweeping over the keys, unseen from your vantage point in the room. You know what’s coming, the crescendos and the pauses. It’s beautiful. It hurts. Your thoughts drift to the poem. Its strawberries, its rosé wine. Its familiarity. Return in thought to the concert where the music flared. You want to ask Sylus if he owns a yacht. You’re convinced that there will be a park, and acorns, and you will pick them up and offer them to him on a sunny summer morning after a long, long night. It has already happened. It will happen in the future.

You can’t resist the pull any longer. You stand and walk over to him, stand next to him at the bench. His hands hypnotize you. Big. Rough. Delicately pressing the keys—sure, confident, flowing. Like his evol. Like him.

“Sit,” he orders, and you obey, sliding in next to him. You try to give him space, but he takes one hand, still playing with the other, and pulls you by the waist until you’re shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. 

You watch his hands, lost in the moment, lost in the feeling of recognition, of … something. That warm feeling in your heart, threaded with the pain of having lost something that you can’t remember.

Slowly, the piece comes to an end. His hands become still on the keys.

“What song was that?” you ask.

He flicks his eyes to yours.

“It doesn’t have a name.”

“Who composed it?” You hope that perhaps you can track it down later and listen to it again when Sylus isn’t around.

“Me,” he says, turning his head to look at you.

Wait, what?

“It’s already shocking enough that you play, but when do you have the time to compose?”

He lifts one of your hands and threads his fingers with yours. “Why so shocked that I have hobbies, like anyone else?”

“I just figured you’re always too busy with murder, mayhem, and munitions to have hobbies like a normal person,” you squeeze his hand as it swallows yours.

“I don’t have a lot of free time, but when I do, I like to spend some of it practicing and composing. Sometimes when I’m bored during business meetings I compose a little in my head and then write it out when I get home.” 

At your incredulous look, he flicks your forehead gently with his free hand. “What would you have guessed that I spend my free time doing if it occurred to you that I do not, in fact, work in every waking moment?”

You consider it. “I would have assumed you spend all your free time hanging out in your shady nightclubs.”

He frowns at you. “I own classy nightclubs because they make me money and provide convenient venues for business deals now that I no longer host such deals in my own home. I do not spend any more time in them than necessary.”

“Is that what you meant when you said that Amnesia isn’t really your vibe?”

“You remember,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised. 

“Even though it feels like weeks ago, you did just tell me that like, two nights ago,” you flick his forehead in revenge.

“Fair point,” he concedes. “All right, then, yes. That’s what I meant.”

“So what is your vibe?”

“Curious, kitten?”

“Yes.” That warm feeling you have is overriding your fears of admitting this to him. You want to know him. You want to know everything about him.

“It’s easier to show you my vibe,” he shrugs. “We’ll make a date of it.”

He dropped the “fake” part again.

His phone begins to vibrate in his jeans pocket again.

He frowns in irritation. You stand, forcing yourself to move away from him.

“I’ll entertain myself,” you smile at his questioning look. He holds onto your hand as you move away, until your arm and his are stretched between you, and then he lets go.

You’re thankful for the interruption. Too much unadulterated time being the subject of Sylus’s entire focus makes you think insane things. Like that he designed parts of his house with you in mind. That you know music that you’ve never heard before. That you’re forgetting something important about him, even though you only met him recently. That a poem you read in your youth is a roadmap of things that have already happened between you and the man pacing behind the door, and what will happen before the light strays, vanishes… returns again.

You step into the hallway and wander back toward the kitchen. After a few minutes, you hear the flap of Mephisto’s wings. He’s keeping you company again. You keep walking.

You’re distracted halfway to the kitchen, however, when you hear voices coming from the theater room. It sounds like the twins, and someone else whose voice is familiar, but you can’t pinpoint it. You knock.

“No need to knock,” one of the twins yells.

You open the door and peek into the room. It’s dark, with all the lights dimmed.

On the large screen where you almost watched a movie with Sylus the other night, a video game is playing.

Luke sits on one of the loveseats, holding a game controller, while Kieran is squished onto the same small loveseat with him, their two big bodies barely fitting, hiding his face in Luke’s shoulder.

Noah is sprawled out on another loveseat, perfectly at ease. She gives you a lazy wave.

Luke pauses the game and looks over his shoulder at you.

“Boss busy?” he asks as Kieran lifts his head, a look of relief on his face at the interruption.

“Business call,” you say, nodding. You stare at the screen. It looks like…

“Are you playing the Silent Hill 2 remake?” you squeal.

“Yeah! Since boss is on a little holiday, he gave us the time off as well. Figured we’d finally play it.”

“Are you a fan of the original?” Kieran asks.

You nod. “Huge fan. I was so excited when they announced the remake, but I’ve been too busy with work to play it.”

“Wanna join? Kieran is too scared to look half the time. We can take turns, if you want,” Luke offers, sounding pleased to have another person to share the game with.

You seriously consider his offer, but you’re still so tired. You don’t really want to learn the controls mid-way through a playthrough. Weren’t you just thinking about watching let’s plays of horror games you haven’t had a chance to play yet? You can watch Luke play without having to do a thing.

“I’m good, but do you mind if I stay and just watch until Sylus is done?”

“Is that even a question? Get in here.”

Luke unpauses the game, and the familiar sounds of the world of Silent Hill, with amazing, updated graphics fills your vision. You slink inside the room and sit on another love seat, preferring to give Noah her space since she’s sprawled out like she already owns the place.

You watch as Kieran hides his face in Luke's shoulder again as a lying figure jerkily lumbers towards James Sunderland.

Apparently Noah notices Kieran’s fear as well.

“Aren’t you one of the feared Raptors of Onychinus? Like, you’re famous in the Zone. How can the same person who is known for intentionally leaving mutilated corpses in public as warnings to your boss’s enemies be afraid of video game monsters?”

You turn and stare at the twins, a little horrified. Not entirely surprised, because you know what kind of man Sylus is. You know what his organization stands for. But mutilated dead bodies? Where normal people just trying to get through their shitty workday, where kids can see them?

“That’s fucked up,” you say out loud.

“Hey, you’re a fucking cop. We know what cops are capable of,” Kieran says softly, with a flatness in his tone you’ve never heard before. Noah looks between you and Kieran like she wishes she has popcorn. “Don’t act like what you sometimes do is any better than our calling card.” Luke kills a monster shaped like two shapely pairs of legs attached at the waist with a metal pipe, and it dies loudly. He stomps on it for good measure. “At least we’re honest about it, and don’t hide behind a shield of so-called legitimacy. People know what they’re getting when they deal with us.”

You look at Kieran thoughtfully. It’s difficult to admit, but he has a point. You know that there are corrupt hunters. The so-called Tenebrae. You also recognize that dark part of yourself, when you’re faced with someone who you know has done terrible things, and the itch to pull the trigger before you can bring them in. You know that innocent people suffer at the hands of criminals and law enforcement alike.

Kieran stares steadily back at you, his normally cheerful face serious. “How did you come to work for Sylus?” you ask.

Luke pauses the game. “We don’t talk about that,” he says in the same flat tone that his brother just spoke in.

“Oh?” you say, because you don’t want to continue to pry, and you don’t know what else to say.

“Boss says it doesn’t matter where we come from. Only where we’re going. So there’s no use talking about the past if we don’t want to.”

“And you don’t want to?” Noah asks, the look of entertainment morphing into something else on her face.

The twins shake their heads in unison.

You think she’s going to say something snarky, but she just nods. “Then you shouldn’t. No one is entitled to your story.”

“That’s what boss says. I see why he hired you now,” Kieran says, smiling at her, the odd stillness broken.

“He hired me because I’m fucking awesome,” Noah sniffs, flicking her braids behind her shoulder. They’re down now, spilling over her back.

You tilt your head. “Are you a new hire?” For some reason you thought that Noah had been Sylus’s driver for a long time.

“Did he not tell you?” she asks, looking at you strangely.

“Tell me what?”

“I’m not gonna do his work for him,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Huh?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she smiles at you, and it’s unnerving instead of soothing. “Anyway, yeah I’m a new hire. You’re gonna be seeing a lot of me in the future.”

Although Kieran seems to have reached some sort of approval of Noah, Luke still shudders and starts the game again.

You let it go. You’ll ask Sylus about Noah’s weird comment later. Instead of dwelling on it, you sink into admiring the awesome graphics, the atmosphere, your childhood nostalgia rendered in state of the art graphics

When the sirens go off as James is about to enter the Other World, you have a sudden flashback to playing the original Silent Hill 2 with Caleb. You were also too afraid, like Kieran, to play yourself, so you just clutched Caleb’s arm as he held the controller, and you delighted in the safety of vicarious thrills, of Caleb’s reassuring, solid presence at your side as you experienced the story. You suddenly miss him so, so much. The feeling of loss is overwhelming.

The sudden punch of grief leaves you breathless. Everyone else is so focused on the screen, they don’t notice your gasp. You want to watch. You’ve been wanting to experience the remake ever since the developers announced it, over a year ago. You want to experience it with who you are tentatively thinking of as your new friends. But you need a second to ground yourself before you can bring yourself to keep watching. 

Your force your voice through your throat. “I’m going to grab a snack. Do you guys want anything from the kitchen?”

“Popcorn!” Noah calls.

“We’re good,” Luke answers, because apparently Kieran is almost catatonic with terror.

“All right, be right back.” You take your time getting to the kitchen, Mephisto following you out the theater room door. You rifle through the fridge, shove some snacks into your mouth. You’re shocked to find microwave popcorn in one of the cupboards. Sylus strikes you as the kind of snob who insists on popping loose kernels on the stove, or over the fire in the fireplace. Nothing so pedestrian as store-bought and in the microwave. You snicker, that feeling of sorrow fading as you engage in everyday tasks, with company to look forward to. You’re not alone right now. You’re excited to see more of what the devs retained from the original game and what they added or changed in the remake. You head back to the theater room, but accidentally drop the bag of popcorn before you can open the door. As you pick it up, you can hear Noah.

“You know you don’t actually have to kill every monster you encounter, right?” She asks in barely disguised disdain.

“You know that you don’t actually have to offer your opinion when no one asked, right?” Luke snarks.

“Oooh, someone’s grumpy because he isn’t going to have an advantage in the bet like he thought,” Noah says through a snicker.

“What advantage? We agreed not to interfere. Boss is gonna have it in the bag even before the two weeks are up even without our help,” Luke responds.

“If he doesn’t fumble it by being too passive,” Kieran adds, thoughtfully.

“What ‘help?’ I bet your help would result in more delay than progress,” Noah taunts. “I probably don’t even have to do anything to counter your nonsense. You’ll do all my work for me.”

“Hey, flooding the guest floor was a good idea,” Luke protests.

This is just met with a cackle. 

You stand, frozen. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But what is their boss going to have in the bag without their help? What bet?

Something inside of you already knows. Hadn’t you thought earlier that the twins probably made a bet out of your obvious, pathetic crush?

But they said it was about their boss achieving something. Not about your feelings.

You don’t want to know.

You try desperately to cling to that warm feeling you’ve had since the pool.

Boss is gonna have it in the bag.

You spin on your heel, intending to return to the kitchen without them knowing you heard anything, just to buy yourself time to process. But of course, you promptly knock over another ugly sculpture. It shatters on the floor.

You stand there in your bandaged feet, holding the popcorn, staring down at the mess you just made.

The door swings open and Kieran, Luke, and Noah jostle each other to see what just happened in the hallway.

“Sorry,” you say. What the fuck else can you say?

“What happened?” Kieran asks.

“Just me being clumsy,” you say, trying to smile.

Luke squints at you. “Oh shit.” He turns to Kieran. “They’re making that horrible face again.”

Kieran stares at you.

Noah flicks her braids and tilts her head, examining you like an art critic trying to find meaning in a child’s finger painting. “What does that face mean?”

“It means they heard what we were discussing,” Kieran says grimly.

Luke glares at Noah. “What are you even doing here? Now the bet is fucked and boss is gonna be mad because his hunter’s making that expression again. Look at them. We’ve hurt their feelings!” He gestures at you.

She glares back. “Boss told me to report here for duty every day to remain on standby in case the hunter wants to go anywhere. What are you doing here?” she sneers.

“We live here,” he answers, looking confused that that’s even a question.

You take a step back, away from the sharp shards of the broken sculpture. Maybe they’ll be too busy arguing to notice.

That good feeling is gone.

You think about every move Sylus has made since the auction. All of his attention, his gentleness, his kindness, his dogged reappearance at your home, his arranging for you to have sick leave.

Would Sylus do all that for a bet?

Is he that bored? Is he that good of an actor?

How on earth would you even know? You don’t know shit about him. You’ve known him for a few months. In that time, you’ve seen him a handful of times. What the fuck are you doing?

You think about that feeling you had while listening to the Beatles, while listening to Sylus play the piano, of forgetting something really important. You want to throw up. 

Yeah, you’re forgetting something all right.

You can’t stand the feeling inside you right now. It’s too big. It’s eclipsing everything you’ve felt up until this point.

You think about what it will take to get out of here.

You think about picking up one of the sculpture’s shards and digging it into your thigh, anything to override this feeling inside you now.

You think about the resonance with Sylus when you woke up. Could he fake that?

His evol is unearthing a person’s deepest desires. But is it more than that? Could he make you feel adored without using his aether core? Did he promise not to use his evol on you because the terms of the bet forbade interference? Your fears send you spiraling.

“Oh no. No, no, no, no,” Luke says, peering at your face again. He takes a step forward, reaching out to you like someone trying to calm a wild animal, his house shoe crunching on the broken bits of sculpture.

You take a step back.

Noah just looks between the twins and you, confused.

“I’m just going for a walk,” you lie. You take another step back, turn, and start to walk down the hallway that will eventually lead to the lift. The lift that goes to the underground garage.

As you round the corner, Luke says,“Get—”

“On it,” Kieran says, with his phone to his ear.

Noah looks thoughtfully down the now empty hallway. “The hunter’s fucked up, huh?”

Luke shrugs. “Aren’t we all?”

Noah frowns at him. “Speak for yourself. You don’t know shit about me.”

“I know that boss hired you after looking into your soul. Which means you’re fucked up too. He isn’t interested in wholesome things or people—too boring.”

“And you?”

“You said it yourself. I really enjoy carving people up.” He shrugs. “Soothes something from our shitty childhood.”

Noah considers him. “Your brother seems to be okay with me now. Are you going to have a problem with me?”

Kieran grins at her. “What makes you think I have a problem with you?”

“You were mean when I suggested you try to stealth around the monsters. And don’t think I didn’t see your reaction when I said I’d be around more often. And acting like the hunter being upset is solely my fault, when we all made the stupid bet.” She counts each piece of evidence on her pretty fingers.

“Who the fuck likes backseat gamers?” He pouts a little. “And I didn’t like being hit on within an hour of meeting you. I don’t like people like that.”

Noah scowls back at him. “You don’t like people like what? ”

“I mean, I don’t like, like people. I get the creeps when people hit on me.”

Her lovely eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Oh.”

“But boss likes you, so I like you. We’re cool, so long as you don’t hit on me again.”

Noah nods.“I was just giving you two shit since you hauled me in front of your scary fucking boss. But I promised boss I wouldn’t do it again.”

“Then we’re cool. And if you don’t like how I play Silent Hill, then you can play if you want.” He opens the door again, gesturing for her to go in ahead.

“Nah man, I like being in the peanut gallery.”

“Does that mean you’re not gonna shut up?”

“You know it.” Noah gives him a big, feral grin.

Luke grins back at her, equally frightening. “Then I’ll be sure to kill every single monster we come across, no matter how much ammo it wastes.” The door swings shut on Kieran standing in the hallway, looking thoughtfully down at the phone in his hand.

_____________________

Sylus hums the melody of the music he played for you as he ends the call with Aidan. Luckily the issue this time could be settled by answering Aidan’s questions, and he can still look forward to a mostly uninterrupted day with you. He wonders where you’ll like to go next. Back to the library? To the greenhouse?

He’s in a great mood, despite the interruption. Every conversation with you convinces him that you’re closer and closer to accepting the truth. That you’re his, and he’s yours. He wants to drag you back to the library, listen to you read to him, argue about poetry—the way your eyes flash when you’re making a counterargument, the sneer in your retorts to his needling you—he wants to kiss you. He wants to kiss you so much it hurts.

His phone vibrates in his pocket again. He clenches his jaw, pauses. He wants to throw the damn thing against the wall and just continue looking for you, business be damned. But he also doesn’t want to leave Aidan in an awkward position. He fishes the phone out of his pocket and accepts the call.

“Boss, your hunter is making a strategic retreat again,” Kieran says breathlessly.

Sylus jerks to a stop.

“Repeat that?” he demands.

“They overheard us talking about the wager,” Kieran explains, sounding pained.

It takes Sylus a second to remember what he’s talking about. “The bet about how long it will take for kitten to realize that I want to date them?”

“Yeah.”

Sylus thinks. Why would you be spooked by a stupid bet between his henchmen and your driver?

“But they—well, they overheard us talking about it, and they don’t know what the wager is actually about. I am afraid that they might have misunderstood something,” Kieran says carefully, like he’s waiting for Sylus’s wrath.

Sylus immediately realizes what probably just happened.

“I left kitten alone for less than twenty minutes,” he sighs. Just his fucking luck. It’s like the universe or some cruel god wants to create obstacles in his path to winning your precious heart.

“Your bet is over,” he barks.

“Understood.”

Sylus ends the call and pulls up Mephisto’s app. You’re walking quickly, with purpose. He squints, trying to figure out which part of the house you’re in. It looks like you’re trying to get to the lift that leads to the underground garage. Sylus dissipates into red and black mist.

_______________

As you walk, you make your way to the garage, not even sure what your plan is. You have that hollow, manic feeling filling you—the feeling that always fills you when you’re hurt like this, when you just need to get out, to outrun your own body and the feelings it contains. This time though, through the noise in your head, you remember your promises to Sylus. About not hurting yourself, but going to him. If you have doubts about his intentions, to go to him. To ask him when you have questions, instead of making assumptions.

But how can you? What’s the point of honoring promises made to a man who thinks your feelings are fair game for a bet? 

You need to think. You don’t want to think. You’re hurting so, so much. You need time. Your body feels like you’re out of time. You miss Caleb. You miss your grandmother. 

It takes all of your self control to stop moving. You hear Mephisto’s wings flapping behind you. You close your eyes. You resist the urge to punch yourself, barely. If you’re just a bet to him, you should punch him instead. You open your eyes and realize you stopped next to a door with an electronic lock blinking on the handle. You turn and look at it fully, and you hear the lock click.

It recognized your face. Just as Kieran and Luke told you all the locks in this house would. Why would Sylus bother programming your face into his home if you’re just a bet?

You watch your hand reach out, grasp the handle. You pull, and the door opens easily. You slip inside and let it close before Mephisto can follow.

The lights flicker on.

You gasp.

It’s like standing inside an upscale jewelry store, built inside a bank vault. Except instead of sparsely filled display cases, designed to emphasize and showcase a select number of precious jewels, each glass case is stuffed with the things. Diamonds. Rubies. Emeralds. A mind-blowing variety of beautiful stones that you don’t even know the names for. Loose stones, as well as jewelry—necklaces, rings, earrings. Where most of Sylus’s house is the picture of meticulous order, this vault looks like a dragon’s hoard of priceless treasures, casually piled high without much thought.

Why would Sylus trust you with access to such wealth, if you were just a bet?

But more importantly, how much death must Sylus Qin sell, to afford such a vault?

How many lives in exchange for each gem?

You turn in a circle as you slowly process the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a sea of blood diamonds.

What are you doing?

What the actual fuck are you doing?

You were just marveling at the luxury of the rooms he designed, filled with the thrilling possibility that he had built them for you. You had thought about the cost of the heating in the hot tub, the pool. And yet you were willing to overlook such expenses. Why? Because at least the pool, the lovely architecture are useful? Because they provide some value to the human experience, even if only a select few will ever get to experience them at Sylus’s house?

But what value do diamonds have? Shiny clumps of compressed carbon. You can’t burn them for warmth. You can’t eat them. Okay, so maybe they’re used in some industrial processes, but for fuck’s sake, artificially created diamonds could serve that purpose. And you’re absolutely sure that the diamonds Sylus has hoarded in this vault are real, products of millions of years of pressure, and not made in some lab.

You sink to the black marble floor. It’s cold. You draw up your knees and hug them.

There’s too much happening in your brain right now. Your grief. Your uncertainty about Sylus’s intentions—the question of who his beloved is. The bet.

The realization that you’re falling in love with a man whose life’s work is bringing misery to others.

You hate yourself. Here you are, thrown into a tailspin from the idea that Sylus may have spent all this time on you because of a bet with his minions, when you should be in a tailspin about the fact that it’s probably already too late for you to stop falling for a man who not only praises the mutilated world, but is one of the people shoving the knife in deeper. 

There is so much you don’t know about him. But what you do know is that Sylus is too busy pouring salt into the wound of the world to dedicate so much time and resources to something as frivolous as a wager about how long it will take for him to get you in the bag. It’s pure, self-pitying hubris to assume otherwise.

You’re focusing on the wrong things, again. You’re forgetting what’s important, again.

What do you want? What can you live with? Why do you feel a connection with this complicated, cruel, ruthless man, as if you’ve known him for more than a few months? What kind of person are you, if despite sitting in a sea of diamonds paid for in other peoples' blood, you still want this merchant of death to come find you, to hold you in his arms, tell you that he wasn't placing bets on how long it would take to have you in the bag?

You begin to rock, somehow resisting all of your terrible urges: to hurt yourself, to run, to set this awful room on fire. You rock, and you hurt, and you wait for the terrible man you’re falling in love with to find you, as he always does.

______________

Sylus finds Mephisto pacing on the floor in front of his gem vault. He caws in distress when he sees his owner re-materialize in the hallway. Sylus finds the fact that you’re in the gem vault, and not currently trying to procure a getaway car, to be a source of hope—a strange feeling for him. What use does he have for hope? He has plans. Plans with contingencies, alternatives, backups. They either succeed because he planned well enough, or they fail because he did not plan well enough. 

Hope has no place in his world.

People suffer and die. Deals are made and broken. Fate is cruel, inflexible. He knows this all too well, no matter how much he’s struggling against fate this time around.

Hope has no place in his world.

But.

You could have kept running. You could be in any one of his vehicles right now, trying to break land speed records to get the fuck away from him, convinced that he was involved in a bet about the biggest gamble of his life.

But you’re not. You’re in his gem vault, for some reason. You strange, unpredictable, delightful creature.

He finds himself hoping that this misunderstanding hasn’t just caused you to retreat beyond his reach again. 

Your fingers in the dip of his clavicle.

The yearning look on your face, that he doesn’t think you even knew you had, when he bit your lip—the closest he’ll allow himself to a kiss until he’s one hundred percent sure you’ll welcome him while awake.

He opens the door.

He pauses, struck with the strange sensation of viewing his greatest treasure surrounded by so much of his material treasure. You belong here. The value of all of these precious stones nothing in comparison to you, shining like a beacon to him at the end of a long and winding road from the marble floor, dimming everything else in this room by comparison.

His house shoes whisper along the cold marble floor where you’re sitting, curled in on yourself.

He has watched you take down wanderers the size of an elephant. All that strength, contained in your huddled body. You look so small to him. He wants to protect you from all the horrors of the world. But of course, he’s the biggest horror of all. Is it any wonder that he keeps hurting you instead?

A better man might keep his distance in an effort to protect you. Like your partner. A better man might know when to quit. Like your dandy artist friend. A better man might be content with loving you from afar. Like your fucking doctor. 

But Sylus is a terrible man, because he’s not going to stop trying to get it right, even as he hurts you in the process, until you order him to stop and mean it.

You don’t look up at the sound of his footsteps, but you also don’t retreat as he approaches.

He sits on the floor next to you, wraps an arm around your shivering shoulders. He pulls you into his arms, feels the rush of hope when you let him.

He cradles your head in his palm.

“The twins bet on everything. Which snail is the fastest on a leaf. Whether it will rain or snow tomorrow. How long it will take someone to bleed out. Whether the traffic light will change in five versus ten seconds,” he says softly into your hair.

“About how long it will take to get your pathetic hunter in the bag?” Your voice is small, just as your body feels in his arms.

“About how long it will take for my beloved to realize how I feel about them,” he sighs.

You stiffen, and he feels a moment of paralyzing fear, before you melt into him. He breathes again.

“What did you bet?” you ask, and Sylus feels the sorrow in your voice like a gunshot in his chest.

You ran, but you stopped. You assumed, but you’re asking questions now. You’re allowing him to touch you, to hold you. The hope in him surges again. 

“I didn’t place a bet in this particular wager,” he manages through the unfamiliar feelings. “But if I had, the gamble would be my whole heart.”

“Does a man who has a dragon’s hoard of wealth, bought with the blood of the guilty and the innocent alike, have a heart?” you ask, finally looking up, your eyes hollow in a way that he doesn’t like.

Sylus is a terrible man. He has never lied to himself about this, or to you. He showed you the worst of himself, the day you met. He has to hope that the fact you’re still here, still asking him questions, means that he hasn’t lost you yet. An unpleasant feeling of doubt slithers through him. Is it the bet upsetting you, or something else?

“Even dragons have hearts, darling.”

You close your eyes. He wants you to open them again. He wants you to look at him. He never wants you to look away from him. Even if you’re looking at him with doubt, or hate, so long as you’re looking at him, that means you’re not leaving him.

“What do you want?” he asks.

You open your eyes again. He is terribly tempted to use his aether core on you, because for once, he can’t read how you’re feeling.

“You offered me time.”

He leans forward, rests his forehead against yours. “And I will give you time.”

“I want to see your favorite part of the greenhouse.”

“And I will show you my favorite part of the greenhouse,” he whispers, breathing, breathing. He can’t tell how you’re feeling, but you smell like home, a door at the end of a long road. The hope grows.

“I want to see Luke and Kieran and Noah play the remake of Silent Hill 2.”

The hope shifts, dissipates. There is no need for hope, once it is fulfilled. You want to stay, for now. He can work with that. Whatever damage learning about the bet caused, he can work with your willingness to stay. If that look in your eyes isn’t about the bet, he has more time to dismantle your walls, to pull it out of you. Just two nights ago, you were running barefoot through the dark. Tonight, you stopped yourself and waited for him to find you. “You’re in luck. They’re still playing.”

You watch him, as if you’re weighing something behind your hollow eyes. “Will you watch with me?”

Of course, he thinks. Of course. You could ask for so much more, and the answer would be the same. “Do you want me to watch with you?”

“I want you to want to watch with me.”

He smiles, his mouth a breath away from yours. You smell like popcorn. He wants to throw a piece in the air, catch it in his mouth, feed it to you. “Again, you bring me luck. We have a win-win deal.”

He stands. Carries you out of his gem vault.

“Why do you have so many jewels?” you ask, quietly.

“In case the authorities freeze my accounts, physical currency will be useful. A sort of insurance.”

You gaze at his face, and he wonders what you see when you look at him. “You’ll escape with a truck full of precious stones?”

“Something like that,” he says.

“No other reason?”

He tells the truth. “I’ve always been fond of shiny things.”

“Do you have a favorite stone?”

He laughs softly. “Whatever stone you’re wearing.”

Instead of looking at him with suspicion, a helpless look crosses your face. Like you’re in pain from his admission. He doesn’t like it. But then you lean forward, press your face into his neck. He tells himself that he has time. He’ll figure out what’s bothering you, and he’ll fix it.

Outside the theater room, he pauses. Looks down at the pieces of shattered sculpture. "If you didn't like it, darling, you could have just said so."

You just mumble that you're sorry.

"We've talked about your apologies," he says, frowning down at you in his arms.

You huff. "Fine. I'm not sorry. That sculpture was edgy and ugly. You should replace it with something beautiful."

"Deal. But only if you come with me to choose something," he says.

"Deal," you say softly, and he still can't tell what's going through your head.

When you enter the theater room, Luke pauses the game. “We’re really sorry for hurting your feelings and shit. The bet was about boss’s rizz, not about you. Please don’t leave.”

Kieran nods in approval, as if he had helped Luke compose this little speech.

Noah just looks at you, face unreadable, as you rest your head on Sylus’s shoulder.

“I had planned to give you a lot of shit. But I think I would’ve lost anyway,” she says, not looking apologetic at all. “It’s only been two days and you’re practically merging into one person.”

Sylus carries you to a loveseat next to the twins, with Noah on their other side.

“Thanks,” you say. “No worries.”

Everyone is awkwardly silent for a moment after your brief response. You seem to notice, and smile a little. “Can we hang out while you play?”

“Fuck yeah,” Luke says, and Kieran groans as the game is unpaused.

After a while, you, Luke, and Noah start discussing the difference between the remake and the original. What everyone likes, what they don’t. Sylus leans back, draws you onto his chest. His relief remains intense as you let him. The discussion moves on to which Silent Hill games are the best in the franchise, which are the worst. Luke and Noah have a good-natured clash about Silent Hill 4: the Room, with only a few insults flung at each other. You and Kieran share your admiration for Bloober Team's Layers of Fear, which Kieran liked because he didn't think it was scary, and which Luke hated, because he thought it was boring. Sylus doesn't give a shit about video games, and certainly not horror games. Life itself is already horrific enough, he doesn't have the patience for manufactured terror. He just listens, feeling your heartbeat against his chest, breathing in your comforting scent.

A feeling of wholeness settles in him, as unfamiliar as hope. As unfamiliar as the happiness from your movie night, just last night. You, Luke, and Noah have moved on to animatedly arguing about some character’s outfit changes between the original and the remake.

He feels like he’s been standing, left behind in the dark for so long, and he’s finally being allowed home. Whatever is bothering you, he’ll fix it. He’ll destroy the world if he has to, to preserve the scene in front of him, so that he can offer you this, so that he can experience this with you, again, and again, and again. His gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns.

End notes: I had planned shenanigans for the twins and Noah to increase their odds in winning the bet, but this story is already out of control with how long it is, and some of the things I thought of were really manipulative and fucked up even if I personally thought they were hilarious, but my brain is craving a softer vibe for this story I guess (lmao if this can be considered soft), so I hope this isn't too much of a let down for the resolution of the bet subplot. I've given up hinting at what's coming next because it turns out I'm very bad at guessing what's next.

[angelssmvse]

𝙂𝙊𝙊𝘿 𝙂𝙄𝙍𝙇𝙎 𝙂𝙊 𝙏𝙊 𝙃𝙀𝘼𝙑𝙀𝙉

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ 𝙁𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙍 𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙀 𝙈𝘼𝙔𝙃𝙀𝙒 𝙓 𝙁𝙀𝙈 !𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍 𝜗𝜚 (smut)

𝜗𝜚 𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝘼��𝙔 The ordinary girl, always abiding by the rules—so innocent and pure. But sometimes, stepping outside those boundaries can be a good thing, can't it? And Father Charlie is about to show you how. (P.S. he’s gentle with you)

𝜗𝜚 𝘼/𝙉 So recently I made this edit and oh God I had this urge to write a smut — and please feel free to send me any requests. Enjoy, angels<3 ( click here to watch the edit )

𝜗𝜚 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂𝙎 smut! minors DNI. This narrative contains mature themes and explicit content, including strong language, depictions of violence, adult situations (smut), and elements of both humor and tenderness. Reader discretion is advised.

It's been months since you and Father Charlie began talking and spending time together. Your conversations often revolve around beliefs, modern society, and even psychology. Yet, what intrigues you both the most is uncovering each other's thoughts and understanding what truly goes on in each other's minds.

You always saw him as the mysterious type of man—the kind you’d chase despite knowing he’d probably hurt you.

And then there was you. God, he hated you. To him, you were almost angelic, divine in every sense, as though you’d barely sinned a day in your life. Your eyes held a magnetic pull, and your presence was undeniably comforting.

He was a mess, yet somehow, you managed to understand him—at least in part—and soothe his anger.

“The desires of the flesh do not come from the Father…but from the world,” Father Charlie intones, his voice steady as he reads from the Bible in his hands. “But in the end,” he continues, setting the Bible down on the nearest surface, “we are all…” — “Sinners,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “So fuck it,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.

In an instant, you find yourself pressed down onto his bed, his body over yours, his lips claiming yours in a fervent kiss. The kiss deepens, the atmosphere grows charged, your heart pounds, and your bodies remain entwined.

He gently positions himself as he slowly begins to move, you arch your back towards him in pleasure, softly moaning holding his defined shoulders as your nails dig into the skin causing it to bleed. He growls taking your wrists and holding them tight to keep you still “Father-“ you whimper, he shuts you up by kissing you, your tongues dancing as he quickens up his pace.

Father Charlie felt your climax building up and your walls tightening around him, “Fuck…” he whimpers in pleasure drowning himself in the crook of your shoulder; kissing your soft skin and leaving trails of love marks behind as he goes on.

Tears began to fall down your cheeks, your legs tight around him letting you come. He finishes and collapses on top of you, his lips brushing softly against your skin. Your hands, now free, move to the back of his head as you gently play with his hair. "Hey now," he chuckles, lifting himself slightly to meet your gaze.

You both savored every moment—every second spent together. But was it wrong…this feeling?

Copyright © angelssmvse 2024 — I own only this story; please do not copy nor translate without permission or proper attribution. I give credit for the character Father Charlie Mayhew from the series "Grotesquerie" by Ryan Murphy. This is the only platform where I have published the story.

[theoddest1]

Okay so, ima type in what I typed to my friend here.

"Yeah Ima be so dead ass. ||Mel and Ekko carried the final for me, ESPECIALLY Ekko."

Yeah, they should have just kept [Viktor] being Ryze. That made more sense to me than whatever this is. And I am all for mlm rep, but yeah, this felt WAY too, Jayvikky. I liked it better that they were brothers to parallel Vander and Silco, who also found each other and became bros, but it seemed like they went with how popular JayVik was and stuck with it. And Jayce being strung with Viktor for wherever they went felt...kinda nonsensical. I'd rather that Viktor was thwarted and too far gone to then just suddenly have a change of heart and go with Jayce. I imagined that he would have a contingency where he, incase his body was destroyed, would then later rise again to try and enact "Glorious Evolution". It would go well with the themes of his beliefs anyway because every time he dies, he comes back stronger in a new body. I feel like that would better set the ongoing conflict and fit well with the game and why he looks the way he does currently.

I also don't like how quick he and Mel's reunion was considering how much he favored her along with his odd and sudden dislike for her decisions-- Seriously, where did that even come from!?"

[Thought it over further. Him calling her out on her actions isn't the issue. It's the timing and how this transpires that confuses me. He just came from a post-apocalyptic world where Mel, Viktor, and everything else came to mind. The lack of time for them to truly talk made the scene felt out of nowhere and not at all fleshed out. He goes on to place part of the blame on her when literally it wasn't. She DID manipulate but only politically. Everything else was on he and Viktor. Then, when he DOES confront Viktor, the vibes are different. Viktor hurt and caused a chain of events that led to several lives being taken to ensure survival and his "Glorious Evolution", why is this essentially overlooked? Maybe when I review this again, it will make more sense, but as of now, the way Jayce treats both Mel and Viktor is VERY questionable.]

"I would have been pretty happy if He at least gave her a hug, a kiss, something to make their relationship seem consistent with what we were shown. I know that he's been gone for a while and a lot more cold, but this was a very odd direction to go with. I am super happy about Cait and Mel fighting side by side and that Mel may be the main character for a new Noxus related show! [Which I knew they'd set up!] but this series, after seeing it in its entirety, DID suffer too much from the pacing issues. I assumed at the First Act that it was quick paced to go with how they've all been shifted into places they didn't see coming, but the pacing issues continued to bring down the quality. 3 seasons would have made way more sense and would go well with the 3 ACT formula they had used. I hope they learn from this and refrain from making similar mistakes.

[I responded to my friend who posted these images above] I knew they'd make a callback to this line eventually, and I am genuinely surprised people are not catching this obvious set up to Jinx living. Also, I am betting that Heimer did "die" but only that alternate version of himself. [Though obviously I could be wrong, though a life of various lifetimes where he helps each version of the main cast sounds very Heimerdinger of him, especially since he didn't wanna leave.]

The biggest letdown for me has to be Jayce and Viktor's story. It just...doesn't make sense with what we have been shown. Also, if Viktor KNOWS bad shit would happen when bringing Hextech to life and all, why TF would he give it to Jayce then???? Or if he STILL wanted magic to be tampered with shy doesn't he comvince himself in a way HE KNOWS would prevent what happens next, surely NOT EVERY timeline has it where you continue on the path of destruction! You see what I mean!?!? Leave the time crap to Ekko, man. This new inclusion makes no sense! And he does this in VARIOUS timeliness for some reason. Man, I wish it was just a random ass mage or Ryze, this added stuff kinda kills the finale for me🫠

I feel that making Viktor time travel ruins a huge aspect of the story, ngl, especially when Jayce argues that people can "craft their own path." The story also shouldn't have ended with what I could only assume both of them "dying" or traversing time instead. Also, the way Sky was treated and essentially replaced with Jayce feels....very very weeeeird."

[I believe that the ending just didn't land that well. I feel, now thinking over every character, Ekko, Mel, and Jinx carried this season HEAVY. These 3 were the most interesting parts of the season, honorable mention being Singed cause he be doing what he MUST. Also, what was the point of introducing Loris if all he was gonna end up being was a random guy who reminded Vi of Vander? I guess nothing is wrong with this, but when you're already stringing for time, these inclusions make no sense... I liked him, though, RIP Loris🤧. Oh, and Caut barely facing consequences is KINDA CRAZY but it goes with the themes of forgiveness/ acceptance. The Cycle would never end, after all, but yeah Vi and Cait made up WAY too fast and just shows that this needed another season. Let me know your thoughts!]

[carry-the-sky]

go spin the wheel, see where it lands—

Here's the thing about time: it's always running out. He felt it even as a kid, this urgency moving through him, around him. Always just ahead. He'd catch up, if everything else would just slow the hell down. But there are rules, and rule number one is that time tends to be, well, linear. Directional. Things get a bit messy when it's not.

Four seconds. That was rule number two, and the consequences for breaking it are— bad. To put it lightly.

He doesn't exactly have a choice. Or, he does, but if it's between breaking the rules or not, watching everything he loves get ripped away or digging in, claws first— well. He knows a thing or two about fighting dirty.

So, no, it's not a choice. It's immutable, like gravity. Time. A strict progression from cause to effect.

Ekko breaks rule number two.

And the line becomes a circle.

.

He thinks it's a dream, the first time. What else would it be? She fell. She's gone.

She's here now, though. Whole and happy and here, running a hand through her chopped-short hair. That single streak of magenta hits him where it hurts, square in his chest. You can't feel pain in a dream, can you?

"You're back," she says, without looking up. She's lying on her stomach, sketchbook open, a whirling kaleidoscope of color on the page in front of her. "Took you long enough."

"Was I gone?" Ekko says.

She actually laughs at that, the sound filling up his ears, warm and bright. "Benzo was starting to worry, not that he'd ever admit it. Big ol' softie." Her hand flashes, chalk sticks arcing across the page. "You seem to have that effect on people."

He shakes his head. "I don't. I'm not—"

She scribbles faster, fingers stained pink and blue and every shade in between. "You know, for a smart guy, you're kinda dumb."

"Ouch."

"I still like you, though."

This is a nice dream. Maybe the only nice dream he'll have again.

"I miss you," he says, dredging the words up from some sunless space inside him. "I didn't tell you before."

Her hand slows to a stop. From where he's standing, Ekko can only see a few snatches of detail on the page; a fuchsia smile, twin blue braids.

"I'm right here, buster," she says, not looking up. Grinning softly at her hands. "Never left, actually."

The circle wobbles, shifts out of focus. Time and space folding in on each other like paper cranes.

When he blinks, Powder is gone.

.

Too late. It's always, always too late.

.

"It's you," she says, the next time.

They're somewhere green, somewhere he's never been. A part of the Undercity that doesn't exist where he's from, that never existed.

"Uh." He blinks against the sun. "It's me, yeah."

"Seriously?" Beside him on the lawn, she pops up on an elbow, scrutinizing him. "You still don't get what's happening? Sheesh, hopping dimensions really does do a number on the noggin."

Okay, this is a weird dream. Still, as long as he keeps her talking, as long as he has sun on his skin and grass beneath him, he doesn't really care. He'll take weird. He'll take whatever he can get.

"Noggin, right," he laughs. "Synapses. Drunk slugs."

Powder scrunches up her nose like she's trying not to laugh. "Alright, I give. If you wanna dance around the giant elephant in the room, be my guest." She turns her head into her arm, a shield from the sun. Between them, their hands brush in the grass, pinky fingers tangling together. "Next time, though."

Ekko hums, content. More than that— happy. Overflowing with it. Then he frowns. "Wait. Next time?"

Paper cranes, folding in and in and in.

"Dummy," he thinks he hears her say before she disappears.

.

"So when you said 'hopping dimensions', you meant—"

"Yeah."

"And that means—"

"Yeah."

Ekko spins in a circle, arms thrown out wide. "But— how? All of this, the lab, the tech— it shouldn't exist here. Heimerdinger made sure—"

"Hey, you're the genius," Powder says. "I just live here."

Four seconds. He lets it sink in for four seconds—she's whole, she's happy, she's here, at least in this tiny pocket of space and time—before he's crossing the space between them and pulling her into a bruising hug. Her breath puffs out in mild surprise, and then she's hugging him back, arms cinching tight around him. I won't forget this. But he's already started to. He drops his head to her shoulder, breathing her in, every tiny detail. He won't make the same mistake twice.

Her eyes are wet when they untangle. Ekko swipes at his cheek to find that his are, too.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry. I thought I saved you, but it wasn't— I wasn't—"

"Don't," she says fiercely. "Don't do that. Not with me, not here. I meant what I said, okay? You're a good one, Ekko. You don't give up on people. If I'm— if the other me is— then there was nothing you could've done to change it. That was always gonna be how the story ended."

The tears are a river, streaming salt down the slope of his nose and into his mouth. "I was too slow. I'm always too damn slow."

Powder's hands are on his face, her lips kissing the salt from his cheeks, his eyelids. "The boy savior," she murmurs. "It's not your job to save everyone, you know. But I love you for trying."

She's fading, or maybe he is. Time and space, a never-ending anomaly. But there are constants, too, things that keep the universe spinning. Rules worth breaking.

He feels it, this time. It's like someone's scooping out his insides, rearranging his atoms. Like he's being wiped clean, unmade. Hollowed out so that some other him can be stuffed into his skin. Four seconds is all it takes, or maybe four million.

I love you. I love you, too.

.

He tells her for real, when he sees her again.

"I know," she says, elbowing him in the ribs. Her cheeks are dusky-pink. "Following my lead, huh?"

He looks at her, really looks. Every detail; the dainty point of her chin and the dusting of freckles across her nose and her eyes, big and bright and blue.

"Always," he says.

.

Time and space. Paper cranes, folding and unfolding, creasing the lines of reality. Some rules can't be broken, but they can bend a little.

Here's one: when you die, you stay dead.

.

He must be dreaming. She's standing right in front of him, in this dimension, on this plane of existence, real and whole and here. Her hair is still short, all of it blue.

Four seconds. He holds his breath for four seconds, and then: "Jinx."

"Hey, buster," she says.

[mattluvr]

dad!matt, a concept.

best read in dark mode ⏾

🧸 part ii — the labour. . .

ᡣ𐭩 october 22nd. 6am. exactly one day late, and yours and matt’s daughter is on the way.

you’re nervous, naturally, the mere sight of the soaked bedsheets from where your waters broke moments ago making your chest feel tight; it hadn’t really sunk in that you’d actually have to give birth eventually, the pain slowly creeping its way through your body planting reality in place. even more so when the first contraction grips you.

you move towards matt, seeking comfort in his hold as the pain ripples through you. “fuck, i didn’t think it would hurt this bad.” you mutter through gritted teeth, nails clamping onto matt’s shoulders.

he sighs, rubbing the small of your back in soft circles as his eyebrows draw together. he’s concerned, obviously, but the contraction passes quickly, and he seizes the opportunity to grab your hospital bag and pack you up into the car.

after you did your hair and makeup of course.

ᡣ𐭩 the journey to the hospital is more dangerous than the one from your labour scare a month ago; matt drives faster with only one hand on the wheel, the other clutched in yours as you use it to ground you through each contraction.

they’re more often and closer together, which you know from the endless pregnancy books you read is a telltale sign of your cervix dilating, and you silently start to pray this also means that the rest of pregnancy goes smoothly, complication free.

although, judging by the death grip matt has on your hand, you’re not sure whether you can rule out the prospect of your boyfriend fainting from pure stress.

he pulls into the hospital’s parking lot in a record time of 10 minutes, at least five speeding tickets with his name written all over them, but does not stop to give either of you time to breathe, a whirlwind as he rushes round to your side, hospital bag from the trunk already resting in the crook of his arm.

you laugh, accepting matt’s outstretched hand as you amble towards the entrance to the hospital. “i’ve never seen you move you fast.”

ᡣ𐭩 you and matt check in at reception, with only one contraction marring your words, and the midwives are quick to find you a room and gown.

you change in the bathroom, trying your very best to ignore how the contractions make you double over each time, the green pattern on the hospital gown making your eyes hurt alongside the baby. you settle down in the bed and your midwife introduces herself to you and matt as she hooks you up to a monitor, the name betty suiting her grey curls and soft smile perfectly.

although you like betty less when she tells you that you’re only 3cm dilated. out of 10. matt swears your expression could curdle milk in that moment and he chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“you’ve got to remember that each birth is different, so this could take a long time or a short time.” betty reassures you as she props the pillows up behind you. “you can help the labour pass by moving around. we can bring in a yoga ball if you’d like?”

matt answers for you anyways. “absolutely.”

ᡣ𐭩 betty comes in throughout the day to check in on you; she brings you the yoga ball at 8am when you finally dilate one centimetre, helping you lower down onto the contraption, with matt by your side the second a sliver of pain crosses your face.

he rubs those soft circles into your back, and you rest your head on his torso when you bounce up and down. which obviously makes matt laugh, a mindless comment about how this is a familiar sight passing his lips, causing you to glare in turn, claiming that he’s making your contractions worse. that shuts him up.

ᡣ𐭩 at 10am, you’re 6cm dilated, the yoga ball long abandoned in the corner of the room; you now find yourself on all fours on the hospital bed, rocking back and forth slowly. in your head it’s helping with the pain, but the real soother is matt’s constant presence next to you, the simple sound of his breathes calming you.

he’s already made the respective phone calls to his parents and brothers, nick audibly crying from joy over the phone whilst chris whooped and cheered.

“I’M GOING TO HAVE A NIECE BY THE END OF THE DAY!”

“would you calm the fuck down?” matt had hissed. “we’re in a hospital right now.”

“i wish they could see my death glare.” you had piped up, easing your rocking to look over at matt. he offers you an apologetic glance, hushing a see you later to the boys on the phone before hanging up.

you don’t even let matt apologise, babbling out words before your next contraction hits you. “can you call my mom?”

he doesn’t even hesitate. and that’s why you love him.

ᡣ𐭩 the next hour flies by, a centimetre passing every 20 minutes, marking you at 9cm dilated by 11am and crying from how badly it hurts.

the midwives have moved you back to a flat position, your legs now in stirrups to give them easier access for checkups. matt is crouched down by your side, pushing your hair out of your face as you blubber in agony.

“i don’t think i can do this, matt.”

“are you kidding me?” matt squeezes your hand, his expression soft as he moves forward to peck your forehead. “you are the strongest, prettiest, most powerful girl i know. i love you and this baby, and i know you can do this.”

the tears from that point onwards are mixed with joy, comforted by matt’s presence beside you.

ᡣ𐭩 at 11:30am, you’re ready to have your baby girl. biologically, maybe not mentally, your chest tightening as betty tells you with a soft smile that you’re now ready to start the process of pushing. but on the other hand, you’ve gone through at least 20 years worth of pain in the space of 5 hours and want nothing more than to get this baby out of you. so you reluctantly agree.

with matt’s hand clutched in yours, you lean forwards into each push, ungodly screams leaving your mouth in an attempt to cancel out the pain gripping you.

“good work, keep going!” betty spurs you on, her scrubs confined by an apron as she waits in anticipation. “the head’s almost there, a few more pushes!”

you exhale, turning to matt who gives you an encouraging nod despite his pale complexion, the boy about three minutes away from fainting. which almost pushes you on, now desperate to get your daughter out into the world before her dad passes out. you sit up on your elbows once more, vision blurred as you start the final stretch.

the head is out before you know it, and with one more weak push, the rest of your daughter is out into the world, sobs spilling out of your mouth as betty brings her up to nestle by you.

her lungs are full, both your cries mixed together in the thick atmosphere of the hospital room, matt’s own tears hidden as he leans over to observe his baby, shaky fingers reaching out to caress her skin.

he moves back to press another kiss to your forehead. “i told you you could do it.”

ᡣ𐭩 october 22nd, at 11:33am, your daughter arrives into the world, and you and matt’s lives are about to be changed in the best ways possible.

taglist. . .

( @aelinslegend, @mattslolita, @emely9274, @conspiracy-ash, @chrissturniolossidehoe, @mattbrainrot ) is open!

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

Loyalties chapter 2🔞

Loyalties Masterlist

Simon was almost sure that hell had to be a one month long leave. His skin itches from not being able to rip and maim any targets. His nerves were jumping because he so desperately needed the structure that was base. He could count on training recruits, doing simulations, anything to exercise the testerone from his system. Before he took his leave he had requested another shot of suppressants and was promptly denied by the base doctor. Now that had irritated him to high hell. Didn't they know that his alpha, unless it was chemically sedated, would want to rip and run free, gnash and gnaw until it felt satisfied? It was suggested that he find relief in a barracks bunny, but the snarl that left his mouth told the doctor to shut up. In the end while it wasn't suppressants he was given, he was instead supplied with relaxants that while wouldn't chemically sedate him, it would keep his instincts calm. Simon could at least appreciate that he wouldn't cause issues or lose his carefully crafted control when he was released into the general public. After all, he was certain that Johnny wouldn't want to be bedridden because Simon tore his ass a literal new hole. He and the Scott , while often intimate, never had sex with Simon off of his suppressants. He didn't want to hurt him and couldn't trust himself to not accidentally knot the poor lad.

“Aye, ye okay Simon?”

Simon was brought out of his thoughts and into the present by Johnny. He only offered a grunt for a response and brought his pint to his mouth for another sip of his beer. The pub that they ended up in was the same one they were regulars at when they were in the city. It was always dimly lit, moderately loud, and always a bit more crowded than he liked and the cocktail of scents made his head hurt. But Klye and Johnny fancied the place and Price actually liked the food here, so he didn't complain about being dragged out by his pack mates.

“If you say so Lt.” Kyle shook his head, “Soap and I were thinking we could do a rage room tomorrow night, we heard some of the recruits talking about it.”

Johnny nodded his head, “yea, an hour to just fuck around an’ smash thing!”

Simon thought it was stupid, why pay for the fake experience when they were paid to actually fuck things up during missions? He didn't understand the novelty of it, because Price was agreeing, saying something about “it seems like a good idea.”

His nose twitches as he scents the air, a habit really of unconsciously searching for danger. But the scent of something sweet cuts through the other smells of salt, beer, musk from other alphas. It was pleasing, made his teeth ache in a way it hadn't ached since he met Johnny. His eyes scan the pub looking for even a hint at what it could be. Whatever it was, had caught the eye of several other alphas and a few betas in the pub, both male and female. The hostess, a slip of a thing, had walked by and following after her were three women, all of them omegas. They were talking to each other, and he recognized from how they carried themselves and the accent and the chosen words of referring to the place as a hole in the wall bar, that they were American. All of them had pretty brown skin and two of them were holding hands, while the third followed behind them. If the walkway was wider, he had no doubt that they all would be side by side holding hands and laughing.

The hostess had shown them to the booth that was right next to theirs and Simon watched as Kyle and Johnny caught a whiff of the women. Johnny, was sitting with his back towards the group of omegas, it was adorable how he tried his best to not turn around and gawk at them. His eyes had caught sight of them, but he so desperately wanted to scent the third woman who had walked past their table. John and Simon were seated facing the booth that the women were at, and for the first time in history, he swore he saw his captain’s nostrils actually flare. He wasn't normally the type to scent places openly, he was the type to do so discreetly by just simply breathing, but this was clearly a deep breath.

“Symphony, are you sure Malik and Aaron are gonna be able to find this place?” The woman who had burnt orange hair asked. She was one of the ones that walked in holding the woman with black hair that was cut into a bob by the hand.

“Gloria girl, if they can't follow Google maps, then they should have gotten off work earlier.”

A waitress had come up to the booth, smiled and asked the women what she could start them with. The ones named Symphony and Gloria both looked at the third woman who had her eyes trained on her phone. Simon was watching her closely even as his pack mates continued to chat about the rage room. But it was clear that all four of them were listening, zeroing in on the table of omegas.

“Bambi, the waitress asked you a question.” Symphony had prodded who was clearly the lead in their group.

Bambi. What a sweet and shy name. Simon kept his eyes on her and took her in. Her pretty brown hair faded to a honey blonde, and when she looked up, Simon was greeted with the lightest brown eyes he had ever seen. Her lips were shiny, gloss probably, eyes lined in deep black eyeliner that swooped up and lids painted in a light shiny pink. American omega girls really did things differently, because coming to a regular pub so dressed up seemed overkill.

“We're starting off with tequila shots, two for us each. And we insist that you bring us something good that you recommend.” Bambi's voice was smooth and sweet but also commanded the listener to pay rapt attention.

The waitress, a beta, shivered and wrote down the order. “We have some of the best fish and chips around if you ladies want to try that!”

Bambi looked at her two companions and they nodded along. “Yeah, whatever works, and after our shots the fruitiest drinks on the menu.”

“Are you ladies celebrating something fun tonight?” The waitress asked, she was planning to upsell them.

They all laughed and Bambi nodded her head, “It's my birthday, I just turned twenty-six and me and my pack mates are gonna do a bar crawl. This is our first stop.”

Johnny grinned when he heard that. It was an in to speak to the nice smelling omega in the booth next to them. Who would turn down free shots ordered by handsome men? The waitress wished Bambi a happy birthday and when she went to put the order in Johnny stopped her.

“Aye lassie, the birthday girl, ya send her and her mates another round of shots from us yea?”

The waitress raised an eyebrow and smirked. She was well aware that the table with the foreigners was about to have drinks sent to them left and right from alphas trying for their attention. And she was about to get tips because of it. “Sure thing hun.” And she went to put the orders in.

Johnny looked at Simon, who still hadn't stopped staring at the booth behind them. So badly he wished he sat next to him instead of across because all he could do was smell the sweet scent coming from those women. Underneath it though, he could scent (and Johnny was sure everyone could scent this), the musk of an alpha. Two of those women were off limits and he prayed it wasn't the one that was wearing what had to be the world's shortest pink dress and a cute little sash that says birthday girl.

“Here are your shots,” the waitress had come back with the nine shots of tequila, “your other drinks are being made now.”

“We only ordered six in total.” Symphony had an edge to her voice.

“Oh the gentlemen behind you sent the extra, for the birthday girl.” She explained.

Johnny pulled a few notes out to slip to the waitress as she walked by. All four of them gave the waitress a knowing look, no other drinks were to be sent to that table unless it was them sending it. The woman of the hour laughed and finally looked directly at Simon and her gorgeous brown eyes slid over to Price.

“Symphony, switch places with me.” Bambi stood up and the woman with the burnt orange hair got up and traded places with her. The two of them traded spots, and Simon and John watched as the girls cheered.

“To twenty-six years and counting! Bless me and bless the shots!” Bambi then downed the shots, three of them back to back. When she was done she turned in her seat and leaned between Johnny and Kyle. She folded her arms across the back of the booth.

Kyle, who had been busy talking, stopped abruptly and turned slightly. “Good evenin’ lass”

“Which one of you darling men sent me and my sisters the extra shots?” She smiled and her eyes were half lidded. With her this close up they could now discern that the musk that accompanied a claimed omega was absent on her.

“From us all yea.” Johnny smiled, “Names Johnny, that's Kyle, John and Simon.” He was all bright and friendly. Simon knew that his boy was going to try his damndest to fuck her this evening (if they were all lucky they would all get a turn, even if that would be a bad idea). He could scent the underlying hint of arousal from him.

“Aw thank you, I'm Bambi.”

“Like the deer?” Johnny teased.

“Maybe,” she batted her eyelashes at him, “but I've been told it's a variant of Bambina. But either way it's a name that sounds good being said when a person cums.”

The sweet voice didn't match the dirty words at all. Johnny's smile widened and Kyle turned to face the girl completely. John cleared his throat, unable to believe she had said that out loud (he was a traditional alpha, and often thought that while omegas garnered respect, they were supposed to be sweet and shy. Bambi was clearly not that.)

Simon however wished he hadn't put his surgical mask back on because he wanted a stronger hit of the arousal that wafted from Johnny, Kyle and Bambi.

“Aren't ye a tease.” Johnny laughed, “how long ye be in England for?”

“Hmm, we're immigrants, following my brother here for work.” She answered carefully.

She was hinting that she was not claimed and the pack she was in was headed by family. She looked at John and smiled. “Love the facial hair set up, it's a very unique and handsome look.”

“Thank you sweetie. I hope you're going to be safe this evening.” John smiled as he brought his mug to his lips.

“I'll be safe.” She watched his neck closely as his adam's apple bobbed while he drank his beer. Smart girl, she already figured out who the alpha of this pack was despite them all having that as a second gender. She licked her lips as she kept eye contact with John and then slowly those brown eyes landed on Simon.

It's rare that Simon feels unrestrained lust at the drop of a pin, but when she looked at him his alpha wanted to desperately growl and find a way to claim her. There was electricity between the five of them and Simon for a second was glad he had the relaxants to help him reel in his instincts (if he had suppressants he wouldn't be able to experience this and all of the full context of this encounter. He's glad he didn't get a suppressant shot). He kept her gaze and nodded his head only once in acknowledgement. She smiled sweetly, pleased at him.

“Bambi, Malik said that he is lost!” The tension was effectively cut as Symphony got her sister’s attention. “The dummy said he can't find the damn bar!”

Bambi rolled her eyes and looked over her shoulder, “Did you drop a location pin?”

“I did, but you know he's with Aaron and that damn Aaron is probably leading the way.” Symphony sighed. “He wants one of us to wait outside for them.”

Bambi sighed and slid from her booth. “I'll go outside, you two sit tight and pretty.” She then looked back at John with a sly smile on her face.

John already had one of his infinite cigars out and standing to follow after her. Johnny had a shit eating grin on his face and so did Kyle. Simon was mulling over quietly if he was going to even try to fuck the omega with his pack mates. And boy was that a fucking thought, he declined a barrack bunny, but a nice smelling omega that he just barely met, was where he was willing to cross the line?

There was the sound of a throat clearing and Gloria was looking at the three of them. She raised an eyebrow and smirked, “I hope you fellas don't think Bambi is gonna give it up right away.”

Johnny frowned, deciding to play dumb, “Nae ‘ure what ye are talkin’ bout.”

“Bambi likes to flirt and tease, and you buying us those shots puts you all on her radar.” She chuckled, “if she likes whatever your alpha says to her, then I'm sure you'll all have her number and be in a group chat before the night is over.”

“Does she act like this often?" Kyle asked.

“Hmm, no.” She looked at Symphony, “Sym, when was the last time Bambi even showed intrigue in another alpha?”

“Two years ago I think, and that ended because the alpha didn't like the idea of her calling the shots and at the same time demanded and tried to force her submission.” Symphony shook her head, her eyes still trained on her phone, “I'll be straight up honest, if you just want to get your knots wet be upfront with her. Can't promise she'll go for that though.”

Outside Bambi took in a breath of the early night air. Inside the bar it was suffocating with so many scents, but outside was where she could finally get a clear smell of one of the alphas that caught her attention. John seemed older than what she normally went for. His beard was the first thing she noticed, she was a sucker for facial hair. The smoky scent of his cigar paired with the natural woodsy fresh air that came from him, made her stomach flutter. She leaned against the side of the building and watched as he lit his cigar and took a slow drag from it. He was tall, not as bulky as the one in the black hoodie and black surgical mask. But his muscles were defined. Actually all of them were quite larger than average, not in a body builder way but in a kept physically fit way.

“Who exactly got lost?” He asked her as he exhaled the smoke in rings.

‘What a show off.’ Bambi smiled to herself.

“My older brothers are lost.” She giggled, “they wouldn't be able to find their way out of a paper bag.”

He chuckled and nodded his head, “how are you liking it here so far?”

“I like it alot actually. My folks used to vacation here during the summer and anytime my father needed to check on his business here. You ever heard of Temple Ballistics and Weaponry?”

John looked at her with a raised brow and nodded his head, “I have sweet heart.”

“Yeah, my brother is the CEO and we moved here for his work.” She shrugged her shoulders and shuffled closer to him. She very obviously took a deep breath and stared up at him.

John took a deep breath as well, enjoying the sweet scent of her. She obviously was going to be trouble and knew it. Personally in the past he went for the more demure and shy omegas but something about her scent and flirty personality drew him in. He supposed it was multiple layers of cultural differences that he was already starting to like. He knew American omegas in general were more open and forward, African American omegas from what he heard tended to take charge and demand that their submission be earned. She was not going to just roll over and let him and his pack claim her, not without them asserting dominance.

“What do you do for work?” Bambi asked, “I actually work as a public relations specialist.”

“You do PR?”

“Yes, my other brother and a few of his friends need my services. But I mostly do freelance.”

“I'm in the military. Can't say much more than that.” John smiled down at her.

“Hmm,” she leaned up off the wall and faced him completely. She was sizing him up, her gaze drifting down to his chest and then right before she got to his waist, those brown eyes were back on his. “You don't sit behind a desk do you?”

“Not often, no.” John thought she was a smart girl. And observant to boot. He finally took in her full body, she was thick like most omegas, her thighs looked soft and jiggly. She had a slight stomach pooch that was just barely noticeable in the short pale pink dress she wore. Her legs were bare and seemed to go on forever due to her matching pink platform pumps. Nothing about her was traditional, but John knew he was willing to overlook that. He was willing to do that because she was a deviation from the norm that he has experienced. That and the fact that she was sending his alpha howling, it made his blood run hot and he needed to know why. Why was she different?

“And I suspect the other three are what both your pack mates and subordinates?”

Another drag of his cigar and slow exhale, “How do you figure that?”

“You military men are all the same. You form packs based on rank and relationships built through training and battle.” She nodded her head like it was the most obvious thing ever.

“Do you know anyone in the military?” He asked.

“No, but my brother does and I've heard stories from him, especially when he talks about the contracts he's allowed to complain about.” She laughed.

“You're a smart girl.” John was surprised when she preened from his compliment, the soft trill of a purr made him lean in closer to her. He was gently invading her space, backing her up to the wall again. Trying to subtly test the waters. His alpha was scratching at the back of his mind, quietly pleased by her response to him.

“I know I am John.” She placed a dainty manicured hand against his chest. Gripping his shirt and pulling him forward and closer. She wanted him to invade her space, blocking her from the view of people passing by them.

“You are certainly going to be trouble aren't you?” He whispered as he leaned in closer to her. She tilted her head up, but was careful not to lean over and expose her scent gland too much. Bambi, he realizes, will not be offering that to him unless he and his boys worked for it.

“Maybe I can be trouble for you and your pack.” Bambi was doing her best to suppress the shiver from John being so close. There were not very many alphas that she was attracted to, but when passed by his table she knew she had to at least try. She blamed it on the fact that her mother and father's and her uncle's dynamics set the bar high. And seeing how her brothers treated Gloria and Symphony over the past years made her want the same thing. But most alphas, be they men or women, always fell short of her expectations. John and his group looked like they may be able to successfully earn her submission and understand that she would not just be rolling the fuck over. They seemed strong, disciplined and they all probably worked well together.

John placed his free hand on her cheek and then slowly slid it down to just straight up hold her neck. He didn't apply pressure, just held her, just to feel her pulse quicken. His alpha was screaming at him to just mark her, pleased that she was even letting him do this. It's never acted up like this before. He glanced down at her lips and then back at her eyes. “What exactly is your scent Bambi?”

“I've been told I smell like cocoa butter with a hint of vanilla.” She whispered as she stared up at him with doe-like eyes.

Fuck he wanted to kiss her and then press his nose against her neck.

“BamBam we found you!”

Bambi snapped her head to the right and pushed John away from her gently. Coming down the sidewalk, finally were her three brothers instead of two. She scowled at the fact that they ruined her moment with John. Actually, why were all three of her brothers here? She was only expecting two. John took a respectful couple of steps away from her and breathed in deep. The cool air around them both smelt slightly of arousal and he was sure the three men approaching them could smell it too.

“BamBam, just for the record, we would have been here sooner if it wasn't for Aaron.” The young man who had shoulder length dreads smiled and scratched the back of his head.

“Way to throw me under the bus Malik.” The other young man who was tall but slender punched Malik in the arm. “If we didn't take a detour to grab Xavier even though he said he didn't want to come, we would have been here earlier.”

The last one, who was wearing a black balaclava (there was a heart and a flower stitched on the right cheek of the fabric), was staring directly at John. He didn't look too happy about what they all stumbled on. Out of the three alphas, he was the only one that was somewhat bulked up. They were all quite tall but the two that were arguing were lithe in their build.

“For fucks sake.” Bambi sighed and their petty arguing stopped, “get your asses inside, I'll be there in a moment and we can get the night going.”

Malik and Aaron, John assumed both looked at Bambi and muttered fine. They gave John a once over but did not say anything and just went inside. The only one not moving was the one in the balaclava. He slowly looked towards Bambi, a low rumble of a growl could be heard. It made his back straighten and John put out his cigar, but before he could say anything to diffuse the situation Bambi spoke up.

“Xavier, glad to have you but I really don't need an opinion.” Bambi was no longer the sweet and flirty woman from even five minutes ago. She was commanding the alphas in her pack. Xavier huffed, shoved his hands into his pant pockets and meandered inside.

John found it to be a strange dynamic. He wasn't sure how his boys would handle a bossy little omega. He could imagine Soap would lean into it seeing as how he came from a family of women. Maybe his Kyle would tolerate it. But Simon and him would want her to know who was in charge at all times. Then again, siblings in a pack wouldn't need to earn or give submission and dynamics looked different in packs where the parents weren't around.

“Sorry about them, they don't know how to mind their manners or business.” She turned her sweet smile back at him. “Can I have your number John?” Once again she batted her eyelashes up at him and he found himself helpless to say anything other than yes.

So they exchanged numbers, he watched as she put a cute pink heart next to his name. “If this is the type of pack that I think it is, share my number with the rest of them.”

“Will do Miss Bambi.”

She leaned up and kissed his cheek before she went back into the pub. John immediately sent the contact information to the group chat and right after made a group chat with the five of them.

[rhamrhanch]

Shepherd of Death, Don't Herd Me

Part Eight: Fire to the Flame

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (gender-neutral pronouns)

Word Count: 5.2K

Warnings: canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort

A/N: sorry this took forever, hope you all enjoy! now I can finally watch the arcane finale YIPPEE

chapter under the cut ↓

---

You stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide open and not any closer to the blissful numbness that your body craved so desperately. Fatigue sat heavy in your bones, pinning down your limbs until they became one with the firm cotton of your mattress.

While your body was worn and weary, your mind was racing, a living tempest beating against your skull. Ramattra’s words, deep and cavernous, echoed in your mind.

Sleep.

It seemed antithetical to his existence that his voice could sound so soft, gentler than you had ever heard it in its command. Its warmth was even more pronounced, and for that moment part of you understood how someone could be drawn to his cause. If not for his words, powerful in their fierce resolve, his voice held enough gravitas that surely some were entranced by it alone.

You pressed the back of your hand to your forehead, as though trying to smooth away the thoughts you had pushed to the far corners of your mind that now stood to consume you.

Something had changed. You weren’t sure what it was, or when exactly it had happened, but you knew that something was different. It was like the veil of hostility between you had lifted, and you could finally see Ramattra as he was, what shape he took without so many outside forces pressing down on him.

Everything he did was calculated. Words were used as throughways to information, not as a means for conversation. His countenance was still as standing water, his true thoughts hidden beneath the surface while he stood above it all—a quality that you had to admit you envied, as frustrating as it was for you at times. But there had been moments when the dam broke, and you would find yourself drowning in the cognitive dissonance of it all.

When he had hidden you from Talon soldiers, his arms circling your waist in a protective ring.

When he had allowed you the opening move in your first game of chess with him, and every game thereafter, despite knowing full well how much faster it would end were it the other way around.

And, most fresh in your memory, when he had met your determined declaration of inevitable victory against him by laughing—laughing!—in your face.

It should not have surprised you as much as it did. Plenty of times had you heard him laugh, but they all paled in comparison to what you heard then.

It reverberated from his chest, rich and mirthful in its robotic timbre. A laughter so rare that it filled whoever heard it with the overwhelming desire to hear it again and again.

You may not have liked him very much, but you were at least honest enough with yourself to admit that you really, really liked his laugh. As your eyelids drifted shut, you wondered what you could say that you may hear it again.

A sharp ping from your pager rang out in the silence, waking you much earlier than you would have liked. You ignored it, rolling back over. It was probably just another repair request, no need to answer it immediately.

To your misfortune, it pinged again, and again, each one even louder than the last. Groaning, you dragged your pillow over your face and pressed down, hoping to muffle the sound, but it was no use. You threw your pillow to the foot of the bed and angled the pager toward you, squinting at the message that appeared.

From: Winston. New assignment, report to the hangar ASAP.

You shot upright, flinging the covers aside. Damn, you were already late. You snatched your coveralls from the chair you’d thrown them over and yanked them on, all thought of the Ravager forgotten as you rushed out the door.

---

A few hours later, you were back in your workshop, gripping the edge of your worktable so tight that your hands trembled. Bits and pieces of the briefing you'd received surfaced from the fog of anger clouding your mind as you stared at the lifeless omnic in front of you.

His head and eyes were obscured by a device which could only have crawled out from your nightmares. Cylindrical rods jutted out from it like spikes, like the shell of some creature warning all those who came near to stay away.

You sucked in a sharp breath, letting it out gradually before gently taking the omnic’s head between your hands. With practiced grace, you rotated it slowly, inspecting the device closely. Whatever purpose it had been designed for was a mystery to you, but the condition it left its wearer in made you less than optimistic.

You tilted the omnic's chin up, barely revealing the dim glow of his LEDs beneath the shrouding metal—a somewhat good sign, though you felt little joy at its discovery. Carefully, you released him. He did not respond, head limp as it dropped back down.

Toronto. That was where he had been found. You tried to imagine it then, what it must have been like to see airships roam the sky, deploying Nulltroopers by the hundreds as one loud voice called out above the chaos.

This is not war. This is liberation.

If this was liberation, then it bastardized the word. Its meaning had been warped and distorted into something unrecognizable.

So much time had passed, so used to seeing Ramattra had you become, that you let yourself forget. Forget who he was, and why he was here. Why he was kept under lock and key, always under a watchful eye. Now, as if punishment for your ambivalence, you were forced to see the proof of who he was with your own eyes.

Even still, you were being spared. The omnic on your worktable was only one out of hundreds. So many more had been taken, an even larger number abandoned in the streets. All with their agency, their very being having been ripped from them in an instant like their lives and souls meant nothing.

And all the while you had been here, devoting your time and your empathy to the one responsible for it.

The shame of it all was going to burn you from the inside.

With one harsh motion, you shoved off the worktable, grabbing a cable and plugging one end into a port on the back of the omnic's neck and the other into the tower under your desk. You had been sulking long enough—there was work to do.

You chewed the inside of your cheek as you watched the monitor flicker to life, eyes scanning the ribbons of graphs as they oscillated on the screen.

All except one.

He was still alive, of that you were certain. But the line that represented CPU activity plateaued, cutting into your eyes like a wire. You knew from the flicker of his LEDs that the omnic was awake as well, though perhaps not fully cognizant of the condition he was in. Even so, that line should have been fluctuating, yet it remained unmoving, as clear an indicator as any that the omnic was little more than a husk of his former self.

For the rest of the day, you toiled in your workshop, running diagnostic test after diagnostic test and hoping, praying to see any change in the omnic's neural activity.

A day turned into two, and then to three, and by the fourth day of no change you had gotten deep into the habit of breaking things just to release some of the tension. Old scrap, broken projects, anything you could get your hands on, you would disassemble and then reassemble until your fingertips were sore, as if trying to prove to yourself that you still had the ability to fix something.

But eventually, that too ceased to bring any satisfaction, and you found yourself sitting with your head in your hands, an empty numbness overtaking your entire body as you stared blankly at the scattered notes on your worktable. Realization crept up your back as you felt a disbelieving laugh threaten to burst from your throat.

Trying to fix something like this was the ultimate catch twenty-two. You couldn't deduce the purpose of the device without removing it, and you couldn't remove it without risking the life of the omnic. No wonder Torbjörn had passed the buck to you for this. You wouldn't want this job either.

The fleeting urge to laugh at your circumstances dissolved as a familiar ache settled in your chest.

What if you couldn't do it? If even Torbjörn, a man who had decades of engineering experience on you, dared not to try, how could you possibly measure up? No amount of skill gave you the ability to conjure miracles out of thin air.

You almost resented it now, the amount of faith that your fellow agents put in you. How much your skill was esteemed, without even knowing how you had honed it.

All you had promised was that you would try your best. Your senior engineer had thanked you with a grateful smile, wishing you luck.

Don't thank me, you wanted to say. Please don't.

The thought made you recall the first conversation you had with Winston, when you had been on the cusp of joining Overwatch. He had wanted to discuss your previous work, mentioning a dissertation you had written long ago when you were still a fledgling engineer in your field. Something about simulated neuromodulation in robotics—you couldn't quite remember, as you hated reading your old work.

Inspired, you remembered him calling it. Ahead of its time.

Recalling the words now made you cringe. Your optimism when you had published that paper was blinding back then, leading you down a path that you took too long to realize led to nothing but despair. And now, because of the decision you made to shed your past life, you found yourself here, at the precipice of an indescribably important task and unable to do anything about it.

If only you knew the device's purpose, then maybe you could have an idea of where to start, some inkling of what to do. But the thought of even speaking to its creator made you feel ill, a mixture of disappointment and guilt and anger rising to your tongue like bile. Your failure at being able to solve this problem on your own made you feel useless enough; you did not need to rub any more salt into the wound by begging for help.

You did not sleep, staying up all hours of the night with your head on your desk as you waited for the tests to take their toll, watching the lines flicker on the screen and knowing that they would be the same as they always were.

You heard that same voice that once warmed you with its kindness urge you to rest. Rubbing your eyes tiredly, you banished it from your mind, refusing to indulge in something you did not deserve. You would not stop working, not while the fate of this omnic rested on your shoulders.

Hearing a signal from your computer, you lifted your head from where it rested in the crook of your elbow, feeling a familiar burn in your eyes as you stared at the monitor for what felt like the hundredth time. Today was the fifth day you had slouched over this table, monitoring the omnic for any sign of change, only to see nothing.

Hot tears of frustration sprung to your eyes as you gazed at the omnic on your worktable, motionless as he had been since the day he was brought to you. There would be no sixth, you decided then. Tomorrow, you would tell Winston that there was nothing more you could do.

Reaching forward, you took the omnic's hand in your own, realizing that you did not even know his name. You wondered to yourself what kind of person he had been before all of this happened to him.

Did he have a job? Any hobbies, a favorite song?

Did he have a family, someone waiting for him to return?

Your heart began to beat faster as the last question weighed in your mind. How could you give up on him, without knowing whether there were people out there who still needed him? What gave you the right to decide that, when there was still one last thing you had not tried?

Gently, you placed his hand atop his chest, before sitting up from your chair and throwing open the door of your workshop. You refused to let your pride stand in the way of helping someone who needed it.

---

Ramattra lifted his head immediately at the sound of footsteps, having heard their specific rhythm enough times to recognize who they belonged to.

He felt his body warm slightly at the expectation of your arrival. When you had not returned like you promised, Ramattra had initially thought nothing of it. You had other duties to attend to, and he welcomed the quiet solemnity that solitude offered him.

But when almost a week had passed and you still had not come, he had realized how much he had come to look forward to your visits, and how noticeable your absence now was to him. With you came the knowledge that for at least a few hours he would have something else to focus on besides the dull and colorless walls of the room, an element of his imprisonment that he was growing more and more weary of.

It was with this expectation that his internal fans began to circulate, his processor running wild to compute the possibilities of what you might do today. But when he finally caught sight of you across the hall, you were not wearing the expression he had grown accustomed to seeing.

Your eyes were dull, the shadows beneath it having grown darker since he saw you last. Clearly, you had not taken his suggestion to heart. But as tired as you seemed, there was a quickness to your stride that could only have come from determination.

The keypad outside the door beeped in rapid succession and then you were entering, something he couldn't quite identify clutched in your hand. Ramattra stood instantly as you came to a stop in front of him.

"You need to come with me," you said, and then your hands were around his wrists without warning. There was an urgency to your motions that was a far cry from the care with which you touched his wrist before, and he instinctively pulled away, finally seeing what exactly it was that you had brought with you.

Handcuffs.

"What is the meaning of this?" he growled, and you sighed as if frustrated.

"I'll explain it to you later, but right now I need you to—" You reached for his hand again, but he snatched it away.

"I will not be kept in restraints—"

"Winston won't let you leave this room without them," you said through grit teeth. "Just let me put them on." A moment passed, and then, "Please."

Ramattra analyzed your face, searching for signs of deception. Finding none, he let his processor run through the possibilities that your words implied.

Silently, he stepped closer to you, holding his hands slightly away from his body. You slid the restraints over his wrist, and he grunted as the bolts snapped into place. Immediately, he felt his body grow lethargic, as if it suddenly lost the strength to hold itself up properly. He lifted his arms slightly, actuators feeling like they were moving through tar with the movement. Electromagnetic handcuffs, he realized. That ape was smarter than he gave him credit for.

Ramattra had no choice but to follow you as you grasped his elbow, leading him away from the conference room. Though his body was weakened, his system remained unburdened, and he took every opportunity he had to memorize his surroundings, storing them away for future reference. As you proceeded further into the base, though, the halls became more familiar, and he soon realized where exactly you were taking him.

Your workshop was a mess compared to the last time he seen it, scattered papers and miscellaneous scrap covering every surface. When he saw the omnic you had sprawled on your worktable, one of his subjugators on their head and a wire at their neck, alarm sparked through his system. He tried to reach for them, only for his hands to strain against the cuffs, pulling a noise of frustration from his vocalizer.

"What have you done?" he asked, unable to mask the urgency in his voice.

You paused, as if surprised by his reaction, before your brow furrowed. "Nothing yet. Not until you tell me what this is for," you said, before pointing at the subjugator.

His optics flicked from the omnic back to you. "You cannot remove it," he said, not willing to disclose any further.

You held firm, crossing your arms over your chest as you fixed him with an inquisitive gaze. "Why not? Surely now that you are confined to this place, you have no need for soldiers."

"Soldiers?" His head tilted in confusion. "They are not soldiers."

Your shoulders slackened, meeting his confusion with your own. "They aren't? Then why… why would you do this?” Hands falling to your sides, you had a pained look on your face that he had not seen before. “How could you do this to other omnics, your own kind—"

Ramattra caught the waver in your tone, but it did not sway him. "All I have ever done, I have done for the sake of my people. This is a necessary measure, to keep them safe—"

"Safe?" you interrupted, eyes wide with disbelief. "You must be joking."

Irritation ignited in his processor. "I am not."

You seemed to have abandoned your earlier attempt to appeal to him as you stepped forward, eyes piercing daggers through his chassis. "How does robbing them of choice keep them safe? How does suppressing their entire being keep them safe?"

The logical part of his mind knew you would not understand, knew that this conversation would do nothing but unearth a deep bitterness that roiled inside him like thunder, yet still words rose in his vocalizer, a desperate desire for just one person to see things the way he did.

"Would you let your kind walk freely if it meant they were walking into fire?" he snapped. "Too many of my people would rather throw their lives away protecting the very humans that call for our destruction than dare to raise a hand against them.” His hands fought against the restraints as he spoke, feeling the familiar burn in his processor as his buried rage clawed its way to the surface. “I have chosen to walk the latter path, but I will not allow my people to put themselves in danger by standing in my way."

"But it’s a danger of your own creation!" Your voice was rising now, but Ramattra did not falter.

"It is a necessary endeavor I must take to ensure the survival of my people," he said, fighting to keep his voice measured as frustration at your refusal to understand began building in his processor. "Without being threatened, humanity has no motivation to ever treat us fairly. Omnics will forever remain second-class citizens, relics of the war to be whittled down until there are none of us left. If my people refuse to recognize that, then I must make them—"

"You have no right to decide that!" you shouted. "Their freedom is not yours for the taking! To so callously rid them of their autonomy, treating them with little more dignity than as a means to an end—" You stopped as you took a breath, punching out your next words with venom.

“It’s cruel!"

Ramattra stilled. Cruel? What could you possibly know of the word? As far as he was concerned, no human had the right to use that word against him, not after everything he bore witness to in his life.

Slowly, he walked forward, drawing close enough to you that his chest nearly touched yours. He angled his head over you, looking down at you silently. You remained as still as a statue, only tilting your head up to meet his gaze dead on.

Good. He wanted to see the look in your eyes when he said this.

"Do you know how many omnics there were after the war?" he growled, the sound sitting low in his vocalizer. Your gaze faltered slightly, and you clenched your jaw, but you did not answer.

"Do you know how many have died since then?"

Again, you had no answer, so he answered for you.

"One tenth," he said. "In less than thirty years, one tenth of all the omnics who have ever existed and will ever exist are now gone, forever. Just a single generation, and we have been decimated permanently.”

He watched the defiant fire in your eyes flicker out as his words sunk in, but still you did not look away.

“If you want to call me cruel, do not ever forget again why I have been forced to be.”

Silence hung between you for a moment, and he felt a lick of satisfaction at your apparent speechlessness. But it did not last long.

"If you do not let them decide for themselves if they want to fight," you said, your voice eerily calm, "how does that make you any different from Anubis?"

Something jolted in Ramattra's processor, a pointed memory that he had suppressed when the pain of remembering became too strong. An argument, just like this one, with friends long gone.

“I refuse to aid you in undoing all that I have worked for,” he said eventually, turning away from your gaze.

"Fine." You snagged the bridge between his cuffs. "Have it your way. I will do this on my own."

---

You sat against the wall in the hangar, your knees pulled up and your face buried in your arms. Now late in the evening, the blazing anger from your argument with Ramattra had flickered out, leaving you only with the sad reality of what you were now faced with. Having burned a bridge with the only potential lead you had, you were back where you began.

The worst part was that you could not convince yourself to hate him. You wanted to, so badly you wanted to, but after hearing everything he said, you could not fault him for how he felt. He was right, and the reality of it had slapped you in the face.

You had no idea what it had been like for omnics after the war. You had no memories of your own of the Crisis, only what it had felt like to live in the aftermath. Whatever you felt could never compare to the weight of experience that belonged to those who had existed since the beginning.

How many times had your hands swept over the broken bodies of omnics, your own undoing the imprints of hatred left behind by your fellow humans? How many times had you felt the urge to scream from the rooftops, your demands for others to look at the world around them repeatedly ignored?

Your own bitterness and frustration had led you to make choices you now regretted, and you were only human. What must it have been like for Ramattra, for all the omnics, to suddenly awaken from some horrible dream only to be met with hatred and violence for things they had no memory of doing?

You jumped at the sound of grinding metal as the garage doors of the hanger opened slowly, splitting from the middle as the anodized white of the ship’s hull peeked through. Wind from the ship’s landing gear whipped your collar around your neck as you approached it. The hangar closed behind it with a loud slam, echoing around the walls as the main door opened outward. Two figures exited, and you lifted a hand in greeting.

"Genji!" you said upon recognizing the neon green of his armor. "You're back!"

His head darted up, as though surprised to see you. "Oh, hello. I apologize, I did not realize you were waiting for us."

Us? "No, I was just nearby—" you began to say, before finally realizing who was standing beside him. Or floating, rather.

Your eyes flickered between Genji and the unfamiliar omnic before recognition sparked in your memory. "Oh, you must be Zenyatta!" you said, feeling slightly embarrassed at your rudeness and holding your hand out. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long day.”

The omnic bent his head down in greeting before taking your extended hand. "Hello. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise. Genji has spoken about you often." You straightened up, clasping your hands in front of you as you struggled to think of something to say. "Have you come to join Overwatch as well?"

"No, that is not the nature of my visit," he replied calmly, his voice smooth and tempered. "Genji informed me that my presence here was needed. For what purpose, I have yet to find out."

"I see," you said, looking down awkwardly. "Well then, I won't keep you." You moved to leave, only to stop when Zenyatta spoke again.

“My student has told me that you are quite an engineer. Would you be willing to have a look at my shoulder?” He placed a hand over it, rotating it a bit too stiffly for an omnic. “Perhaps one of my servos has locked up.”

"Oh," you said softly, haphazardly looking back in the direction of your workshop. "I suppose, but I really should be getting back to—”

“Wonderful!” the monk interrupted, placing a hand on your back and leading you in the direction that was not where your workshop was. You spared a questioning glance over your shoulder at Genji, but he only shrugged.

Soon you found yourself in the base’s common area, resting your elbows on the island as you watched Zenyatta leisurely float about the kitchen as he prepared tea. How he even knew where the kitchen was you had no idea, but you had no reason to complain.

After a moment, he set a ceramic cup in front of you. You brought it close, letting the curling steam warm your face for a moment.

“I thought you wanted me to check your shoulder,” you said, turning in your chair to face the omnic as he came to hover beside you.

"During my travels I have found that sharing a cup of tea creates a pleasant environment for conversation," he said, clasping his hands in front of him. “It’s good for an omnic to get to know his mechanic, don’t you think?”

You smiled softly, already endeared to this somewhat mystifying monk. One hand beneath your cup, you lifted it to your lips, feeling warmth spread throughout your body. The tea was sharp and bitter, but it gave way to a cooling aftertaste that loosened the tension in your shoulders immediately. For someone with no sense of smell or taste, Zenyatta made an excellent cup of tea.

"This blend is lovely," you said. "Where did you find it?"

"At a village apothecary in Huangshan," he answered. “That is where I was when Genji contacted me. The locals recommended it as a good visiting gift.”

"Isn’t the monastery in Nepal?" you asked, taking another sip. "That seems quite a distance to go just for tea."

Zenyatta’s chin tilted downward, and for a moment your heart leaped, fearing you had offended him.

“I have not been to the monastery for some time now. I sought my own path and have been travelling the world in the years since I met Genji.”

You set your cup down, sitting with rapt attention at Zenyatta’s words. “I see. What inspired your travels, if you don’t mind my asking?”

"A great many things,” he said. “But the idea had first come to me from a brother of mine, another monk of the Shambali, long ago."

“Really?”

He nodded. "Yes. He had grown dissatisfied with the teachings of the Shambali and wanted to search for a method toward peace for our people outside of the monastery. Back then, he had asked me to accompany him, but I declined.”

“Did you ever regret it?” The question slipped from your mouth before you could think, and you immediately kicked yourself internally. But Zenyatta only hummed in thought, his spheres chiming as they rotated around him.

“At the time, I felt I had more to learn at the monastery, that perhaps there was something he had not seen that I had yet to know. It was one of the points of disagreement between us, but he did not try to convince me to go, and I did not try to convince him to stay.”

“One of?” you asked, your voice curious. Perhaps your own ignorance was to blame, but you never imagined two members of the same monastic order could be that different. “Did you disagree often?”

"Sometimes. But our bond did not suffer for it. We both shared the same goal, so disagreements were only another way to understand each other. At least, we used to." There was something almost sorrowful in Zenyatta’s tone, hardly noticeable if you were not paying such close attention. "I often wonder what would have become of him, had I taken his offer from the beginning. But the past is a mirror that distorts the memory. I can only look toward the future now to guide me."

You looked down at the tea in your cup, seeing your own face reflected back at you. "Do you still believe people very different from each other can get along?"

Zenyatta tilted his head at you. For a moment, the gesture reminded you of Ramattra, but the feeling was fleeting. "Is there someone in particular you are thinking of?"

You felt a shiver run down your back at how incredibly astute he was. It took only one sentence for him to instantly pinpoint the true intent behind your question.

Your first instinct was to say no. You hardly knew Zenyatta, had only just begun speaking to him less than an hour ago. Yet you felt a strange familiarity with him, like you had met before somehow. Perhaps this was just the way all monks were—somewhat omniscient and easy to talk to. Something you needed right now.

"Yes,” you answered after a moment. “I want—need—to work together with him for something important, but we just… can’t seem to find common ground.” You sighed, feeling a dull pain in your chest at the memory.

“When two people feel passionate about something, it is usually because they care very deeply about it,” Zenyatta said. “Perhaps it would be fruitful to think about the ways in which your goals align.”

You leaned back in your chair, humming contemplatively. It would probably be good advice for someone in any other situation besides yours. Though, at this point, what did you have to lose?

"Maybe you’re right,” you acquiesced. “But I find it difficult to imagine how I could share any goals with the leader of Null Sector—"

The chiming stopped, and you paused, looking back to Zenyatta only to see that his spheres had frozen in place.

You were about to ask him what was wrong when he leaned forward, his voice earnest as he asked, “Ramattra? Ramattra is here?”

[thymejot]

Do you ever thing about the comparing of scars scene in Agatha All Along?

How, in all Agathas 300+ years of existing, it is probably the first time she has just chilled out with her peers?

All other times, except maybe with her first coven, when engaging with witches, it's with the sole purpose of manipulating them into stealing their power.

Yet here this sad sack of a witch is, snort laughing with her ex as she shows how she got stabbed with a knitting needle.

It's such a tiny moment, yet it is also probably the first time she has felt any kind of kinship with someone outside of Rio or Nicky.

Do you think about her uncertainty as the other witches laugh at her story? How she is waiting for the other shoe to drop?

Did she have this bond with some of the Witches in her first coven before her mother would come in and stomp all over it?

An instinctual moment where she waits for Evanora to come in and punish her for being so frivolous, being so damned.

This was probably the first time she experienced community without punishment.

There was probably the tiniest spark of hope that maybe she could finally belong.

Then hours later, in swoops her mother and takes it all away from her again.

Because I do. I think about it a lot, and it breaks my heart.

[aroaceleovaldez]

doodle page from a couple months ago of Nico having way too many immortal friends

also yes i did just use Nyx’s Hades design. it’s a good design.

[thatsgonnaleaveamark]

~No Mercy for Murphy~

a whumpy music video and compilation of how this guy just constantly gets hurt throughout the entire show (and i love it)

for @whumpadoodle 💙 ty for that amazing song rec (mercy - hurts) which inspired this whole thing

[freakinator]

wemmbu, zam, egg auspistice

[gerryrigged]

people who claim to be Dick stans but who hate Tim and people who claim to be Tim stans but who hate Dick make NO SENSE TO ME

like do they realize how little sense they make??

how much these two adore each other??

'Red R0bin and/or fanon mischaracterization soured me on that character/relationship!' WEAK. INVALID. PLS EXIT, PURSUED BY BEAR.

[pardonmydelays]

i had so much fun last night omg

[stewyhosseini-bf]

fucked up thing about kendall is that he is so scared of becoming his father when it comes to being a parent, he became his mother instead. completely physically and emotionally absent and blaming the other parent for the childrens' problems, because they're in their lives, while never acknowledging how their own absence has contributed to it.

[spotsupstuff]

Does Suns wish he had more emotions like everyone else? And how does Fish feel about Suns saying iterators are nothing more than bugs in a maze trying to find their way out?

yeah! that's why they pretend so much to be someone else

they try and try to be something they aren't So hard because what they are isn't Enough instead of focusing on what they do have and working with that. and then they end up in the hot girl summer arc

n how would Fish feel about that how... hmm, he'd agree. Fish is very focused on the Big Question, pretty much obsessed with it, to a degree that he proclaims he isn't part of any group in the name of banishing the possibility of falling to the Third Sin of Connection. he IS in the range of the Aeolus Root and Has to obey when the Eo senior orders him to do something, but he refuses to define himself as part of them all. only reason for his existence is figuring out that Question

(of course, he fails at complete eradication of all the Sins from himself, especially the third one. he still takes on Haboob as his mentee, he still listens and plays with the children that come into the lecture hall of the shrine, hell those glasses on his face are a physical evidence of him not being able to completely let go. but he refuses to see that)

his opinion might change on it a little after his big revelation and Tinkerer and her family. yes, they are still bugs in mazes, trying desperately to find their way out, but while they are in there they should get to bond and love each other. not be alone, he realizes

[phantajam]

my hot take about descendants is that NONE of the core four were ready for a relationship until maybe like, the third movie (rant in tags)