#but every time i see someone do this its always for the wrong reasons

[technecat-scratchings]

Here is another common argument I see when people defend genAI as 'just being the next step in automated technology'. In fact, I've had multiple lengthy discussions with people about why it's a bad comparison, so I'm going to break down my reasoning with some of these examples as a springboard.

This one is...long. 🧑🏻‍🏫

"I'm stealing jobs from portrait painters every time I take a selfie" is a bad comparison because photographers did not replace portrait painters in their entirety and because cameras take a fair degree of skill to use well. If you wanted a professional portrait, you would still have to pay one of these two types of artisans to get it.

"Computer used to be a profession", yes, and now, computer programmer is a profession. The technology changed the required skill set, but did not replace the need for the skilled artisan. (Yes, coders are artisans.)

These comparisons, and others like them, focus on the progress of technology ignoring an extremely important aspect of the argument. That being, why does technology improve? The answer to this is, simply put, that technology improves in order to decrease the need for human labor in tasks that are tedious, unpleasant, and sometimes dangerous.

Do you really believe that people who washed dishes for a living before dishwashers came along bemoaned technology that made their jobs easier? Or lost their jobs because of it? Note that dishwasher is still a job in 2025, because an electric dishwasher is (1) a tool that requires human input and (2) cannot be used for all things that need washing.

"But wait", you may be thinking, "generative AI also requires human input and cannot be used for all things, therefore it is just a tool like a dishwasher!" And you would be half-correct in that it is a tool, but wrong that it is nothing like a dishwasher.

Do you enjoy washing dishes? I don't. The task itself is fine, but its Sisyphian nature is maddening. It would be ten times worse if I had to hand wash everything, so I am grateful that I have a reasonably good electric dishwasher to do the hardest part for me-- the hardest part being the physical labor that goes into washing a week's worth of dishes. With a dishwasher, the only physical labor I have to do is scrape the dishes, load them into the washer in the correct configuration, put in soap, and set the buttons (then later, reverse half the process to put them away). I only wash dishes because I have to wash dishes. It's labor that I would gladly automate away completely if the opportunity presented itself.

Art, however, whether music, writing, drawing, photography, voice acting, performing- is not labor that needs to be automated because it is labor that is--and this part is important-- enjoyable and fulfilling to the laborer. I know some people hate the "art is human" argument, but I'm sorry, art is a huge part of human culture and society and it always has been. People have always pursued art for its own sake, building the skills needed to create it because it is meaningful to them to do so, and not because they have to.

And, believe it or not, even the art and design that you may think is unimportant and ripe for automation, like marketing, advertising, character design, jingle writing, voice-overs-- is actually something that someone cared enough to hone a skill in and even -dare I say?- someone's passion.

I love designing lesson plans and handouts. I use Canva for layout because the district covers it and I get to use all the features for free. Canva is always pushing for me to have their "AI" create the layout or write the content or generate images for me. I hate that; I never use any of those features. For me, the joy of making the handouts is making them. It is a craft I like to do so I don't need to replace that with algorithmic automation.

But worksheets are, admittedly, a weird comparison for most people. They are an artform to me but most teachers would love to have someone else do that labor for them. There's a whole digital marketplace called Teachers Pay Teachers that is literally for the purpose of paying fellow teachers who enjoy doing that kind of work. Wild, right? Paying someone for labor that they enjoyed doing because you wanted the results but didn't or couldn't do the labor enjoyably yourself?

And now we can loop back around to the real reason why generative AI being called "just another tool" is a problem. Because the "problem" the tool is "solving" is paying for labor. The issue the technology addresses is not, "I want this to be easier for me to do on my own" but, "I want this result but I do not want to pay a skilled laborer to do it, nor do I want to invest the time in learning to do it myself".

People still pay huge amounts of money to get their portraits professionally painted. Humans like things that other humans make. We like to see the results of struggle and effort and celebrate successes with people. The art patron pays willingly because they value the labor that goes into a painting. Photography did not replace the portrait painters, it created a new type of artist who gained a new skill set and mastered a new technology that, ultimately, just gave everyone a new way to enjoy art (and pay for the labor that went into it).

Defenders of genAI as a 'tool' for creation like to argue that prompt writing is a honed skill. Well, so is drawing a relatively straight line on a piece of paper. It's not a particularly impressive or labor intensive skill, but you do have to practice to get a passable result. But I don't see anyone arguing that someone who draws a relatively straight line on a paper is on par with a trained artist, nor that they should be paid for labor in equal to what a trained artist should earn.

And yet, that's what these AI companies want people to believe. They want you to believe that the effort of imagining something and telling someone else to create it for you is equal to the effort of creating it yourself. That they are simplifying your life by removing the tedious labor of having to learn a skill for the purposes of your own enjoyment. That art isn't actually labor that deserves to be paid for, because it can be almost fully automated.

But in reality, they just don't want to pay a human being to do art. Don't let them trick you. It is in their best interest as tech companies to devalue human labor as much as possible (even though that will, eventually, backfire on them) and they will push that narrative as hard as they can for as long as they can to keep filling their pockets.

I've finally figured out an argument that convinces coding tech-bros that AI art is bad.

Got into a discussion today (actually a discussion, we were both very reasonable and calm even through I felt like committing violence) with a tech-bro-coded lady who claimed that people use AI in coding all the time so she didn't see why it mattered if people used AI in art.

Obviously I repressed the surge of violence because that would accomplish nothing. Plus, this lady is very articulate, the type who makes claims and you sit there thinking no that's wrong it must be but she said it so well you're kind of just waffling going but, no, wait-- so I knew I had to get this right if I was gonna come out of this unscathed.

The usual arguments about it being about the soul of it and creation fell flat, in fact she was adamant that anyone who believed that was in fact looking down at coding as an art form as she insisted it is. Which, sure, you can totally express yourself through coding. There's a lot more nuance as to the differences but clearly I was not going to win this one.

The other people I was with (literally 8 people anti-ai against her, but you can't change the mind of someone who doesn't want to listen and she just kept accusing us of devaluing coding as an art) took over for I kid you not 15 minutes while I tried desperately to come up with a clear and articulate way to explain the difference to her. They tried so many reasonable arguments, coding being for a function ("what, art doesn't serve a function?") coding being many discrete building blocks that you put together differently, and the AI simply provides the blocks and you put it together yourself ("isn't that what prompt building is") that it's bad for the environment ("but not if it's used for capitalism, hm?" "Yeah literally that's how capitalism works it doesn't care about the environment" she didn't like that response)

But I finally got it.

And the answer is: It's not about what you do, it's about what you claim to be.

Imagine that someone asks an AI to write a code and, by some miracle, it works perfectly without them having to tweak it---which is great because they couldn't tell you what a single solitary thing in that code means.

Now imagine this person, with their code that they don't know how it works, goes and applies to be a coder somewhere, presenting this AI code as proof that they're qualified.

Should they be hired?

She was horrified, of course. Of course they shouldn't be. They're not qualified. They can't actually code, and even if by some miracle they did have an AI successfully write a flawless code for every issue they came across that wouldn't be their code, you could hire any shmuck on the street to do that, no reason to pay someone like they're creating something.

When actual engineers use AI what they do is get some kind of base, which they then go though and check for problems and then if they find any they fix them, and add on to the base code with their own knowledge instead of just trying different prompt after prompt until they randomly come across one that works.

People who generate code like this don't usually call themselves engineers. They're people who needed a bit of code and didn't have the knowledge to generate it, and so used a resource.

And there you go. There are people who have none of the skills of artists, they don't practice, they don't create for themselves. When they feed the prompt to the AI they then don't just use the resulting image as a reference point for their own personal masterpiece, and if they don't like it they don't have the skills to change it---they simply try another prompt, and do that until they get something they like.

These people are calling themselves artists.

Not only that, these people are bringing the AI generated thing to interviews, and they are getting hired, leaving people who slave over their craft out of the job.

And that is the difference, for the tech bros who think AI art isn't a big deal.

[softshuji]

y'know it's a night when hal sits and eats cereal in the dark room at 1.30am.

[diceroulette]

i'm seriously tired of this like,,, constant feeling of never really feeling important to anyone. and it's like, it's 100% on me, it is 100% my fault i feel this way but,,, eugh

[sbcdh]

Dad wasn’t a nice guy. I don’t think I need to tell you that. But don’t believe the media. I don’t think he was evil. People give him a bad rap, or, they gave him a bad rap for the wrong reasons.  They didn’t know the man like I did. 

Tell me more about that.

He loved Emmett more. Told me himself, straight as whiskey. Emmett was tall, went to Harvard business school. Helped dad out in the oil fields. Well, helped in the oil fields at first anyway. He was clever. Had a melon like a jackknife and a nose like a bloodhound for finding tar sands. I never really knew how he did it. And well, look at me. I definitely took more after dad. Short fat and bad tempered. Ha! I really took after dad. I went to Harvard too, of course. But I went for geology. Fuckin’ geology. Yeah I knew dad better than any other man on earth.

Why do you say that?

Theres a way of knowing that only happens when you need someone to notice you. You need that like the air you breathe. You know everything about them. Learn the things they like, when their moods swing round, what they want and fear and dream about. Emmett didn’t have to care about stuff like that. Emmett was a golden boy. 

He was quite skilled at finding oil wells.

You know he damn well was. Never did figure out how he did that. You know doc, now that you got me on the couch, you got me wonderin’. You reckon it was somethin’ hypno-economical? It always did seem like he could sniff out tar sands from over the damn horizon.

It is possible. I would like to talk more about you, and your relationship with your father. 

Bet you do. Emmett was the key to everything. Dad made a lot of money early on. Said he was real good at cards. Said he made money cheating loggers at table games up in Canada. Who the hell knows? Point is by the time I was born he was already speculating in land. WWI was a great time for that shit…You know… You know that reminds me. You know what my earliest memory of dad was? It was him, covered in fuckin crude from a new well. Painted head to toe like…like a doll. One of those old ones you only see in antique shops these days. He was smilin wide with big bright teeth and big bright eyes. He was shoutin to Gert about something and they were both real excited. 

That would be Gertrude Jager, your m-

Emmett’s mom. 

Yes, of course. Apologies. Please continue. 

We were outside. It was early in the morning and I could feel the sun on my back. I had this blanket Gert made me and I was holdin’ it in my little fist. Just like this. Hey doc what are you writin’ there?

Notes on our conversation. Was there any sign of his…

Ascension to the throne of the god-pharaoh? Ha. I was wondering when you’d bring that up. You know, I think it was Emmett.

Emmett?

Yeah. Well, it wasn’t nothin’ Emmett did per se. He just. Well, its a big family, lotta big personalities you know? Dad wasn’t the best about keepin a lid on his temper, but Emmett. He was a bit funny. He’d work for hours on end. I seen him spend eight whole hours out in the fields, writing in some little notebook, come home to the house, and then spend eight more hours writing at the dinner table while the help brought him hotdogs. It was the same thing every time. Hot dogs, shredded cabbage, and beer. He’d eat nothin’ but that for days on end. Then he’d get all quiet. Lock himself in his room, drink himself to sleep. 

You weren’t concerned? 

I was 15. And the family’s got a lotta big personalities. 

What changed?

It was the Wolf Basin lode. You gotta think about that for a second. One million barrels of oil, right when uncle sam is at his thirstiest. Daddy had always hobnobbed with politicians, but they were practically lining up outside the door. They were buyin’ him dinner, and he would up and tell em to take a hike! Imagine that! He would come home late at night, I never seen him happier. He tell me about all the things he said to those men. Made him happier than a pig in shit. 

The success is what changed him? 

Maybe. It weren’t just the money. It was the power. The letters he got. Official United States letterhead. Comin’ in from the governor and senators and once or twice even president Truman. Sometimes I’d see him at his desk just starin at em, not opened or nothin’. He just looked at em. That’s when he started readin’ about Egypt and whatnot. Told me he wanted to know about the old kings. Wanted to rule his domain properly. Read all sorts of things about the middle kingdom and Ptolemy and Ramses II. He’d ramble for hours if you let him. Then one day, he comes back from the Rio Grande in a homemade Nemes. 

Nemes? 

Thats the crown of the Pharaohs. He told us that. I think he made his outta old flour sacks. Said he was chosen by Aten to build a new kingdom-o-the-dead right here in Plano. 

That seems quite sudden. 

It was. It was sudden. Well- Well it was kinda sudden. I think it had somethin’ to do with Emmett. This was around when his funny moods were gettin’ bad. Real bad. He was workin’ himself to string. He weren’t eatin’ or sleepin’. Dad had politicians comin over every damn day to look at the oil fields and Emmett was like a ghost. He couldn’t work! I think dad was scared, because he knew Emmett was the key and none of it would work without him. He started wearin the Nemes more. Wore it round the house with a collar and a robe and whatnot. Started carryin’ a scepter. All that. The politicians and the media thought it was a hoot. They thought he was just bein funny. Or like it was some freemason thing. He could get a laugh back then. They just thought he was bein’ funny. 

You don’t seem to share the sentiment.

No ma’am. He’d go into these rages. They were kinda like Emmett’s but, I dunno. Different, but the same. Ranting and raving about the english language “defiling” sacred hieroglyphics, navigatin du’at, securin himself a place in the field of reeds. He even made the help carry around palm fronds to fan him with. Even bought that purple Rolls Royce so he could travel around like Cleopatra did. Said it was the color of empire. It was around then. Yeah. He wanted to tear down the western guest house, and rebuild it on the north side of the property, so he could build a temple to Aten on the western side of the property. He and Emmett got into one hell of a fight. They’d gone at it before but not like that. It did somethin’ to Emmett. He locked himself in his room, wouldn’t eat or sleep. Sure as hell couldn’t work. A month turned into two, then six. There’d be a day when it seemed like Emmett was his normal self then, well then he’d fall right back down into his mood. Then, well. 

What happened?

Some doctor said we oughta try lobotomy. You know, to fix Emmetts moods. Get him back to work. Dad jumped at it. With Emmett out of the fields he wasn’t making money half as fast as he used to. Practically dragged him to the doctors himself. Couldn’t get the pick behind his eyes fast enough the bastard. It broke him doc. Broke him ways I didn’t know a man could break. He- 

Take your time.

He wouldn’t touch the table when he ate. Thought it would shock him like the doctors shocked him. He would break down crying and screaming if you asked him any sort of question. Ask him what he wanted for dinner and he wouldn’t know, and that would scare him, and it would scare him so bad he would tear out his own hair. Sometimes he’d just go quiet. Sometimes he’d just wander around the house. Then there were the nurses. 

Nurses?

Yes Ma’am. See, dad got Emmett right back to work. But Emmett uh. Lord. He couldn’t focus. You couldn’t leave him alone for two minutes without him abusin’ himself in front of everyone. Hands down his pants, primin’ the pumps. So dad hired a bunch of fancy whores to follow him around dressed as nurses. If we had good company over, and Emmett started to get the itch, they’d just pull him into the next room like he was havin’ some kinda medical episode. 

I- really?

Hand to God doc. Tell ya the truth its nice to tell someone about it. This psychotherapy shit is pretty nice. God. I remember one day. Drivin out to the basin in dads big stupid purple Rolls. He brought me along just to take notes. I was shotgun with all the papers, dad in the drivers seat in his Nemes, Emmett in the back seat playin’ hell with the whores. We got out, miles and miles from any other living souls. I remember gettin’ to check one of the dericks. Big ol mean dinosaur lookin’ thing, high heat middle of summer. It was dad and I glarin’ up at it. I was trying to actually check the damn pumps, dad was sermonating loud n’ proud about the rays of Aten while one of the whores was tryin’ to suck off Emmett. And its like I didn’t even care. I didn’t care one bit doc. I was just tryin’ to check the sediment. 

I- Well, you’ve done very well for yourself despite everything. 

Nah. Dad was fallin’ apart. I was just there to pick up the pieces. He couldn’t handle what happened to Emmett. Its like someone cut off dad’s own legs. It unhitched him from the world. 

How so?

Well, he got convinced the Jews did it. Somehow, he got it into his head that the Jews were poisoning all the food in texas, and that uh -Jew poison- was makin’ Emmett like that. It was dad’s thought that the lobotomy woulda worked if it weren’t for the international bolsheviks. He would only ever eat food he grew on the family farm. Even turned a bit of the chemistry division of the business into that vitamin company. 

Yes, its in my notes. Vitazon. 

Vitazon! That’s the one! Said every pill had a bit o’gold in it, straight from the rays of Atem. Said it- Oh what the hell was it. Said it only worked if you… There was some funny little jingle he wrote for it. Ah hell. The point was the pills only “worked” if you ate em every meal, and that meant subscribing to the company. A whole month’s supply of Vitazon, that was all you needed to purge the Judeo-Bolshevism from your body. Buncha nonsense. Made good money though. 

I see. Did you and your father ever reconcile before he passed?

Nah. He kicked the bucket before I got my big deal with the Saudis. Good riddance. You know what the last thing he said to me was? He called me while I was on a fishing trip up in big bear. I pick up the phone, and he starts rambling about how he wanted to be mummified. He wanted a full new-kingdom funeral. He said catholics weren’t allowed because they were a “semitic people.” I had him cremated, the bastard. But Emmett technically owns the estate. I think his ashes are kept in the temple of Aten, in one of those funny jars with the animal heads. 

What about Emmett?

You know doc, I don’t really like thinkin’ about Emmett. He’s living at the old house. But he’s got proper doctors to take care of him now. I saw to that. They send me letters every few months. Apparently he’s better than he used to be. Calmer. They say he just shuffles around the house wearin’ dads old Nemes. I think it makes him happy.

[luveline]

i just saw someone on tiktok say “behind every girl that always wants to be around their partner is a little who’s dad didn’t choose her.” with aaron pls :(( and reader reveals her daddy issues? xxx

—hotch comforts you when you worry you depend on him for the wrong reasons. fem, 2k

You were aware of the irony. Girl who hates her father latches onto the first older man to give her any positive attention: the framing isn’t complimentary to either of you, and it’s not true, really. You love Aaron because he’s kind, and he’s handsome, and because he loves you first. You won’t pretend he’s perfect even if he might say that about you. He doesn’t have to be. 

Aaron is kind where all the other men in your life have been cruel. He is the person you go to when things go wrong, even if you don’t expect him to fix things for you. You know you have ‘daddy issues’, and you don’t want them to affect how you and Aaron are when you’re together, but it’s obvious to the both of you that you crave being looked after. The way Aaron takes care of you absolutely factors into why you love him. 

He wraps the tail end of your scarf into your coat and flattens the lump of it until it’s under your chin. “Alright?” he asks, not expecting an answer as he turns away to grab his own scarf. “Will that coat be warm enough? It might be a few hours.” 

“Fine. We’ll be inside most of the time.” 

“Mm,” he hums, reaching back to pinch your side. You laugh and he smiles but doesn’t say anything further, pulling open the front door, and holding it for you until you’re on the porch. 

“You know you don’t have to… spoil him, so much,” you say lightly. 

“It’s not spoiling, he only wants a few things.” 

You’d personally felt that Jack’s birthday wish list was a bit long, but you don’t care. You don’t have a vendetta against Jack's happiness. If Aaron wants to spend half a paycheck (alright, a quarter, if that) on some toys, he should do it. But he probably knows already that Jack won’t care if he doesn’t get all of that stuff. “I didn’t get half as much for my birthdays,” you say. 

“Believe me, honey, neither did I.” 

“One year someone’s mom got me a full box set of movies though. That was a good one.” 

“One year, I got two different pagers.” He snorts. “And now they’re useless.” 

“I never used a pager.” 

Aaron goes a bit red, self-shame or something silly like that. “Don’t tell me that.” 

“Cradle snatcher.” 

“Stop, that’s not funny.” 

It’s funny. You aren’t shockingly younger than Aaron but it’s definitely enough time to see the difference (not that you care, you quite like him with his permanent wrinkle between his brows and his big, big hands). “I really haven’t. I know what they are, of course, but I went straight to a cell phone.” 

He grumbles something unheard. Together, you get into his car and drive to the shopping centre nearest the house, a maze of storefronts with outdoor entrances, like a mall that’s been shaken and thrown out over two streets. It’s not entertaining but in a way, it’s good. Aaron holds your hand and you can walk around with your head held high, proud to be a well-dressed, in love-looking partnership. See, your face says to anyone who’ll look, I’m well-loved. 

After an hour or two he kisses your cheek and decides aloud that you need dinner. He doesn’t ask if you’re hungry, he just chooses, and you love it. 

“Thank you for letting me come today,” you say, sitting across from him behind a dinner plate and a towering glass of lemon water. 

“Did I let you?” he asks, distracted by his steak and fries, though he sounds as loving as usual. 

“You could’ve said no.” 

“I have no reason to. I like when you’re with me. Thank you for letting me bring you, then, and boring you half to death.” 

“Freezing me the other half.” 

“Ah, so smart, so clever,” he murmurs. 

“Witty.” 

“Always, aren’t you?” 

You wonder about the dessert menu, find your mouth working of its own accord. “It doesn’t feel believable, sometimes. That you want me around so much.” 

He pauses, resting his knife across his fork. With a free hand, he gestures to your hand. “Would you like more proof?” 

You aren’t sure what he means, the tennis bracelet he got you for your first anniversary, or the engagement ring that sits heavily on your marriage finger waiting to be traded for a golden band. Maybe he means the teeny silver bracelet that falls down your arm whenever you move, that one just for fun. 

“Not,” he says slowly, his eyes squinted to tell you that you’re caught, “that jewellery should be your sole proof.” 

“Would you like to prove it to me now?” 

He reaches over to squeeze your hand. “I want you around all of the time. If I could I’d have us sewn together at the hip.” He’s grinning, thumbing against your knuckles. “It might not be comfortable at night when you’re trying to climb all over me.” 

“You climb all over me, Hotchner, don’t lie.” 

Aaron nods appreciatively. “That’s right. You’re the second most important thing in my life, and that’s not your fault, only Jack is so endearing.” 

“He’s a lucky kid.” 

“No, he’s not,” Aaron says gently, “but I really do love him.” 

“Of course he’s lucky. He has a dad who loves him to pieces, his Aunt Jess is like, superwoman, and– you know, I know I’m not the same as that, but I love him.”

“You look after him,” Aaron says. 

“It’s honestly just nice that you seem to like him. You don’t act like he’s an annoyance for you, you aren’t angry to have to come out today to get him his presents.” 

“Well, no. It’s not something to be angry about. When you have kids, you’re signing up for every part of having them.” 

“I know.” 

He takes a sip of his drink and puts it down beside your own in what you know to be him buying a little time. “Honey, is there something… I don’t know, something you want to talk about? Is it Jack's birthday…?”

You feel your heart fall into your mouth, as though it began life somewhere else, heartbeat mortified on your tongue. He sees you fluster and immediately softens, turning your hand in his to stroke along the inside of your wrist. 

“Nevermind,” he says. 

“No.” You clear your throat. “It’s not about Jack’s birthday. It’s just… you know you weren’t always the best father you could’ve been.” 

He nods. “I do.” 

“But you are now. You’ve made sacrifices, you– you chose Jack.” 

“I couldn’t not.” You’re quiet. He understands. “Sweetheart, we don’t have to talk about it now. Would that be better? You can think about what you have to say, and I promise I’ll listen without judging you when you’re ready to tell me about it. Okay?” He gives your wrist a squeeze. “You aren’t upset, are you?” 

“I’m just thinking.” 

“Are you too distracted for dessert?” 

You let Aaron pick one for you. Let him pay the bill, he’d be insulted if you even asked about splitting it, and he might genuinely get annoyed if you offered yourself. You usually love it. Someone loves you enough that money is practically immaterial. Just last month he had to have the roof of the house redone, and you know his money isn’t infinite, as does he, and yet it didn’t stop you from being spoiled, because any money he has was money shared. You know if he suddenly turned pauper he’d still spoil you, same way you’re spoiled with soft touches and less chores than you should take. 

“You know I don’t think of you as my father, right?” you ask. 

Aaron chokes on a startled laugh. “Of course I do,” he says, coughing, clutching your elbow. 

“So if I tell you that sometimes the way you treat me reminds me of my father, you won’t take it the wrong way?” 

“No.” He smiles where he should frown, wraps an arm behind your back when he should be judging you. “Men are still men. And I am a father, so it makes sense that you’d have those connotations in mind sometimes.” 

“I don’t want you to be my dad, but I do wonder… I wonder if I want to be around you so much because my father didn’t want to be around me. Does that make sense?” 

“I think it makes sense to wonder about it,” he says diplomatically. 

You’re nearly back to the car and this is a strange place to bare your heart, but it’s not so dramatic, you suppose. “I just think that sometimes I cling to you so much, and it must be– I’m insecure about you.”

“Mm, but you have no reason to be,” he says, pulling you closer still, his fingers aligned against your ribs and warming through your layers. 

“My father didn’t like me, not like you like Jack. There were things that were far more important to him. But with you, I’m important, and– and I know it’s not the same relationship, but–” You groan, not sure what you’re trying to say to him, or what you want him to understand. 

“My father didn’t like me, either,” Aaron says, encouraging you to keep walking to the car. “He was not a nice person. And it absolutely affected how I feel now, even if I don’t always think about him. The way he treated me when I was young influenced the person I am now. And looking for the things I wish he was, looking for kindness, for a gentle partner, it doesn’t mean that I need a placeholder for him, does it? I know what you’re saying to me. Don’t think you’re wrong for wanting to be looked after.” 

You can’t help breathing out a sigh of relief. “Right.” 

“I’ve never been a young woman, and I don’t have a daughter, but it’s not hard to imagine how you felt. It’s okay to wish you’d been loved properly.” 

“I was never a daddy’s girl,” you confess. 

“It’s not fair. Everyone wants to be treasured when they're a kid. And it makes sense that you’re still looking for that feeling. We both know it’s not the same, but I really will look after you.” He smiles. “Okay?” 

“Okay. Sorry if it’s too weird.” 

“It’s not weird to want someone who takes care of you.” 

You bring your hands to his face. They’re smaller than his, you’ve shorter fingers with softer palms, but they fit perfectly on his cheeks. You tease the scratchy hill of his chin with your thumb before closing your eyes, reaching up for a kiss. The bags hanging from your elbows crack, crushed as Aaron gets his hands behind your back to hold you. 

“You’re too good to me,” you say softly, returning flat to your heels. 

Aaron pulls your face back to kiss your cheek. “You deserve everything you get, honey. I promise.” 

[bugdoppio]

HEADCANON DROP HI HELLO (ignore how i accidentally switched pete and josh's position i drew this in school without my phone okay. forgive me)

BILL !!

hes the level of white that his face gets actually red when hes rlly angry

worst acne out of all of the club plus probably has a bald spot on his head from how stressed out he is all the time

surprisingly his hair is the cleanest out of all of them because his mom forces him to take baths frequently (hates her for it) -> weirdly that does not stop him from smelling like shit so

has VERY bad myopia (short sighted)

absolutely awful posture. pack it up hunchback of notre dame

has very bad lactose intolerance but does NOT stop him

i like to think maybe it was his dad who introduced him to comics and nerdy stuff and they really bonded over that so he resents his mother a lot for "taking his dad away from him" when they had the divorce

NOT a reader at all, only reads books that dont have pictures on them if its for school, otherwise he does NOT touch that shit

has a surprisingly good singing voice but the talents wasted because he doesnt like music at all

very very VERY closeted bisexual would rather die than admit he feels a little something when looking at pretty men

has a habit of biting himself when he's frustrated

has arachnophobia so bad to the point it's actually funny. if u tell him theres a spider on his shoulder he will scream so loudly and freak out and not speak to u for a week when he realizes u were lying

his bones are really easy to break for some reason? shove him the tiniest bit hard he will break something when he falls on the ground

i feel like he'd have a peanut allergy. no i will not elaborate

judges really hard whenever someone gets a very complicated coffee order but cannot handle a singular sip of black coffee. spits it out immediately

brags about being the oldest of all of them when its like. him and josh are less than a month apart

very very low pain tolerance will be so dramatic over every tiny papercut

umm umm something something npd and ocd because oomf said so

last one of the club to grow facial hair

hates HATES pda but is so clingy in private its insane

chews on every pen or pencil he owns. beaver ass

has really really dry lips to the point his doctor told him to regularly put on chapstick but he never does it because he "feels gay" doing it, lips get cracked and bloody every time the weather gets a little dryer than usual

always wears long sleeved shirts or jackets over t-shirts because he hates how his arms look (theyre very skinny. bro cannot throw a hard hitting punch or lift a mildly heavy object for his life)

cannot peel any fruit. ever.

never got his drivers license. even in epilogue he has to take cabs everywhere

also epilogue i feel like he'd have a little bit of a drinking problem maybe

JOSH !!

very very greasy curly hair that has so much frizz. CANNOT be brushed dry ever or itll puff up ljke a pomeranian

probably started growing a neckbeard before any real facial hair but he gets self conscious about it so shaves it -> gives up shaving it in epilogue and his real beard started to grow

his weight isnt that much his fault its more of a genetic thing tbh -> tried working out to see if he lost weight once but when his fat didnt immediately turn into muscle in like. a week. he gave up

his mom probably got him to do piano or violin classes and when the club went to a recital to make fun of him they were like. a little impressed cuz he was not bad at all tbh -> probably tried to audition to school band or somethibg? but immediately shouted FUCK the second he got a note wrong and got kicked out

has some form of jaw misalignment? but never told his mom because he would rather die than be seen with braces

gamer headphone dent 💔

immediately asks any girl wearing a band shirt "name five songs" even if he doesnt know the band at all

owns a concerning amount of body pillows

secretly has a thing for mean assertive women

bpd maybe?

has VERY bad hyperopia (long-sightedness)

used to own hamsters and got so sad when they died he missed club meetings for like a week -> club genuinely thought it was a grandma or something not yoda 1 and yoda 2 (he'd name them that because he forgot which one was which and just named them the same thing)

has so many cousins and extended family its insane. he swears that if he hears "youve grown so much, last time i saw you you were a little baby!" he will LOSE IT

has freakishly good aim for some reason? like, the club wouldve gone to paintball or laser tag or something and bill would throw a tantrum over always getting shot by josh immediately

hates overly sweet things

PETE !!

very very hairy everywhere except on his head 😭 bro has a receding hairline at 17 someone save him (literally the only reason he wears the baseball cap all ghe time)

probably the first one to grow facial hair out of the club, brags about it so hard

tried piercing his ears by himself once but it got infected so he had to give up

rlly dark eyes and has the most beautiful luscious dark lashes youve ever seen (guido mista coded)

nose is very curved and downturned

MOLES MOLES SO MANY MOLES

kinda crooked teeth but his parents cant afford braces for him so

owns a bunch of exotic pets and used to prank the club with them until bill accidentally stepped on his pet spider and killed it or something

yk when u smell sweaty and bad and try putting deodorant on top to fix it but just ends up smelling like a mix of sweat and deodorant and its lowkey worse? yeah thats what pete smells like. all the time. and axe body spray

tried smoking one (1) time to look cool and regretted it so much. never again

probably unironically got scurvy once due to not brushing his teeth or eating any fruit and thought his gums bleeding meant he was turning into a zombie -> tried biting josh once to be funny and "turn him into a zombie too" but he bit too hard and it got infected (he felt SO bad)

really strong immune system from eating dirt as a kid? almost never gets sick -> when he does its really bad and the club lowkey thinks hes gonna die when it happens

if not working at sick mofo in epilogue i like to think he could've ended up working as a horror sfx artist

also could probably have been good at sports if he tried but he never did (plus hates jocks so)

surprisingly really knowledgeable about food and spices and stuff (maybe his mom taught him) but he HATES cooking so never does anything abiut it

watches gore and shit but would throw up immediately if he saw a major injury like that in real life

has freakishly good reflexes from his older brothers picking on him all the time

JERRY !!

THICK EYEBROWS !!!!!!!! KINDA HAS SIDEBURNS TOO !!!!!!!!!! im not normal

thin lips ..and eyebags …. plus kinda defined cheekbones make him look rlly tired all the time

hes really myopic but doesnt have glasses -> his eyes look closed all the time cuz hes always squinting trying to see 3 feet in front of him (plus his eyebrows furrow together when he does so thats why sometimes he looks like he has a unibrow) -> probably starts wearing contacts in epilogue

also literally only failed his driving test becayse of myopia SOMEONE GET THIS POOR BOY SOME GLASSES

had a tooth gap when he was younger (think that one flashback where theyre all kids) and had to wear braces for a while to fix it -> was relentlessly made fun of because of that by the club until bill got braces too and threatened to punch whoever made fun of braces again

weirdly good at finding out info about people …. stalker ass .!!!! has doxxed people he dislikes on forums occasionally -> stops doing that in epilogue but maybe finds himself accidentally stalking someones profile when on the internet and feels bad

waaayy taller than the rest of the club but has a shitty posture so he looks kinda on par with the others -> like 180cm but looks 175cm

best jawline out of all of them lowkey 😭

maybe a little unaware on physical boundaries and stuff … physical touchy guy

FRECKLES + hes probably the one wity tge least acne out of all of them cuz he would probably start picking at his pimples the minute they show up (does NOT wash his face though) -> acne scars in epilogue

greasy hair, probably washes it every 2 weeks (has rlly nice smelling shampoo when he does wash it though) -> washes his hair more frequently in epilogue (REALLY soft)

very blunt when he has strong opinions about something but otherwise has ZERO backbone. will immediately change his mind on something if he wants to impress someone

a sagittarius because he looks like he'd have a birthday in december plus weird al yankovic song your horoscope for today (listen to it right now.)

very clammy sweaty hands and HATES it, sensory nightmare, always fidgeting with the hem of his sweater to dry them out

autistic .!!! plus has rlly bad anxiety probably

and fomo. oh lord he has so much fomo -> probably one of the biggest reasons he still hangs out with the club tbh -> plus has really bad codependency and abandonment issues maybe? cannot do something by himself he has to have someone with him

gets his ears pierced in the epilogue and LOVES it, too scared to get more though because it was really painful

is a pretty good artist, could've become a professional easily but was more preoccupied with other stuff probably

owns a huge ginger main coone cat that bullies him around

low blood pressure

very skilled at calligraphy… most legible handwriting out of all of them

umm urrmm thats it i thinks .... i hope my vision is not too out of character .......,,,, Guh

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt.18

Word Count: 28.4k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, tw for postpartum depression, suicidal ideations, manipulation, coercion, slight verbal abuse, stalking, murder, gore, pet names like kitten, honey

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

AN: Hiii guys! Long time no see! Or should I say long time no read? Hehe. I am genuinely so sorry tho about how long this took! Had some things going on in my personal life, and everything just seemed to be falling apart. So I took a long hiatus, but I'm doing much better these days! I promise I wont disappear again without communication! I don't plan on going on another hiatus anytime soon though! Thank you all for your continued patience and interest in HWE, I genuinely have the best readers! A little tw if you have kids, this chapter gets a little intense with themes of postpartum depression. Reminder, Sylvia has no specific skintone, I just use images I think best represent the chapter in general. Imagine her and MC as you like! As I always say, enjoy lovelies!

He sighed, tilting his head slightly as if he were observing something fragile, something just about to break. “You’re tired, aren’t you?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “At your breaking point?” His hand slid from your wrist up to your forearm, his grip tightening just enough to keep you close. “There must be a reason your subconscious reached out to mine.” Your heart stuttered in your chest. “I didn’t—” “You did,” he interrupted smoothly, his thumb brushing against the inside of your arm in slow, absentminded circles. “I’m not mad. I’m worried.” His eyes softened, and that terrified you more than anything. “I just want you to realize that I’m here. I wasn’t lying when I said I would change.” His free hand came up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “But you’re mine. You can’t run forever. It’s not good for you or her.”

Check my masterlist for the other parts!

Your eyelids felt like lead, every blink a battle against the overwhelming weight of exhaustion. The stretch of road ahead was endless, swallowed by darkness, the headlights carving out a lonely path through the thick emptiness of the night. It had been hours since you’d last stopped, hours since you’d even allowed yourself to consider resting. The fear in your chest had outweighed the exhaustion gnawing at your bones, keeping you upright, keeping you moving.

But now…now, it was getting harder.

Your body screamed for rest, your fingers stiff and aching against the wheel, your spine curled in discomfort from sitting so long. The hum of the tires on the cracked asphalt had begun to lull you, hypnotic in its monotony, and your head bobbed once, twice, before Sylvia’s sharp, desperate wail from the backseat jolted you violently awake.

You sucked in a breath, your heart pounding, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight they ached. Your first instinct was panic—something was wrong, something had happened—before you registered the sound for what it was. Hunger. Frustration.

Just your baby girl crying for you.

"Sylvia, please, sweetheart, I know..." your voice wavered, raw from exhaustion, throat tight as you fought against the thick fog of fatigue clouding your brain. You risked a quick glance over your shoulder, your gut twisting at the sight of her tiny face contorted in distress, her fists clenched tight as she wailed.

Her tiny body trembled with the force of her cries, her little chest rising and falling in quick, panicked breaths. She didn’t understand why she was strapped down, why you weren’t holding her, why everything in her tiny world felt so loud and unfamiliar.

The sound of her suffering felt like a dagger lodged deep in your chest.

"Shhh, baby...Mommy’s here... I know, I know, I know," you whispered, reaching back blindly to shake the car seat just a little, as if the movement would somehow bring her comfort. It didn’t. Her cries only grew louder, more desperate, more insistent.

A fresh wave of guilt crashed over you, stronger than before.

You hated this. You hated hearing her cry and not being able to fix it. You hated that she was suffering because of you. Because you had been reckless. Because you had been selfish.

The thought came unbidden, intrusive and cruel, and you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek until you tasted blood. No. No, you couldn’t think like that.

But what if he was closing in?

The paranoia that had driven you to keep moving, to push past every ache and pain and ounce of exhaustion, crept up your spine again. Sylus was smart. Too smart. You had made it this far, but how much longer before he caught up?

Would he be merciful?

No. Of course not. He had ruined your life, taken your mind, body, and soul. Changed you in irreparable ways. That nice guy act over the phone was bullshit. It had to be.

He had told you—over and over—that you were his. That you belonged to him. That no matter where you ran, no matter how far you went, he would always come for you.

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling against the wheel as you pressed just a little harder on the gas.

You needed to keep going. You couldn’t stop.

But Sylvia’s cries weren’t letting up. They were clawing at your resolve, chipping away at it piece by piece, until it was nothing more than a fragile, fraying thread threatening to snap.

How much longer? How much longer before you completely fell apart?

Your vision blurred as tears pricked the edges of your eyes, the weight of it all—of everything—crushing you.

"I’m so sorry," you choked out, barely able to hear yourself over her wails. "I’m so, so sorry."

It wasn’t fair. She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve any of this.

Your body ached with the need to pull over, to take her in your arms and comfort her the way you were supposed to. To stop, even just for a moment, to breathe, to think.

But if you stopped now…

If you stopped now, you weren’t sure you’d have the strength to start again.

You took a deep, shaky breath, forcing yourself to push back the primal, aching urge to pull over and scoop Sylvia into your arms. Your instincts screamed at you to comfort her, but fear screamed louder. Stopping meant wasting time. Stopping meant giving Sylus a chance to close in. So instead, you reached for the radio, fumbling with the old-fashioned knobs, hoping—praying—that some music might drown out her cries.

Your fingers twisted the dial, static hissing angrily in response.

Come on, come on…

You struggled to keep your eyes on the road, the lines blurring from exhaustion. Radios this old were practically relics in Linkon, outdated and replaced by sleek, voice-command technology. Were there even working radio stations outside the city? Had the rest of the world moved on, or had Linkon just left them behind?

Another turn of the knob. More static.

And then, sound.

Soft strings. A slow, haunting melody. Classical.

Your stomach dropped.

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened as unwelcome memories flooded your mind, unspooling like a film reel you couldn’t turn off.

Sylus, lounging on the edge of his massive bed, swirling a glass of whiskey in one hand while the other rested lazily against your waist. The dim glow of his bedroom, the scent of sandalwood and aged liquor clinging to the sheets. The way his crimson eyes would drift closed, his head tilting slightly as he listened, completely lost in the music.

"Relax, kitten," his voice, low and smooth, echoed through your thoughts, his lips brushing the crown of your head. "This should help you sleep".

You twisted the knob violently, heart hammering.

The radio shrieked with static again, Sylvia’s wails filling the gaps between the noise, clawing at your nerves.

“Come on, come on—”

The static flickered. A different station crackled through.

The familiar twang of an old country song filtered in, the singer’s voice rough yet warm. Not your usual taste. Not your preference. But it wasn’t classical. That was enough.

You exhaled slowly, your shoulders slumping as the melody filled the car.

Sylvia’s cries didn’t stop, but they softened just enough to dull the sharp edges of your panic. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“I know,” you murmured, risking another glance at her in the rearview mirror. Her tiny fists flailed, her red, tear-streaked face scrunched in distress. “Just a little longer. We’ll stop soon, I promise.”

You pressed a hand to your temple, exhaustion pressing down on you like a weight.

You just had to keep moving.

Thirty more minutes crawled by, and the suffocating isolation of the road was beginning to gnaw at your nerves. Nothing but dirt and desolate fields stretched endlessly on either side of you. The trees had thinned out long ago, replaced by flatlands that made you feel uncomfortably exposed. You kept checking the rearview mirror, expecting to see headlights cresting the horizon at any moment—Sylus's car, or worse, one of his men.

Your fingers drummed against the wheel. The only sound in the car was the soft hum of the radio and the occasional sniffle from Sylvia in the backseat. She had finally exhausted herself from crying, but you knew it was temporary. You’d have to stop soon.

Your eyes flickered to the gas meter.

Your stomach dropped.

Shit.

The needle was hovering dangerously close to empty.

You clenched your jaw, gripping the wheel tighter as you exhaled slowly through your nose. You should’ve stopped earlier. Should’ve filled up before you even left the outskirts of Brunswick. But in your haste—your desperation to put as much distance between you and Sylus as possible—you hadn’t even thought about it.

Now, you didn’t have a choice. You had to find a gas station.

And soon.

Your mind raced through the options. There had to be something out here, even if it was just a tiny, rundown station in the middle of nowhere. You scanned the road ahead, searching for any sign, any flicker of neon in the distance, but all you were met with was an endless stretch of dirt and open sky.

Another whimper from the backseat drew your attention. You glanced in the mirror.

Sylvia was stirring again, her tiny face scrunching up, little hands flailing weakly. She was getting hungrier by the second.

Your chest tightened.

You had nothing prepared. The bottles Clara had packed were in the passenger seat, but they were still cold. You needed to heat them up somehow. You needed a rest stop, a gas station, anything. The you realized enough time had passed that the formula likely wasn't safe to give her anyways.

The pressure in your skull built. Every mile that passed felt like another nail being hammered into your nerves.

The gas light flickered on.

Shit.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, fingers clenching so hard against the steering wheel that your knuckles went white. You couldn’t break down out here. Not in the middle of nowhere. Not when Sylus was still out there, searching.

Not when you had Sylvia.

She let out a soft cry.

You inhaled sharply through your nose.

Keep it together. Keep driving. Find a station. Fast.

As if the universe had finally decided to grant you some mercy, a gas station came into view in the distance, its sign flickering weakly against the inky black sky. You nearly sighed in relief, your grip on the steering wheel tightening as you forced yourself to maintain a steady speed. The last thing you needed was to burn out the last drops of gas before you even reached the pump.

The place was rundown—long abandoned cars left at odd angles in the parking lot, their paint peeling under the weight of time. The single convenience store sat behind the pumps, its windows coated in layers of grime. The fluorescent lights above the entrance buzzed loudly, some flickering in and out like they were clinging to life. It looked like something out of an old horror movie, the kind of place you’d never stop at willingly. But right now, you didn’t have a choice.

You turned off the engine and slumped back against the seat, exhaling slowly. The sudden silence inside the car felt almost deafening after hours of listening to Sylvia’s cries. You hesitated before glancing back at her. She had finally fallen asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling in soft, rhythmic motions. The tear stains on her chubby cheeks twisted something deep inside of you, a gnawing guilt that wouldn’t let go.

She had cried herself to sleep.

The thought made your throat tighten, but you swallowed it down. Right now, you needed to focus. Get gas. Find something to eat. Then feed her before she woke up screaming again. Simple steps. One thing at a time. You could do this.

You reached under the seat, rummaging around until your fingers brushed against the cool metal of Luke’s gun—except…it wasn’t there.

Your stomach twisted as you patted around the floor, the glove compartment, the passenger seat, even checking beside Sylvia’s car seat just in case it had slid over. But nothing.

Shit.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a brief moment, pressing your fingers to your temples. You had sworn you packed it. Had you left it at the farmhouse? Maybe in your rush, you had forgotten. Either way, it wasn’t here, and that meant you were completely defenseless.

A slow breath left your lips, your heartbeat picking up slightly. It’s fine. It has to be fine. You weren’t some helpless civilian—your training as a Deepspace Hunter wasn’t something you could just forget overnight. You had survived worse at this point. Besides, this place looked empty. Just a quick stop and then you’d be back on the road before anyone even noticed you were here.

But still…the absence of the gun made your nerves hum with unease.

You reached over and gently adjusted Sylvia’s blanket, making sure she was snug and comfortable before you grabbed the thick envelope with money and slowly opened the car door. The night air was crisp, cool against your flushed skin. A shiver ran down your spine, and you weren’t sure if it was from the cold or the strange stillness of the place.

The wind howled softly through the empty lot, rustling stray scraps of paper and dried leaves. Other than that, it was quiet. Too quiet.

You glanced over your shoulder once more, reassuring yourself that Sylvia was still fast asleep before heading toward the pump.

Stay alert. Stay ready.

You had to be quick. Sylus could be closing in.

The lower half of your body aches as you finally swing your legs out of the car, wincing at the deep, unrelenting soreness that radiates through your hips and thighs. Three weeks postpartum, and your body is still punishing you for what it went through. Every movement feels stiff, your joints weak, your core unstable. You shouldn’t even be walking like this, let alone driving for hours on end.

Under normal circumstances, you should be at home, curled up in bed with your baby, resting and recovering in a soft nest of blankets. That’s what all the pregnancy books Sylus had given you had insisted upon—proper rest, gentle healing, quiet moments bonding with your newborn. Of course, resting anywhere near Sylus wasn't exactly ideal...

You exhale sharply, forcing his image out of your head. Why are you even thinking about him right now? Why was he always an unrelenting thought in your head?

Focus.

Your hands tighten into fists as you pull yourself upright, steeling your nerves. You had to keep pushing. The pain? You could handle it. The exhaustion? You’d dealt with worse. But Sylvia needed you to stay strong. Squaring your shoulders, you push forward, limping slightly as you march toward the gas station doors. Your body protests with every step, your muscles screaming for rest, but you ignore them. Pain is nothing. Adrenaline is your crutch now, keeping you upright, pushing you through the haze of exhaustion.

The rusty bell above the gas station door chimes as you shove it open, the heavy scent of stale food and dust hitting you immediately. The air is thick with the kind of stillness that only places long-forgotten seem to carry, as if time itself had abandoned this rundown stop in the middle of nowhere.

Your eyes sweep over the dimly lit aisles, scanning for any signs of danger. Old shelves sag beneath expired snack foods and faded bags of chips. Refrigerators hum in the back, their glass doors fogged with condensation. It’s eerily quiet.

Then your gaze lands on the guy behind the counter.

A young man—early twenties, maybe—slouches lazily against the register, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. His shaggy hair falls over his eyes, and a bored expression sits on his face. He doesn’t even glance up when you enter.

Your stomach churns.

You’ve been in places like this before. Sketchy, isolated stops. The last time you found yourself in a run-down gas station like this, you met Reese. And soon after? Your entire world turned to hell.

Your hands instinctively twitch, as if reaching for a weapon that isn’t there. Your posture straightens, eyes sharp, spine stiff. Don’t show weakness. Don’t trust him, even if he seems friendly.

Be assertive. Be smart. Your a woman all alone with a man at a deserted gas station.

And above all else— don’t let him see your fear.

You approach the counter slowly, clutching the thick envelope of cash tightly against your chest. Every step feels measured, deliberate. You’re hyperaware of your surroundings, the dim lighting, the faint hum of the refrigerators, the flickering fluorescent light above that casts harsh shadows along the stained tile floor.

The man behind the counter finally senses your presence, glancing up from his phone. He jumps slightly, clearly not expecting anyone at this hour. His surprise quickly fades into a small, easy smile.

"Ah…sorry. You caught me off guard," he says, setting his phone down. "I don’t get too many customers, to be honest."

You force a polite smile, trying to appear composed, though your insides are twisting with unease. Sylvia is still out there, alone in the car, vulnerable. Every second wasted inside this dusty old gas station feels like an eternity.

You clear your throat, straightening your posture, forcing steel into your voice. Don’t appear weak.

“I need enough gas to make it to the next town…city—whatever,” you say, already thumbing through the envelope, your fingers brushing against crisp bills. “How much for a full tank? Eighty should cover it, right?”

The man’s eyes flicker down toward the envelope in your hands. His gaze lingers a second too long.

You feel your stomach clench.

Something shifts in the air—not immediately threatening, but… interested. Curious. Too curious.

“Um…yeah,” he says finally, nodding as he straightens up. “That should do it. I’ll get you settled right now.”

His hand extends toward you, waiting for the money.

You exhale through your nose and nod, quickly counting out the cash. You don’t want to take too long, don’t want to give him a chance to ask questions or make small talk. You briskly press the bills into his open palm. Your fingertips graze against his.

You flinch.

It’s barely noticeable, but the movement is there, and you immediately look away, pulse kicking up a notch.

“Ah—sorry,” he mutters, fumbling the cash slightly as if he noticed the tension in you.

You don’t respond. You mumble a quick, “Thanks,” and turn on your heel, briskly walking toward the exit.

Get back to the car. Get back to Sylvia.

The bell above the door chimes as you step back outside, the night air cold against your skin once more. You don’t look back.

Relieved to finally be out of that suffocating, dust-filled gas station, you rush back to the car, your steps quick and purposeful. The air is sharp against your overheated skin, but you barely notice it—your only concern is Sylvia.

As you reach the car, your breath hitches slightly as you peer through the window, searching for her tiny form in the dim interior.

Still asleep. Thank god.

A wave of relief crashes over you, momentarily easing the knots in your stomach. She’s curled in her car seat, her little face barely visible in the darkness, the faint rise and fall of her chest the only thing keeping you from spiraling into panic.

Just pump the gas. Eat something. Wake her up to feed. Then go.

You quickly double-check the pump, making sure that sketchy attendant actually followed through. Your fingers hesitate over the button for a second before pressing it. The numbers flash correctly on the screen.

Good. One less thing to worry about.

You exhale slowly, shoving the nozzle into the gas tank, your hands trembling slightly as the tension in your body refuses to fully dissipate. You lean against the rickety old car, closing your eyes for a brief second.

Just breathe. One step at a time.

“Hey, um—”

A voice cuts through the night, sudden and far too close.

Your heart lurches into your throat. You spin violently, a panicked scream ripping from your chest as you stumble backward, hands flying up defensively.

"What the—!" Your voice comes out sharp, shaky.

The gas station attendant.

He throws his hands up instantly, eyes widening in alarm. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you—I swear!” His voice wobbles slightly, like he’s startled by your reaction.

Your breath is ragged, your pulse hammering painfully in your ears.

He shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just…thought you might wanna know your tail light is, um… broken.”

You don’t answer immediately. You’re too busy reining in the storm inside you, the suffocating mix of paranoia, exhaustion, and adrenaline. Your hands are still trembling slightly, though you clench them into fists to hide it.

A broken tail light. That’s what this was about?

For a moment, you just stare at him, trying to determine whether or not he’s lying. Whether he’s stalling you for something worse.

Or someone worse.

Sylus.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to breathe through the paranoia.

“…Right.” Your voice is flat, carefully guarded. “Thanks.”

Your fingers itch to grab the gas nozzle and get the hell out of here.

“I could…take a look at it if you’d like. Sometimes it’s just a weird wire. Easy fix,” the attendant says, offering you an earnest smile.

You feel the sweat forming at the back of your neck, an uneasy warmth that creeps down your spine. Something about his persistence sets you on edge. You glance at the pump’s screen, watching the numbers climb. Almost full.

Not much longer now. Just stay calm.

“Um, no thank you,” you mumble, forcing yourself to keep your tone neutral. “It’s an old car. Things break, it’s fine. I’ll get it looked at in the next city.”

You don’t make eye contact. You don’t want to engage.

Just let this conversation die.

But he doesn’t leave.

He lingers, hovering like a storm cloud, hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets as if he’s trying to seem harmless. You keep your posture rigid, your body instinctively shifting closer to the driver's side door.

He finally speaks again, his voice oddly casual. "I see...um. Your daughter is…very cute. What’s her name?"

A shiver of ice rushes through your veins. Your grip tightens on the gas nozzle.

The mention of your daughter.

Coming out of a strange man's mouth.

Your pulse spikes, adrenaline replacing exhaustion in an instant. Every nerve in your body screams at you to protect her. Your hand twitches toward the car door handle, ready to grab her and bolt, ready to—

No. Stay still. Don’t escalate.

Your stomach twists, nausea creeping in. He leans over slightly, peering into the car.

Too close.

Too close.

"Leave me alone," you say, your voice low, warning. Your jaw clenches so tightly it aches.

His head snaps back up, eyes flicking to yours in something like surprise. Then, to your growing disgust, he gives a sheepish little chuckle.

"I'm sorry…" he says, rubbing his neck, shifting his weight. "I just thought…you're very pretty…and—”

Nope. No. Absolutely not.

Your body reacts before your mind can even catch up. The nozzle slams into the pump with a sharp clang, yanked free from the tank in one swift motion.

And then you take a single step forward, staring him down with everything left inside of you.

"I'm leaving," you say, voice cold. Final. "Get out of my way."

His demeanor shifts instantly. The awkward, sheepish act he had been putting on peels away like dead skin, revealing something far uglier underneath. His lips curl into a sneer, his once-meek expression hardening into something calculating, entitled. He steps forward without hesitation, and before you can react, his hand latches onto your wrist like a vice.

The moment his fingers dig into your skin, a shock of rage erupts through you, an electric, all-consuming fury that you hadn’t felt in ages—not since Reese. Not since Sylus. Not since that man in the basement.

"Fucking women," he spits, yanking you toward him with a force that nearly makes you stumble. "I was just having a conversation! What the fuck are you so uptight for—"

His words are cut short as your body moves before your mind can catch up.

Your free hand snaps up, clamping around his wrist, twisting it outward in a sharp, fluid motion. You step into him, shifting your weight forward, and suddenly, he’s off balance. He staggers, eyes widening in confusion and pain as you torque his arm into an unnatural angle.

With every ounce of muscle memory left in you, you twist, pivot, and use his own momentum against him. The moment his center of gravity tips too far forward, you yank hard, sending him crashing face-first onto the pavement.

The sound is sickening.

His skull meets the ground with a dull, wet crack, and a sharp gasp rips from his throat. His body bounces against the asphalt, his hands scrambling to push himself up, but you’re already on him.

Not this time.

Not ever again.

Your breath heaves, hot and wild in your chest, and a sound tears from your throat—not a scream, not a sob, but something primal, something animalistic. Before you can think, your foot slams into his ribs.

Once.

Hard.

A wheezing grunt escapes him as he jerks onto his side, but you don’t stop.

Another kick—this time to his gut. He gags. A wet, choking noise claws from his throat, and his hands curl toward his stomach on reflex.

But you’re not finished.

You rear back and slam your foot into his shoulder, his collarbone, his chest. Anything, everything.

Sylus.

Reese.

That man in the basement.

Luke.

Kieran.

Their faces blur and meld into the one beneath you, and suddenly, you’re kicking harder.

Harder.

Harder.

Your breath saws in and out of your lungs in sharp, jagged bursts, your heart hammering in your ears like war drums. Every kick feels like retribution. Every stomp, every hit, every impact is a scream your body was never allowed to release.

The man beneath you groans, then whimpers, curling into himself like a dying insect, blood trickling from his nose onto the cracked pavement.

But you don’t feel better.

You feel alive.

You stand over him, chest heaving, a faint tremor in your hands. The adrenaline still pulses through your veins, hot and all-consuming, but deep beneath it, you feel something else creeping in—a chilling sense of realization.

You’re not weak anymore.

You’re not a victim.

Not now.

Not. Ever. Again.

When you finally run out of breath, when the searing heat of rage begins to fizzle into exhaustion, you stagger back, your entire body trembling. Your chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven breaths, your limbs heavy with the weight of what you’ve just done.

Beneath you, the man groans, his body a mess of bruises and split skin. Blood drips from his nose, smearing against the pavement as he twitches in pain. His arms feebly attempt to shield himself, but you can see it—the way his body curls inward, the way his wide, horrified eyes track your every movement.

Good.

He coughs, a wet, gurgling sound, his lips parting to speak—but he says nothing. He doesn’t dare.

You lean down, just enough to cast a looming shadow over his crumpled form. Your voice is low, strained from panting, but the warning in your tone is unmistakable.

“I said…” you breathe, wiping the sweat from your brow. “I’m leaving.”

You straighten, forcing yourself to turn away from the wreck of a man on the pavement. As if the interaction had never happened, you dust off your coat, smooth your trembling hands over your stomach, and take one final look at him.

Your lip curls, not in fear, not in disgust— but in something eerily close to satisfaction.

“Have a good night.”

And with that, you walk away.

Leaving the groaning man behind, you waste no time scrambling into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut with shaking hands. The scent of gasoline still lingers in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of sweat on your skin. Your pulse is hammering, your body still vibrating with adrenaline, but you force yourself to steady your grip on the wheel. Focus. Breathe. Drive.

You jam the keys into the ignition, the engine roaring to life as you yank the car into gear and pull away from the gas station. Your heart is still pounding in your ears, drowning out everything but the shrill wailing from the backseat. Sylvia.

She had been startled awake by the commotion, her cries loud and insistent, cutting through the thick haze of your spiraling thoughts. You glance into the rearview mirror, your daughter’s tiny, writhing form barely visible in the dim light. The sound is piercing, relentless—a desperate, needy scream that tugs at something primal inside you.

She’s hungry.

You know she needs to eat, but the lingering fear in your chest keeps your foot pressed against the gas pedal. You need distance. Security. Clara was one in a million, but you can’t trust anyone else. There are too many dangers, too many unknowns, and the idea of stopping—of exposing yourself and Sylvia to another potential threat—makes your stomach turn.

Just a little longer, baby. Please, just a little longer.

“Waaa! Waaa!”

Sylvia’s cries grow more frantic, her tiny body arching against the car seat. Her fists flail, her face scrunching up in distress. She’s starving. She doesn’t understand why you won’t stop.

“I know, baby. I know. I promise—just hold on. You can eat soon,” you plead, your voice trembling as you grip the wheel tighter. You’re talking more to yourself than her, trying to convince yourself that you’re making the right call, that a few more miles of safety are worth the delay.

But then—it hits.

A dizzying wave of nausea, so intense that your vision tunnels. Your breath catches in your throat, and suddenly, it feels like the air is too thick, your limbs too heavy. Your gut twists violently, an aching emptiness gnawing at you from the inside out.

Milk.

Your mind is suddenly filled with nothing but the overwhelming, singular thought of milk. Your body aches, your breasts throb with the need to feed her, the demand pulsing through you like a siren call. The pain is unlike anything you’ve felt before, a raw, clawing hunger that doesn’t belong to you—or does it?

The car veers sharply as your grip slackens on the wheel, and panic explodes through your chest. You snap back into focus just in time to jerk the wheel, slamming your foot against the brakes. The tires screech against the pavement, the entire car lurching as it skids to a grinding halt on the side of the road.

Sylvia shrieks louder, her cries blending with the ringing in your ears. Your head is spinning, your muscles locked in place as the suffocating hunger surges through your veins. Why do you feel like this? Why does it feel like your body is betraying you?

Then—without thinking, without even realizing you’ve moved—you’re already crawling into the backseat, your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Almost zombielike. Your fingers fumble with Sylvia’s seatbelt, your breath ragged as you yank her free from the harness, pulling her trembling body into your arms.

She’s so small. So warm. So needy.

Your hands shake as you cradle her against your chest, your own breath coming in short, uneven pants. The world around you is distant now, blurred at the edges, the only thing real being the overwhelming thought screaming at you.

Feed her. Feed her now.

You don’t even feel like yourself anymore. You move like something else—something driven by impulse, by raw, consuming need. Your mind is foggy, your hands trembling as you tug at the collar of your shirt, exposing the swollen, aching skin underneath.

Sylvia’s cries weaken as she senses the proximity of food, her tiny mouth searching blindly. Yes. This is right. This is what she needs.

The second she latches, the tension in your body snaps like a taut wire. Your mind is filled with instant clarity again. Relief washes over you in waves, the pain in your stomach subsiding as she suckles, her frantic whimpers quieting into soft, rhythmic gulps.

You slump back against the seat, your entire body trembling from exhaustion and whatever the hell just overtook you. Your breath shudders, your mind barely able to process what just happened. Was that…normal?

Your body seemingly had acted on its own. It didn’t even feel like you were in control. Your thoughts didn't seem like yours...why the hell would you think of milk?

Something deep inside you stirs, an unsettling thought curling around your already fragile mind. You swallow hard, staring down at Sylvia as she drinks greedily, oblivious to the storm raging inside you.

It couldn't have been...? No. You're being ridiculous. She's a baby. Babies can't...manipulate minds. Right? Sure, you had seen quite your fair share of oddities during your time as a Deepspace Hunter...but babies with mind control abilities was unheard of. Evolvers usually didn't even usually develop their abilities until well into adolescence. You knew that better than anyone. You blink the thoughts away, not wanting to overthink anything else right now. What matters is that she's eating. She's happy and eating.

Whatever that was though…it scared you. Deeply.

Sylus sat in the backseat of the sleek black car, fingers rhythmically tapping against his knee as he watched the grainy feed from Mephisto’s latest scan. The bird had picked up tire tracks leading away from the cabin, carving a clear path down an isolated stretch of road. It was confirmation. You were definitely in a car.

He let out a slow breath, tilting his head slightly as the car sped along the same path. There was no need for panic. No need for impatience. You couldn’t run forever.

Not with his daughter.

Luke and Kieran sat near him, whispering to each other in low voices, though they knew better than to directly disturb him. Tension in the vehicle was thick. Every single one of them knew what was at stake.

Sylus’s eyes flicked to his watch, then back to the feed pinned to the dashboard. You had, at best, a few hours' head start.

That didn’t concern him. What concerned him was what those few hours might do to you.

No hospitals. No medical care. No help.

How much were you struggling? Was your body holding up after birth? Were you getting enough rest? Enough food? Was she crying? Hours nonstop on the road definitely wasn't good for a newborn.

The thought made his jaw tighten. Did you even know how to handle her cries properly? Did you know how to soothe her? Did you even understand what she needed?

He stopped himself. No, you weren't stupid. You had to have some idea to get this far. You’d been running on nothing but adrenaline and fear for weeks though. That couldn’t last.

And he was counting on that.

The corner of his lips twitched upward as Mephisto’s feed flickered, the camera lens catching glimpses of old road signs. The bird circled ahead, scanning the land like a mechanical vulture.

Then, his screen glitched—static flooding the feed for half a second—before stabilizing.

A gas station.

Sylus sat up straighter, rewinding the footage. The timestamp was barely an hour old. His pupils dilated as the distorted image sharpened—a blurry glimpse of you stepping out of a car.

There.

A slow, deep exhale left his chest, his heart hammering against his ribs in quiet victory.

You were still close.

"Boss?" Kieran glanced at him nervously, sensing the shift in his mood.

Sylus barely blinked, his gaze locked onto the monitor. He saw your face. Saw the exhaustion lining your eyes, the way your body moved like every step was a struggle.

You were breaking. You just didn’t know it yet.

"Drive faster," Sylus murmured, slipping his phone back into his coat pocket. "She stopped at a gas station not long ago."

The driver whistled, adjusting his grip on the wheel. Kieran perked up, clearly excited. "Then we're catching up. Wonder how she’s holding up on her own."

Sylus didn’t answer. He already knew.

And it was only a matter of time before you did, too.

Sylus kept watching the video, eyes intent on capturing every single one of your movements. As if blinking meant losing sight of you forever. His grip on the device tightened, thumb hovering near the replay button, though he didn’t need to rewind it—he had already committed every second to memory.

Through Mephisto’s grainy feed, he could see you stepping out of the car, your movements sluggish, deliberate. Tired. His lips pressed into a thin line. Of course you were tired. He could only assume that his daughter remained strapped in the backseat while you made your way inside. He squinted, a flicker of frustration crossing his face.

What were you thinking? Leaving her alone, in the middle of nowhere?

The irritation built inside him like an ember, a slow-burning, undeniable truth: this is why you needed him.

You were making reckless decisions, no doubt running on nothing but fear and exhaustion. And in doing so, you were putting her at risk.

Sylus exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he should’ve expected this. You’d never had time to prepare for motherhood, never been in a stable enough situation to learn the proper way to care for a newborn. And now, without help, without him—you were floundering.

The thought should have pleased him. Should’ve reassured him that you’d come to your senses soon enough.

Instead, it pissed him off. Although he had tried...he had failed on his part of making you feel safe obviously. And despite the promises of change, his birdie had flown out of her cage again.

And it was ultimately his fault. Clara's words back at the farmhouse ringed in his head. As much as it pained him to even think about it. Regardless, it didn't change the fact that he had done everything out of necessity. He couldn't allow himself to feel guilt about it...yet.

His jaw clenched as he refocused on the footage. Mephisto had barely caught you in time. The bird was still sluggish from his last-minute tune-up after being shot—flying lower, slower than Sylus would’ve preferred—but it was enough. By some miracle, he had found you in the vastness of nowhere.

And Sylus refused to let you disappear again.

He watched as you exited the store almost as quickly as you had entered, your head snapping toward the car the moment you stepped outside. Checking on the baby. His baby.

How precious.

But it wasn’t enough. Sylus exhaled slowly through his nose, his fingers tightening around the edge of his seat as he watched you move. He wanted—no, needed—more. The anticipation of finally laying eyes on his daughter, the perfect blend of you and him, had been gnawing at him since the moment he realized she had finally made her entrance into the world.

And yet, you kept her locked away from him. Hidden. Without even realizing it.

It was maddening.

He wished—no, ached—for you to open that car door and lift her into your arms, to grant him just a fleeting glimpse of what he has longed for his entire existence. To see the tiny, delicate baby you had carried for months—his firstborn, his blood, a piece of himself forged inside you.

But you didn’t. You merely glanced inside before refocusing on the gas pump, never once sparing him the satisfaction.

His teeth ground together.

What was it that made you so determined to keep her from him?

Did you think he wouldn’t know how to care for his own child? Did you think running would solve all your problems?

The sheer audacity of it made his stomach coil with frustration. Of course, you were a mother now—his darling little runaway. And while that was an adorable sight to behold in some aspects, it didn’t change the fact that you were his. Both of you.

And yet, here you were, trying so desperately to escape him. As if you could.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. Soon.

Soon, he would hold you both in his arms.

He could already picture it—the warmth of your body finally pressed against his once more, your breath unsteady against his neck, your heartbeat syncing with his. You would struggle at first, of course. You always did. But he would calm you, hush your trembling sobs with whispered reassurances and quiet promises. He would remind you, over and over, that he was the only one who could truly keep you safe.

And his daughter…his perfect little girl.

He imagined her small, delicate weight in his hands, her soft cries settling into contented coos as he rocked her for the first time. He would press a kiss to her tiny forehead, trace his fingers over the softness of her hair, memorize the details of the child that you had stolen from him.

But there would be no more hiding.

No more running.

You would see it soon enough—that this was inevitable. That this was fate.

The moment you realized it, he would be there to catch you as you finally surrendered, as your resistance melted into exhausted acceptance. He would soothe the tears from your eyes, his lips brushing against your damp cheeks, and you would know—truly know—that there was no leaving anymore.

There never was.

His fingers tapped impatiently against his knee as he studied the way you moved, the way your eyes flicked back and forth with unease. Always looking over your shoulder, always afraid of who might be watching.

You shouldn't be afraid. Not of him at least. Was he perfect? No. But he was trying. He couldn't change the past, but he can write the future. If only you'd just stop running.

The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. Its fine. Everything will fall into place. Like it did last time.

He leaned forward slightly, watching intently as you moved to pump gas, fiddling with the machine, gaze shifting nervously toward the gas station door every few moments. He could tell by your tense posture that you weren’t at ease—and for good reason.

You knew he was coming.

You just didn’t know when.

Sylus’s eyes widened as he watched a figure emerge from the gas station, his entire body snapping to attention. A young man, no older than his early twenties, walked toward you with an almost casual air. Who the hell was he?

His pulse quickened, his senses immediately sharpening as he observed the interaction unfold through Mephisto’s feed. You didn’t notice the man at first—your awareness was still lacking, too focused on fueling the car and tending to your little escape plan. It infuriated him. You should have sensed the approach of a stranger before he got that close. His fingers drummed against his thigh impatiently, irritation seething under his skin.

The man hesitated before speaking, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as he tried to peer into the car. What was he looking at? The realization hit Sylus like a strike of lightning. The baby.

His grip on the glass in his hand tightened dangerously. That fucking bastard was trying to get a look at his daughter.

Even though the feed only provided faint audio, he could make out the unease in your voice. You were uncomfortable. Your body stiffened. You turned away. Sylus watched you give clipped, dismissive responses, clear signs that you wanted nothing to do with this man. But the fool didn’t take the hint. You grew increasingly aggressive, slamming the pump back and attempting to get around him.

Then the stranger grabbed your wrist.

Sylus’s entire body went rigid.

Something primal and violent coiled in his gut, his blood running hot with barely contained rage. How dare he? How fucking dare some low-life, gas station nobody put his hands on you? If he had been there, he would have snapped the bastard’s fingers off one by one for even thinking of touching what was his.

But then—oh, kitten.

Sylus watched as, in the span of mere seconds, your body reacted before your mind did. Your instincts—those beautiful, sharpened instincts that he had always admired, always known were there—finally kicked in.

The man barely had time to register what had happened before you twisted his arm and flipped him onto the pavement with an effortless motion. A perfect maneuver. It was fluid, instinctual, deadly. The sound of his body hitting the ground was satisfying enough to make Sylus chuckle under his breath.

And then you stomped on him. Again. And again. And again.

He watched as the man turned into a writhing bloody mess. His amusement morphed into something deeper, something like pride as you leaned over his figure and grinned.

Yes.

There she is.

The fire, the strength, the pure ruthlessness he always knew you had in you—it was all there. And it was magnificent to finally witness.

He smirked, leaning forward slightly, unable to tear his eyes away from the feed. The way you didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter. The way you unleashed every ounce of frustration, fear, and rage into every blow, as if making a statement—not just to this poor fool, but to the world itself.

Sylus exhaled slowly, feeling an overwhelming sense of satisfaction.

"That’s my girl."

"Holy shit. I'm glad the miss didn't do that to me," Kieran muttered, leaning over Sylus's shoulder as he watched the grainy footage unfold on the screen. His voice was a mix of awe and unease, his usual cocky demeanor faltering. "I wouldn’t have defended myself if she did, of course! Or hurt her in any way, boss! I swear, I'd never lay hands on her unless necessary."

Sylus didn't react at first, his crimson eyes still fixed on the footage as he rewinded a bit, watching the way you moved—the sheer force behind each calculated stomp, the way your body tensed with unrelenting fury. He didn't need to look at Kieran to know his men understood where they stood when it came to you.

Finally, with a slow nod, he acknowledged the statement. "Of course, you wouldn’t," he said simply, his tone carrying the weight of an unspoken warning.

His men knew better. All of his staff had been given strict orders from the start: no one was to raise a hand against you. No one was to subdue you, restrain you, or so much as consider fighting back if you ever lashed out at them. Only unless you were an absolute danger to yourself, escaping, and he wasn't around.

He grit his teeth again. The one time they had been allowed to...and they failed. Though he didn't really prepare them for the scenario that you would turn a weapon on yourself, much less have one to begin with.

Luke...

"She was pregnant, dummy. I would've been impressed if she could," Luke snickered beside him, though there was an underlying tension in his voice.

Sylus didn't share their amusement. His eyes flicked toward Luke with quiet scrutiny, his arms crossing over his chest in a slow, deliberate motion. "She shouldn't have even gotten the chance," he said coolly.

Luke stiffened.

"Perhaps if someone paid more attention to what he leaves in his coat," Sylus continued, his voice deceptively calm, "she wouldn't have to stomp strange men into the ground to protect herself and our daughter."

Luke visibly shrank under the weight of Sylus's words, his bravado disappearing in an instant. "Right…sorry, boss," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, remembering that he wasn't quite yet off the hook.

Sylus exhaled through his nose, gaze returning to the flickering feed from Mephisto’s camera. The image of you—furious, breathless, standing over the bloody, groaning man—burned itself into his mind. His little kitten still had sharp claws after all. Good. You weren't weak. You could defend yourself until he found you at least.

Don't break until he's close enough.

Sylus clenched his fist, the leather of his gloves groaning under the pressure. His jaw tightened, muscles twitching as he watched the way you scrambled back into the car. Even through the grainy, flickering screen, he could see the tremble in your hands as they gripped the wheel. His sharp eyes didn’t miss the way your chest heaved, how you fought to steady yourself.

His lips pressed into a thin line, irritation rolling through his veins like molten iron. You shouldn’t have to do this—shouldn’t have to fend off some pathetic bottom-feeder on your own. That was his job. The very thought of anyone else laying their hands on you, invading your space, sent his blood boiling.

And yet…his gaze softened ever so slightly, just for a fraction of a second.

He had always loved your fire, the way you resisted, fought, clawed for every ounce of freedom you could scrape together. It was infuriating and had slowed the progression of things, yes—but it was also mesmerizing. That strength, that will to survive, was exactly what made you his.

Still, it wouldn’t be long now.

All this built-up irritation clawed at his head, pressing against the inside of his skull, demanding release. His patience was a thin thread stretched taut, moments from snapping. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus.

At the very least, there were some fingers to shred to take out his frustrations.

The gas station’s fluorescent lights buzzed weakly, flickering intermittently as the battered young man dragged himself back inside. Every step was a struggle, his legs trembling beneath him as he coughed, a thick glob of blood splattering onto the linoleum floor. His jaw throbbed, and he could already feel his right eye swelling shut.

He staggered forward, gripping the edge of the counter for support, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Fucking whore," he muttered bitterly, wiping at his busted lip with the back of his hand. "She's lucky…bitch should be on her knees begging instead of fighting."

His vision blurred for a moment, his body threatening to collapse. His hands fumbled against the register as he struggled to steady himself. He didn’t know what hurt more—the humiliation or the actual injuries.

The soft chime of the doorbell rang behind him, signaling someone entering. He flinched, his nerves frayed beyond repair. "We're closed," he rasped, his voice hoarse, not even bothering to turn around. "Come back—"

"Ah," came a deep, smooth voice from behind him. "You will be closed after tonight. Indefinitely."

The young man froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The weight of those words sank into his gut like lead. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head toward the door.

There, standing under the dim, flickering light, was a tall figure, clad in black. A pair of piercing red eyes gleamed in the fluorescent lights, predatory and cold.

The young man barely had time to process the looming presence behind him before a gloved hand clamped over his shoulder, squeezing just enough to make his bruised body jolt with pain. His breath hitched, and instinct screamed at him to run—but his legs wouldn’t cooperate.

Sylus leaned in slightly, his voice deceptively smooth, yet laced with something that sent ice straight into the young man's spine. "That was quite the beating you took," he murmured, almost conversational. "And yet, you still had the audacity to spit out insults about her?"

The young man swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Oh! L-look, I don’t want any trouble, man," he stammered, barely managing to get the words out. "She—she freaked out for no reason! I didn’t even do anything—"

A sharp, pained grunt escaped him as Sylus’s grip tightened, fingers digging into his already bruised shoulder. "No, no," Sylus tsked, shaking his head slightly, eyes burning into him. "You did do something. You put your filthy hands on her. You scared her. That, I can't allow."

Before the young man could beg, Sylus shifted his grip, effortlessly dragging him forward before slamming his face down onto the counter. The glass candy display cracked under the force, loose wrappers and shattered shards tumbling onto the floor. The man let out a garbled cry, blood pooling from his nose onto the register.

Sylus exhaled, slow and measured, as if keeping himself from making more of a mess than necessary. "I should make this a slow lesson," he murmured, his voice dangerously calm. "A reminder to keep your hands to yourself. But I’m on a tight schedule."

His other hand raised lazily, fingers twitching slightly. A faint, red mist coiled from his palm, slithering through the air like phantom tendrils. The young man barely had time to scream before the mist lunged—wrapping around his wrists like invisible shackles. He gasped, eyes going wide as pain flared through his hands.

The sensation started as a slow, burning pressure—then turned razor-sharp.

The man’s scream split through the quiet night as his skin split open, jagged lines forming along his fingers and palms. Blood welled up in uneven, deep cuts that carved into the tendons like hungry fangs. His hands trembled violently, muscles spasming from the unnatural wounds.

Sylus tilted his head, watching the spectacle with the detached curiosity of an artist critiquing his work. The red mist flexed again, tearing deeper.

A gurgled sob tore from the man’s throat as he collapsed to his knees. His fingers curled inward instinctively, but the moment he tried to move them, fresh agony seized him. His hands—his fucking hands—

"Fuck!"

The young man let out a whimper, trembling as Sylus finally released him. He slumped against the counter, gasping, clutching at his face with bloodied hands. He was about to mumble out some weak attempt at an apology—when Sylus turned, walking toward the shelves lined with cheap liquor and dusty energy drinks.

Without hesitation, he reached up, knocking over several bottles, letting their contents splash onto the linoleum floor in a spreading pool of alcohol. The acrid scent filled the air, seeping into the aisles. He moved deliberately, tipping over a shelf of motor oil, letting it mix into the mess. The young man’s dazed expression twisted in confusion, then realization.

"Wait, wait—what are you—?" he stammered, struggling to push himself up.

Sylus simply flicked open a silver lighter from his pocket, the small flame casting an eerie glow against his sharp features. "Consider this severance," he mused, before tossing the lighter onto the floor.

The fire roared to life instantly.

Flames spread like liquid hunger, climbing the shelves, licking up the walls, racing toward the ceiling. Heat exploded outward, consuming everything in its wake. The young man scrambled back, his screams swallowed by the crackling inferno.

Sylus didn’t bother looking back as he stepped out of the gas station, the fire’s glow casting flickering shadows over his form. He adjusted his gloves, slipping into the backseat of the car once more.

Mephisto flapped onto the dashboard, letting out a mechanical caw.

"Yes, yes," Sylus murmured, cracking his knuckles as he set his sights on the road ahead. "I know, I know. We have two little birdies to retrieve."

With one last glance at the burning wreckage in his rearview mirror, the driver pressed his foot to the gas, peeling off into the night. Mephisto took off into the night sky once more.

Behind him, the gas station erupted in a final, deafening explosion. Luke and Kieran ooed and awwed at the sight, cheering at the flames as if it were a fire show. A pillar of fire shot into the sky, a violent exclamation mark on the lesson Sylus had left behind. No one would know for awhile that such an event occurred in the middle of nowhere.

And just like that, he was gone—chasing after the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

After a feeding and a diaper change for Sylvia, you had found yourself quickly getting back on the road. The exhaustion creeping through your bones is nothing compared to the dull, persistent ache that thrums through your lower body. Every movement sends a ripple of discomfort through you, a brutal reminder that your body hasn’t even had the chance to recover properly. The adrenaline from earlier, the sharp, fiery rush that had propelled you into action, is long gone now, leaving nothing but soreness and exhaustion in its wake.

You shift slightly in the driver’s seat, wincing as you adjust your posture. The pain is manageable—you’ve survived worse—but it makes every mile feel longer, every second behind the wheel heavier. The road ahead blurs slightly, the lines on the pavement stretching into the distance, endless and unknown. Still, you push forward. There’s no other choice. Stopping isn’t an option. Not when Sylus could be closing in at any moment.

In the backseat, Sylvia makes soft, sleepy noises around the pacifier you had finally managed to get her to take. It had been a struggle at first—she had resisted every attempt, wailing in frustration—but now, she sucks contentedly, tiny fingers curled against her blanket. You watch her for a brief moment in the rearview mirror, something tight and unfamiliar twisting in your chest. The sight of her peaceful, tiny form should have been comforting, but instead, it only added to the storm inside you. You were all she had. That responsibility was suffocating.

Were you still technically on the run with a newborn, completely unaware of what the next few hours, let alone the next few days, would hold? Yes. But for the first time in a long time, things seemed to be—however temporarily—working out in your favor.

The gas station had been a risk, one you had to take, but you handled it. The bastard had underestimated you, just like so many others before him. And despite the pounding ache in your limbs, the raw sting of exertion in your muscles, you felt something else deep in your gut—pride. It was small, fleeting, but it was there. You had defended yourself, defended your daughter, and sent a clear message. You weren’t weak. You weren’t helpless.

Still, as the high from that moment faded, reality crept in. Your body wasn’t the same as it was before pregnancy. It betrayed you in ways you weren’t used to. The soreness clung to your muscles, and your reflexes—once sharp and instinctual—felt sluggish. You had won this time, but what about the next? What if you hesitated for even a second too long? What if you weren’t fast enough to protect Sylvia?

Your fingers tightened on the steering wheel. You couldn’t let those thoughts fester, not now. You had to keep moving. The darkness outside was thick, swallowing the road beyond your headlights, but there had to be something ahead. You had planned on stopping once you reached the next town, but how long had it been now? Clara had said it was miles away, but had you miscalculated? Was your sense of time completely warped from the exhaustion?

You shake your head, pressing forward. Your eyes burn from the lack of sleep, and your shoulders ache from hours of tension. You flex your fingers against the wheel, trying to force some of the stiffness from them. The last thing you needed was to get sloppy now.

A road sign loomed in the distance, barely illuminated by your headlights. You squinted, your heart leaping slightly in your chest as you read the worn, peeling letters. Five more miles to the next city. Relief surged through you, but it was brief, overshadowed by the ever-present weight in your gut. Five miles could be the difference between safety and disaster. Five miles was nothing.

You steal another glance in the rearview mirror. Sylvia was still fast asleep, her small face relaxed, tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm. The sight both soothed you and sent a wave of fresh guilt rolling through your stomach. How long could you keep this up? How long until she suffered because of your choices?

Your hands tightened on the steering wheel as you exhaled slowly.

One step at a time. One mile at a time.

The next five miles stretched endlessly, the road before you an unforgiving expanse of asphalt cutting through the early morning mist. The bold, weathered letters of a looming sign came into view, its chipped paint barely holding onto the message it carried: "Welcome to Windsor City." The sight should have brought relief, but instead, a sinking feeling clawed at your stomach, twisting into knots as the golden hues of the rising sun bathed the world in a deceptive warmth.

You murmured the city’s name under your breath, testing the words like they were foreign, something belonging to a past life. It had been so long since you’d been surrounded by towering structures, busy streets, and the rhythmic pulse of civilization. The skyline ahead was a vast, glittering beast, its patchwork of glass and steel piercing the heavens, glowing softly in the new light. It looked almost dreamlike, unreal, as though it existed in another dimension entirely. A stark contrast to the endless stretches of backroads and quiet wilderness that had cradled your escape for the past few weeks.

Your hands tightened around the steering wheel as an unexpected wave of grief laced with nostalgia hit you square in the chest. The last city you had truly called home was Linkon, and those memories felt like they belonged to another person. A ghost of yourself who still had a job, a future, friends that laughed with you over coffee and trivial work complaints. A self that had never known what it was like to wake up in a gilded cage. That person had died the moment Sylus entered your life. And now, even with miles between you, you felt the weight of his presence like a chain around your throat.

The road narrowed as you approached a bridge leading into the city, lined with sluggish rows of cars inching forward. Your stomach twisted in recognition of the uniformed figures pacing between vehicles. A checkpoint. You had been expecting something like this eventually, but seeing it in person made your pulse hammer. Security officers, clad in black and blue, moved with precision—checking IDs, inspecting trunks, occasionally directing cars to a secondary inspection zone. You quickly scanned the scene, assessing, calculating.

A toll booth would have been bad enough. But a full security stop? That was disastrous. You had money, but you didn’t have an ID. No passport. No way of identifying yourself or Sylvia. As far as the world knew, your daughter didn’t even exist. No birth certificate. No records. She was a shadow in the system, just like you were trying to become.

Your fingers curled into the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as you forced yourself to breathe through the rising panic. You needed a plan.

The car inched forward, and your mind raced through the possibilities. Could you talk your way through it? A lost ID sob story might work—people misplace things while traveling all the time. But the risk of being turned away or, worse, detained lingered like a warning siren in your head. If they looked too closely—if they saw the sheer amount of cash stashed beneath the passenger seat or noticed the weariness in your face—questions would follow. Questions you couldn’t afford to answer.

The car in front of you rolled forward, and now you were next in line.

A bead of sweat trickled down your temple. You cast a glance into the rearview mirror, your eyes landing on Sylvia’s sleeping form in the backseat. Her tiny chest rose and fell in peaceful rhythm, her little hand curled into a fist beside her head. She was completely unaware of the tension gripping your body, of the invisible clock counting down your every move.

You had to get through this. For her.

As the uniformed officer stepped toward your window, clipboard in hand, you forced yourself to loosen your grip on the wheel, pushing every ounce of exhaustion and fear deep into the pit of your stomach. You had to make this work. There was no other option.

"Alright, baby girl," you whispered, barely audible over the rapid pounding of your heartbeat. "Let’s hope they don’t ask too many questions."

With one last deep breath, you rolled down the window and met the officer’s gaze, masking your nerves with the most convincing smile you could muster.

"Hi, ma’am. You a resident of the city? Got identification?"

The toll officer leaned slightly forward, eyes scanning the car’s interior with a practiced, impassive gaze. His uniform was crisp, badge gleaming under the dull morning light. His stance was relaxed, but there was a sharpness in his eyes, a silent scrutiny that made your palms damp against the steering wheel. He wasn’t hostile, not yet—but he was doing his job, and that was a problem.

You swallowed down the rising panic, forcing your expression to remain calm, pleasant. Confidence. You had to project confidence. Any hesitance, any nervous energy, and he’d sense it like blood in the water.

You let out a small, composed breath and forced an easy, warm smile onto your face. “Actually, yes. I live here with my husband,” you said, voice smooth, practiced. “I was out of town visiting family when—” You let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle, gesturing toward the sleeping infant in the backseat. “Well, when everything happened a little earlier than planned. I wasn't expecting to make a sudden trip, so I left most of our things at home. It all happened in a rush. I'm trying to get back to him so he can meet her.”

You almost grimaced at the lie. The last thing you wanted to do was have Sylvia meet her father.

The officer’s gaze flickered toward Sylvia, and for a moment, you saw it—the softening in his expression. His posture relaxed, his grip on his notepad loosening slightly. You knew the sight of a newborn had a way of disarming people, of making them more sympathetic. You had seen it happen before, how even the coldest people melted in the presence of something so small and vulnerable.

The moment stretched on for what felt like eternity, your heart thrumming violently against your ribs. If this worked, if he let you through without much question—

The officer’s lips twitched into something like a smile. “She’s very cute. Congratulations, ma’am.”

Relief surged in your chest for a brief, fleeting moment. Maybe this would be easy. Maybe—

“But,” the officer continued, and your stomach dropped, “without proper identification, we’re gonna have to ask you to pull into the second lane for a quick search.”

Your entire body went rigid.

A search?

No. No, no, no.

Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out the hum of the car’s engine. Your fingers curled around the steering wheel, your knuckles aching from the force of your grip. You had no ID. No paperwork. No legal proof that you even existed, let alone that Sylvia was yours. She wasn’t even officially registered as a person yet. And if they searched the car, if they ran anything—

They’d find out.

They’d find out that this vehicle wasn't even registered to a womans name. Sure you could lie and say that was your husband but if they searched more about him and realized it belonged to an elderly man?? Then what??

The officer was still watching you, waiting for you to comply, and the weight of his gaze was suffocating. You could already feel the other officers beyond the toll booths watching too, likely trained to spot hesitation, nervousness—anything that might hint at dishonesty.

This was bad.

“I—I understand,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Your mind raced. Think. Think. You had seconds to come up with something, anything.

The toll officer gestured toward the second lane, where a few other cars were already pulled aside, waiting to be inspected. Two other officers stood near them, one speaking into a radio. Your stomach twisted.

You couldn’t risk it.

If they made you step out of the car, if they asked too many questions, it was over. You had no plan for this. You had no forged documents, no alias, no safety net. You were just a woman with a baby in a "stolen" car, and that wasn’t something you could talk your way out of. They'd make you leave. You needed to get into this city.

Your grip on the wheel tightened, fingernails digging into the leather. Your heartbeat pounded violently in your ears, adrenaline surging like wildfire through your veins.

You had to act—now.

Your eyes flickered to the road ahead, to the space just beyond the checkpoint, where the city stretched open and vast before you. Freedom was right there. It was within reach.

A quick decision.

A reckless decision.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself.

Then, with a sudden, decisive motion, you began to slowly press your foot onto the accelerator.

Just as your car roared to life and you were about to floor it, a sudden commotion erupted behind you, loud enough to make your heart leap into your throat. Shouting. A struggle. The distinct, frantic shuffle of boots against pavement.

"Stop resisting!" Several male voices barked, their commanding tones cutting through the morning air. The officer attending you snapped his head toward the noise, his hand instinctively reaching for the radio at his hip.

You stiffened, gripping the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white. Shit. What was happening? You didn't have time for this. You needed to go, needed to slip away before anyone had a chance to scrutinize your lack of credentials.

The officer hesitated, his attention divided between you and the escalating situation. In the side mirror, you caught a glimpse of the source of the chaos—a man being yanked from his car, his arms flailing wildly as multiple officers restrained him. He was shouting something, but you couldn't make out what. The surrounding traffic had slowed, drivers craning their necks to watch the unfolding spectacle.

This was it. A distraction. A perfect opportunity handed to you by sheer dumb luck.

The officer looked back at you, his expression tense but expectant. "Go ahead, ma'am, pull forward to the secondary checkpoint—"

"Of course, officer, thank you," you replied smoothly, plastering on the most grateful, sleep-deprived-mother smile you could muster. Your foot hovered over the gas pedal, your heartbeat a frantic drum in your ears. He gave a firm nod and turned, jogging toward the scuffle as the man let out a garbled shout.

The second his back was fully turned, you slammed your foot down.

The car lurched forward, its tires screeching against the asphalt as you veered sharply away from the checkpoint lane, blending into the moving traffic ahead. Your pulse pounded violently against your ribs. You kept your gaze forward, hands locked in a vice grip on the wheel, doing everything in your power not to look back and see if anyone had noticed.

Sylvia stirred in the backseat, letting out a soft whimper.

"Shh, baby, just a little more," you whispered, voice barely steady. You swallowed hard, stomach twisting. You had no idea if they had your plate number, if they were going to radio ahead and set up a blockade further into the city. No idea how long your luck would hold.

You cast a quick glance at the mirror, sweat slicking your palms as the toll station shrank in the distance. No sudden sirens, no pursuing vehicles yet. Yet. You forced yourself to breathe, tried to focus on what came next. You had made it into the city, but you couldn’t afford to let your guard down. If they flagged your car, you needed to ditch it. Fast.

The tall buildings of Windsor loomed ahead, their glass surfaces reflecting the warm glow of morning light. It was strange, being back in a city after so long in hiding. The hum of civilization, the distant honking of impatient drivers, the muffled sound of pedestrians moving along sidewalks—it all felt too normal. Almost surreal, considering the life-or-death game of cat and mouse you were playing.

Sylvia whimpered again, and your heart clenched. She was hungry again. You needed to stop soon. But where? You had to think fast. The city would provide you cover, but only if you kept moving, stayed smart. Gas stations, convenience stores, alleyways—you needed to plan your next step, and you needed to do it now.

But one thing was certain—you couldn't stop now. You had made it past the gate. You were in Windsor City. And now, every second counted.

The city unfolded before you like an intricate tapestry of lights, towering glass structures, and bustling life. It had been so long since you were surrounded by this kind of energy, the organized chaos of people moving, talking, and living in a way that felt almost foreign now. You hadn’t realized how much your world had shrunk in the past year, how the isolation had wrapped around you like a second skin. Now, the sheer volume of movement, the never-ending sounds of horns, laughter, and distant conversations were both mesmerizing and suffocating.

Your grip tightened around the steering wheel as you tried to navigate without the crutch of a GPS. Every street sign was unfamiliar, every turn a risk. You needed a place to stay, somewhere that wouldn’t demand identification or ask too many questions. A motel, preferably one that accepted cash upfront. A safer haven than a backseat. The thought of choosing the wrong place, of ending up in a dangerous situation, gnawed at the edges of your mind. But what choice did you have?

A glance in the rearview mirror showed Sylvia still fast asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling steadily. The sight softened you. You had to be strong, had to figure this out. For her.

After circling aimlessly for what felt like an eternity, you spotted a small park nestled between two larger buildings. It was a quiet slice of nature in the middle of all the steel and stone. The sign near the entrance advertised clean restrooms, benches, and even a designated privacy area for breastfeeding mothers. A small relief. You could use a moment to breathe, stretch, maybe even gather your thoughts before plunging forward into more uncertainty.

You pulled into a nearby parking space, exhaling as you shut off the car. Your entire body ached from the drive, the tension still coiled tight in your shoulders. And yet, as you sat there in the silence of the car, you hesitated. It felt ridiculous, but stepping out felt like another commitment—another moment where you had to face just how alone you were.

Sylvia stirred in her car seat, a small whimper escaping her lips before she settled again. The instinct to comfort her overrode everything else, pushing you into motion. You opened the door, stepping out into the crisp city air. It smelled of rain and pavement, of life moving forward while you were still trying to figure out your place in it again.

You walked around to the backseat, unbuckling Sylvia carefully, her tiny body warm against your chest as you lifted her out. She shifted slightly but didn’t wake, and for that, you were grateful. As much as you loved her, the endless cycle of feedings and exhaustion had left you drained.

The walk to the bench felt longer than it should have, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you. But as you finally sat, cradling your daughter close, a strange feeling settled over you. The overwhelming loneliness didn’t fade, but for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to just be. The city moved around you, indifferent to your struggles. But in this moment, in this small park, with Sylvia nestled against your heartbeat, you could pretend—just for a little while—that you weren’t running.

For a while, you didn’t move. You just sat there, breathing in the moment, letting the sounds of the city wash over you. The distant hum of traffic, the laughter of children playing nearby, the occasional chirping of birds—it all felt so normal. So ordinary. It was a stark contrast to the chaos of the last few weeks, to the weight of fear and exhaustion that still clung to your body like a second skin.

But for just this moment, you let yourself pretend. Pretend that you weren’t on the run, that you weren’t constantly looking over your shoulder for the shadow of a man who refused to let you go. That you weren’t alone in this city with nothing but an envelope of cash and a fragile, three-week-old baby who depended on you for everything.

Your gaze drifted downward, settling on Sylvia’s sleeping face. Her tiny chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, her lips parted slightly as she made the faintest sucking motions in her sleep. The wind stirred, blowing a few wisps of her soft hair across her forehead, and you instinctively reached out to brush it away. Your fingers lingered longer than necessary, tracing the curve of her cheek, her impossibly small nose.

She looked so much like him.

The realization hit you hard, the breath catching in your throat. The shape of her tiny mouth, the subtle arch of her brow, the barely-there curl to her lashes—all of it was unmistakable. Sylus. His blood ran through her veins, just as much as yours did. You tried not to think about it much, but it was nearly impossible.

Months of pain and suffering laid neatly in your arms right now.

A lump formed in your throat, and you swallowed hard, blinking against the burn in your eyes. She was so innocent, so untouched by the horrors of the world. She had no idea what kind of life she had been born into. No idea that the man who had given her those features was the very reason you had to keep running.

Yet, despite everything, you couldn’t bring yourself to resent her for it. If anything, it made you ache more. Because Sylvia would never know the luxury of a simple, peaceful life. Not with you constantly looking over your shoulder. Not with Sylus hunting you down like an animal.

Your arms instinctively tightened around her, cradling her just a little closer to your chest.

“God…I envy you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the city noise. You wished you could just be an innocent baby again.

Sylvia stirred slightly, her face scrunching up before relaxing again into sleep. She was warm against you, a tiny, fragile piece of yourself that you had sworn to protect. But as you sat there, staring down at her peaceful face, the weight of it all pressed heavier on your chest.

How much longer could you keep this up? How much longer until exhaustion won? Until Sylus finally found you?

Or worse—until you started to wonder if running was even worth it anymore.

After a bit, Sylvia stirred against your chest, her tiny whimpers quickly escalating into fussing. You sighed, adjusting your hold on her as you prepared for yet another feeding. The moment you repositioned her, she latched on, though her suckling was noticeably weaker than usual.

You frowned slightly. Was she not as hungry? Or was your milk supply dipping? You hadn’t eaten properly in hours—maybe even a full day at this point. That had to be it. You needed food, something substantial, to keep yourself going. To keep producing enough to sustain her.

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought. Eating meant stopping somewhere again, being out in the open. Every moment you weren’t moving felt like another opportunity for Sylus to catch up. You couldn’t afford that.

But you couldn’t afford to let Sylvia go hungry either. The formula Clara had packed it was definitely spoiled now. Yes, you had some cans of formula but Sylvia didn't always take it. It would be easier and less stressful to just keep up your supply.

As she nursed, your mind raced through possible solutions. Fast food? A grocery store where you could grab something quick and calorie-dense? You needed to be smart. Find something in a well-populated area where you wouldn’t stand out, but not too crowded where you might be noticed.

Sylvia pulled away with a small grunt, her lips parting as she let out a tiny yawn. You readjusted your shirt and lifted her onto your shoulder, rubbing slow circles on her back as you stood from the bench. She let out a small, sleepy burp, her head resting against your collarbone.

A part of you wanted to sit there just a little longer. Just a few more minutes of stillness. Of pretending things were normal. But you had wasted enough time already.

Break was over.

Shifting Sylvia into the crook of your arm, you moved briskly back toward the car, your paranoia creeping back with every step. The park was peaceful, but something about it felt...off. The quiet hum of distant traffic, the scattered people walking by—it should’ve been reassuring. Instead, it made your skin crawl.

You reached the backseat side, your hand hovering over the door handle before something in your peripheral vision made you freeze.

A shadow in the trees.

Your heartbeat spiked as you slowly turned your head. There, perched on the highest branch of a skeletal tree, sat a single crow.

Your blood turned cold.

Mephisto?

No. No, it couldn’t be. You squinted, heart hammering against your ribs as you studied the bird. It was just a crow. Just a normal, everyday bird. Right? You watched as it began to battle some pigeons on another branch.

But normal birds didn’t send chills down your spine. Normal birds didn’t make you feel watched.

Your grip on Sylvia tightened, your breath shallow. You couldn’t tell for certain from this distance, but you knew better than to ignore your instincts.

So what if you were overthinking it? It was time to go anyways.

Quickly laying her down on the seat and changing her diaper, you quickly discarded the diaper pile that had been building up and got her buckled in again. You'd have to changer her clothes soon but that could wait until you found a place to stay.

It didn’t take long to find a small grocery store tucked into the corner of a quiet street. The "OPEN" sign flickered inconsistently, casting a dim, wavering glow onto the glass doors. You pulled into the lot, parking in a spot that provided an easy escape route—just in case. Your heartbeat, which had finally started to settle, picked up again. Every stop was a risk. Every moment out in the open was an opportunity for Sylus to find you.

Taking only a modest sum from the envelope of cash—just enough to keep things inconspicuous—you adjusted the makeshift baby wrap you’d fashioned from an old shirt. Sylvia was nestled securely against your chest, her small body radiating warmth. She had been quiet for most of the drive, but now, blinking up at you with groggy, crimson-tinged eyes, she fussed under the brightness of the sun. You instinctively rubbed her back, rocking slightly as you pushed open the door.

A bell jingled as you stepped inside, the cool air blasting against your skin. The place smelled like a mix of cleaning supplies, stale produce, and faint traces of something fried. Despite its humble size, the store was decently stocked, shelves lined with dry goods, canned food, and a small selection of fresh fruits and vegetables.

You moved quickly, scanning the shelves with purpose. The act of shopping felt eerily normal—mundane, even—but the weight of reality pressed against your chest. The last time you had been in a store like this…it had to be almost a year ago. Back in captivity, there had been no need. No choice. Sylus had ensured everything was provided for you, all food meticulously delivered to the estate, your meals planned out to the last calorie. You had never even been allowed to leave the room for months, much less pick out what you wanted in a store.

A small, rebellious flicker of satisfaction stirred in your chest. This was freedom, wasn’t it? The ability to decide for yourself, even if it was something as small as which fruit to buy. You clenched the apple in your palm a little tighter, but the feeling was fleeting.

The overstimulation crept in before you could stop it. The chatter of shoppers, the steady beep of registers, the hum of refrigeration units—it was all too much at once. Your vision swam for a moment, breath coming just a little too fast. You forced yourself to focus. In and out. No lingering. No unnecessary risks.

With your small selection of food in hand, you veered toward the baby aisle. Sylvia had grown quickly in just three and a half weeks. While she wasn’t heavy, constantly carrying her had taken a toll on your body, which was still weak from birth. You ignored the twinge of pain as you crouched slightly, scanning the rows of baby gear. A stroller. That was what you needed. Just something cheap and functional.

Your fingers hovered over the cheapest option, lips pressing into a thin line. Every dollar counted. But you needed this. Sylvia needed this. As if sensing your hesitation, she let out a soft whine, her tiny fingers curling against the fabric of your shirt. You exhaled slowly.

"Yeah, I know," you murmured to her. "We need to save money, don’t we?"

With a final glance at the price tag, you grabbed the stroller, tossing in a small pack of diapers and wipes for good measure. As you approached the register, a new thought struck you. You turned on your heel and hurried back down the aisle, grabbing a roll of duct tape before returning to the counter. The clerk barely glanced up, continuing to scan your items with mechanical disinterest.

Minutes later, you were back in the car, the rustling of plastic bags filling the silence as you settled Sylvia into her car seat. The moment you clicked the buckle into place, your stomach clenched. You hadn’t eaten in what felt like forever. Unwrapping the sandwich with trembling hands, you took a ravenous bite, chewing slowly as exhaustion sank into your bones. The ache in your limbs had become a dull, ever-present throb, a reminder that your body was still healing. But there was no time for rest.

You stared at the sandwich in your hands, barely tasting it. Another night. Another stop. But how many more until Sylus caught up? How many more before exhaustion, hunger, or sheer bad luck caught up with you first?

With the last bite of the apple was swallowed, you reached for the duct tape, ripping a strip off with your teeth before getting out and carefully covering the car’s license plate. It wouldn’t be a perfect fix, but it would buy you some time. If anyone tried to run your plates, they'd get nothing. Better yet, Sylus wouldn't realize it was connected to Clara's father if he somehow managed to get a glimpse of the car. You patted it down firmly before glancing at the horizon, the sun already beginning to dip below the skyline.

Time to move again.

You drove around endlessly, weaving through side streets and avoiding main roads as much as possible, your paranoia growing with each passing mile. Every streetlight, every camera mounted on the corner of a building made your stomach twist with anxiety. You couldn't risk being seen—not with Sylvia in tow, not when you knew Sylus could be tracking you even now.

You had passed three motels already, each one striking the wrong chord in your gut. The first had a group of men huddled near a door, their cigarette tips glowing in the dark, but the acrid smell in the air told you they weren’t just smoking tobacco. Their hushed, erratic laughter sent an immediate warning through your nerves. No way in hell.

The second motel was even worse—no proper parking lot, just a patch of dirt riddled with tire tracks and broken glass. The flickering neon VACANCY sign buzzed above, giving the place an eerie, abandoned feel. Something about it sent shivers down your spine, the way the windows were all dark like empty sockets staring right at you.

The third had seemed promising until you stepped inside. The office reeked of old coffee and mildew, and the so-called manager was slumped over at the desk, dead to the world. No matter how loudly you cleared your throat or tapped the desk, the man didn't stir. The idea of staying somewhere run by someone so utterly unaware of their surroundings didn’t sit right with you.

And now, here you were, pulling up to your fourth option of the night.

Cedarwood Motel.

It was small, the kind of place that wouldn’t attract much attention, but modern enough to not look like a complete hellhole. The dull amber glow of the sign illuminated the empty lot, the office window giving you a glimpse of the front desk. No loitering men, no strange smells hitting you from the entrance, no obvious red flags—so far.

You turned in your seat, glancing toward the back where Sylvia was curled in her makeshift blanket nest in the car seat, her chest rising and falling with deep, undisturbed breaths. Your heart clenched a little. She had been doing better than expected, but you knew she needed more than this. A proper bed. A real rest. You needed it, too.

Letting out a deep, steadying breath, you killed the engine and prepared yourself. You were running on fumes at this point, but there was no other option. This would have to do.

The motel bathroom was cramped, the walls lined with outdated floral wallpaper that had started to peel in the corners. The sink faucet dripped every few seconds, and the overhead light flickered intermittently, giving the space a dim, uneven glow. But it would have to do.

Sylvia’s tiny wails echoed in the tiled room as you knelt by the bathtub, her little body trembling despite the water being warm. Her tiny fists flailed as she kicked against the sensation, her sobs hitching in her throat.

“I know, I know…I’m sorry, baby,” you murmured, keeping your voice low and soothing even as your heart ached. You had thought a bath would calm her, like you had seen on tv. But this was anything but calming.

Your hands were careful as you ran the washcloth over her delicate skin, wiping away the remnants of the long, exhausting day. She had been wrapped up in that car seat for too long, and you couldn’t stand the thought of her being uncomfortable a second longer than necessary. You had gotten in the bath with her, attempting to save time and hot water by washing you both. But she clearly didn’t appreciate the gesture, her cries growing louder the moment you started on her hair.

“Shhh, shhh, okay, I just need to wash your hair, alright?” you whispered, voice laced with exhaustion as you dipped your fingers in the water, gently massaging the motel shampoo into her soft scalp.

Her tiny face scrunched in protest, her sobs momentarily breaking into hiccups before she wailed again, her body wriggling against the support of your hand. Your chest tightened.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Almost done, I promise,” you cooed, trying to calm her as you carefully rinsed out the soap, making sure not to get any in her eyes.

Despite your gentle touch, her cries didn’t ease. She was shivering even in the warm bath, her little body reacting to the stress of it all, and a deep guilt settled in your stomach. It wasn’t just the bath—everything had been too much for her. This wasn’t the kind of life a newborn should have, moving from one unknown place to the next, never in one spot long enough to settle. You wished things were different.

You sighed, running a hand down your face before quickly stepping out and wrapping her in the softest towel you could find, pressing her against your chest. The moment she felt your warmth, her cries started to weaken, her tiny body curling into you instinctively.

“There we go,” you whispered, kissing the top of her damp head. “See? Not so bad…”

But as you held her close, feeling her small breaths against your skin, that creeping thought returned. You were failing her. Stressing her out beyond what she should be. Why were you putting a newborn through all this?

You don't deserve her. She's better off without you.

You close your eyes, gently rocking her trying to remove the awful thoughts.

You shook your head, pushing the intrusive thoughts away. There was no use in dwelling on these awful thoughts. You needed to focus on the present, on keeping Sylvia comfortable and safe. That was all that mattered.

With practiced movements, you wrapped her snugly in a clean onesie, taking extra care to dry her soft hair before slipping a tiny cap over her head. You tugged on one of the old, oversized shirts Clara had given you and pulled the motel’s scratchy blanket over your lap. The exhaustion was hitting you full force now, making every movement feel sluggish and heavy, but at least you were both clean and settled.

Then you saw it.

Or rather—what you didn’t see.

Your stomach clenched as your gaze darted around the dimly lit motel room, scanning every corner, every piece of furniture. No crib. No bassinet. No safe place for her to sleep.

Shit.

How had you forgotten something so important? You’d been so focused on getting here, on getting through the night, that you hadn’t even thought about where she’d actually sleep. The realization made you feel like a failure all over again.

You exhaled, rubbing your temples. Okay, okay. It’s fine. It’s just one night.

Your eyes landed on the bed—a stiff, creaky thing with barely enough room for one person, let alone two. You hesitated before gently placing Sylvia down beside you, adjusting her position carefully, making sure she was safe. But the moment you moved your hands away, her face crumpled, and a sharp, heart-wrenching wail filled the room.

“No, no, no, Sylvie, it’s okay,” you whispered, quickly reaching for her. You tried shifting her to her side, patting her back, even tucking the blanket around her more snugly—but nothing worked. She squirmed, arms flailing, her little mouth open in an ear-piercing cry.

Your own chest tightened. What am I doing wrong?

You turned her every which way, tried shushing her gently, rocking her where she lay, but nothing soothed her. She just cried and cried, her tiny fists curling and uncurling in distress. You could feel frustration creeping up your spine, but more than that, the guilt. You were her mother. You were supposed to know what she needed. But right now? Right now, you felt completely useless.

"You slept just fine by yourself before, what's the issue now Sylvie?"

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you gave up and did the only thing that made sense. You scooped her up and laid her directly on your chest, holding her close, one hand splayed protectively over her back.

And just like that, she stopped.

Her sobs melted into little hiccups, and within seconds, she was nothing but a soft, warm weight against you, her tiny breaths puffing rhythmically against your collarbone.

You let out a long, shaky sigh, your entire body going slack with relief.

“Figures,” you murmured tiredly, running a hand down her back. “You just wanted to be close after a long ride in a carseat, huh?”

Sylvia’s fingers twitched against your shirt in response, and you let out a quiet chuckle.

As your head sank back into the pillow, you finally allowed yourself to close your eyes. The tension in your shoulders remained, the ever-present paranoia never fully leaving your system—but at least for now, in this moment, with your daughter curled against you, the world outside felt just a little bit quieter.

You had disappeared again.

For a fleeting moment, he had seen you. A glimpse of you behind the wheel, crossing the bridge into the city, your hair catching in the wind, your hands gripping the steering wheel with a tension he could feel even through Mephisto’s grainy aerial footage. But then—gone.

Mephisto had lost you amidst the maze of cars, and just like that, you had vanished into thin air once more.

He couldn't understand. He had stalked and found countless amount of people with ease and yet...you had slipped through the cracks.

His patience, already worn thin, was unraveling by the day. It wasn’t for a lack of effort; he was hacking into street cameras like no one’s business, combing through footage for any trace of you. Still, there was zero sight of that run-down car. You had gotten smarter—too smart. You avoided main roads, stayed away from major traffic hubs, dodged places you knew could be under surveillance clearly. It was almost impressive. Almost. But it was also infuriating.

He had ordered his men to track hospital and clinic records, knowing you couldn't avoid medical attention forever. Surely, with how weak you had been toward the end of your pregnancy, you would have needed help by now. A check-up. A prescription. Something. But every report they pulled of a postpartum woman with a newborn wasn’t you. No record of you giving birth, no sudden ER visits, no documented cases of a woman fitting your description. Nothing.

It was as if you had simply ceased to exist.

His fingers curled into a fist against his desk, frustration simmering beneath the surface. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the dim glow of the monitors surrounding him. The city was vast, but not endless. You had to be somewhere. And when he found you, he wouldn’t let you slip away again.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to what he had already missed. The moment she came into the world—his daughter. Had you screamed for him in those final moments, cursing him even as your body broke itself apart to bring their child into existence? He clenched his jaw at the thought, fingers tightening into his palm. That was supposed to have been a moment you shared together.

His chest ached with something ugly. Regret? Longing? He shook it off. It didn’t matter. None of it did. What mattered was fixing it. What mattered was bringing you both back where you belonged.

But Sylus’s drinking was getting worse. Much worse.

He was no stranger to indulging—alcohol had always been a crutch for him, something to take the edge off when things weren’t going his way. But now? Now it was different. It wasn’t about leisure or numbing minor inconveniences. It was about survival. Because without the burn of whiskey down his throat, without that momentary haze dulling the sharp edges of his mind, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep himself together.

The nights were the worst.

During the day, he could distract himself—he could hunt, strategize, pull every resource he had to try and locate you. He could scan through endless surveillance feeds, hack into security systems, command his men to chase down leads. But at night? At night, he had nothing but silence and the agonizing absence of you.

That was when the images came creeping in.

You, alone. You, scared. You, clutching his daughter to your chest, unsure of how you were going to feed her next. Were you cold? Were you sick? Had you found shelter?

The thoughts made his stomach twist so violently he could barely stand it.

Another glass. Another burn. It barely dulled the aching frustration, the relentless feeling of failure clawing at his mind. He had been so close. So fucking close before. And now he was back to square one.

Sylus exhaled slowly, letting the weight of exhaustion settle over him. His other hand gripped the edge of his chair, knuckles whitening. His patience had never been his strongest suit, but this was different. It had been weeks, and still, you eluded him. You had disappeared into the cracks of the world, slipping through his grasp like smoke.

Never in his life had he had felt so inadequate. He had been routinely outsmarted by you again and again.

The room around him was dimly lit, a near-empty bottle of whiskey standing on the table beside him, its contents dangerously low. He had never been one to let himself spiral, but the weight of everything was pressing down on him, suffocating him.

And then came the worst part.

The moments where the alcohol wasn’t strong enough to drown out the memories.

He never allowed himself to think about his own past—there was no point in dwelling on things that couldn’t be changed. But when it came to you…

He kept thinking back.

To the way you used to look at him when you thought he wasn’t watching. The hesitation in your eyes, the wary curiosity that had been there before you had truly started to hate him. The way you had kissed him that night in front of Xavier, the warmth of your lips against his, the way your hands had trembled against his face. It had been a performance, but god, if it hadn’t felt real.

And then—

You had ran. Even after everything. Just when he thought things were finally calming down.

Sylus clenched his jaw, pressing his fingers against his temples. He digged around in his pocket, feeling around for the engagement ring you had pawned off for cash. He didn't pull it out. It hurt to look at it. He had wanted it to make you as happy as it had made him.

You had made it clear as day that it was never the case.

Would things have been different if he had handled things better? If he had spoken to you more softly? If he hadn’t let his temper get the best of him? Would you have stayed? Would you have trusted him?

Would you have loved him?

He let out a bitter laugh under his breath, shaking his head as he leaned forward again, grabbing the whiskey bottle with an iron grip and pouring himself another glass. It didn’t matter. It was too late for that. He had spent months playing the villain in your story, and now he had no choice but to finish the role.

He lifted the glass to his lips and took a slow sip, the liquid scorching its way down his throat. His free hand curled into a fist, nails pressing into his palm, his frustration mounting with every second you remained hidden.

The silent plea in your eyes as you left the twins, the sheer, raw desperation to escape him. Had you hated him so much? Would you really rather starve, suffer, and wander aimlessly with a newborn than return to him?

A cruel smirk twisted his lips as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

No. You didn’t get to decide that. Not anymore. It was for your own good that you and his daughter were found immediately.

He would find you. He would bring you home, and he would hold his daughter in his arms. He would remind you of the life you could have had, the life you would have once he had you back where you belonged. He would spend every waking moment trying to show you the man he could be.

Unfortunately, Sylus couldn’t dedicate every waking second to hunting you down, no matter how much he ached to. The empire of Onychinus still demanded his attention—there were deals to be made, threats to be eliminated, and an endless cycle of business that could never be neglected. Even now, as his men carried out high-stakes negotiations over illegal protocores and weapons, his mind drifted to you. To her. His daughter.

Every moment he wasn’t personally combing the streets of Windsor City, he was ensuring that every single resource at his disposal was being used to track you down. And once his duties were handled, once he was done dealing death and destruction to those who dared to oppose him, he would immediately return to the city where he knew—knew—you still were.

Sylus had spared no expense in setting up a base of operations. He had rented a mansion in Windsor City—something temporary, but lavish, an estate that kept him within reach of the search while affording him every comfort he was accustomed to. The finest liquor was stocked in the cabinets, rare cuts of meat were delivered on a schedule, and the place had enough security to make even the most ambitious assassin rethink their life choices. But none of it mattered. None of it brought him any peace.

He barely even lived there—what was the point of a mansion when the one thing he wanted most was still missing? When he walked its halls at night, every footstep echoed in the empty spaces where he should have heard you.

And still, he knew you hadn’t left Windsor. He could feel it in his bones, in the way his gut twisted whenever he drove through the city, the unshakable sense that you were near. Hiding. Running. Surviving. But still his.

It was this certainty that kept him going. Kept him from completely losing himself.

On one particularly restless evening, he found himself in his study, nursing a glass of Gin Fizz that barely did anything to dull the frustration clawing at his insides.

He had gotten a bit sick of whiskey for the moment.

Mephisto perched on the desk beside him, metal talons clicking lightly against the polished wood. The mansion was quiet save for the faint hum of music playing from the antique record player in the corner, some classical composition that normally would have soothed his nerves. But nothing soothed him anymore.

His eyes drifted to the calendar on his desk.

He hadn’t been keeping track of the days—not in the way he normally would—but something about tonight made him glance at the numbers. A small red mark stood out against the otherwise pristine white square of tomorrow’s date.

Six weeks.

His daughter would be turning six weeks old in the morning.

His breath hitched slightly, and before he realized what he was doing, he had pulled out his phone. His fingers moved on their own, searching.

Six-week-old baby milestones.

The results flooded his screen in an instant. He scrolled through the articles and parenting forums, reading each detail with obsessive focus. At six weeks, she should be making more eye contact. She’d be smiling now—a real smile, not just an instinctual reflex. Her tiny hands would be more coordinated, reaching for things, grasping at whatever was within her reach. She might even be opening her eyes more, making those early attempts at taking in her surroundings.

His chest tightened painfully.

Had you seen her first real smile? Had she reached for you? Did she coo when you spoke to her, when you held her?

Had you...named her?

A sharp pang twisted deep in his stomach. He had already lost so much. He had missed everything.

He clenched his jaw, gripping the glass in his hand until his knuckles turned white.

Where was she sleeping tonight? Was she warm enough? Were you still able to feed her properly? Did she even have a proper crib, or were you forced to make do with whatever the hell you could find?

The thought of his daughter—his perfect daughter—lying in some rundown motel, bundled in whatever cheap blankets you could scavenge, made his blood boil.

This was not the life he had envisioned for her.

This was not the life he had planned.

Sylus took a slow, shuddering breath and forced himself to set the glass down before he shattered it. His hands were trembling. He pressed his fingers to his temples, willing himself to think, to strategize.

He couldn’t let another week pass like this. Another day.

No more waiting.

No more patience.

He would find you.

And when he did—when he finally had you back in his arms—all would be right in the world again.

Sylus blinked as the realization settled over him like a slow-building storm. A motel. It should have been obvious. The answer had been in front of him this entire time, yet he had spent weeks chasing ghosts, circling dead-end theories, his frustration mounting with each passing day. His first assumption had been that you had wormed your way into someone’s home, that you had managed to find another bleeding-heart fool like Clara—someone naive enough to shelter you, to let you hide behind their kindness, thinking they were protecting you from a monster they didn’t understand. He had scoured the city's quieter residential districts, had his men track down every shelter, charity, and underground safehouse, tearing through the city’s underbelly in search of a trace of you. But there was nothing. No one had seen you. No one had taken you in.

For a brief, maddening moment, he had considered the possibility that you had run out of money entirely, that you were sleeping on the streets, desperate and destitute, scraping by on scraps like some pathetic runaway. That thought had nearly driven him to put a bullet in someone’s head. The very idea of you—his woman, the mother of his child—reduced to such a state made his stomach twist with rage. But now, as the pieces finally clicked into place, he realized why you had managed to keep yourself hidden for this long. A motel. Of course. It was the perfect hideout—cheap, discreet, and, most importantly, temporary. Places like that didn’t care about names, didn’t ask questions, didn’t leave behind a paper trail. As long as you had cash, you were just another anonymous traveler passing through. No records. No real trace.

He exhaled sharply, fingers pressing against his temple as his mind recalibrated, the weight of his own oversight gnawing at him. He should have expected this. You weren’t making the same mistakes you had before. You weren’t seeking comfort, safety, or permanence. You were stalling, running on borrowed time, waiting for something—but what? An opening? A chance to disappear entirely? His smirk curled at the edges, though there was no amusement behind it. Clever girl. But he wasn’t entertained. Not anymore.

His gaze flicked toward the clock on the wall, the red digits glaring back at him: 2:46 AM. Another night spent glued to surveillance feeds, combing through street cameras, hacking into data streams, watching for even the smallest flicker of your presence in the city. He had ripped Windsor apart in his search, but it had all led him in circles, like a goddamn hound chasing after scraps. His patience, already hanging by a thread, was beginning to fray beyond repair. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding with the effort to keep his temper in check. You were his. His woman. His kitten. The mother of his child. And yet here you were, hiding from him, forcing yourself to suffer in ways that were beneath you.

The thought of you huddled in some filthy, bedbug-infested shithole made his stomach churn with something dangerously close to guilt. This wasn’t survival. This was suffering. And Sylus refused—absolutely fucking refused—to allow you to waste away in some goddamn motel room, forcing yourself to live in conditions that were so far beneath what he could provide for you. He reached for the bottle beside him, not even bothering with a glass as he took a deep swig, letting the burn sear down his throat. But the fire did nothing to extinguish the inferno raging inside of him. You were better than this. You deserved better than this. And you knew it, too. That’s what infuriated him the most. You already knew. Deep down, you knew that you needed to come home.

His fingers tightened around the bottle, the glass creaking under the pressure of his grip as his eyes flickered toward the ceiling. He wasn’t even angry at you. No, fuck that. He was angry at himself. For not seeing it sooner. For letting you slip past his grasp. For allowing you to believe, even for a second, that there was anywhere in this world you could go where he wouldn’t follow.

But tomorrow, things would change.

His men would tear apart every extended-stay motel, every dingy roadside inn, every nameless building that took cash over questions. They would turn this city upside down if they had to. Burn to the ground if it meant you had nowhere else to hide. And when he found you—oh, when he found you—you would finally understand. Understand that running was pointless. Understand that no matter how far you went, no matter how well you hid, you would never be beyond his reach.

Because you two were meant to be. There was not a second that passed where he didn't feel like his soul was hurting being away from you.

And nothing in this world—not time, not distance, not fate itself—would ever fucking change that.

You weren't okay.

The days blurred together, melting into an endless cycle of exhaustion, uncertainty, and the quiet kind of desperation that settled deep in your bones. The first few days in Windsor City had felt like a small victory—finding shelter, getting supplies, keeping yourself and Sylvia fed. But that small sense of triumph had quickly faded, swallowed by the unrelenting, suffocating weight of reality.

Taking care of a newborn was supposed to be hard, you knew that. The sleepless nights, the round-the-clock feedings, the crying—it was all part of it. But this? This was something else entirely. There was no help this time. No Clara was coming every week. No safety net. No one to share the weight of it all. Just you, your daughter, and the constant fear of being found.

It wasn’t just the physical toll, though that was brutal in itself. Your body had barely recovered from childbirth, aching in ways you couldn’t even begin to describe. Every step sent a dull throb up your spine, your stomach still felt sore and hollow, and the bleeding hadn’t completely stopped. Some nights, after rocking Sylvia for what felt like hours, your legs would give out, sending you crumbling onto the stiff motel mattress, too weak to do anything but sob silently into the pillow.

But worse than the pain was the isolation. The crushing, unshakable loneliness.

You weren’t stupid—you knew something was wrong. There were moments when you would just stare at Sylvia, her tiny body curled against your chest, and feel…nothing. No overwhelming warmth. No sudden wave of love. Just exhaustion. Just numbness. You would hold her close, stroke the wisps of soft hair on her head, whisper promises of protection into her soft skin, and yet a voice in the back of your mind kept whispering, You’re not enough. She deserves better.

The intrusive thoughts crept in slowly, poisoning the already fragile remnants of your sanity. You can’t do this alone. She’d be better off without you. You’re going to fail her just like you’ve failed everything else.

Some nights were worse than others. There were times when Sylvia’s cries rattled something so deep inside you that it felt like your entire body was unraveling. You would pace the motel room in the dead of night, bouncing her in your arms, whispering, please stop, please stop, over and over again until your throat was raw. But she wouldn’t stop. And sometimes, when the exhaustion became too much, you would press the heel of your hand against your temple and just...wish everything would go quiet.

And then the guilt would set in.

It was a vicious, never-ending cycle.

The city outside was loud, alive, pulsing with a world you were no longer a part of. You had spent weeks avoiding eye contact with strangers, ducking into alleys when you saw police officers patrolling too close, keeping Sylvia hidden in the crook of your arm whenever you had to step outside. You barely spoke to anyone. The only real sound in your life was Sylvia’s cries—and even those were starting to sound distant, like they were coming from someone else’s child.

You had thought about leaving. About running again. But where? How much longer could you keep doing this?

And then, the worst thought of all—the one you kept shoving down, burying beneath layers of denial and shame.

Would Sylvia be safer without you?

You had started looking. Not actively, not with real intention, but the thought had taken root. When you walked past playgrounds, when you saw exhausted but stable mothers pushing their babies in strollers, when you saw couples cooing over their newborns, you would wonder—Could she belong to someone else? Someone better? Someone stronger?

You hated yourself for even considering it.

But every day, the idea grew just a little louder.

You were so, so tired.

And a part of you wondered if love was enough.

No one was coming to save you. There was no cavalry, no last-minute rescue, no miracle waiting just around the corner.

No Xavier. No Clara. No Tara. No Captain Jenna. These people were ghosts of your past now.

The harsh reality of it had settled into your bones over the past few weeks, rooting itself so deep that even the idea of hope felt foreign now. You had exhausted every possibility, every desperate fantasy of someone—anyone—helping you escape this nightmare, and yet each passing day only reinforced the truth: you were utterly alone. You had no family left to run to, no friends who wouldn’t immediately be dragged into the mess Sylus had created around you. No safety net. No second chances.

You could barely remember your parents. Grandma had died long ago. Caleb...well. He had gone out in a flame of fire and smoke. Right in front of you. Not that it would matter if either one of them was still alive. They'd also be ghosts of your pasts.

The only one who would come for you was Sylus, and no amount of running could change that. It was a reality you had tried to push down, to smother beneath the weight of exhaustion and survival, but it lingered in the back of your mind like a shadow, poisoning every fleeting thought of relief. It didn’t matter how careful you were. He would find you. He had the resources, the intelligence, the sheer obsessive determination to track you no matter how many cities you passed through, no matter how many times you changed motels or used fake names. And you weren’t stupid enough to believe otherwise.

You had done everything right this time—ditched all forms of technology, paid in cash, avoided cameras and main roads, stayed out of sight. But deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time. Sylus was relentless. If there was one thing you understood about him, it was that he didn’t know how to let go. You could only assume he had gone his entire life getting what he wanted through sheer force if necessary. It came with his job after all.

For the first week, you had clung to the fantasy of returning to Linkon, of somehow reclaiming your old life. The thought had been the only thing keeping you from spiraling completely, the distant possibility of waking up in your old room, of hearing the familiar sounds of Linkon City, of slipping back into the life that had been ripped away from you. But even that fantasy had begun to lose its grip on you. The truth was, it wasn’t real anymore. It never would be. Even if you could step foot in Linkon again, it wouldn’t be the same.

Your old apartment? Gone. Your job? Gone. The few acquaintances you had? They had probably moved on. And you? You weren’t even the same person anymore. That girl,—the one who had walked those streets without fear, who had gone to work and met friends for drinks, who had lived without constantly looking over her shoulder—was dead. She had died the moment Sylus got you pregnant. The moment you realized you weren’t going to be free again. Not truly.

The moment your body had become a vessel for something you hadn’t been ready for.

And yet, despite it all, despite the unbearable weight of that realization pressing down on you, you kept moving. You had to. There was no time to process it, no time to grieve the person you used to be. Sylvia needed you. She needed you to keep going, to keep running, to keep pretending like there was still a way out of this. But it was getting harder. The exhaustion ran so deep now that your body felt foreign, as if you were operating on autopilot, going through the motions without truly existing.

Every sleepless night chipped away at you. Every moment spent rocking her back and forth, desperately trying to soothe her cries while the world outside loomed like a threat, drained something vital from you. There was no one to pass her off to, no one to give you even an hour of reprieve. You hadn’t showered in days. You barely remembered to eat. Your body ached in ways you hadn’t known were possible, your postpartum wounds still healing far too slowly given how much strain you had put on them. But the worst part wasn’t the pain or the exhaustion. It was the creeping emptiness.

You had done everything right. You had carried her, birthed her, kept her safe, fed her, rocked her, cooed at her. You had done everything the books had said you should do. But now, every time you looked at her, there was something missing. You felt like a stranger holding someone else’s baby, like you were caring for something that wasn’t truly yours. It was terrifying, this quiet detachment, this void where love and warmth were supposed to be. You knew you cared for her. You knew you loved her in some way. But it wasn’t the overwhelming, all-consuming connection that the books had promised. It wasn’t the instant flood of emotion that the mothers in those online forums had described. Instead, there was just a dull ache in your chest, an absence of something you couldn’t name. And the guilt of it was suffocating.

You wanted to love her. You wanted to feel something other than this relentless exhaustion and fear. But how could you? How could you bond with her when all you saw when you looked at her was him? When every little feature, every tiny expression, was a reflection of the man you had spent months trying to escape? It was a cruel twist of fate that your daughter—your innocent, undeserving daughter—looked so much like the man who had trapped you in this hell. Her eyes, though still cloudy and unfocused, carried the same crimson shade that haunted your nightmares.

Her tiny hands, always reaching, always grasping, reminded you of his—of the way they had held you down, the way they had claimed you. And the worst part? The realization that followed, creeping into your mind like a venomous whisper: She would never stop looking like him. No matter how much time passed, no matter how much she grew, she would always be half his.

That thought alone was enough to break you.

And so, you did what you had been doing for weeks now. You shoved it down. You silenced the thoughts. You forced yourself to keep going, because what other choice did you have? But the cracks were beginning to show. The exhaustion, the emptiness, the suffocating weight of it all—it was pressing in on you from all sides, threatening to swallow you whole. You weren’t sure how much longer you could keep this up.

What had happened? Where had that determination gone? Just weeks ago, you had convinced yourself that you could do this—that you could survive, that you could be a good mother, that you could keep running and keep Sylvia safe. You had even felt like you were bonding with her, like despite the circumstances, you were beginning to understand what it meant to be her mother. You hadn’t blamed her for any of this. You had sworn you wouldn’t. It wasn’t her fault that she was here.

She had never asked to be born into this nightmare. But now, with each passing sleepless night, with every piercing cry that shredded through your already fragile sanity, that quiet, shameful resentment was growing. You hated yourself for it. Hated that you could even think such things. But the exhaustion was swallowing you whole, and no matter how hard you tried to push it down, to force yourself to feel nothing but love and devotion for her, the truth sat heavy in your gut.

If it weren’t for her, you could’ve fled this city by now. You could be anywhere—miles away, in another state, another country, disappearing into the world as nothing more than another nameless traveler. If it was just you, you could be on a train or a bus, forging documents, blending in, vanishing. But you couldn’t. Not with her. A newborn couldn’t handle constant travel, the lack of stability, the absence of proper care. You knew that. No matter how much you longed for freedom, you couldn’t rip her away from what little security you had managed to piece together. You couldn’t put her at risk. She needed stability. Consistency.

She needed a real life.

But could you give that to her?

That was the thought that lingered now, creeping in at the edges of your mind like an infection, rotting through the last of your resolve. Maybe it had just been adrenaline keeping you in high spirits before. Maybe it had been the initial relief of escaping, the rush of defying Sylus and proving, even for a little while, that he couldn’t control you. But now? Now you were just tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushingly tired. And as you sat there, staring down at your once-again weeping six-week-old daughter, that exhaustion twisted into something ugly. You let out a slow, heavy sigh, one that felt like it had been building inside of you for days.

"Please," you murmured, barely recognizing your own voice—so hoarse, so drained. "Just stop crying for one night. Just one."

But, of course, she didn’t stop. She just wailed louder, her tiny face scrunching up in distress, her little fists trembling as she kicked against the blanket you had swaddled her in. The sight of her should have filled you with warmth, with affection, with that deep, unconditional love that mothers were supposed to feel. Instead, all you felt was guilt. A crushing, unbearable guilt that weighed down on your chest like a boulder. What kind of mother felt this way? What kind of mother sat there, staring at her child, wishing she could just disappear?

A bad mother. A selfish mother.

The kind of mother who didn’t deserve to have a child at all.

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You were too tired to cry. Too tired to feel anything but this aching, relentless numbness. Maybe this was postpartum depression. Maybe this was just what it meant to break. But whatever it was, it was eating you alive, and you didn’t know how much longer you could endure it.

Instead of crying, instead of breaking down, instead of giving in to the despair clawing at the edges of your mind, you did what you always did. You moved on autopilot, numbly going through the motions, pushing down the exhaustion, the frustration, the resentment, the guilt. Without a word, without even a sigh this time, you leaned over and begrudgingly lifted Sylvia from her crib. She fussed immediately, already rooting against your shoulder, little hands balled into desperate fists. You ignored the familiar sting of irritation that came with it. She always wanted to be close. Always wanted to feel you, to smell you, to know that you were near.

Just like her damn father.

She didn’t care that you were drowning.

She just needed you.

You exhaled through your nose, forcing your muscles to unclench as you laid her down beside you in the bed. The crib had been a necessary purchase—one you had hoped would give you some space, some distance, some semblance of control over your own body again. But, of course, Sylvia hadn’t approved. She had screamed every time you put her down in it, as if separation from you was the worst kind of torture. And right now? Right now you didn’t have it in you to fight her.

Whatever. If sleeping next to her meant she’d actually sleep—and by extension, that you could finally get some rest—then so be it.

Without much thought, you adjusted your shirt, exposing your breast and guiding her to latch. She did so immediately, her frantic crying settling into soft, eager sucking, the tension in her tiny body easing now that she had exactly what she wanted. You could feel the tug, the slight ache of letdown, but at this point, the sensation was so routine it barely registered. You laid your head back against the pillow, staring blankly at the wall. The dim glow of the motel’s neon sign seeped in through the curtains, painting the room in an eerie, flickering light.

The exhaustion weighed heavier and heavier on your limbs, pulling you down, dragging you under. Sylvia’s rhythmic sucking became background noise, lulling you further into that dark, dreamless abyss you had been craving for hours. Finally, finally, you let go.

Sleep claimed you.

But instead of the comforting emptiness of nothingness, you found yourself somewhere else entirely.

You weren’t in the motel anymore.

The cramped room, the peeling wallpaper, the rickety furniture—all of it was gone.

You were in his bedroom.

The massive bed, the silk sheets, the rich and dark furniture, the faint scent of whiskey and cologne that clung to everything—it was unmistakable.

Your blood turned to ice.

No. No.

This wasn’t real.

This couldn’t be real.

Your heart pounded in your chest as panic seized your limbs. You turned sharply, expecting to see him beside you, expecting his arms to be caging you in, but the bed was empty. You were alone. But that didn’t make you feel any safer. If anything, it made it worse. Because if you were here, then that meant he was close.

Your breath came out in short, frantic gasps as you scrambled to sit up, clutching the silk sheets like they were a lifeline. Wake up. Wake up. This is just a dream. But it felt real. The weight of the sheets against your skin, the softness of the mattress beneath you, the cool air against your arms—it all felt too vivid, too tangible.

And then—

The sound of a door creaking open.

A shadow moving in the doorway.

And a voice, deep, familiar, and dripping with warmth that made your stomach churn.

"Kitten?"

There he was, in all his glory. Imposing, tall and staring at you with those deep red eyes of his as he got closer. You didn't answer him, just looked at him with pure disgust.

Sylus chuckled, but there was no mockery in it—just something soft, something almost…fond. "I suppose even in my dreams, you want to get away from me," he murmured, smoothing out the sheets beneath him with absent fingertips. "I can’t say I blame you, kitten. But it does sting a little."

You pressed yourself against the headboard as if the space between you could somehow make this less real. Your mind was racing, trying to make sense of the situation. His presence felt too tangible—too warm, too steady. You could smell the faintest trace of his cologne, the familiar mix of cedar and spice, could see the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

"This…this is my dream though?" you whispered, eyeing him like he might vanish if you blinked.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, as if he was just as perplexed as you were. "Well, this is news to me," he said, exhaling a quiet chuckle. "I was just resting, and then… I ended up here." He glanced toward the door, frowning in thought before turning his gaze back to you. "If this were only your dream, would I really be able to remember how I got here?"

You swallowed hard. The room felt too still, too real. The weight of the blankets, the way the dim lighting flickered ever so slightly—it wasn’t the warped logic of a dream.

"No," you muttered, shaking your head. "No, that’s not possible. You can’t actually be here. You’re not real."

Sylus sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw before his gaze softened. "Kitten…do you really think I’d say something like that if I weren’t experiencing this, too?" He reached forward, as if to prove something, his fingers ghosting toward your wrist—but he stopped himself, letting his hand rest on the space between you instead. "You feel it, don’t you? How real this is?"

Your breath was coming faster now, your mind desperately trying to refute what your body already knew. Theres no way.

"You're lying. This is just a dream after all. I can make you poof," you declared, squeezing your eyes shut, desperation clawing at your throat. If this was your mind's cruel trick, you could take control of it. You had to take control of it. Your breathing hitched as you concentrated, willing the image of him—him—to vanish, to dissolve into nothing but the formless mist of your subconscious. You envisioned him disappearing in a swirl of crimson vapor, fading from existence the way he always should have. This isn’t real. He isn’t real. If you could just wake yourself up, none of this would matter. You could push him away, just like you had in reality.

But then—

A chuckle.

Deep. Familiar. Amused.

Your heart dropped to your stomach.

Your eyes snapped open, dread creeping up your spine as your gaze landed on him once again. He was still there, still seated just across from you on the edge of the bed, watching you with that same exasperating patience, like he had expected you to try something so childish. His was soft, but his lips curved ever so slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.

"Shit," you exhaled, your throat suddenly dry. Panic curled its cold fingers around your ribs, making it harder to breathe. You licked your lips, trying to steady yourself, but it was no use. "Are we…actually sharing a dream?" Your voice wavered, as if saying it out loud made it even more real, even more impossible to ignore.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, crimson eyes studying you with unnerving intensity. "It's not impossible," he murmured, his tone thoughtful, almost curious. His gaze flicked around the room, taking in the familiar surroundings as if he were assessing them for the first time.

"If I had to guess, probably something to do with our Aethor Cores." His fingers absently traced over the sheets, his movements slow, calculated. You felt breathless as he met your gaze again, his eyes slowly lowering to your lips. The small shift in his demeanor made your stomach churn. He wasn’t gloating. He wasn’t taunting you. He was just there, existing in the same space as you, like this was something natural. Like it wasn’t utterly terrifying.

No. No. You refused to accept this. This wasn’t happening. This was just another trick, another cruel fabrication of your subconscious, it had to be. Your breath quickened as your mind scrambled for a way out. "No…no. This can't be happening," you muttered, pressing your fingers to your temples. A feverish kind of dread settled in your bones, creeping into every inch of your being like a toxin. Your body screamed at you to move, to run, to wake up.

"I need to wake up," you whispered, voice trembling, your limbs sluggish and heavy with panic. You scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping over your own feet in your desperation to reach the door. If you could just get out—if you could just move—maybe this whole twisted nightmare would shatter around you.

But Sylus was faster.

Before you could reach the handle, a warm, firm grip closed around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. Not forceful. Not rough. Just…steady. Unyielding in its purpose. His touch sent a jolt through you, your breath hitching as you froze, your body locking up in alarm.

"Wait…stop, please," he said softly, his voice carrying none of the usual arrogance, none of the smugness you had come to expect from him. It lacked the biting edge, the sharp confidence. Instead, there was something else. Something quieter. Something almost… pleading.

Your stomach twisted violently.

"Let go of me, you—you freak!" you spat, trying to wrench your arm free, but his grip held firm. Not crushing. Not painful. Just anchoring. Keeping you rooted in place as if he was afraid you would vanish the moment he let go. The warmth of his touch seeped into your skin, grounding you in a way that made you feel too much. It was too real. Too solid. Your chest heaved, your pulse racing wildly against your ribs, torn between instinctual fear and something else, something just as dangerous.

Sylus’s gaze was slightly tense, his fingers loosening slightly but not letting go. He exhaled slowly, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. Something that made your heart clench.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he murmured, and it was the way he said it—gentle, earnest—that rattled you the most. "I just…" He hesitated, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your wrist, his jaw tightening before he finally admitted, "If this is real…if this is actually happening…then this is the first time I’ve seen you in weeks."

The air in your lungs stilled.

The weight of his words crashed into you, drowning out the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat. You had expected mockery. Possessiveness. Some kind of smug declaration that you would never escape him. But this? This was something different.

This was longing.

Your breath caught in your throat, an unwelcome lump forming there. You wanted to shove him away, to break free from his grasp and put as much distance between the two of you as possible. But there was a small, terrible part of you—one you refused to acknowledge—that wanted to stay. Just for a moment. Just to pretend, even if it was only in a dream, that things weren’t so irreparably broken.

But pretending was dangerous.

So you did what you always did when confronted with him. You steeled yourself, lifted your chin, and glared at him with all the venom you could muster.

"So what?" you hissed, forcing steel into your voice. "You think this means something?"

Sylus just looked at you, his expression unreadable. "I don’t know," he admitted, voice quiet. "But I do know I don’t want you to run. I've missed you."

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms. You did want to run. More than anything. You wanted to wake up, wanted to pull yourself out of this suffocating moment before it swallowed you whole.

So you swallowed hard, straightened your spine, and forced the words past your lips.

"Then wake up," you spat. "Because I sure as hell don’t want to be here with you."

For a moment, he just stared at you, his eyes searching yours, filled with something deep, something you couldn’t name.

Sylus’s voice was deceptively soft, his tone laced with that maddening warmth that made your skin crawl. “Tell me where you and the baby are, honey.”

Your entire body tensed at the familiar pet name, the endearment rolling off his tongue like honey-coated steel. It made your stomach twist violently, resentment coiling in your chest. He didn’t get to call you that. Not anymore. Not after everything.

You winced, glaring at him. “No. Fuck off. Me and her are doing just fine without you.” You struggled in his grasp, trying to wrench your wrist free, but he didn’t budge—not even an inch. His grip was firm, steady, but not painful. It was possessive in a way that made your breath quicken, but not out of fear—out of something far more infuriating.

He sighed, tilting his head slightly as if he were observing something fragile, something just about to break. “You’re tired, aren’t you?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “At your breaking point?” His hand slid from your wrist up to your forearm, his grip tightening just enough to keep you close. “There must be a reason your subconscious reached out to mine.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupted smoothly, his thumb brushing against the inside of your arm in slow, absentminded circles. “I’m not mad at you, kitten. I’m worried.” His eyes softened, and that terrified you more than anything. “Please. I just want you to realize that I’m here. You can run to me anytime. Rely on me. I wasn’t lying when I said I would change.” His free hand came up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “You’re mine. You can’t run forever. And it’s not good for you or her.”

Your stomach dropped.

Not good for Sylvia.

That one sentence lodged itself into your ribs, slicing through your defenses like a blade.

Your exhaustion clawed at you. The sleepless nights, the endless crying, the way you felt like you were barely keeping your head above water—it all came crashing down on you in an instant. And worst of all? He wasn’t wrong. You were at your breaking point. You were exhausted. And running with a newborn was slowly chipping away at you, piece by piece, day by day.

But he didn’t get to say that. He didn’t get to act like he cared. He was the reason for all of this in the first place!

“Shut up!” you snapped, your voice raw and desperate, squeezing your eyes shut as if that alone could block him out.

And then—the room changed.

A flicker. A shift. A violent flash of something new.

Your stomach lurched as the plush surroundings of Sylus’s bedroom distorted, reality flickering between here and somewhere else.

Your motel room.

Your fucking motel room.

“No!”

Your eyes widened in horror as the room twisted again, revealing glimpses of the small kitchenette, the peeling wallpaper, the crib in the corner. He was seeing it. He was seeing everything.

Sylus’s eyes flicked upward, locking onto the vision like a predator catching scent of prey.

You had to go. You had to wake up before he could commit any of it to memory.

You wrenched yourself back, mustering every last ounce of strength you had, your body burning with the effort as you finally tore yourself free from his grasp. The sudden force sent you stumbling backward, tumbling to the floor with a sharp gasp.

The dream shook.

Like the world itself was coming undone, spiraling into chaos.

Sylus stepped forward instinctively, reaching out again—but you didn’t wait. You couldn’t wait.

You bolted.

You scrambled to your feet, racing for the door, your heart hammering against your ribs as the dream warped and twisted around you. The walls cracked, the bed dissolved into nothingness, the air thick with an unseen force pulling you in all directions.

You lunged for the handle, your fingers barely wrapping around it before his voice cut through the chaos behind you—low, steady, unwavering.

“I love you.”

Your breath hitched.

The door wrenched open.

“I will find you.”

And then—

Darkness.

Nothingness.

You gasped awake, your body jerking violently as you bolted upright in bed, sweat clinging to your skin, your heart slamming against your ribs like it was trying to break free.

The motel room was still there. The peeling wallpaper. The crib in the corner. The distant hum of the city outside.

Real. It was all still real.

You turned sharply, your breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as you scanned the room for him—but there was no one. Just you. Just Sylvia, stirring slightly next to you, not fully awake.

Just a dream.

But your hands trembled.

What the actual fuck was that?

Sylvia’s cries cut through the silence of the dimly lit motel room, sharp and relentless, digging into your already raw nerves like tiny, clawing fingers. You clenched your jaw, inhaling deeply, trying—really trying—to muster the energy to deal with her needs. You had barely moved, just shifted an inch, and yet to her, it was as if you had vanished off the face of the earth.

"Shit..." you whispered, pressing your fingers to your temple, trying to keep your frustration at bay. But it was getting harder. Harder and harder with every night, every hour, every minute of this constant cycle. You had just woken up from that dream, your body still rattled with adrenaline, your skin slick with sweat. You hadn’t even had the chance to process what had just happened, to fully comprehend that Sylus was closer than ever before—and now, now you had to shove that panic down and deal with this. Again.

Sylvia’s whimpers turned into full-blown sobs, her little face scrunching up as if the world itself was betraying her. You sighed heavily, forcing yourself up from the bed, your muscles aching, your head pounding. Fine. Fine. Just get this over with.

You moved with the motions of someone who had long stopped feeling. Your hands automatically unlatched her onesie, pulling off the tiny, soiled diaper, tossing it onto the growing pile of them in the corner. I need to take out the trash, you thought idly, the realization empty and meaningless. Sylvia wailed through the entire process, her tiny fists flailing, her body squirming as if you were torturing her rather than helping her.

“Sylvia, please,” you muttered through clenched teeth, grabbing a fresh diaper and hastily fastening it around her. Your hands were shaking—not from fear, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of it all pressing against you, bearing down on you with no relief in sight. She just wouldn’t stop crying.

You scooped her up again, her little body warm against yours, and just like that—her tears stopped. She nestled against you, her red eyes staring up at you in quiet contentment, a tiny smile curling onto her lips.

That smile should have done something to you. It should have filled you with warmth, should have stirred something deep within you, should have made the agony of all of this worth it.

But it didn’t.

You just stood there, looking down at her, blank and hollow. The weight of her in your arms, the warmth of her body, the fact that you were the only thing in this world that could soothe her—it all just felt like chains. A tether binding you to something you weren’t sure you could handle anymore.

You forced yourself to lay her back down, hoping—praying—she would just go back to sleep. But the moment she left your arms, the moment she no longer felt your warmth, the moment she realized she wasn’t attached to you—she screamed.

Not just cried.

Screamed.

It was as if you had ripped her from the only thing keeping her alive. As if you had abandoned her entirely.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hands to your temples as frustration boiled over into something darker. “Sylvia. Please. Just. Stop.” Your voice was sharper than you intended, your tone clipped and laced with an exhaustion so deep it scraped against your bones.

But she didn’t stop.

She never stopped.

Your chest tightened, your breathing uneven as you tried—tried—to push down the growing resentment crawling up your throat. Why won’t she just stop? Why won’t she just sleep? Why does she need me all the time? Why do I have to be the only one doing this?

Your vision blurred, the weight of everything crushing you from the inside out.

And for the first time since she was born…

You wanted to run.

Not just from Sylus.

Not just from this motel.

From her.

You elected to just ignore her. You couldn't take it anymore. You picked her up, rougher than you intended, and placed her down in the crib with little care for the way she flailed and twisted, screaming in protest. You had nothing left in you, no patience, no warmth, nothing to offer her. You weren’t even sure if you wanted to comfort her anymore.

Your hands worked mechanically as you grabbed her pacifier and pushed it between her tiny lips, pressing it against her mouth with the hope that maybe—just maybe—this time she would take it, that she would finally let you breathe for five fucking minutes. But of course, she didn’t.

She spat it out almost instantly, her face twisting up as she let out another wail, her cries louder, angrier, demanding. She knew what she wanted, and it wasn’t some useless piece of rubber. She wanted you. She always wanted you. Every second of every minute of every goddamn hour. You, you, you. No one else. Nothing else. And she wouldn’t stop until she got it.

But you didn’t care. You couldn’t.

“Okay, fine. Have it your way. Going to sleep,” you muttered, voice hollow, drained of emotion, of anything that made you feel human.

And then you turned your back on her.

She screamed. Of course, she screamed. You felt her cries drill into your skull as you climbed onto the bed, your body collapsing onto the mattress as if you’d been carrying a thousand pounds of dead weight. You grabbed the nearest pillow and shoved it over your head, pressing it down so hard against your ears that the edges of your vision began to blur. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Maybe if you ignored her long enough, she’d finally tire herself out. She had to. Even she had limits, right? She had to give up eventually.

But she didn’t.

Her cries kept coming, sharp and insistent, her tiny lungs never seeming to run out of air. Minutes passed—five, ten, maybe twenty—you couldn’t even tell anymore. Your grip on reality was slipping, the exhaustion turning everything into a haze, like you were trapped in some endless cycle of sleep deprivation and screaming and frustration and resentment. God, the resentment. You clenched your jaw so hard it hurt, your fingers digging into the mattress, nails pressing against the fabric so harshly they ached. You had to stay put. Had to resist. If you gave in now, you’d just be teaching her that screaming would get her whatever she wanted. You had to hold out.

Then, it happened.

The static in your brain thickened. Your limbs felt heavy, your entire body sinking into the mattress, but at the same time, something pushed against you, something unnatural, something wrong. You felt yourself slipping, felt something creeping into your mind, curling around your thoughts, suffocating them. And before you could stop it, before you could fight—your body started moving.

No, no, no. Not again.

A sickening warmth spread through your chest, a soft pull dragging you upright, making your fingers twitch, making your arms ache for something—for her. Your mind filled with blurry images, flickering like a broken film reel. You, holding Sylvia. You, rocking her. You, soothing her. You, whispering reassurances, pressing kisses against her forehead, letting her curl into your warmth. Your hands moved without your command, your muscles tightening, preparing to reach for her—to pick her up—to do exactly what she wanted.

No. No, I’m not doing this. I refuse.

You gritted your teeth, fighting against the force pulling you forward, your body trembling as you pushed against it with everything you had. But the more you resisted, the stronger it got. The harder it pushed. It wasn’t fair.

You didn’t ask for this.

You didn’t ask for a baby.

Didn’t ask to be ripped away from everything you had known.

Didn’t ask to be hunted down like an animal.

Didn’t ask for this—this thing, this unnatural pull, this invisible force that made you crave to hold her even when all you wanted to do was scream.

And you couldn’t take it anymore.

You ripped yourself from the bed, stomped over to the crib, and without thinking, without stopping, without giving yourself a second to hesitate—

"SHUT UP!"

The words exploded from your mouth before you could stop them, the rage, the exhaustion, the sheer helplessness pouring out of you in one sharp, vicious outburst.

And then—

Silence.

For the first time in weeks, Sylvia stopped crying.

Wide, unblinking red eyes stared up at you, her tiny face frozen in an expression you couldn’t quite place. Surprise? Confusion? Fear? Your breath came in heavy pants, your whole body trembling as you loomed over her crib, hands clenched into tight, shaking fists.

And then, the worst part.

Her little bottom lip wobbled.

And her face crumbled.

The wail that came next was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t needy. It wasn’t demanding.

It was heartbroken.

A sharp, broken cry that cut through you like a blade, raw and devastated, like she wasn’t just upset—she was hurt.

She was afraid.

And just like that, the anger drained out of you, leaving behind something much, much worse.

Guilt.

You stepped back, hands flying up to your mouth in horror, your breath stuttering as you looked down at her tiny, trembling body, her fists clenching and unclenching as if searching for comfort. Searching for you.

What had you just done?

What the fuck had you just done?

You spiraled instantly. The realization of what you had done hit you like a freight train, the weight of it crushing down on you so suddenly, so violently, that your knees nearly buckled beneath you. Oh my god, what did I do? The thought was suffocating, an unbearable pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. The moment the first whimper left Sylvia’s mouth, small and pitiful, her face scrunched up in pure devastation, the dam inside you broke completely.

Tears flooded your vision, hot and unrelenting as you instantly reached down, scooping her up with shaking hands. She stiffened at first, her tiny body rigid in your arms, her whimpers turning into sniffles, her breath hitching in that awful, hiccuping way newborns did after crying too hard. It only made you sob harder.

No, no, no, no, no…

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—Mommy didn't mean it, Sylvia, please," you choked out, your voice hoarse and desperate as you pressed her against your chest, rocking her as if movement alone could erase what had just happened. As if the warmth of your body could somehow undo the damage. But the damage was done. You had screamed at her. Yelled at her like she was some disobedient child, not an innocent, helpless baby who had done nothing but exist. She was six weeks old. She didn’t understand. She didn’t deserve this. She had no idea why the one person who was supposed to protect her had just erupted in rage, her tiny world shattering in an instant.

Her cries didn’t stop immediately. They didn’t settle the way they usually did when you picked her up. Instead, she kept trembling against you, her sniffles and whimpers breaking through the silence like little shards of glass stabbing straight into your heart. Her heart was beating a thousand miles per minute. She was scared. Of you. And the realization nearly made you collapse.

Your mind reeled, frantic thoughts spinning so fast you could barely keep up with them. What’s wrong with me? What kind of person screams at their own baby? Have I really lost that much of myself? The self-loathing was instant and all-consuming, seeping into every inch of your being like poison. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your forehead to the crown of her head, inhaling the faint newborn scent that should have brought you comfort but instead sent another wave of guilt crashing over you.

Sylvia finally began to calm, her body no longer stiff, her breathing growing steadier. But you? You were anything but calm. You held her like she was the only thing tethering you to this world, like if you let go, you would disappear into the dark void that had been slowly swallowing you whole. Your sobs came in waves, silent at first, then broken, raw, shaking your entire body as you curled around her, whispering apologies over and over again.

She deserved better. So much better.

Your hands trembled as you ran them over her back, feeling the tiny ridges of her spine through the fabric of her onesie. She was so small, so fragile, and you had been hurting her. Maybe not physically, but this wasn’t what she deserved. Not a mother who was so exhausted and broken that she couldn’t even summon the strength to feel love anymore. Not a mother who snapped and lost control, who let her own misery bleed into the innocent, untouched existence of her baby.

You had spent all this time running, thinking you were keeping her safe. Thinking you were doing the right thing. But what if—what if—you weren’t protecting her at all? What if you were only delaying the inevitable? What if, no matter how hard you tried, you were the real danger here? Not Sylus. Not anyone else. You.

Your stomach twisted violently at the thought, bile rising in your throat. You shook your head, rocking Sylvia more urgently, as if you could shake the thoughts away. But they only grew stronger. More insistent.

You had tried. You really had. But it wasn’t enough. No matter how much you fought, how much you sacrificed, it wasn’t enough.

She wasn’t safe with you.

Maybe she never had been.

Maybe it was time to stop pretending.

Maybe it was time to put her first.

Maybe…

It was time to give her up.

It didn’t take you too long to pack up a few of her things. Your movements were robotic, mechanical, as if your body was moving on autopilot while your mind refused to fully register what you were about to do. Diapers, onesies, some extra milk. The necessities. You didn’t want to burden whoever found her, but you couldn’t just leave her with nothing. You had to make sure she had enough, at least for the first couple of days.

The sun would be rising soon. The first hints of light were already creeping over the horizon, painting the edges of the sky in soft hues of purple and gold. You need to hurry. People would be waking up soon, moving about, starting their days. You didn’t want anyone to see you. You didn’t want to risk someone trying to stop you.

Your hands trembled as you shoved the last of her things into the bag, your breath uneven. This was the right thing to do. It had to be. Sylvia deserved stability, a real home, someone who could care for her without resentment bubbling under the surface, poisoning every interaction. You weren’t that person. You had tried—god, you had tried—but all you were doing was slowly unraveling.

You gently placed her in the stroller, making sure she was bundled up. The air was cool, a lingering chill from the night before, and you didn’t want her to be cold. She barely stirred as you adjusted the blankets around her tiny body, only letting out the faintest of sighs. She was exhausted from all the crying, her little face relaxed in sleep, peaceful in a way you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

Your heart clenched painfully.

Good. This would make things easier.

Easier.

That word felt like a lie.

Your stomach twisted violently as you looked at her, as you took in every tiny detail—the wisps of hair on her head, the little crease in her brow, the slight pout of her lips. Every feature was a perfect blend of you and him. She would never know the man who had given her those crimson eyes. Never know the grip he had on your soul. She would be safe. She would be free.

You turned away sharply, squeezing your eyes shut as if that would somehow make this less unbearable. It didn’t.

You forced yourself to move, rummaging through the motel’s tiny desk drawer until you found an old notepad and a pen with barely any ink left. Your fingers shook as you pressed the pen to the paper, the words coming out in short, shaky scrawls.

Her name is Sylvia. She is breastfed but will take formula. No birth certificate, please get her one and take care of her.

You stared at the words, your breath coming in shallow gasps. Was this enough? Would someone understand? Would they know how much she liked being held, how she hated bright lights, how she always nuzzled against your chest for comfort? Would they love her enough?

Would they love her more than you could?

A choked sob escaped your lips before you could stop it. You bit down on your trembling lip, trying to shove the emotions down, to lock them away. If you thought about this too much, you wouldn’t be able to go through with it. And you had to. You had to.

You folded the note carefully and tucked it into the blanket beside her, making sure it wouldn’t blow away in the breeze. Then, without another glance, you gripped the stroller handle and stepped outside into the quiet, early morning streets.

This was the right thing.

You had to believe that.

Because if you didn’t…

You wouldn’t survive it.

You could've taken the car. It would have been faster, easier. But something in you resisted. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was some part of you clinging to the last fleeting moments you’d ever have with her. You just wanted one last walk—one final, quiet moment between mother and daughter before you severed the last fragile tie holding you together.

The world was still. The kind of early morning hush that made everything feel softer, untouched. The crisp air kissed your skin, the streets empty except for the distant sounds of the city beginning to stir. You glanced down at the tiny bundle nestled in the stroller, her little chest rising and falling with each breath, her lips slightly parted in sleep. The sight of her so peaceful, so completely unaware of what was about to happen, made your stomach twist in agony.

Your fingers brushed over her hair, trailing down to those two tiny, hard nubs hidden beneath the strands. You still didn’t know what they were. Maybe whoever found her would. Maybe they would understand her in ways you never could. Maybe they would love her better.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening painfully as you pushed forward.

You didn't know how long you walked. The city blurred past in a haze of rising sunlight and the rhythmic sound of the stroller wheels rolling over pavement. Your feet moved on their own, one after the other, guided by some force you couldn't name, until eventually, a towering mansion came into view across a bridge.

It was immaculate—pristine marble pillars, massive iron gates that stood open just enough for someone to slip through, a sprawling estate that screamed wealth and power. Whoever lived here was loaded, that much was obvious. And loaded meant resources. Stability. Protection. A child could be safe here, cared for. Given everything you couldn’t provide. The gate was slightly open. Perfect.

Your breath shuddered as you pushed the stroller across the bridge, your hands gripping the handle so tightly your knuckles turned white. Every step felt like dragging yourself through quicksand, like your body was resisting what your mind had already decided.

When you finally reached the grand front steps, you hesitated.

This was it.

The point of no return.

Tears blurred your vision as you carefully maneuvered the stroller up the stone steps, pausing just before the door. A car sat parked nearby, its presence offering a sliver of relief—someone would find her soon. Someone important. Someone who would change her life for the better.

Your fingers trembled as you tucked the blanket around her one last time, ensuring she was warm, protected. You reached into the small bag and pulled out the note, rereading over the words you had written as if hoping, somehow, they could say everything your heart was screaming.

Her name is Sylvia. She is breastfed but will take formula. No birth certificate, please get her one and take care of her.

You gently placed the note on her chest, your fingers lingering just a little too long. Please love her the way I couldn't. You didn’t write it, but you wished—prayed—that whoever found her would understand.

Would love her.

Would give her the life she deserved.

Your legs felt like lead as you stepped back, the weight in your chest growing unbearable. You reached for the stroller handle again—no, don’t do this, you can’t do this—but you forced yourself to let go.

You told yourself you were doing the right thing. You turned around.

You told yourself this was what was best.

Then why did it feel like you were leaving a piece of your soul behind?

Sylvia.

Your breath hitched as you stood at the edge of the steps, frozen in place, unable to take another step forward. Your chest felt too tight, like your ribs were closing in on your lungs, suffocating you. The early morning air was crisp, but you felt unbearably warm—your skin burning, your pulse roaring in your ears. You had to move. Now.

But you couldn’t.

Not yet.

You turned your head just enough to steal one last glance at her. She was still sleeping, blissfully unaware of what was happening. Her tiny hands curled into loose fists against her chest, her little lips twitching in a soft, contented sigh. The note rested against the blanket, its corners barely moving in the breeze.

Your throat closed, and your vision blurred.

You knew you would never see her again.

The thought alone nearly drove you to your knees.

Sylvia...

A shuddering breath escaped you as you closed your eyes, willing yourself to be strong, willing yourself to accept that this was what had to be done.

"Please live."

The words were barely above a whisper, slipping past your lips like a prayer, a desperate plea to the universe to do right by her in ways you never could.

"Grow up happy. Make friends. Finish school, find a good job."

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms, grounding yourself in the pain, reminding yourself to keep going.

"Find true love."

Real love. A love that didn’t consume, didn’t possess, didn’t suffocate. A love that was free and kind and safe. A love that would never trap her in a cage the way you had been trapped.

"Just live."

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, willing the tears away. But they fell anyways.

"And I will try and live too. Despite us being apart from now on, I will always think of you. This moment doesn't define either of us."

It was a lie. You didn’t know how to live anymore. You didn’t know if you even wanted to try.

But if you told yourself enough times, maybe—just maybe—you’d start to believe it.

With a final, agonizing inhale, you turned your back to the mansion, forcing one foot in front of the other. Each step felt like a blade sinking into your heart, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

If you looked back now, you’d never leave. You went into a full sprint, not wanting to change your mind.

You had to leave.

Because Sylvia deserved a future.

Even if you weren’t in it.

[dear-ao3]

by popular request: how to write an email

a disclaimer that this is the specific kind of email you send when people are absolutely smiting you and you know a phone call or an in person meeting is not possible/will not help. like youre 12 emails deep in an email chain and going in circles. youve been re routed to 13 offices 4 separate times. those kind of emails.

credentials: ive taken something like 13 semesters of college (dont ask) and every single semester have had to fight at least 3 offices for varying reasons in order to take classes. (including one time where i was shorted 5k in financial aid. i ended up getting 200 more dollars than i needed in the end) also my dad taught me everything he knows about emails (hes a tradesman turned corporate man and most of his job consists of telling people (nicely) that what theyre doing sucks and makes absolutely no sense)

Step 1: figure out who the email needs to go go

there is nothing wrong with emailing 11 million people if it gets the job done. if someone isnt helping you and you Know that they Should Be feel free to start to copy their boss on the email. copy your boss on an email. (or advisor or whoever). even if you think the person might only be like Vaguely helpful, sometimes people know people.

also theres nothing wrong with emailing the same email to several departments. sometimes you have to make a lot of noise to get something done (again. as like a last resort. dont email 11 million people right out of the gate)

Step 2: remember to be Polite

a very tempting step to ignore especially when you are 13 thousand emails deep in problems. but! if you are not nice to them! they will probably continue to smite you in the future! you want to make friends! not foes! so no matter how much people are smiting you, try to resist the urge to be an utter dipshit because it will not get the job done. vent to a friend or a coworker and send your polite and nice email

Step 3: articulate the problem Clearly.

a very important step. especially if you are adding more people to your email chain. dont assume they know your exact problem. they probably are dealing with other problems. articulate Clearly what is happening, no matter how long the email may be. its far better to get a long and detailed email rather than a non helpful short one. that will only prolong the process of how long it takes the problem to get solved.

Step 4: cite your reciepts.

wildly important. send your screenshots your attachments your whatever the fucking fuck youve got. its always good to have a paper trail. this is also where you would state any previously attempts to have the problem Sorted (ie i reached out to x person on x y and z days about x problem and it is still not resolved). you would not believe how many people dont scroll down in an email, especially a forwarded/replied one. so summarize whats Down There in your most recent email

Step 5: use the appropriate lingo

you dont have to be Overly Formal but there are a few good Buzz Sentences that usually get the job done. for example:

As Per My Last Email: a great line. emphasizes that youve already mentioned this. and this is not the first time youre mentioning this point. also emphasizes that the Thing has yet to be solved

See Attached/See Below: under utilized. again. people do not open attachments and they do not scroll down. almost had a friend once fail a class because a professor gas lit them in an email chain saying they didnt receive the final paper when the paper itself was attached earlier in the email chain. be Painfully Literal. it pays off.

Help Me To Understand: this is one of my dad's favorite lines. it really shows that you have no fucking idea what the person youre emailing is getting at and youre offering them the opportunity to spell out their nonsense for you. so that you can then be like. well. clearly This is where the miscommunication lies. its a great line. has saved my ass many times. because it is not accusing it is just offering someone to understand. it does not attack. it just is.

Step 6: give a polite sign off.

something along the lines of "thank you in advance for any help" or "i look forward to hearing from you" does the job. something that sends the message you are not pissed to shit at them even if you are.

Step 7: follow up and follow up often.

polite email response time is 48 business hours/2 business days. if it has been longer than that you have every right to email back and say hi x person just following up on this email, have you had the chance to review it yet? again. keep it polite. you actually want them to help you. and if they still dont respond well then maybe its time to loop in a boss or a supervisor or whoever the hell else. dont be afraid to go above them if you need to. nothing wrong with getting shit done when it needs to get done.

and really, if all that fails, as my dad says, a little office bribe in the form of cookies has never hurt anyone :)

so an email. should be formatted something like this:

Greetings/Good Morning (Afternoon) (Person)

I hope this email finds you well (or something similar for a greeting). I am reaching out regarding X incident/problem/whatever the fuck it is. I have previously reached out to X person on X dates and (summary of whatever they did or didnt do). See below/attached emails/pdf/screenshot/document (if applicable)

(explanation of the problem in as simple and detailed terms as possible. have someone re read it to make sure that it cannot be misconstrued)

(explanation of what you are looking for as a solution)

Please help me to understand why this (solution) has not been able to be reached. (explain you are on x timeline if the situation is urgent)

Kind regards/Thank you for any help in advance/I look forward to hearing from you etc,

email signature

go forth and conquer your emails. remember, sometimes you have to be a squeaky wheel. and in my million cases of email sending, it has ALWAYS paid off and i have gotten the problems solved. dont be afraid of the emails they can help you.

[moonlightdreamzz]

Moments of Praise — Jungwon, Jake, Sunghoon.

bangchan and felix

GENRE. pureeeeee smut. freaky hours. 18+

AUTHORS NOTE. i am ovulating, so either im sorry or you’re welcome :)

Good girls get whatever they want—and you’re the greatest.

jungwon

you love so many things. you love tequila, you love cool sheets, you love the spring—the list goes on and on. but recently, someone asked you what do you love most? in the moment, you couldn’t make a decision because how could you choose? but right now, as jungwon’s hands are gripped around your neck—not tight enough to hurt you, but strong enough to remind you he owns you, and he’s stroking in and out of you—refusing the break eye contact not even for a second, you realize this is what you love most in this world.

he’s always so damn cocky when he’s fucking you, because he knows how amazing he makes you feel, everytime. he knows what you want—but he cares more about what you need. and you earned the di*k you’re getting right now.

he’s so drunk off your p*ssy, but that’ll never wipe the sly smirk off his face. all this, because you were so patient all day, and the cherry on top was you helping an elderly woman carry her groceries to her car. because that’s the kind of boyfriend you have—one that got so turned on at you being good.

you can’t form a proper sentence. that’s how good it feels. and he’s loving every second of it. you’re trying so hard, and all he can do is mock you—mimicking every expression you make to verbally tell him thank you. and he’s going exactly how you love it,—love him. slow and steady.

“i know baby, i know.” he utters. “daddy is fucking you so good, isn’t he? mhm.” a whimper slips out of his pretty lips, which only adds onto your incoming orgasm.

“baby—“ you finally manage to get our “why do you—always—fuck me so goooood. oh my—“ you wanted so badly to finish, but he clearly likes you like this. slutted out and unable to focus. only able to feel him and everything he’s doing to you. his free hand places itself on your clit, rubbing gentle circles around it. as if the pleasure you were already feeling wasn’t good enough for jungwon.

“good girls, deserve good dick. and you, baby?” he chuckles before biting his lip and looking at you as if your hole is the best thing since sliced bread, “you’re such a good fucking good girl. so fucking patient. so kind. this pussy is everything I’ve ever wanted in life. you’re so fucking wet. so fucking good—ah.”

“its too good, daddy. i can’t take it. i can’t.” you’re practically hyperventilating. you didn’t know anything could feel this good. you’re seeing stars and he’s living for it.

“who can’t take it? hm? you baby? because my girl can do anything she puts her mind to. so take this fucking dick.”

are his last words before you both cum all over the each-other.

jake

his members lay asleep, their faces—as well as his and yours glowing from the tv that’s still playing the movie jungwon chose earlier. to the naked eye, you and jake look like two people utterly in love, making deep eye contact because you’re so infatuated with each other. this isn’t wrong, but it also isn’t the reason why the two of you are staring at eachother in the dark.

the real reason, is because jake’s hands are buried deep in your panties, and he’s determined to make you cum in your jeans, infront of everyone. you knew at some point tonight he’d sneak you away to be inside you, but like this? but at the same time, you’d be lying if you said this isn’t the sexiest thing you’ve ever done. and you weren’t rude. you were raised to always be grateful for gifts.

he’s so fucking focused. and he’s doing so good. your eyes can’t figure out if they want to be open or closed and you wish you could grind in his hand, but that would wake somebody up. there’s a part of you that wants to stop him because of the way your body reacts when you or**sm, but as always, your boyfriend is two steps ahead of you.

“i need you to.” he utters, nothing short of desperation resting on his eyes. “I won’t stop until you do.”

all you can do is nod, because you’re so close. that doesn’t stop his mouth from running.

“yeah.” he assures you—his aussie accent thick. “you’re so wet, baby. and that makes me so happy.” he places your hand on his length, that is rock solid. “you like the fact that they can see you if they wanted, don’t you? i know i do.” “can’t wait to make you lick it off my fingers.” “wake em up baby. wake em up baby.” he grunts, resting his forehead on yours but eyes refusing to disconnect. you practically burst all over his fingers, your body is shaking, and you can’t help but hit his arm over and over because fuck you, jake. now.

sunghoon

sunghoon is so full of himself. he does what he wants, when he wants, and if the world isn’t revolving around him? then the world must’ve vanished. and he’s no different right now—arms tucked cockily behind his head while you bounce up and down on his length. the only thing he’s wearing is a smug look on his face, as if to say—of course the second I called, you answered. and of course, the minute I told you to strip and cum all over me, you went straight to work. because I own you and everyone else.

“i fucking hate you.” you moan loudly. but you don’t. and he knows you don’t too. that’s why all he does he chuckle in a seductive tone before whispering, “i love you too, baby.”

when he confesses his love for you, whether it’s real love behind the words or not, it always puts you in a mode. like you have to show him that if he doesn’t, he’s about to. “you love me?” you whisper, your pleading eyes turning into something much more devious. your bouncing turns for his pleasure and his eyes widen in disbelief of how amazing you feel and look right now.

“mhm.” he nods aggressively. you increase your speed and the intensity of each movement.

“you fucking love me?” you question again—laughing at him now.

it was like he was losing consciousness the way his eyes couldn’t hold still but his body was frozen from the pleasure. “yesss—oh, baby. ugh.”

“tell me why you love me.” you demand.

“becau—because you’re so pretty. and you always make daddy feel so good! your pu**y—baby please. mmm always so wet and—tight. make me cum please please please. i love you so much. please I’ll do anything for it please don’t stop!” he squeals out, before shooting his seed inside you.

[myth1cs]

Love Warning (Hirai Momo x M!Reader)

A bit longer, a little more story with smut at the end to wrap it up.

Word Count: 5,428

"Y/N you can't be serious! Do you know how much I pay you?!"

"Momo it isn't about the money."

You were Momo's secretary ... well not for much longer. You decided you wanted to do more with your life and get a different job. You weren't leaving because your new job would pay more but because it was something you were generally interested in. Being a secretary behind a desk all day every day just wasn't your type of life style.

When you came to that realization you submitted your 2 week notice to Momo and that's what led you to this situation.

"Come on Y/N just name your price and I'll get it for you. Just please don't leave the company you're the best secretary I've had."

"Its not about that. I'm just so tired of spending my life behind a desk looking at the computer."

Momo grabbed your shoulders and looked you dead in the eye. "Y/N please I can't lose you. I don't think I'll ever find someone with half of the expertise that you have."

A soft sigh left you. You fully understood the company was pretty much being carried by you and it would likely see a loss of income if you left but didn't want this to be the reason that you continue to live a boring life.

"My decision is final Momo. I won't change my mind, please understand my decision." You pushed Momo's hands off of your shoulder and left her office.

As soon as you closed the door Momo clenched her fist. "You filthy swine Y/N! After everything I've done for you this is how you repay me? I helped you pay off your student loans, helped you find your first house, I even extended your deadlines which made all the investors yell at me. You won't be leaving the company."

The following day

You walked into work just like any day. You wanted to avoid talking to Momo as much as possible. It's not that you didn't want to see her its just that you didn't want to have any more unnecessary arguing between you two.

"Y/N it's good to see you. How have you been?" Your coworker Han Ji-sung greeted you. It was strange though. Usually Han is someone who keeps to himself. Usually he doesn't interact with you or anyone for that matter so why was he suddenly being talkative towards you?

"I'm fine Han and you?"

"I've been doing well Y/N. I've finally decided to start talking to others instead of being locked inside my cubicle all day."

"Really? I'm glad to hear that."

"Want to grab a snack in the break room with me before you get to work?"

"Sure why not. I skipped breakfast this morning so I could go for a quick snack."

You walked with Han into the break room only to realize it was different from the last time you saw it. Now there were a variety of things in there from vending machines, arcade games, a TV, consoles, and even a variety of board games. "Since when did this room get a renovation?"

"Didn't you hear? Momo actually went ahead and renovated the break room after we all left. It must've cost her a lot of money huh?"

"Momo did all of this?" To say you were a bit shocked would be an understatement. You weren't dumb you knew that she likely did all of this to encourage you to stay but you didn't know she would go this far.

"Honestly I'm glad to know that our boss actually cares about our well being. I always felt like she gave off cold vibes but I'm glad I was proven wrong."

"She probably doesn't care much for you, she's likely just doing this to convince me to stay." You thought to yourself. You didn't have the heart to tell Han that Momo likely wasn't doing this out of the kindness of her own heart.

"Yeah ... she really is a great boss huh?"

"Are those my two favorite employees Han and Y/N? It's so nice to see you two here." Momo went up to the both of you and put one of her hands on Han's shoulder and the other on yours.

"Han go ahead and go home today you deserve it."

"A-are you sure Mrs. Hirai?"

"Of course now go ahead and go home."

You waited for Han to leave before you spoke up. "Momo isn't this a bit too much?"

"Mhm? What do you mean Y/N?"

"Don't act dumb. I know you did this to try to keep me here."

"Y/N this isn't about you. I did this cause I thought that the break room could use a renovation."

"H-have you been sleeping?" You noticed Momo sounded tired. You could tell she was acting energetic. Was she really neglecting sleep over you leaving?

"What? Of course I have! What kind of question is that?!"

You let out a sigh filled with concern "Momo I understand you want me to stay but still you shouldn't be doing this to yourself."

She let out a soft chuckle "I already told you it isn't about that. I respect your decision. I'll be in my office if you need me."

What should you say? Should you stop her? "No there's always the chance I'm wrong. Her business doesn't involve me." is what you thought to yourself but you couldn't shake a nagging feeling in your head. You had a feeling you'd find out what it is sooner rather than later.

-

That Night

You were supposed to have clocked out an hour and a half ago. But here you were hiding under your desk waiting for everyone to leave. You wanted proof, you had to see it with your own eyes. Was Momo really neglecting sleep?

The last employee Yu Jimin (Karina) left and you peaked over your desk.

"She's the last one. Now I'm alone, what could convince Y/N to stay? Ah I know but I need to start now or else I won't finish in time."

Momo grabbed her keys for her car and left the office.

"Sh-shes really doing this to keep me around. Shit this is bad I have to make a choice where neither option is good I either stay and continue doing a job I hate for the rest of my life or I leave. But I can't stand watching this. She is probably stressed out because of me so leaving isn't an option but neither is staying here!"

Unsure what to do you stayed around and waited for Momo to return. "Shit, shit, shit what do I do? Why are you stubborn Momo just give up on me I'm not worth it."

After waiting a while you finally heard the doors open.

"What are in the bags she's carrying?"

"Fuck I got lost in the store. I need to get started now."

Momo rushed into the office and started to get what she bought out of the bags. It was ... decorations?

She went around and decorated the office to make it look nice. "But what could possibly be the occasion?" You questioned yourself. You couldn't do anything but watch as your boss ran around putting up decorations.

As much as it pained you seeing your boss run around even though she was clearly tired you were also getting tired. "No not now." you thought to yourself. But it didn't last long eventually your tiredness got the best of you and you fell asleep.

-

Morning

Momo finished decorating the office. She never noticed you hiding under your desk likely due to her exhaustion. You woke up sitting on the cold floor cramped under your desk.

"Ouch I'm never sleeping on the floor again."

You picked yourself up and looked around. You quickly noticed the decorations in your office and decided to check the time. It was still before opening hours. You started to wonder where Momo was in all of this and how she didn't find you when she was decorating your office.

But did you really have time to ponder that? Shouldn't you try to leave before Momo catches you in the building?

As if right in queue Momo walked in the building carrying bags. "Hopefully they should stay warm until Y/N gets here. If not I hope he's okay with reheated food."

"She brought food? But why?" Many questions raced through your head and you considered if you should confront her about this. "Should I confront her? No if I try to confront her now she'll likely be more defensive. If I want to get a real answer from her I'm going to have to do it at the right moment but when would be a good moment for me to get her to tell me the truth." For you this was beyond trying to keep you in the company. Momo must have ulterior motives for trying to keep you around. "Even if she thinks I'm a good employee worth keeping around she wouldn't go to this length to get me to stay so what is it?"

"Maybe I should try to get her to come out and drink with me. But if I do it suddenly she might get suspicious. Ah I got it I'll do it on my last day here at work and will just use the fact that it's my last day as an excuse."

You finally had a plan in mind to get the "truth" from Momo. Now you just had to keep hiding until your shift started so you could "suddenly" show up.

Momo was walking by putting in the finishing touches but suddenly your stomach growled. Since you skipped dinner by staying in the office and hadn't had breakfast you were hungry and your stomach was trying to tell you that but it unintentionally alerted Momo that someone was in the office building. "Is someone there?"

You tried to think of something to do but it was too late she was already heading towards your location. You did the only thing you could think of and that was to pretend you were still asleep.

"Y/N?!"

She found you sitting under your desk.

"Guess he must've fell asleep. But why did he choose to sleep under his desk?" She had many questions but didn't want to disturb you. "Come on Y/N let me put you on the couch." Momo picked you up and carried you to the break room.

But you did notice something while she was carrying you. It was almost as if your heart was speeding up when she laid her hands on you. You also noticed her smell, she smelled perfect. You wanted to be able to smell her scent all day long and were a bit sad when she finally laid you down on the couch in the break room.

"I should've gotten a blanket for the break room" Momo thought to herself. She decided on taking off her jacket and used it to cover you in order to keep you warm.

Momo got a good look at you "Ugh Y/N why do you have to be so ... wait he's sleeping and no one is around so before he wakes up I could ... no wait what am I thinking?! I shouldn't think this!"

She ran out of the break room and that was your queue to "wake up."

Before you got up you took a moment to compose yourself. Your heart was still beating fast from when she carried you to the break room. "All she did was carry me so why is my heart beating fast?"

After a few minutes you were able to compose yourself and left the break room. It was 20 minutes before the office opened.

You didn't see Momo anywhere so you decided to check her office. As you made your way to the office you noticed how the building was decorated. She must've put in a lot of effort while you were sleeping. Honestly you were surprised she did all of this on her own.

Walking up to her door took a deep breath and lightly knocked on her door. "Y/N is that you? Come in."

Opening the door you saw Momo behind her desk working. "I see you finally woke up. Were you crunching numbers too hard yesterday and decided to take a nap under your desk?" You weren't expecting her to have the current demeanor she had but decided to go along with it.

"Yeah I guess I was overworking myself. It didn't help that I stayed up until 1am the night before."

"Geeze Y/N you tell me to get better sleep when I think you should be focusing on yourself."

"Actually I saw the building was decorated did you-"

"No it wasn't me. I actually hired people to come and decorate it."

"You're lying." You thought to yourself.

"What's the occasion?"

"Well today is Karina's birthday. I think it would be a nice change if from now on the building was decorated for peoples birthdays."

"Oh really? Well that's nice but what event should we hold to celebrate?"

"Event?"

"Well yeah, Are you a boring person? I bet you're the type of person that held the most boring parties during college."

"That's not true Y/N! I am a fun person to be around!"

"Prove it to me then."

"How do you want me to prove it to you?"

"Mhm ... How about we go to the bar on my last day. It'll be my treat."

"Fine, I'll show you just how fun of a person I can be Y/N."

"Well I'll see you then Momo."

"Y/N wait do you want to get breakfast with me?"

"Breakfast?"

"Since it'll be a few more minutes before work starts I thought it'd be a nice gesture."

Before you could answer your stomach growled and Momo took that as a yes before you said so. She grabbed your hand "Alright let's go!"

There it was again the butterflies you felt. As Momo was leading you somewhere you were stuck looking at her face, her warm soft hand was wrapped around yours and you were hoping she wouldn't let go.

-

"We're here Y/N. Let's eat inside!" She let go of your hand which made you a little upset inside.

"Welcome, What would you two like to order?"

-

Both of you were seated at a table waiting for your food. Momo was looking around the area and decided to look at the ceiling.

"Y/N look we're under a mistletoe! Should we kiss?"

"I - I - uhm..." Your face was turning red. You looked up and confirmed that you both were sitting under a mistletoe. You knew she said it in a joking manner and likely wasn't being serious but a part of you was hoping she was being serious.

Momo was leaning forward slowly. You noticed and also started to lean forward.

Before your lips could meet the waiter came to deliver the breakfast you both ordered.

They set your food on the table and smiled "I'm sorry am I interrupting something?"

That was enough to snap both you and Momo back into your current situation which caused both of you to jump back on your seats.

"No wait it isn't what it looks like!" Momo exclaimed.

"Don't worry couples come here to share romantic moments all the time."

Unsure of whether you should correct them you looked at Momo to see if she would take the initiative to do but she gave you the same look.

"Well if that's all I'll leave you both to it."

"Y - Y/N I'm sorry I got carried away."

"No I don't mind."

Eating in silence you were waiting to see if Momo would break the silence or if maybe you should.

"Uhm anyways Y/N ... how would you suggest I dress for when we go out drinking?"

"Just anything you want."

"So just whatever I find comfortable?"

"Yeah, It's supposed to be a relaxing event for us so just whatever you want to wear will work."

After finishing breakfast you both returned to the office.

-

5 days until Y/N's last day

You wanted to talk about one of your coworkers to see if anyone else has noticed Momo's change in behavior.

"Mina sorry to bother you while your on break but do you have a minute?"

Myoui Mina was the one directly below you. She was also the person who'd most likely replace you once you left.

She put her phone in her pocket before looking up at you "Go ahead Y/N what's up?"

"Have you noticed Momo's behavior change in the past week or so?"

"Yeah I thought that much was obvious."

"W-wait you knew and you haven't done anything about it?"

"Y/N our job is to sit behind the computer and type some numbers in every now and then. It's better not to get involved in things that don't relate directly to us. You might find something you don't like."

"What are you saying?! Momo could be going through some hard times and you're okay with doing nothing?"

"Even she's replaceable."

"You piece of-"

"Calm down Y/N everything is going to be fine."

"And I'm assuming you know more than you're letting on."

"Of course, but you already know you won't get that information out of me."

"Pft ... bitch."

"Y/N if I may ask why do you care so much? After all your leaving in five days, whether or not this company burns to the ground shouldn't be of any concern to you."

"I - I just care alright? It's basic human sympathy."

"No it's not that. You have never been that type of person. Wait don't tell me you have a little crush on our boss don't you Y/N?"

"What?! No I don't!"

Mina smiled at you. She walked up to you and you started taking steps back until you hit the wall. Her arms trapped you against it and you felt her breath hit your neck.

"Let me give you a piece of advice Y/N. Give up or you might regret what you find."

"What are you-"

In a swift motion Mina kissed your lips briefly. They were soft and moist but as quickly as they came they left.

"If you insist on pursuing what you're doing even after my warning then get used to listening and obeying. She doesn't like the defiant type."

"She? Mina what are you-"

"Sorry Y/N but I'm on the clock again. Consider my kiss a "good luck" charm."

Mina left the break room and went back to her office and you were still against the wall in shock from the events that had just transpired.

"Y/N did you just see a ghost or what?"

"Huh?! Karina when did you get in here?"

You were so caught up in your thoughts you didn't realize Karina walked in the break room.

"You didn't notice me? Now I'm really wondering what's been on your mind."

"What do you know about Mina?"

"Oh I see what's happening here."

"You do?"

"You have a crush on Mina and you blew it just now."

"No you have it all wrong!"

"That's why Mina left looking like that. She was probably pissed off at your lackluster attempt of a pickup line. Don't worry Y/N since I'm such a good co-worker I'll teach you what to do so you can get a date with her."

"Would you look at the time I should actually get going."

"Nuh uh Y/N your staying with me."

Karina proceeded to grab your shoulders and kept you occupied for the rest of your break.

-

Day 0

You were at your house getting ready for the night with Momo. You dressed in what you thought was a nice mix casual and somewhat professional.

Heading out to the bar you were hoping that Momo would open up about what's been troubling her in a more casual setting. If anything else her getting drunk should get her to be more honest.

Finally you arrived and called Momo "Hey I'm here where are you?"

"I'll be there in a bit, just hang on tight for me Y/N."

You let out a sigh and decided to go ahead and go inside. Picking a table in the corner you waited for her to arrive and you didn't have to wait long.

Momo finally arrived but you were a bit surprised by her choice of clothing. From the hat, to the jeans, the jacket, and the tie that covered her cleavage it was all very expressive of her body. Something that you never thought you would catch your boss in.

"Ah there you are Y/N."

She sat down next to you and you had to use every ounce of will power to avoid looking at her chest.

"Y/N I really hoped you would have changed your mind by now but you haven't."

"Mhm yeah sorry but my decision is final."

You noticed something in her eyes once you said that. Almost as if what you said triggered something in her.

"Well besides that let's celebrate you, tonight goes to a better future for you Y/N!"

"Let's go ahead and order our drinks."

-

She has a better alcohol tolerance than you thought. Every time you tried to change the conversation she changed it right back to whatever you were talking about before.

You knew she was still sober enough and you felt like you couldn't drink anymore before you started to get seriously drunk and forget why you invited her out to begin with.

"Are you done Y/N? Do you want to call it a night?"

"No I'm not done yet. I'll get myself another drink."

"I'm not making this night go to waste!"

As you sipped down another glass you started feeling dizzy. But when you looked at Momo you realized she was also starting to feel side effects from the alcohol.

"Hey anyways Momo why don't you want me to leave so badly?" You had to ask now or else you would risk letting yourself get wasted.

"Because I said so!"

"Oh so she's that type of drunk." you thought to yourself.

"I bet I can drink more than you Momo."

"No you cannot Y/N and I'll prove it!"

She grabbed another glass and drank it completely in a few seconds. To see just how drunk she was you wondered if you could hand her one of your glasses and get her to drink it.

Without hesitation she grabbed the glass you handed her and downed it.

"Give me more Y/N I'll drink it!"

"Don't you think you've had enough?"

"No now give me more!"

Momo was starting make a scene so you decided to get her to out of their. "Yah where do you think you're taking me I wasn't done!"

Ignoring her yelling you paid the bill and dragged her out of the building despite her protest.

"Where do you live Momo I'm taking you home."

"I'm not telling! Bring me back to the bar I wasn't finished."

You sighed and figured you'd have to bring her back to your place instead.

The usual small walk to your home felt more like half an hour. "Y/N let me go!" Momo repeated all the way back to your home.

Finally you arrived back home while holding her arm. "Can you calm down?!"

"Nooooo Y/NNN I'm not calming dowwnn!"

"Can ask you something Momo?"

"Not until you get me my drink!"

You sighed and got the bottle of alcohol you had. Getting it out and pouring her a shot and handing it to her. "Now can I ask questions?"

She took a sip before answering you "Fine Y/N-ie just cause you gave me this."

"Cause I looovve you Y/N. Do you know how annoying it is to try to convince your favorite employee that you have a crush on to stay only for them to end up leaving?!"

"You have a crush on me?"

"Of course Y/N but I don't think I'll ever tell you though."

You were shocked. Your boss was in love with you this whole time? "Momo I don't know what to say."

Out of the blue Momo got up and made her way to you. "You know how fucking annoying it is to go and do so much and not have it pay off Y/N?"

"Momo I-"

Before you were able to finish talking she used her finger to squeeze your cheeks. "I don't remember giving you permission to speak Y/N. I don't like the defiant type."

As she spoke those words a memory came back to your mind.

"If you insist on pursuing what you're doing even after my warning then get used to listening and obeying. She doesn't like the defiant type."

Quickly you shut your mouth not daring to speak.

Momo saw what you did and chuckled.

"Did Mina tell you that you should obey me?"

"H-how did you know?"

"How about I show you instead of telling you?"

She quickly shoved you to the floor before you could process her words. A loud "thud" sound echoed through your house and you started to feel pain.

"Ouch!"

Momo took off her top and tie but left her jacket on. Her breasts were now fully exposed for you to see.

"I would let you play with these but since you're no longer my employee then I guess I can't let you." She said this with a grin on her face. Playing with herself and the only thing she let you do was watch.

Momo could see your eagerness to touch her in your eyes. "P-please?"

"Is my baby that desperate to touch a girl's breast? But I thought you said your decision was final or did you change your mind?"

"I changed my mind! Please Momo I can't take the teasing."

"Your erection is growing baby. Want help with that."

"Yes!"

"Hm no. Well at least not on your terms."

Momo was having a power trip. Flaunting her big breasts in front of you and not letting you get the relief you wanted. She laid on you, her breast were being pressed up against you and she started kissing your neck.

"Tomorrow let everyone know who owns you."

"But I have to go shopping tomorrow I don't want everyone to know-"

She grabbed your throat and squeezed it making you unable to breathe. "Disobey me one more time without permission and I'll make you fucking regret it Y/N. Do you understand?"

Tears fell down your eyes and you felt yourself losing consciousness. "Yes I understand please let me breathe!"

"Good now, regarding your statement, I don't care. Let everyone in public know what happened today."

She continued marking you and she didn't stop until your whole face was covered with hickeys.

"Any statements you want to get out before I continue Y/N?"

A little confused on why she was suddenly allowing you to ask a question you asked the first question you could think of "Why are you still wearing the hat and jacket?".

"I like this hat. And the jacket excites me. It makes me feel like we're in my office and I'm fucking you. Obviously I wouldn't dare to actually do it there but it adds to the role-play I guess. By the way want anything else? Maybe a drink or a snack?"

"N-no I'm fine Momo."

Although she was clearly in control over you she still took the time to make sure you weren't in total misery. She still cared about your well-being and a part of you felt slightly relieved that even in an intoxicated state she would still consider your feelings.

Momo took off her pants revealing that she wasn't wearing anything underneath. "Finger me." Not one to question her authority you put 2 fingers in and went at a moderate pace so not to discomfort her.

"Mhm so obedient Y/N but slow down the pace a little bit it feels uncomfortable."

You listened to her and slowed your thrust into her pussy. "Yeah just like that Y/N keep that pace for me."

She pulled off your pants and underwear then proceeded to slowly move her hand along your hardening cock.

Her fingers were so soft yet they ignited something in you. Your sensitive cock was hardening with the feeling of her precious hands running along your cock.

"Speed up your pace and I'll pump your cock faster."

Wanting to release your cum you thrusted your fingers into her wet pussy. Keeping her word she pumped your cock faster as your speed increased.

Momo started playing with her nipples and moans came out of her. "Ugh ~ Ah" Twisting and turning her body from the feelings she was getting you were also getting harder from the feeling of her weight shifting on you. "I can't believe I am fingering my boss while watching her play with herself on top of me!"

"I'm cumming!" Your boss released her cum all over you. Her fluids stained the shirt and fingers and shortly after your semen ejaculated from your cock.

Momo moved, now she was sitting on your face "Lick my pussy while I'm still sensitive!"

You inserted your tongue into her pussy and you licked all around her insides. You got a little daring and tried to grab her breasts.

Out of nowhere she grabbed your wrists all of a sudden.

"You piece of shit. Did I allow you to touch me?"

Fear filled your body and you were unable to move. The room was silent for what felt like hours but was only a few seconds.

"Speak to me you fucking bitch!"

"No you didn't!" Your voice was shaky. Momo could hear the fear that was in your voice.

"Left or right?"

"Right?"

Momo let go of your right wrist and twisted your left wrist so hard until it broke.

"Ow fuck!"

"Maybe this will make you learn your lesson. Now lick my pussy."

Not wanting to lose your other wrist you licked her pussy like your life depended on it. Tears fell down your face from the pain you felt.

Moans fell out of Momo's mouth not caring about whatever pain you could be in. After a few minutes her juices flowed out of her pussy and went in your mouth.

The stream lasted so long you were choking on her cum. Eventually you were able to cough up her cum and avoided death by Momo's cum.

"You taste amazing boss." you said while panting.

She got off your face and kissed you. Taking in her own fluids with her tongue, you were able to taste the sweat dripping off of Momo's face.

Momo got off you and laid on the floor before she went to sleep.

Being too tired you slept on the floor with Momo by your side.

-

You were woken up by a loud scream.

"Y/N what happened?!"

Being too tired to respond you just stayed silent.

Momo started to piece together what happened as she saw her breasts and your cock out along with her mouth tasting like alcohol.

"Oh Y/N I'm so sorry I don't know what came over me!"

"Can you drive me to a hospital? My wrist still hurts after you broke it."

"I broke your wrist?!"

-

You and Momo arrived back at work shortly after your hospital visit. She insisted you don't work due to your broken wrist and with your face being covered in hickeys but you felt guilty for making her drink with you.

As you were walking to your office you heard someone call your name. "Long time no see Y/N."

Turning around you saw Mina

"Momo convince you to stay?"

She ignored the hickeyes all over your face but you weren't about to bring them up.

"Y-yeah."

"Was part of convincing you breaking your wrist?"

"You could say that."

Mina strutted towards you going next to your ear "It's not fair Momo got her turn with you. She won't mind if I share you with her so come to my office during your break Y/N."

Giving you a peck on your cheek before she walked away. She left you standing in the hallway.

"Wait how does she know so much about Momo?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was actually supposed to be a shorter smut (2,000-ish words) but I got carried away with the story which caused me to delay it.

Not sure if anyone caught it so I'll say it. In the beginning Y/N said "I'm never sleeping on the floor again" but ended up sleeping on the floor again. I just thought it was funny.

-

Unfortunately this wasn't a 20 chapter series. (I really wanted it to, but there's no way I would fit smut in every chapter.)

[idkdudethisisntpermanent]

Keep Your Eyes on Me - pt.ii

tara carpenter x female reader

part i | part ii

summary: Tara begins to question her own emotions, especially when the thought of losing Y/n's attention unexpectedly stirs something deeper.

word count: 5.3k

warnings: slight violence

————

"Is Y/n dying?" Mindy asks with genuine curiosity looking back at you and Tara. "What the fuck is wrong with her face?"

The five of you had just gotten off the subway and exited the station, but your mind was still stuck a few moments behind. Tara had wrapped her arm around yours and spoken the five words that made your heart skip a beat: Keep your eyes on me.

Since then, you hadn’t been able to function. Stiff as a board, your brain was in a daze, replaying those words over and over. Now, you were walking aimlessly, arm-in-arm with Tara, trailing behind Mindy, Chad, and Sam, who were a good distance ahead.

"I think it might have something to do with Tara," Chad chimes in, glancing back at you both.

That comment got Sam's attention and she finally turned to see what was happening. "Yikes she does look—hold on why would Tara be responsible for whatever is going on with Y/n's face?" She asks with a raised brow, looking at the twins genuinely confused.

"Look at her arm," Chad says, pointing at Tara. "It’s wrapped around Y/n’s."

"She's looking up at her like Y/n put the stars in the sky," Mindy laughs.

Sam squints her eyes still confused. "So? Tara's finally warming up to Y/n. I spoke to her a few weeks ago about how Y/n is good for her."

"Her arm is around Y/n's," Chad states again with more emphasis.

"I hold my friends by their arm all the time," Sam shrugs like it's no big deal.

"Oh honey... did you say friends?" Mindy says gently wrapping her arm around Sam's shoulders like she was trying to soften the blow. "You know Y/n has the hots for your sister right?"

Sam wasn't stupid. There was instances in the last six months where the thought had crossed her mind. The way you always glanced at Tara after one of Mindy’s outrageous jokes, just to see her reaction. The way you went silent every time Tara got too close. The way your cheeks flushed crimson whenever Tara did something particularly sweet or kind.

Sam sighs. Deep down, she knew. The way you were attentive to Tara wasn’t just friendly—it was something more.

When she’d encouraged Tara to give you a chance, it wasn’t about dating—it was about letting someone in, letting someone care for her. But now, watching you and Tara in this new light, the possibility of her little sister entering her first relationship suddenly felt real.

That’s what unnerved her. Not you, specifically. She liked you. And if anyone was going to date Tara, she was glad it would be you.

"Don’t worry, Sam," Chad says, trying to reassure her. "Y/n’s a total dork. She can’t even admit to herself that she likes Tara. She just genuinely cares about her, even if she only gets to do that as a friend."

"Dude," Mindy cuts in, laughing so hard she’s clutching her stomach, "you literally helped Y/n get into your sister’s pants!"

“You gave Y/n first class tickets to take your sister to Pound town!” she adds in between laughs.

Chad groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Why are you like this?"

Sam felt her blood run cold. She changed her mind—maybe she did have a problem with you.

————

Meanwhile, about twenty steps behind the group, the younger Carpenter sister was freaking out for a completely different reason.

Sure, she hadn’t expected to enjoy the feeling of her hand resting on your bicep this much. That was its own problem. But what was really throwing her off was the deafening silence. Why weren’t you saying anything?

She’d called your name a few times now, but you hadn’t so much as blinked in response. She considered taking her arm away. Maybe she’d overstepped. It had been a bold move—not just saying what she did but closing the space between you two like this.

It was a stark contrast from what's the usual between you two—her throwing violent insults your way, half the time just to see how you’d react.

Okay maybe it makes sense why you weren't responding. Still, was it too much to ask for a little reaction?

Fearing she’d made you uncomfortable, Tara began to pull her arm away.

"No! Wait—" you blurt out, snapping out of your daze at the loss of contact. The words hang in the air, and the realization of what you just said slaps you in the face. Your face flushes red. "I mean—wait, not no! You can keep your hands to yourself if you want!" you stammer, awkwardly backpedaling as you take a step closer to the road to create a distance between you two.

She just told you that you can keep your eyes on her and you told her she can keep her hands to herself.

In that moment, you’d honestly prefer to be hit by a car than embarrass yourself any further in front of Tara.

You brace yourself, expecting her to roll her eyes, to call you an imbecile, to tell you to get over yourself. Maybe she’d point out that she doesn’t need you to give her permission to keep her hands to herself—that she has full autonomy. Or worse, she’d say something cutting, like how she’d never touch you in a million years, even though she was the one who had grabbed your arm in the first place.

But instead, she laughs.

And it’s not a mean laugh. It’s soft, warm, and unexpectedly genuine, catching you completely off guard.

Not that you were complaining, but

What the fuck is she doing?

————

"What the fuck am I doing?" Tara mumbles to herself.

“That’s what I want to know,” Mindy fires back with a teasing smirk, leaning closer to Tara who was seated across her on the table.

Fortunately for you, soon after you heard the melodic sound of Tara’s laugh that made your brain short-circuit, the bar you were all heading to came into view giving you the perfect excuse not to dwell on it—or, more accurately, to avoid melting into a puddle of feelings. For the first time ever, Tara had laughed because of something you did, and the thought alone made your heart do a happy little somersault.

Upon entering the dive bar, you excused yourself to go to the bathroom while the rest of the group found a table to be seated at. Thankfully, the bathroom was empty, so you were able to think out loud.

“What even is my life right now?” you muttered to yourself as you leaned over the sink with a goofy smile. Catching your reflection in the mirror, your face was beet fucking red. Oh no. Did Tara notice how red you were? You groaned, covering your face with your hands.

How did things change so fast? How had it gone from her hating your guts, calling you Ghostface at every opportunity, and throwing insults your way—barely even sparing you a glance—to this?

Mindy had told you to stop chasing Tara, to ignore her, to let her come to you. You’d managed to stick to that advice for maybe an hour, and somehow, this was where it got you.

Not that you were complaining—oh, you definitely weren’t—but wow, this was a lot to handle. Your heart felt like it might burst from how warm and fluttery it was. Tara was kind of adorable… and terrifying. Mostly adorable. Okay, maybe all adorable.

"Fuck, this girl is going to be the death of me."

————

Outside, Mindy, Chad, and Tara stayed at the table while Sam headed to the bar to scope out the scene.

"Sooo… did I just see you holding Y/n’s arm?" Mindy asked, probing Tara for more answers.

Tara groaned dramatically before dropping her head onto the table with a quiet thud. "Yes," she mumbled, her voice muffled against the surface.

"What the hell happened in the two weeks we didn't hang?" Chad questions. "You couldn't stand her last time we hung out. And you're pulling the Carpenter rizz?"

"I don’t know!" Tara whined, her words still muffled by the table." Sam talked to me okay? And I guess I was being harsh to Y/n."

"Uh-huh, sure," Mindy replied, her grin widening. "But that still doesn’t explain why you were holding her arm. That’s a huge leap from ‘I hate Y/n, she’s totally Ghostface,’ to... this." Mindy explained, clearly enjoying the situation.

"Unless," Chad cut in, his grin matching Mindy’s as he wiggled his eyebrows, "there was always some hidden feelings under your 'supposed' hatred for her..."

Tara’s face shot up from the table, bright red as she glared at them. "There are no hidden feelings!"

Mindy gasped, clutching her chest like she’d uncovered a scandal. "Oh my God, there totally is! Admit it, Tara—you’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time!"

"Absolutely not!" Tara protested, her voice climbing an octave.

"You have," Chad teased, leaning closer with a conspiratorial whisper. "And you loved it."

Tara groaned again, hiding her face in her hands, as Mindy and Chad erupted into laughter.

"Shut up!" Tara muttered, but the small smile tugging at the corners of her lips betrayed her completely. She sighed, trying to compose herself. "I don't like her like that, okay? She was just ignoring me today, and... I guess it sucked not having her care about me like she usually does," she mumbled, hoping the explanation would get the twins off her back.

"Yeah, that makes sense," Mindy replied casually to Tara’s surprise. Well, that was easy.

But then Mindy smirked, leaning back in her chair. "So, it shouldn’t bother you that Y/n’s getting hit on at the bar right now, huh?"

Tara froze. "What?" she snapped, whipping her head around so fast it was a miracle she didn’t pull something. Her eyes darted frantically toward the bar. "Where is she?"

The brunette turned back around so Mindy could answer her, and that’s when she realized—she’d walked right into her trap.

Mindy burst into laughter, slapping the table. "Oh my God, you’re so obvious!"

Tara frowned and crossed her arms as Chad joined in on the laughter, both of them clearly enjoying how flustered she’d become.

————

You finally leave the bathroom once you feel like you can function like a normal human being again. It doesn’t take long to spot your friends at their table—sometimes, you swear you have a built-in Tara radar, always able to sense exactly where she is.

As you make your way over, your eyes are drawn to her, bathed in the soft red glow of the bar lights. She looks stunning, her features highlighted by the warm hue. She’s speaking animatedly to the twins, her hands flying up to cover her face in between bursts of conversation, a mix of shyness and excitement that makes her even more captivating.

Sometimes you wish you weren't the awkward human you were, and met Tara in better circumstances. A world where Ghostface didn't exist as well. Maybe then—maybe then you two could be something?

Your heart leapt at the thought. And you felt almost guilty for thinking the way you do. You never wanted it to seem like you only treated Tara with kindness because you had some sort of ulterior motive. It made you feel guilty. But it was getting difficult denying it any further. Maybe it was seeing her in this setting, so relaxed, so beautiful—maybe it was her touch and words earlier that sealed your fate.

But all you wanted right now was to slide into that booth beside her, feel her hand on your arm again, and be the person she could lean on.

You really liked Tara.

And you also really needed a drink.

————

"Okay, hold on—help me out here," Mindy says, holding her hands up. "If you do have some kind of interest in her, then why, and I say this with love, were you such a massive dick to her?"

Tara groans, letting her head drop back dramatically against the booth. "I wasn’t trying to be! It just... happened," she mumbles, rubbing her hands over her face, as if she could wipe away the embarrassment. "I don’t know, okay? She just gets under my skin. She’s so infuriatingly... nice. And smug. And—"

"Hot?" Chad offers with a teasing grin, earning a glare from Tara.

"I wasn’t going to say that!" Tara snaps defensively, though the red creeping up her neck betrays her.

Mindy snorts. "Oh, sure. That’s why you grabbed her arm like she was the last person on Earth. Real subtle Carpenter."

Tara exhales hard, crossing her arms and slouching down in her seat. "I didn’t plan that, okay? She was ignoring me. I didn’t like it. And I panicked."

Chad raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with that smug big-brother energy. "Sooo, you panicked and held her arm? You panic-flirted?"

"I did not panic-flirt!" Tara protests, sitting up straighter, her voice pitching higher with frustration.

"You so panic-flirted," Mindy grins, leaning closer. "Face it, T. You’ve got it bad. I mean, you did just admit you didn’t like her ignoring you. That’s classic 'please-pay-attention-to-me' behavior."

Tara opens her mouth to argue, but freezes. She can’t deny that part—because it’s true. Too true. She didn’t like the way you’d suddenly stopped caring, stopped looking her way like you always did. It left her feeling... off-balance.

"Fine," she mutters, looking away as her fingers trace patterns on the table. "Maybe I didn’t hate it when she cared."

Chad and Mindy exchange a glance before turning back to her with matching smirks.

"Uh-huh," Mindy drawls. "And maybe you didn’t hate holding her arm."

Tara groans again, sinking lower into the booth like she could disappear into the cushions. "I really need you both to shut up right now."

"Why am I getting interrogated? And more importantly, where are the drinks? Sam? Y/n?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

————

You weave your way through the crowd, finally making it to the bar, where you flag down the bartender and order a drink—something strong to calm the storm brewing inside of you. Taking a seat, you take a deep breath, letting the hum of the bar settle around you.

"Another round," a familiar voice says beside you, and you turn your head to find Sam, casually gesturing for the bartender to line up several drinks. You blink, surprised.

"Sam?" you ask, brow furrowing. "What are you doing?"

Sam doesn’t look at you as she responds, eyes focused ahead, her tone completely serious. “Mourning.”

You stare at her, processing. “Mourning?” you repeat, confused. “Who… who died?”

Sam finally turns to you, expression deadpan. “My baby sister.”

You freeze, mouth opening slightly as your brain short-circuits. “Tara? Tara died?” you ask, voice rising in disbelief as you whip your head toward the booth where Tara is very clearly alive and animated, still talking to the twins.

Sam sighs dramatically, shaking her head. “Not literally. Spiritually. She’s about to get into her first relationship.”

Your face contorts into the human equivalent of the surprised Pikachu meme. “Her what now?”

Sam gives you a look, like you should already know. “Oh, don’t play dumb. You’re the relationship.”

You nearly choke on your drink, sputtering. “Me?!”

“Yes, you,” Sam replies matter-of-factly, grabbing one of the drinks the bartender sets down but not leaving just yet. She leans against the bar, eyeing you like she’s assessing your soul. “And don’t make that face. You’re the one she’s been all smiley and weird about lately.”

You blink at her, utterly lost. “Smile-y? Weird? What—Tara doesn’t even like me like that.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really,” you insist, though your voice wavers slightly.

Sam just smirks, sipping one of the drinks slowly. “You’re even worse at lying than you are at hiding how red your face is right now.”

Your hand flies to your cheek like you can stop the blush burning there. “It’s the bar lights!” you blurt defensively. “They’re red. They make everything red.”

"But I'm not lying I swear! She hates me remember? I'm supposedly Ghostface?" You ramble, trying to jog Sam's memory, because what in the world is she talking about. Tara likes you?

Sam chuckles under her breath, shaking her head. “You’re a mess.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, sinking further into yourself before glancing up at her. “But seriously… what do you mean me? I thought you were mourning because of some jerk she’s into—”

“Oh, I still think you’re a jerk,” Sam interrupts, though there’s a teasing glint in her eye now. “But you’re a tolerable one.”

You blink again, confused. “I’m… tolerable?”

“For now,” Sam confirms, narrowing her eyes at you in a way that makes you feel like you’re back in high school, being questioned by a teacher. “But listen to me, Y/n—I don’t care how flustered you get or how much you like her, I’m watching you. If you so much as make her frown, I’ll know. You’ll regret it.”

The seriousness of her tone makes you sit up a little straighter, but there’s still something soft in the way she says it—like, beneath the overprotective big-sister act, Sam really does care.

“I wouldn’t do that,” you say quietly, surprising even yourself with how genuine you sound. “I’d never hurt her. Ever.”

Sam studies you for a long moment, like she’s trying to read the truth straight from your eyes. Finally, she gives a small nod, satisfied. “Good. Because she deserves someone who looks at her like she’s the best thing to ever happen to them.”

Your heart stutters at her words, and you look down at your drink, trying not to smile too obviously. “I already do,” you admit softly, almost to yourself.

Sam pauses, her expression softening ever so slightly. “Yeah. That’s what worries me,” she mutters, more to herself than to you, but before you can ask what she means, she straightens up. “Now come on. I’m not carrying all these drinks by myself.”

You blink up at her, still a little dazed by the conversation, but you quickly grab a couple of glasses and stand up to follow Sam back toward the table.

But as you rose, the sudden sound of shattering glass and the murmur of rising voices pull your attention toward the commotion. A crowd begins to form in the center of the bar, the tension thickening with every heated word exchanged. It’s only when the circle shifts slightly that you spot her—Tara, her small frame squared off against a guy who looks a little too angry for the situation, and a girl glaring daggers at her.

You and Sam exchange a glance before rushing over, the protective instinct in both of you kicking in instantly.

“Look, I said I’d buy you another drink,” Tara says, her tone calm but laced with frustration.

“Yeah, well, maybe watch where you’re going next time dumbass,” the guy snaps, his voice dripping with condescension.

“Okay then maybe don’t stand in the middle of the fucking bar like a human traffic cone,” Tara bites back, her words sharper than you’ve ever heard from her.

The guy’s girlfriend steps in, practically seething. “Who do you think you are? Bumping into him like a slut and then acting like it’s his fault? God, you’re so full of yourself!”

Tara rolls her eyes. “Trust me, I do not want your man. This isn’t that deep.”

The guy snickers, leaning closer to Tara. “Yeah, right. With that attitude? You’d be lucky if anyone wanted you.”

You feel your chest tighten with anger, but you force yourself to take a deep breath. You step forward, hands up in a gesture of peace, trying your best not to escalate things.

“Hey, let’s all just calm down,” you say, your voice cracking slightly under the pressure. “I’ll get you a drink, okay? On me. No big deal.”

The guy turns to you, sizing you up before sneering. “Who the hell are you? Her little lapdog?”

That stings more than you’d care to admit, but before you can respond, he takes a step closer to Tara, clearly trying to intimidate her. Tara doesn’t back down, her glare unwavering, but his shoulder roughly “brushes” against hers in what’s definitely not an accident.

The nudge sends Tara stumbling backward, but thankfully, she lands against Sam, who steadies her instantly.

And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

Something snaps inside you, and before you can think it through, your fist is already flying. It connects with the guy’s jaw, sending him reeling back a step. The bar erupts in gasps and shouts as the guy recovers, glaring at you with fire in his eyes.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he growls, lunging at you.

Chaos ensues. Tables scrape against the floor as people back away, forming a wide circle. You’re barely aware of Sam pulling Tara further back, her voice sharp as she tells her to stay put.

The guy swings at you, but you dodge, adrenaline coursing through your veins. “I was trying to be nice!” you shout, your voice somehow still awkward despite the situation. “But nooo, you had to go and—”

His next punch grazes your shoulder, and you retaliate, landing another hit square in his side.

“Y/n!” Tara’s voice cuts through the noise, and for a split second, you falter, glancing in her direction.

That’s all the guy needs to get a cheap shot in, his fist connecting with your stomach. You stumble back, the wind knocked out of you, but you manage to stay on your feet steadying yourself by having your palm planted on a nearby table.

Unfortunately luck wasn't on your side, and the table had a broken bottle on it, the jagged glass slices into your palm. You wince, but thankfully, the chaos around you masks the pain, and no one notices it.

Suddenly, Chad steps in between you and the guy, his broad frame blocking any further blows. “Alright, enough,” he says, his voice firm, but not without a hint of warning. “You don’t want to take this any further bro. Trust me.”

Before the guy can respond, Sam steps in too, her hand flashing a taser from her waistband, her expression icy cold. “I suggest you walk away,” she says, her voice steady and threatening. “Unless you want to leave here with more than just a bruised ego.”

The guy hesitates, clearly debating whether to push his luck. But the bartender steps in then, a burly man who looks like he’s seen his fair share of bar fights. “Alright, that’s enough!” he barks. “You—out. Now.”

The guy glares at you one last time before grabbing his girlfriend’s arm and storming out, muttering curses under his breath.

As the crowd disperses and the bar settles back into its usual hum of activity, you turn to Tara, who’s staring at you with wide eyes.

“You okay?” you ask, your voice hoarse.

She nods, her gaze softening as she takes a step closer to you. “Are you?”

You wince, clutching your stomach. “I’ll live. But, uh, maybe next time, don’t antagonize the guy holding the drink?”

Tara scoffs but smiles faintly. “Maybe next time, don’t throw punches for me.”

Sam snorts, crossing her arms. “No, by all means, keep throwing punches. Just learn to dodge better.”

You laugh weakly, glancing between the two Carpenter sisters. “Noted. So… anyone else need a drink, or is it just me?”

Tara shakes her head, her smile growing, her face red. “It’s just you. But… thanks. For standing up for me.”

Your heart skips a beat at her words, and despite the ache in your hand, you can’t help but smile back. “Anytime.”

You catch Tara glancing at you, her expression softer then ever, and for a moment, she seems to be looking at you like she’s seeing something more than the awkward dork you think you are.

And in that instant, she can’t help but think you're even more amazing than she already knew. But before she can fully process it, Chad suddenly approaches, glancing at your hand, his face faltering in concern.

“Hey, are you good?” he asks, his eyes scanning your hand. “You look like you're in pain.”

You wince, still trying to play it off as no big deal. But Chad catches sight of the blood trickling from the glass cut on your palm, and his eyes widen. "Holy shit, dude, we need to take you to a hospital."

You shake your head quickly, your voice still a little shaky. “It’s just a scratch, really. I’ll be fine.”

But Tara, her brows furrowing in concern, steps forward, and glances at your hand and gasps. “That’s not just a scratch,” she insists, her voice filled with worry. “You’re bleeding bad. Get up—Mindy call an Uber.”

You open your mouth to protest again, "No hospital, I'm fine I just need a first aid kit." Sam steps in with a calm, no-nonsense tone. “On it, I'll ask the bartender.”

Tara, who’s been silently observing the whole time, takes charge. Her voice is soft but firm as she grabs the first-aid kit from Sam’s hands once she rejoins the group. “I’ll do it,” she says, her gaze never leaving yours. “You’ve done enough tonight. Let me take care of you.”

Mindy, who’s been watching the exchange with a smirk, suddenly chimes in, a teasing edge to her voice. “Look at you, Y/n. Who knew you had this much of a protective streak? Tara’s got you all worried, huh?”

You feel your face flush, but before you can respond, Tara shakes her head at Mindy’s comment, her worry deepening. “She’s hurt, Mindy. It’s not funny.” Her voice softens as she turns back to you, “You’re really gonna be okay, right? I— I don’t want you to be hurt.”

You can see how much she cares, and it makes your chest tighten with emotions. Tara’s usually so tough, so guarded, but right now she’s nothing but concerned.

You try to reassure her, even though the tenderness in her gaze makes it hard to keep your cool. “I’m fine, really. You don’t have to worry so much.”

But Tara doesn’t seem convinced, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I can’t help it,” she admits softly, her voice almost a whisper. "I care."

The weight of her words lingers in the air, and for a moment, everything feels a little clearer between you two. Tara doesn’t just care for your safety—she cares about you.

She gently guides you to an empty booth, pulling you away from the noise and chaos of the bar. It’s just the two of you now, in your own little corner of the world. You slide into one side of the booth while she settles on the other, a table separating you, but it somehow feels closer than ever.

The silence stretches between you both, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. You hold your hand out toward her, palm facing up, your fingers trembling slightly from the sting. Tara’s gaze softens when she sees the injury, and with a quiet sigh, she reaches for the first-aid kit.

Her movements are slow, deliberate, as she opens the kit, pulling out antiseptic and gauze. You watch her, your heart pounding for reasons you can’t quite explain. She carefully dabs the cotton swab in the antiseptic, then presses it gently to the cut. You wince, a sharp sting jolting through your palm.

“Sorry,” Tara murmurs, her voice low and soothing. She frowns, her brows knitting together in concentration as she takes more care, dabbing at the wound more carefully this time. “I’m trying to be gentle. You’re not a fan of this whole ‘injured’ thing, huh?”

You chuckle softly, still feeling the burn of the antiseptic. “Nope. Not my favorite thing," your voice coming out a little more awkward than you intended.

"I can't believe a dork like you got in a fight."

You let out a small laugh, trying to hide the fact that her words have made your heart race. “I’m not a dork,” you protest weakly.

Tara raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eye. “Really? Because I could’ve sworn you were about to pass out the second I touched your hand.”

You blush even harder. Tara’s smile is warm, genuine, and it makes the sting of the antiseptic a little easier to bear.

“It’s not the touch,” you mumble, “it’s just... you’re too close.”

She laughs softly, a sound that makes your heart flutter. “Yeah? Guess I’ll just have to keep getting closer, then.”

Her words, teasing as they are, send a warmth rushing through you. You try to play it cool, but inside, you’re an absolute mess. The way she cares for you, even in such a simple moment, makes everything feel... different. It’s like a tiny shift in the air, making you want to stay in this little bubble of quiet with her forever.

Tara looks up at you, the gears turning in her head. Was she being unfair right now? Giving you mixed signals.

She continues cleaning the wound, but now with even more care. She choses her next words carefully not wanting to sour the mood, “I'm really sorry for how I treated you. I think with everything that happened last year, I was scared to let new people in, and so I was wary of you even though you’ve been nothing but amazing to me. I guess I just had my guard up and it was unfair and—"

"I know Tara, I forgive you don't worry," you smile at her. And its pure and genuine, and Tara knows that you mean that whole heartedly.

As Tara finishes bandaging the cut on your palm, she gently flips your hand over to check for any other injuries. Her fingers graze across the back of your hand, and she notices the bruised knuckles. For a split second, she pauses, her breath catching in her throat.

Her eyes linger on your hand—on the faded bruise, evidence of the fight you’d just gotten into—and for some reason, she can’t help but think it’s... hot. The way your hand looks, bruised but still strong, it makes something in her chest tighten. You got into a fight for her.

She quickly shakes her head, trying to push the thought away, but it lingers. What the hell is wrong with me? she thinks, her face flushing slightly. Tara quickly looks up at you, trying to mask her sudden embarrassment with a forced nonchalance. But you're just sat there beaming at her, telling her its okay for how she treated you in the past, that you forgive her.

Suddenly, Tara couldn’t just take it anymore. The way you were looking at her, so soft, so genuine, made her heart flutter in a way she couldn’t ignore. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and then, without warning, she leaned forward, her eyes locking with yours.

“You know,” she started, her voice low and teasing, “Mindy said you were incapable of acting first.”

You blinked, confusion flashing across your face. “What?” you asked, not sure where she was going with this.

Tara smirked, clearly amused. “And that if I wanted something to happen, I’d have to be the initiator.”

You furrowed your brow, still not understanding. “What are you talking about?”

Tara’s smile widened, and she leaned in a little closer, her voice dropping even lower. “I find that hard to believe, given how you just got in a fight for me. I know there’s a little boldness in you.”

Your heart skipped a beat at her words, and before you could even process what she was saying, she added, “But I guess so do I.”

Without warning, Tara reached across the table, her hand grabbing the front of your shirt. You froze, your breath catching as she pulled you closer, her face just inches from yours. Your heart raced as she leaned in, and then—before you could even think—her lips were on yours.

It was soft, tentative at first, like she was testing the waters. But then it deepened, and everything around you seemed to fade away. The kiss was warm, gentle, but there was an undeniable intensity to it, as if she was pouring everything she felt into that moment. Your uninjured hand instinctively reached for hers, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat against your fingertips.

When the kiss finally broke, both of you pulled away, breathless. Tara’s eyes were wide, a soft blush coloring her cheeks as she looked at you, her lips still tingling from the kiss.

You blinked, your mind racing, and then you couldn’t help but grin, a nervous laugh escaping you. “Damn... I should’ve gotten into a fight a lot sooner.”

Tara rolled her eyes, but her smile was all warmth, and you could see in her eyes that there was something deeper. Something unspoken, but undeniable.

Something that was always there.

Taglist: @cobaltperun @machyishere @freakshow2501 @nwestra @mcchicken88 @101rizzlrr @snowdrop1026 @ilovesneezing069 @btay3115 @burntoutghost

[tmpestuous]

someone to stay

summary: bucky offers you solace as your mental fatigue rears its head.

pairing: boyfriend!bucky x reader

warnings: angst, reader anxiety/depression, fluff, non-sexual nudity, a comforting buck <3

word count: 2.5k

a/n: this was inspired by my own issues right now because i definitely need it at the moment :’) 

Getting out of bed was always the most difficult part of your day. Even when you were feeling okay, even when nothing was immediately wrong. You would wake up and stare into the void, blankets smothering your body and eyelids still heavy from the bit of sleep you’d managed to get.

There wasn’t anything pressing your anxiety, but having been out of your routine for a few weeks always left you feeling unmotivated. After having been sidelined from missions for a multitude of reasons—injuries, mental stability, and a dwindling success rate—you had nothing to do. None of your side hobbies entertained you long enough to keep you busy, so you fell into the same cycle. You sometimes wished you could sleep all day or even just stay stagnant in bed, but you knew it’d only make the fatigue worse.

Today, however, was not one of those days where you pushed yourself out of bed. Not bothered to check the time, you closed your eyes again. It was raining outside anyways, the perfect weather to stay cuddled in bed for. Soon enough, you found some sleep again, even if you’d regret it later.

Bucky, who was not sidelined from missions, had just come back from one, more than eager to see you. He was back earlier than expected, so he only figured you wouldn’t be in your usual spot waiting for him in the hangar of the compound. It was a bit past noon, so he assumed you were keeping busy elsewhere.

After a quick debrief, he made it to your shared room, only to be led to confusion at the curtains still drawn and all of the lights off. He knew how much you hated sleeping in too late, only ever sleeping past 9 if you were really exhausted and/or hadn’t gotten much sleep at all. Even then, you never let it get past 11 before you were up and out of bed.

Bucky knew you were taking your suspension a bit rougher than expected. He hated seeing you upset and he was even willing to skip out on a few missions to stay with you, but you’d insisted otherwise, saying “the bad guys don’t take breaks.” 

He never liked leaving you. Most of your missions had the two of you together, SHIELD thinking you worked well together even outside of your relationship. Going on missions without you meant he was always stuck with some reckless, inexperienced agent who wasn’t half as skilled as you a lot of the time. It was why he only liked the ones where he was with Sam or Steve, at least not having to stress about saving anyone.

He missed you on every single one. Your quips, how satisfying it was to see you kick people’s asses, and how swiftly you did just about everything. But Bucky also knew you needed a break. Your anxiety was more rampant lately, and it was affecting all of your skills on the field. The decision to bench you didn’t come easy to anyone, but especially not you.

You honestly had little to no idea what had you so anxious to start with, but anything else that triggered your anxiety only amplified it. Bucky was so reluctant to let Steve suspend you, but after you got seriously injured on a mission for lack of attention, he couldn’t argue against it anymore.

“You can’t be serious,” you said to Steve, tears in your eyes. “I’ve been injured so many times, why does that even matter?”

“It’s not just the injury,” Steve countered. “You’ve been off your game. I can’t risk losing one of our best members because you’re distracted.”

“I’m not dis—”

“You being distracted is how you ended up with a broken arm and a head injury,” he cut you off, making you look away from him. “You’re gonna end up dead if you keep on like this. I can’t deal with that loss, and neither can Bucky.”

Snapping your gaze back at Steve, you scoffed.

“So this is about Bucky?”

“This is about you, Y/n,” Steve said, his tone slightly more irritated. “He begged me not to bench you, said you just needed some time but even he knows putting you on the field again is risking your life.”

Wiping your tears away, you said nothing in response. You knew he was right, but the last thing you needed was to give in. It’d make you crumble, it’d make this whole situation real and you knew where you’d end up. 

Your conversation ended when Bucky walked in the room.

It was the right decision after all. However, Bucky’s chest ached knowing how low you were feeling. Knowing that you were doing everything just to get by, yet nothing at all. He hadn’t seen you in a melancholy state for years, but it always scared him. He barely made it out of his own episodes sometimes, panic manifesting through his bones. His worry only worsened at the thought of not being able to pull you from the darkness, the way you’d done so for him many times. 

Seeing you under the sheets, sound asleep past noon didn’t settle Bucky’s own anxiety. He was out on this mission for eight days, but you’d sounded okay when you spoke to him over the phone every night. 

Were you not getting any sleep? Were you falling asleep really late? Or was your current funk really getting to you?

Bucky set his duffel bag on the floor, shutting the door behind him. He decided against opening the curtains until you were awake, sitting on the edge of the bed next to your sleeping body, placing his flesh hand on your cheek gently.

“Sweetheart,” he said, leaning down and kissing your forehead a few times. “Let me see those pretty eyes, doll.”

Furrowing your eyebrows before peeling your eyes open, you were greeted with your favorite super soldier, a smile creeping on your face.

“Hi,” you said groggily, Bucky kissing your forehead again. “You’re back early.”

“Got the job done quickly,” he fed your curiosity. “What are you still doing asleep, doll? Are you okay?”

“What time is it?” You said, still unmotivated to get up from your lying position. 

“Almost 1,” Bucky answered before your eyes widened and you sat up, frantic about how the morning got away from you. “Hey, hey,” Bucky placed his hands on your shoulder, easing the tension a bit. “It’s okay, there’s nothing wrong with oversleeping once in a while.”

You shook your head, avoiding Bucky’s gaze as you rubbed your eyes. “I shouldn’t have slept that long.”

Bucky pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then your cheek, then pulled your hands away from your eyes. The bags under them didn’t go without notice, Bucky getting more worried than earlier. He knew you weren’t sleeping well, and him not being here to soothe you must have made it worse.

“Is everything okay?” He asked again, never getting an answer from you.

You sighed. “I don’t really know, I’m just- I’m always tired and don’t wanna do anything even though I know I shouldn’t just stay in bed. I was gonna wake up early today to see if I could get moving but then I barely slept and thought a few more hours could be useful but now—”

“Shh,” Bucky said, pulling you into his embrace, rubbing your back softly. “There is still a lot of time left in the day, but I don’t mind sleeping this Sunday away with you after the mission I just had.” He kissed the top of your head a few times. “We can shower then eat and then rest. Sounds good?”

You nodded, with a muffled ‘okay’ into his chest before pulling away, Bucky standing and grasping your hand in his to head to the bathroom. 

Bucky turned the shower on, letting it run to get warm before turning back to you. After you helped Bucky take his tac suit off, he helped you shed your pajamas. The both of you took your underwear off, Bucky checking the water before you stepped in. 

You always enjoyed showering with Bucky, most after a mission when you were both tired. Though this was different since you weren’t the one coming home, the sentiment of being tired remained the same.

Bucky could tell you were tense, that something was still bothering you. He never wanted to pry, so he massaged the tension out of your shoulders, getting you to relax your posture a bit. You both worked your way around lathering each other with soap, your eyes doing their usual routine of scanning Bucky’s body for any cuts and bruises. Bucky decided to wash your hair, finding any means of making you feel relaxed. You sighed under his touch, leaning your head forward to rest against his chest as he rinsed your hair.

“Steve mentioned you going back on the field again,” Bucky eased into the conversation. “You feeling up for it?” Much to Bucky’s surprise, you shook your head, prompting him to lift your face in his hands. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You know you can talk to me.”

Sighing again, you leaned into his touch. “I’m not ready.”

“I thought you wanted to get back,” Bucky furrowed his eyebrows.

“I do,” you nodded. “But I just feel so… out of it. Like my mind is out of fuel and it’s putting my body on pause. I have no energy lately, I don’t really know what’s wrong with me.”

Bucky looked at you, a hint of sorrow in his eyes. He’d been there, where his body was craving one thing but his mind just never allowed him to satisfy any of his desires. Depression didn’t always look the same, but he could tell when it was starting to consume you.

The restless nights, the fatigue, the lack of energy and motivation. It was a stark contrast to your usual, productive self. Sometimes Bucky would have to slow you down for doing too many things at once, so it pained him to see you not want to do anything at all. 

He decided right then and there he’d take a pause from any missions until you were okay. Until he could see the spark in your eye again, the pep in your step. The energy being revitalized.

“It happens, baby,” he reassured. “You’ve helped me through some of my funks, so let me help you out of yours, hm?”

“You don’t have to, Bucky,” you shook your head, but he shushed you, a chaste kiss placed on your lips. “I’m serious, you don’t have to pause your life for me. People still need help and I’ll get out of my fatigue stint eventually, so—”

“You know you’re not gonna convince me otherwise, right?” He shut you up again, offering you a smirk and another peck to the lips. “I would drop everything for you. At any time, on any day, at any given moment. You are my world, doll. If you’re not okay, then my world isn’t okay.”

“But what if they really need you—”

“They won’t,” Bucky grabbed the comb to detangle your hair. “Now come on, let me help you ease your mind, hm?”

Knowing you couldn’t say no to him, you turned so your back was facing him, Bucky smoothly getting any knots out of your hair. 

He knew how much you loved it when he did your hair, knowing the process was super long and you didn’t want to do it half of the time. When he first heard you complain about having to do it, he made you teach him your whole routine for whenever you were feeling unmotivated to. It was one of many things he eagerly learned for you, always wanting to pamper you. 

Feeling a bit overwhelmed over the fact that you had him back, here with you as he did everything in his power to clear your head from the anxious thoughts, you couldn’t help but tear up. 

When he finished detangling your hair, holding it up with a clip, he saw you crying, quickly pulling you in his arms, kissing you everywhere he could. 

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he said, leaning down to kiss your shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Once he let you return the favor of washing his hair, you made him sit on the built-in bench in the shower so you wouldn’t have to reach up the whole time. 

Bucky loved touching you, but he swore to everything that he loved your touch even more. Your hands were so soft and gentle, with each lather and rinse of his head.

“Your hair’s getting long again,” you said, running your fingers through Bucky’s brown locks, the length now passing his ear. “Are you gonna cut it?”

Bucky shrugged, his hands finding comfort in your waist as you stood in front of him. He placed a kiss on each of your hips then your stomach before looking up at you.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he answered before standing, kissing your lips again. He knew how much you liked his short hair when he first cut it, but deep down you loved his long hair too. You just never forced him to keep one or the other, knowing how many memories his hair held.

Bucky loved how well you knew him, how well you understood him. It was the main reason why he took his time to do the same for you.

Once you were both out of the shower and dressed, Bucky picked up his phone to order some food. You’d told him you were craving Chinese the night before on your phone call while he was away, so he ordered all of your favorites as you finished drying your hair in the bathroom.

After eating dinner, Bucky slid under the covers of your shared bed, extending his metal arm for you to grab as you slid in next to him. Your head found its usual spot on his chest, both of his arms encasing you in the pressure you sought so many times, your left leg over his right one. 

“Thank you,” you said softly as Bucky rubbed your back just the way you liked it. “For never judging me.”

“I would never plan to,” he said, using his right hand to lift your chin up. “We’re human. We have our moments where we need a break, a reset. You taught me that when I needed to hear it. Don’t think that it excludes you, my love.”

Leaning up, you pressed your lips against his in a soft kiss that said more than enough. 

Pulling away, you looked into those blue eyes that meant the world to you.

“What would I do without you?”

“Force yourself to do your hair routine every week,” Bucky joked, making you roll your eyes playfully with a smirk.

You pressed a kiss on his chest before laying your head on it again. “I love you.”

“I love you more, doll,” he said, massaging your scalp to soothe you until you fell asleep.

Bucky could watch you be this peaceful forever, vowing to spend the rest of his days making sure you were okay. He always knew you’d return the favor, enjoying every moment spent with you like this, comforted best in his arms.

[jiminrings]

if-then

pairing: jungkook x reader

wordcount: 7k

glimpse: you're an alien in prince jungkook's planet — both literally and figuratively.

alternatively, jungkook gives his nickname for you to someone else in a fit of anger, and you've never been more upset.

[ fluff, angst, painfully oblivious n dense alien koo, mutual pining (yes MUTUAL!!!!), the glaring concept of not being good n whole enough to deserve love (yikes but i Swear it gets better), mentions of injuries ]

notes: after being asked for literal years to write an alien au, it's finally here!!!! mwah thank u for patiently waiting :D

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!!

Jungkook’s fond of appraising things.

He’s fond of assigning values to things that may or may not hold some bit of importance to his life, whether its value proves itself in the present or the future. Jungkook likes setting his literal ducks in a row, and the little inanimate yellow tokens that his brother brought back from Earth serve as a discreet (not really, though) reminder that he may have some hoarder tendencies.

Jungkook’s not really a hoarder-hoarder; it just happens that he likes keeping things, sometimes for no apparent reason at all.

He likes swiping the flashlights that the night guards use to stash in his own personal “emergency” (not that there’s ever been one, nor will there ever be) cabinet, just because he wants to be prepared for a natural catastrophe that won’t probably ever happen in his area. He’s already seen a couple of films that humans have made, and if ever comes a time that Planet Twell has a dinosaurian monster battle it out with a gigantic prehistoric ape, Jungkook’s proud to say that he has a couple flashlights for him and his brothers to use.

In addition, Jungkook likes picking flowers just before they go out of season. His eldest brother’s already cussed him out for it, but he’ll still do what he does best (?), if best means “preserving” the flowers by drowning them in water every ten minutes so they wouldn’t wilt and he’d still get to see them during off-peak days.

Prince Jungkook likes appraising things in his own definition and pace. They’re never categorized in his head for what they actually do, but for what kind of unexplainable fulfillment fills his chest whenever he thinks about the item.

The youngest prince of Twell didn’t like it when there was a commotion at the lily field and the citizens ran out to see what it was about, instead of eating their slices of cake with the fondant that he made out of scratch. Jungkook didn’t like the fondant either because there must be something insanely wrong with itself (or it’s just that he made it just as bad), but he didn’t like being alone either when finding out about the taste.

He didn’t like seeing the tiger lilies he planted himself squished underneath an unknown figure, who may or may not have fallen from the sky, judging by the way you’re wincing alone with no aircraft, no parachute, nor any other person with you.

Jungkook didn’t like seeing you, an alien, who’s just as confused with the entire ordeal. You can’t remember anything about how or why you’ve gotten here — all you know is your name and who you are, and unexpectedly so, the first prince who’s gotten to where you are isn’t so thrilled about the fact.

He’s fond of appraising things, and although he’s not extremely excited about you just as he had been when Yoongi brought home trinkets from him during his trip to Earth (including the very seeds for the tiger lilies you’ve destroyed), he’ll make do.

Jungkook will try and make you mean something, if not everything, to him.

.

.

.

Prince Jungkook has come to learn that you’re part human.

You’re neither fully his kind nor his type (or atleast that’s what he thinks so) and he doesn’t know what to feel about that. He doesn’t know what to feel about only the slight panic that filled you knowing that it’s still unexplained of how or why you’re in Twell; even more, he doesn’t know what to feel that you’re neither scared nor intimidated by him.

You don’t know what to feel either when Jungkook, who’s only mildly shocked about your existence in general, delivers his first question to you and it’s not of the sort that you expected. He looks soft and round, unlike the hearsay about his kind that only amounts to half of you. He doesn’t look aloof and unaccepting at all — if anything, he looks at you like you’re the one who’s cruel instead of him.

Jungkook almost completely does not care about who you are or where you’re from, but what he cares about is if you have any trinkets with you that he could possibly have. Out of anything he could possibly solicit from you, he only asks for so little, no matter how odd.

“T-trinkets?” you squeak, brows raising in surprise. “I’m sorry, Prince Jungkook — y-you’re asking if I have trinkets so you could have them?”

“Yeah,” he nods, lips pursed and cheeks puffed out as he confirms your confusion. “It’s my birthday, and I want to have a trinket.”

“Oh,” you blink once, twice,  a small smile playing on your lips to replace the fact that you’ve been confused for the entire half hour since you came back to consciousness. “Happy birthday, prince.”

“I see.” 

“It’s thank you,” you mutter automatically, coughing lightly when he only knits his brows at you. He’s cute this way — innocent, even. “I-I mean you’re supposed to say thank you when someone greets you, or when someone does something nice for you in general.”

“Okay. My brother forgot to teach me that,” Jungkook hums in recognition, eyes briefly glowing with a bluish hue before he regains his composure. “Thank you.”

You wonder if staring is also frowned upon in this planet.

You wonder if it would get you a mean glare or a sarcastic snicker if you were to stare at Prince Jungkook a little longer without any thoughts floating in your brain, except for the fact that you are completely unaware that you’re already zoning out on him. 

You wonder if it would be wrong for your eyes to take in every single detail of him from his short hair that softly falls onto his forehead, to his supposed birthday attire that only consists of a white button-up, to his gleaming royal jewelry that rightfully so, only looks like it would belong to him and him only.

“Trinket?” he reminds you, head tilting and eyes widening as he cranes his neck to look at you beyond the table that separates the both of you.

“Oh! U-uhm,” you scour your pockets immediately just to present something, and bluntly put, you haven’t even checked your well-being, much less the possessions you have on yourself. You feel more than relieved to know that it isn’t empty, because oddly enough, you’d feel a little upset— a little down if you were to disappoint a prince you just met not more than an hour ago. “I have this handkerchief, I guess.”

“Perfect!” Jungkook exclaims, leaning to grab the baby blue square from you that’s embroidered with your initials that are unfamiliar to him. He clutches it into his hand tightly with a smile on his face, the happiness later dwindling when he realizes he has no clue of what he’s holding. “What is it supposed to do?”

You blank at that, meekly scratching your temple. “Nothing, I think. It’s just there for most people, but I’ve never had to use it.”

“You’ve never had to use it, but you still take it with you?” he attempts to clarify, a slight frown embedded into his lips as he looks down on your averagely prized possession.

“I don’t mean never as in never ever, and I’ve used it a couple of times like everyone else does, but it’s just-…” you trail off, shrugging helplessly because you can’t describe the concept of nothing to him easily. “It’s just there.”

You’re more than fatigued and a lot more confused (albeit less worried) about the semantics of your presence here in Twell, specifically in Prince Jungkook’s office, but the latter doesn’t seem to take mind as he takes you with an open mind.

“Okay. Thank you. I’ll have it,” he announces, shifting his eyes between you and your (his now) handkerchief that he’s slowly and hesitantly unraveling, only to put back into its original square form after every move.

“You will?” you almost snort, a tiny bit amused that a prince is clenching your handkerchief like its the most interesting thing in the galaxy.

“Yes,” he hums distractedly, looking up at you as he lightly scratches the embroidered teddy bear at the corner of the fold. “I will have you too.”

“You will?! You’re not going to dispose me or anything?” you straighten immediately, eyes more frantic and disbelieving to hear that you’re being taken care of (or something of the sort) than just awhile ago when you were unsure of your fate. “Why?”

“Don’t know,” Jungkook shrugs just as easily as you do. “I just want to.”

( ♡ ) 

Prince Jungkook isn’t so bad, and neither is Twell.

The planet isn’t so bad in the sense that although you don’t feel the most welcome you have ever been in your entire life, there’s a recognition that seeps into your bones that some of them, if not most, would set out a plate for you if ever Jungkook came into their homes. He’s the social butterfly of his family; the baby lamb that’s set out into the field to check up on everyone else and act as a mannequin of sorts that’s a little less superficial, and a little more warm.

Jungkook isn’t so bad either in the sense that although it’s the bare minimum to do so, he doesn’t throw his kindness back to your face even in the most critical situations, with now being the sole exception.

With the exception of now, Prince Jungkook has not ever acted rashly towards you. He wasn’t annoyed with you when you kept asking him questions of what it would mean to act as his security detail, and he wasn’t irked either when your questions about your heritage (and his by extension) toed personal lines that no one else would dare cross.

With the exception of now, Jungkook’s never acted rude towards you. He wasn’t as guarded with your existence like his older brothers were; as a matter of fact, he even came to your defense when some of them theorized that you were only here in their planet to act as a precursor for their downfall.

With the exception of now, Jungkook’s never been this cruel; with the ultimatum of his pride over your heart, he’s never made you feel this different and alienated from him — with, of course, the exception of now.

Heartbreak is a human emotion.

The weakness of the concept is disturbingly human and vulnerable. There’s no escape from it, even if the said percentage of human in your blood is barely half and could light a candle to your more evolved, far more powerful Twellian genes. It’s a sickening emotion to feel, much more have it get you carried away from what you have to do at hand.

The grip that said heartbreakhas on you is unimaginable, far more different than what your people, not humans, tell you how it’d feel like. There had already been an uproar when it was announced that you were appointed as Prince Jungkook’s guard, the news of an impure Twellian bearing the coveted position receiving every reaction possible — from fear, to distaste, and even to genuine amazement.

All of the kingdom’s advisers had theorized that despite you of being impure heritage, youwere superior in terms of physical capabilities. With everything else you’ve been theorized to lack at, you bite at the possibility that the ache in your chest is attributed to your stunted emotions.

You feel painfully human. You feel what heartbreak is, and compared to what others have made it out to be, it’s an emotion that you can’t put into words.

“You can’t, Jungkook,” you firmly say once more with your ears ringing, not because the volume of the club makes you want to get down on your knees, but because you’ve perhaps heard something far worse; far more grating, and far more overwhelming than what your heart could even bear. "All of your brothers specifically insisted for me to bring you back before midnight."

They say that your hearing’s supposed to be better. They say that you could see far more colors than what your alien counterpart could ever do. They say that for everything else you lacked, you made up for with the way you’re more physically advanced and therefore adept to protecting the planet’s youngest prince.

No one’s ever said that you’ll be safe from Jungkook himself.

"Jungkook, let's go home. Please," you plead through your teeth, the word you’ve last spoken being the latest term you’ve taught him. Jungkook, along with everyone else, is not familiar with begging; they’re not familiar with desperation so wrung out, there’s actually a word made just for it.

Jungkook only scowls at you, eyes turning a bright red as opposed to his usual pink allotted for you. "Butt out," he murmurs, tightly crossing his arms as his nostrils flare involuntarily. ”You promised me I could be out tonight."

You’re starting to get over the heartbreak little by little, the tantrum thrown by the young prince making you indifferent. 

Maybe you just misheard a few minutes ago — maybe, it was only a fluke and you didn’t hear it correctly the first time. Maybe it’s only your faulty impureness that made you susceptible to just hearing your nickname out of nowhere. Maybe, it’s not heartbreak that you were feeling, but rather only a subdued version of it by seeing Jungkook disappointed at you doing your job.

It’s your fault, you guess. Perhaps it’s the fault of the bustle of the club and the hundreds of dialects you could hear all at once finally got to you, overwhelming you to the point that you heard Jungkook calling for your name, despite not looking at you all.

You’re about to plead even more for the both of you to go back already; to save him from a lecture from all of his brothers and for you to be spared an even harsher scolding because they think you’ve gone too soft for him — but then you hear it. Again. 

Jungkook clenches his jaw tightly, eyes glowing a bright magenta before he opens his mouth.

"Come on, princess," he calls you by his term of endearment for you, yet his hand is outstretched for the female Twellian on his side.

He’s not calling you — he’s not even paying attention to you. Jungkook isn’t giving you a shred of his focus but he wants you to hear him call someone else the endearment he had playfully made up for you, to which you grew accustomed to without fail. He wants you to see how he gives it to someone else easily, the syllables falling from his tongue easily getting into the girl’s head.

Jungkook wants you to know how angry he is over you doing your job, he hits you where it hurts. He has no idea what heartbreak is supposed to feel like, but he doubts that you’d even feel that emotion over what he’s done — and if you actually do over something seemingly simple (for him atleast), he could only think that everyone else is exaggerating what it felt like.

Your heart, whatever is human of it, skips. It tightens and it loosens alarmingly so, almost as if you have no control for the liquid hurt that compromises you.

“I’ll show you a good time tonight, princess,” Jungkook whispers to her ear loudly for good measure, eyes darting up at you, only for him to see that you’ve been watching the whole time. 

You almost can’t tear your eyes away until Jungkook crashes his lips into hers, your nickname easily falling out of his lips as if the endearment is free for everyone; as if it’s never been yours in the first place and you only borrowed it out of desperation.

Your whole flight home is quiet.

Jungkook makes it back home before midnight, but you don’t.

( ♡ ) 

Jungkook’s been looking for you the whole day.

He’s been looking for you since he woke up, and that was fifteen ungodly hours ago when he had risen in a cold sweat. Jungkook felt sick to his stomach, and despite his insistence that something must be severely wrong with him for him to feel that way, the palace doctor (along with every other physician, healer, and reader he knew of) confirmed that nothing was out of place.

Jungkook’s supposedly okay, yet it feels like every part of him is being wrung dry. There’s an ache to his chest that renders him stupid because he feels like he’s forgotten every word, every lesson, and every vaguest bit of semblance that would detail about what he felt.

All of a sudden, Jungkook feels like he’s forgotten what the palace looks like. It’s as if he’s forgotten how tiles are supposed to feel cold on bare feet and how bleak his days are when he doesn’t have you by his side, even if the palace is also occupied by his brothers and the grounds are teeming with staff.

The young prince suddenly feels that he’s forgotten the very layout of his home because his mouth is agape at each room he walks in, simply because you’re not there. He’s practically turned the palace upside down just to grab a whiff of you somehow, and yet you’re nowhere to be found. 

Nothing from his or his brothers’ belongings are missing. There’s not a single piece of furniture that’s tilted askew. Nothing has been taken from Jungkook except his peace of mind and the capacity to just stay still because your sudden disappearance unsettles him like no other.

.

.

.

You’re back home, except you’re no longer dressed in the same outfit you left him in. 

Your uniform’s been ditched for something more casual — something more worn and lived in to the point that it looks like a shirt that’s never been yours in the first place. The sight of you, dressed in clothes that’s not yours, puts a bitter taste to Jungkook’s mouth.

He’s never been that selfish before. He’s generous and lenient as far as a prince could go, and yet he’s never felt this territorial over something seemingly as trivial as a shared garment.

The concern feels too vulnerable to the point that only a silly human, something Jungkook’s not, would consider it as a burden.

“Where were you?” he asks with the gentleness he didn’t think he’d possess after being worried shitless about you, the panic he had harbored for the longest time immediately dissipating at you.

Jungkook wants to be mad at you so, so, so badly. He wants to be angry at the way it was irresponsible for you to be alone because after all, your strength wouldn’t compensate for the gleaming fact that you’re not from here in the first place.

“I was on my leave,” you answer simply, keeping your hands behind your back as if this was any other outing with Prince Jungkook and not just Jungkook, the same man who’d call you princess for fun and hold your hand just for the sake of it.

“I didn’t say you could be on leave,” he lowers his voice, jaw tightening at the sight of you being indifferent towards him.

“I asked your brothers.”

Jungkook feels that sickness again. He feels that tinge of metal that lingers in the roof of his mouth and he wants to spit it out in front of you just to see if he’d find something else that’s not the sensations he’s been experiencing since you came around; if he’d find something else that’s not your doing yet affects him just as much.

“What if I needed protecting, hm? What if something happened to me while you were gone?” Jungkook half-taunts, shrinking on himself despite doing his hardest to appear big by crossing his arms.

“I knew you were in good hands, prince,” you tense, the tide that comes with your tone washing over Jungkook until he drowns in the realization that you were there while she was in his quarters. “I made to sure to hear that you were in very good company before I left.”

( ♡ ) 

Jungkook’s on a self-imposed break from his duties.

The prince’s duties almost exclusively involved chatting and being charismatic in general, along with the occasional goodwill event wherein he had to be all over the place just to take care of things, and not once did he ever take this long of a radio silent break — or atleast that’s what one of his brothers said.

He’s been cooped up in his room since you came back two weeks ago. Despite your absence (if you could even call it that) that barely lasted for an entire day, along with your confrontation just spanning within minutes, it’s been theorized by one of Jungkook’s brothers, again, that it’s because of your doing.

The youngest prince is theorized to be sulking over you and you simply cannot believe it.

You refuse to believe that Jungkook is bedridden with sadness because to begin with, his kind isn’t even supposed to feel such type of intense emotion. He shouldn’t be swayed by you — he shouldn’t be preoccupied with such pathetic, human emotion that you thought only you could feel because of him.

You rebuff the idea that he’s paralyzed with guilt, not only because you feel that it’s physically impossible for him to be, but because it’s him. Someone of Jungkook’s power and influence wouldn’t be so ridden with guilt that he refuses to show his face to you because he’s ashamed of hurting you.

You reject with your whole heart each and every idea that his brothers pitch you. You stay stationary with Jungkook and yet you will yourself to amount to something, even if it isn’t for him, just so the sickening feeling of being replaced won’t ever creep up to you.

You’re in love with him and it’s terrifying.

What’s even more terrifying is that you’re not the only one who knows so.

“I suggest not falling in love with Jungkook.”

You look up so sharply, your neck aches at the speed. Yoongi stands above you with a perfunctory smile, and with just the tiny bit of effort for him to come near you almost makes you forget that he’s Jungkook’s brother who had been particularly vocal about being wary of you.

“I’m sorry?” you murmur in disbelief, eyes wide and unblinking as you take into account his perfect tone.

“It’s obvious, you know?” he smiles tightly, pulling a chair to sit himself down across from you. Yoongi looks relaxed as he takes you in, almost as if he hasn’t spent half a year avoiding you. “I’ve seen the way you look at my brother. I’ve seen it over and over again when I was sent for a mission on your planet.”

You want to ask him why he’s telling you this. You want to ask badly why he’s saying this now when you’ve been certain for the longest time that your adoration for Jungkook wasn’t apparent in a land of creatures that don’t know what love, in your own terms, is supposed to look like.

You want to ask Yoongi why it shouldn’t be Jungkook, but you can’t bring yourself to — not because you know the answer deep down in your subconscious, but because you’re afraid that he would only make sense—

That he’d only solidify why Jungkook should never be in your orbit.

“Oh,” you swallow the lump in your throat. “How do you like my planet then?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“I’m sorry, my prince,” you immediately apologize, looking down on your lap as you wait for the impeding lecture; maybe even the impending punishment (you’re not sure what it is, but you know it would hurt someway and somehow) that comes with loving the prince, even by the sidelines.

“Jungkook is a wildcard at best,” he trails off, exhaling heavily as he listens for the heartbeat in the room behind you that houses his brother. “He’s brash and stubborn. He’s driven by emotions we are not even supposed to have.”

If Yoongi stands up now and jiggles the knob to Jungkook’s room with just the slightest bit of force, he can guarantee that the latter would be falling face-down to the floor, just because of the way he has his ears pressed to the door.

Jungkook is moping and sulking and to this day, he does remain miserable — the aforementioned factors don’t stop him from being desperate and nosy.

“What I’m saying is that he’s weak, Y/N,” Yoongi sighs. “The strong isn’t for the weak. That’s always been the case.”

“I know I’m weak, prince, but I-…”

“What?” the prince laughs out loud, the smile on his face wide and cheery. He’s so amused with you that his eyes glow into pink, throwing his head back as he regains his composure. “Jungkook’s the weak one. Not you, obviously,” he snorts. “He’s basically a loser with a crown on his head. He’s the one who doesn’t deserve you and not the other way around.”

You’re not the one who’s being insulted, and yet it feels like it. Your throat tingles and your ribs burn at the sudden urge for you to protect Jungkook, even if he’s in no real threat; even if it feels like all the baser parts of you are coming together just to make sense of the way you grow simultaneously weak and strong for him.

Jungkook, the actual subject who’s being insulted and is proving his brother right by being weak because he’s wallowing in his room out of self-deprecation, sadly hums to himself in agreement.

“I’m not-…”

“Don’t refute it — that’s an order.”

“Prince Yoongi,” you relent, trying to find the right words. “May I ask why you’re telling me this?”

“Because Jungkook’s weak,” Yoongi answers simply. “I’m just saying that you don’t have to be weak with him and for him.”

( ♡ ) 

You’re eating dinner by yourself in the staff room when Jungkook walks in.

It’s the first you’ve seen of him in three weeks. He’s evidently moving on from what seems to have been a rough period for him, right when you’re at your lowest that you’ve ever been.

Prince Jungkook decides that after three weeks, he should take you by surprise and meet you in the staff room wherein you’re alone, pushing your dinner around your plate instead of doing any other menial task you’ve assigned yourself just so it would feel like you’re in use.

You’re just there. You just happen to be there and no one, even you, could do anything about it. You just happen to be there with no exact purpose and it’s gnawing at you from the inside out.

It feels all over again that your family is the runt of the entire extended bloodline. It feels that you’re not remarkable enough for your relatives to surround you and that you don’t amount to anything enough, in whatever aspect it is, to get a shred of attention that isn’t pity,

It feels like the sinking sensation in your chest wherein you have to see that all your mom could contribute to the table is her trusted homemade recipe during holidays, lost amongst a sea full of pre-ordered meals that only your relatives could afford. Like it’s how your dad’s side of the family is borderline batshit crazy and he’s the only one that turned out to be good, and you can’t do anything but watch strangers your have for blood relatives belittle you. Familiarly so, it’s like you’re a kid again with your siblings sitting on the carpet and cleaning up wrapping paper from gifts, not because the gifts are for you, but because you just happen to be there.

You feel like the alien that you are wherein you don’t belong; wherein your family has to sit on the spare chairs dug up from the basement, situated on a portable table outside of the actual, solid dining table where everyone’s sat. 

Jungkook sits with you at that dusty, old portable table. He sits himself on the flimsy chair that’s only used for stepping and for laundry.

Jungkook sits with you, not because he just happens to be there, but because he’s there for you.

“I’m… sorry for calling someone else princess.”

“It’s no problem,” you murmur, putting your fork down as you keep your hands glued to your knees underneath the table.

“But there is a problem,” Jungkook counters, lowering his head to get you to look at him yet you don’t budge. “I’m not okay with calling anyone else princess other than you.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“Then suit yourself,” you quip, even with your voice shaky and your vision blurry.

“I’m-…” Jungkook starts again, racking his brain for the limited vocabulary he has that surely isn’t enough to make up for his grave msitake. “I’m very sorry for making you feel bad. It must have hurt.”

“It’s no problem.”

“There’s a problem,” he insists. “I’m saying sorry because I hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me.”

“But I did,” he frowns, beyond confused to why you keep denying the fact that he’s hurt you in ways he can’t even imagine.

“You really didn’t.”

“Why do you not want me to say sorry?” Jungkook questions, voice raising yet he still looks confused— innocent, even. “Did I… hurt you that much?”

It’s the last straw for you. The pure innocence in Jungkook’s words is and should be the last straw for you because it only makes you realize that he’d never understand you. It resonates in your head, more than ever, that you’ll never be able to understand him fully either because you’ll never be the same.

The only option the universe provides you is for you to love Jungkook halfway.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Prince Jungkook. I shall go back to-…”

“Can I not say sorry to you?” Jungkook bursts, darting his hand out blindly to get a hold on you before you leave.

“You can’t say sorry to me because all of this would feel real,” you ramble, shaking your head vehemently. “You should not say sorry to me because that would mean that I’m hurt because I love you.”

Jungkook looks at you innocently with his eyes wide and lips parted, blissfully unaware of the name to the sensation that keeps tugging at his chest to the point that it feels like it would burst open, yet above all else, he still dives in head-first.

“Can you not love me, princess?” he tilts his head. “Is it not allowed?”

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s words lie heavily on both you and Jungkook.

The prince’s sentiment stays on your chest like a paperweight that only grows heavier the more that you try to push it off. You know Yoongi means well, no matter how his words come across otherwise, but the longer that you think about his own suggestion regarding his brother, the more you feel unsure.

Jungkook’s made complete sense of his brother’s words on the other hand, and instead of being filled with a type of rage that only bubbles up when being looked down on, oddly enough, he comes to the truth quite easily.

He knows the truth that he’s weak despite painting himself the opposite, and he feels it the most now that you’re the one who’s distancing yourself from him. Jungkook feels like swallowing the sun and chasing it down with water when you respond to princess, even if it’s jokingly uttered by his brothers and not said sincerely by him alone.

He knows the truth that he’s the weak one in the family, if not the weakest, whenever he stands next to them. Jungkook may be the poster prince for the citizens but he knows the most out of everyone that he’s not as vital to the kingdom as the others are. He may get an assigned seat at the actual, solid dining table, but he knows that he’s not at the head of it.

He knows he’s weak, with and for you, and that’s never bothered him until it actually did.

Jungkook’s eyesight isn’t as good as yours.

Unlike you, he’s restrained by the entirety of his Twellian blood from immediately focusing his gaze on anything. There’s a lag that registers whenever he fixes his sight on anything, just like everyone else but you, and that hadn’t been a bother to Jungkook the whole time.

He had falsely assumed that since you’re the only one who’s different here, the only exception in the planet by being impure and partially human, you’d be the one who’ll have a hard time adjusting your daily life to his — not the other way around.

Jungkook, who had not once ever felt insecurity before, suddenly feels inferior. He feels like dirt and yet he’s angry, not because of the fact that he comes second to your abilities, but because he can’t do shit when it comes to you.

The prince’s eyesight isn’t good enough to notice the tiny little expressions that litter your face whenever something remotely intriguing happens to you. His hearing isn’t on par with yours because he can’t register the laugh in your voice as quickly as you could recognize his. He’s not on the same level as you and it’s only now that it bothers him—

The realization creeps into Jungkook, slowly yet unsettlingly, when he sees the cut on your cheek; the liquor of inferiority, chased down by Jungkook’s own rage, only hits him the moment he sees that a nasty bruise is blossoming by the corner of your eye.

Jungkook grips your jaw lightly out of nowhere, making you look up at him unexpectedly when you had been only preoccupied with fixing him his drink. The prince, no matter the unmistakeable rage that’s brewing in red, is the softest he’s ever been when it comes to addressing you.

“Who hurt you?” 

He has all his attention on you and it’s almost sickening with the way he doesn’t want to break off. Jungkook’s hand is still on your jaw and his eyes are still fixed on yours and yet his mind, whatever remains rational of it and not just vengeful, is going a million miles per hour.

“Get your hands off me,” you spit, suddenly overwhelmed by his presence and the vitriol that spills out of him so clearly, the air around both of you shifts.

“I asked you a question,”Jungkook repeats, putting is hand on your wrist firmly instead. He makes the grave mistake of looking down, though, because as soon as he realizes that there’s blood caked underneath your nails and that your knuckles are stained with your own blood, Jungkook can no longer hold himself back. “Who. Hurt. You.”

Jungkook’s reflexes are slow, but the moment your bottom lip trembles in vulnerability and pure bitterness, he feels as if time has caught on to the point that it’s only your anguish that sharpens his senses.

His feelings, even.

“If I tell you, would it make a difference? If I’m considered weak, Jungkook, then that means you’re even weaker,” you scoff, eyes trained on the ground with your head low so you could muffle the tremble in your voice; not that it would make your prince any less attuned to you.

Jungkook’s eyes remain narrowed at you, breathing heavily as you only state the facts not to insult him, but to remind the both of you of your place — or whatever is left clear of it because Jungkook can’t even think straight the longer that he looks at you hurting.

“What, prince? What are you gonna do about it?” you spit as the last resort, standing up abruptly to storm off and make an escape for it just once so you’ll be free of the burden of being yourself in Jungkook’s existence, yet he doesn’t let you.

The grip that the prince has on your arm is unstable yet unyielding at the same time, as if it’s taking everything in Jungkook to remain standing despite wanting to hunch over by the unexplainable tremor that roots from his chest.

(It is taking everything in him.)

“Burn,” he utters. “I’ll burn everything.”

“You’re-…”

“Weaker than you? I know that,” Jungkook interrupts, his lips set in a straight line as he lets himself be swept by the current that is you. “All the more reason to do everything for you then.”

The young prince doesn’t even break his gaze from you once, even if his pupils are trembling and his teeth are chattering out of the sheer trepidation that comes with being scared for someone else who carries your heart with them.

He doesn’t break his gaze from you, even for the briefest second, as he fishes out his (your) handkerchief from his pocket that’s there, not because it just happens to be, but because it’s allotted for you.

To love and to be loved is to feel the sun from both sides, and Jungkook no longer wants the star to swallow him whole because he doesn’t want you to be burned.

Jungkook wants to love you all the way.

[gaywineauntsstuff]

Dick Grayson is my favorite lil guy

And my favorite way of consuming content of my favorite lil guy is the core 5 titans

There is also about 5 billion pieces of media where these 5 interact and some of it sucks so here I am scrapbooking canon together with glue and scissors so I can talk about how I view Dicks relationship with the other OG titans and how different these relationships are from one another while all still being boiled down to found family love

Dick & Donna: Listen. To. Me. These two aren't besties, or fav teammates or siblings. These two are the sun and earth revolving around each other except they each think the other one is the Sun. Dick Grayson and Donna Troy are the blueprint for platonic soulmates. Dick and Donna make everyone around them believe in ancient story by plato "humans once had 4 arms and legs and 2 faces and the God Zeus split them in half for their hubris and now they are destined to roam the earth forever looking for their other half". If y'all think Dick wasn't doing well after Jason died?? Donna Troys death fundamentally changed who Dick Grayson was and how he was written in teams for years. Donna Troy and Dick Grayson absolutely have debated getting platonically married (not canon but it is in my heart) and the only reason they haven't is BC if they do, Donna will kidnap Dick and never let him within 1000 feet of Bruce Wayne and Gotham.

Dick & Roy: remember how I said Dick was fucked up post Troias death in the comics? yeah? Roy Harper is the only reason he made it out of that period of his life alive. These two are like fire and Gasoline, they're quick and angry and always inexplicably near each other. They are VICIOUS with one another in a way they almost never are with anyone else. They try so hard to ruin their relationship bc implicitly they know (unless its the new 52 which I ignore for my own mental wellbeing-hey I did say this was a scrap book of canons) they'll always be there for each other. Roy Harper never misses, Dick Grayson cannot fall and yet Dick is there to hold Roy when his hand trembles and Roy is there to catch Dick when he loses his Grip.

Dick Grayson is the first person Roy calls to get Lian

Roy Harper is the designated keep Dick Grayson alive even if he has to tie the bastard up-

Dick (and wally depending on the run) help Roy with his addiction)

these two are each others roman empires

Dick & Wally: to cut back on the pretentious seriousness of this post. Every time these two are drawn together be it 80s road trips or being the most likeable part of tom Taylors run. Wally west always reads like he's about to invite Dick to swing with him and his wife. If you see them as platonic, romantic (right person wrong time is my favourite Fanon flavour but canonically I like em besties) or somewhere in between Wally West is always Dick Graysons best friend. There is something so wholesome about the fact that Wally canonically stalks checks up on Dick Grayson as much as he does his wife and twins and Dick who is a bat, notorious for expressing their love via breaking into your house and doing your casework for you. Is getting stalked checked up on by someone who loves him without it triggering his "see obviously you're not good enough they're literally babysitting you" paranoia. its like meeting your partners love language needs but its for deeply messed up individuals. They canonically call themselves best friends, and while Dick will always love Roy he always Likes being around Wally (as well as love him but that's a given)

(sidetone are you even besties if people don't think you're dating when they meet you?)

Dick & Garth: The amount of trust, love and respect that tempest holds for Nightwing melts my damn heart (but then again everything garth does melts my damn heart, baby Garth you will always be famous) they are such an underrated pairing and I love the fact that no matter the media, whether they're rivals like in the cartoons or Garth deferring to Dick as leader to the point where he disobeys aquaman (rebirth) Bc yeah THATS how much my purple eyed perfect boy trusts wing. There is always this really sweet understanding that Garth can go to Dick for advice (he asks for Donna advice in titans and advice on his relationship with Dolphin in the comics). And him and Dicks reunion post RIC? I love them sm. Its just... There was also a period of time where Garth was the only titan with sense and tbh sometimes its refreshing to see that when the rest of them (except donna she was dead at the time we never say a bad word about donna in this household) are being fucking insane

[onlymexsarah]

Burning Flames VII || Eris Vanserra

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!reader Summary: Since you became High Fae there were only two things that scared you: your deadly power and your attraction toward the male you should hate most after Tamlin, Eris Vanserra. Warnings: Suggestive, violence, mention of blood, language and my english :) A/n: Two updates in the same week?! I am really enjoying my free time :) It's a bit shorter than the previous ones, but I promise it set the space for the more to come ;) Let me know if you liked it and if you want to be added to the taglist🫶🏻 Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3- Chapter 4- Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8

You gasped for air as you woke up. Darkness surrounded you, but this time you knew where you were, you knew what you were supposed to do.

"Everything alright?" the shadowsinger asked from his spot against a tree.

You had decided to take turns while you slept, and now was Azriel's, which told you that you were about to start moving again.

Your eyes slowly found his, unsure on what to say in order to not sound crazy. You had been in Eris' head. You had actually talked to him, and you had always been right, he was under the Crown's control.

You gulped as the first light of the morning came into view. "I talked with Eris." you started slowly, not wanting to wake Cassian who was snoring few feet beside you. "The bargain we made had created some sort of bond, and with our proximity I slipped in his dream. He is under Briallyn's control."

Azriel's silence was louder than any other sound. He was the male who could see things that others couldn't, and if there was someone who would believe you it was him.

"How do you know it?" he quietly asked as shadows moved all around you, probably checking if anyone approached while you two talked.

You gave him a little shrug. You actually knew so little about everything that you had to keep up. "Every night since we arrived I dream this fog that forbid me to think, to move and to speak. This night was different, I was me, and in the middle of the fog there was Eris. Since I was Made the Crown doesn't have effect on me, and I was able to free Eris from its grip for a while." Gods, did you sound delusional? You were sure of what happened, you were sure you were right, but the male in front of you had every reason to not believe Eris' innocence. "Believe me, Azriel. Please. He warned me that she is controlling him, and we should run away."

Actually he told you to run away, he hadn't really cared to acknowledge the two Illyrians' warriors presence, but you thought better before specify that tiny detail.

"We move now." The shadowsinger nodded and took a stone from the ground. You rose an eyebrow at him, confused by his action. He only gave you a smirk before launching it toward Cassian, hitting his leg. The General rose to his feet with his blade in hand, looking for an invisible threat. "Rise and shine, it's time to go."

As soon as you stopped your laughter the tree of you started to follow the caravan again, this time you had a clear goal in mind: take Eris away from Briallyn.

When you entered the low-lying forest a strange feeling grew inside you. "I don't like this place." you murmured to Azriel as you landed near the lake where the party had stopped. "It's feel cold, wrong...like something ancient had put its roots here."

Cassian was quick to walk behind you, while Azriel took the front, shielding you with their bodies. You walked silently before stopping behind a tree and observing the scene in front of you.

There were twenty people, a mix of soldiers and nobility. You looked for the redhead, but its stallion was hitched to a branch, and he was nowhere to be seen. Anxiety started to build in your mind, what if Briallyn had taken him somehwere else? What if he had- "Over here, Cassian."

You quickly turned on your feet, his voice working like a siren song over your entire body. Eris was there, alive, breathing, smirking, and with a knife at Cassian's ribs.

You hold your breath as Azriel stilled beside you. "I knew you were a lying bastard." Cassian said through his teeth. "But this is low, even for you."

There was nothing you could do, not when Eris had Nesta's dagger right at Cassian's ribs. A move and the General would be slashed in two, and you had no idea how you would explain it to Nesta.

"Honestly, I'm disappointed in Rhysand." Eris said. "He's become so bland these days. He didn't even try to look into my mind."

You could feel a presence, somewhere around you. You knew you were being watched, and you knew that Briallyn must be close enough for her to give Eris' orders.

"You can't win this." Azriel warned with quiet menace. "You're a dead male walking, Eris. Have been for a long time."

Everything was about to go down if you didn't do something. Even if Azriel believed that Eris was under the Crown's control he wouldn't hesitate to kill Eris in order to help his brother.

The only problem was, you wouldn't allows him to do such thing.

"Let him go, Briallyn." you growled as you clenched your fits, flames bright around them, ready to strike. "It's me you want, come out and play."

Eris slid away the Made dagger from Cassian's ribs, freezing on his spot as a withered, reedy laugh came from behind him. "You'd be surprise by how many want you, Y/N Archeron. It's quite the prize you have on your head."

A hunched, cloaked figure come out from the shadows, standing right beside the male you were desperated to reach for. You needed to get her away from him so that Cassian and Azriel could grab him and fly away.

"High Lords, dark sorcerers, queens..." the cloacked figure kept talking. "Everyone want you."

The flames in your hands grew brighter, and you had to hold every piece of control you possesed to not look toward Eris. "Can't wait to meet them. I'd hate to disappoint. "

She laughed coldly, and a shiver run throught your body. Was she already using the Crown on Azriel and Cassian? Were you alone against her? If so, you would waste no time before killing her.

"For now, you won't go anywhere." the figure said. As Azriel stiffened beside you, probably ready to attack if she come any closer, you felt something shift in the air. "Eris, make sure she stays right where she is while I take the boys for a walk."

You couldn't stop your eyes from snapping to Eris, finding him shifting his weight on his legs, hands loose at his side and glassy, empty eyes fixed on you.

There was no way to communicate with him without Briallyn knowing it, or was it? Eris had told you that the bargain had created a bond among the two of you, could you access that bond to communicate with him?

As soon as you looked inside you, there it was. Weak, thin and hidden, you could make out the bond that had been created by the bargain. You tug to it, shyly, never breaking eye contact with Eris.

Can you ear me?

Nothing on his perfect, beautiful face. Nothing in his enchanting, amber eyes. You clenched your jaw, frustrated by the lack of reaction.

Come, snap at me. Mock me for caring. Say something.

Nothing.

"Lets give them their privacy, shall we?" the cloaked figure mocked as she moved toward the lake. Your eyes shifted on Azriel, how could you tell him that Briallyn was not the cloaked figure? You could smell the unmistakably Made-scent that someone like you, your sisters and Briallyn shared, but it come from behind you, not in front of you. "Princeling, if she try to move, kill her."

Your eyes widened as you saw Eris' hand grabbing the pomel of the Made dagger at his side. From outside it could have seemed a casual move, but you knew it was different. He would kill you if you moved. Eris would actually do it, and there was nothing you or him could do to stop it.

"Don't you dare to move." Cassian warned you between his teeth as him and Azriel started to follow the fake Briallyn.

Gods, if you couldn't warn them of the danger, you had to stop it yourself. Quite the difficult task since there was an incredible, terrifying, skilled warrior ready to kill you if you did as much as scratch your nose. Not a no one warrior, but the General of the Autumn Court's forces. You could not stand a chance even if you had trained since you were born.

You gulped down the sluckery sensation of fear that was starting to grow inside you as you watched Eris. Never since you had known him had you been afraid of him. But now?

"You know I cannot let them alone with her." you said carefully, keeping your senses open as the real Briallyn's scent moved around you in the forest.

He didn't do as much as breath. "I'll have to kill you."

You hated his empty voice. You hated the sight of him so, so...lifeless. Eris could be many things: arrogant, funny, mocking, polite, flirty; but he had never sounded so flat.

"She controls minds, not emotions. So spare me the pain that your death would bring on me."

"You don't want to kill me." You repeated slowly, hoping that the Eris you knew was in there somewhere. "It would pain you, remember?"

"Then dont move." if you had to listen to his voice, you would say that he didn't really care if he killed you.

He made it sound like a business meeting. Move and I'll kill you, don't move and I won't. So easy, so simple.

You could sense Briallyn walking away from you, toward the lake where Azriel and Cassian were. You could not let her take them. You were the only one that Briallyn couldn't touch, so that meant that they were under your protection.

"I'm sorry." You sighed, and saw Eris' hand tightening around the dagger. He too was undertanding what you were going to do, and you considered it a small victory when in his eyes something shifted. "I hope stories exaggerate about your talent with a dagger."

And without a warning you run in the opposite direction, toward the real Briallyn. There was no turning back now. You had switched on Eris' order to kill you, and now the steps you heard behind you sounded very much like a mourning song. Probably the one that they would play at your funeral.

You could not beat Eris if it come to a fight, so your only chance was to be quicker, find Briallyn and kill her before he could come any close to you.

A memory flashed into your mind of the first and only time you had been running with Eris on your feet. You were running toward Nesta to stop the King od Hybern from killing her, and Eris had been following you to save you. How the table had turned now.

A moment you were running, the next the ground approached quickly to your face. Pain flashed throught your temple as you hit the forest's floor.

You quickly tried to get up on your feet before a hand grabbed your hair and forced you to stand up. A scream of pain left your lips as you were faced with the redhaired male. "Eris stop." you tried to talk reason into him as fire bounded your ankles together, forbidding you to run.

Your hand was quick at his side, grabbing the Made dagger and pushing the blade at his neck while he angled your head at an unnatural angle. It was completely less pleasuring than the way he did it in your dream.

The Made dagger pulsed in your hand, power flew in it throught your hand and you couldn't say were your power started and where its power ended. You could slice every enemy with it, but you wouldn't slice Eris. Never.

"Stop." you hissed pressing the blade against his skin, hoping that the good sense in him win on his controlled mind.

"Or what? You're gonna kill me, Archeron?" He asked, almost mocking. His free hand grabbed your throat and pushed you against a tree making your vision going blurr as your head hit the wood. "Go on. Do it."

You could feel the air burning your lungs as it got harder and harder to breath. The grip on the dagger faltered, but Eris made no move to disarm you. Your eyes met again as his hand around your throat started to burn, and you were sure you would have burned flash for the next days.

If you survived it.

"Kill me." he dared you as his hand tightened.

He sounded like he was on the edge to beg you. Briallyn had told him to kill you, he couldn't stop it, but he could ask you to kill him first.

You would have laughed in another situation. "I won't." you barely stated as air started to stop coming inside your body. You let the Made dagger fallen on the ground, and you swore you saw his eyes widening with fear. "I can't." you whispered as you let your hands falling on his shoulders, a poor attempt to push him away.

You couldn't kill him. Your whole body would burn itself before killing him. The realization struck you in what was probably the worst moment. Dying was easier than killing him.

It was the unlocked fear in his amber eyes that made something click inside you.

"She controls minds, not emotions."

"Y/n, follow their instruction and don't let emotions cloud your judgment. Eris might depends on your clear mind more than we can imagine."

"Control your anger."

"She controls minds, not emotions."

"-not emotions."

Emotions could cloud your mind. You had lived it on your skin. And maybe it could cloud the Crown too.

You fought the blackness that threatened to blind you, as a crazy, stupid, mad idea came into your mind. You locked your hands behind his neck, locking your eyes with his. "I hope you like me enough, or this would be mortifying as my last moment."

You used all the strenght left in your body to push him against you and brought his face toward yours, making your lips, finally, crash. You barely registered how soft his slips were as your eyes shut closed while you desperatly begged the Mother to make it work.

Goosebumps rose all over your skin as your brain registered that you were actually kissing Eris. You felt him tense and tried to push away, but you would be damned if you let him. You grabbed his hair and kept his lips on yours as a different fire started to grow inside you.

You had to admit, this was definetly not your best kiss since you were almost blacking out for the lack of oxygen, and not because he was kissing you breathless but because he was actually strangling you to death.

But none of it mattered as you felt his grip on your throat lightening and the fingers he had locked in your hair started to actually caress the back of your neck.

The kiss was messy as you fought to stay awake and you supposed he was fighting the urge to kill you, to wich you were actually grateful. He was kissing you like his life depended on it, and even if you felt the need to puntualize that he was fighting for your life, you let him set the space.

Your body was begging for air, it would soon give out, but Eris needed you more. You could do it, a little more. You could resist however long he needed.

His grip on you had gone from deathly to needy. He was keeping you close, as if he was afraid for it to end. As if kissing you was his only chance at sanity.

Your desperation matched his. You both needed this to work. You both were walking a thin line between life and death. You both had probably wanted this for a very long time. You surely had.

You wished you could enjoy it, to let yourself loose in the fire that Eris was, but as the last wave of oxygen left your body your head lightened up. You tried to open your eyes but only blackness stared you back and suddenly all your strenght left.

Eris stopped abruptly, and you barely felt his head distancing from yours. "Little flame?"

"I'm going to faint." You whispered with a rough voice, trying your best to smile. "Please don't kill me."

The world fell around you, or you fell throught the world, and the floor disappeared from under your feet as two strong arms scooped you up.

Then, black.

A/N: AND THEY KISSED. It's not the kiss that reader, nor Eris, had hoped for, but it's what they both needed. Maybe not reader's lungs, but tbh I too would let him suck the air (and not only that) out of me and I would thank him :)

taglist: @adventure-awaits13 @blueeclipsepaperstudent @huffleruffplant @azysmate @bia-wayne-west @babypeapoddd @lady-targaryens-world@sourapplex @ghostwritermia @asteria33 @pinklemonade34 @tell-me-a-poem @speedypersonawhispers @historygeekqueen @webvics@paliketerson @lizzytish82 @tincanhat @marrass @acourtofmoonlightandstars @yasmin-oviedo @ghostwritermia @marly500@kabekusa @gamarancianne @butterfix @itsxchar6 @iowaladynerd @that-girl-reading @kitsunetori @rcarbo1 @username199945 @giana1508 @homeslices @yasmin-oviedo @impossibelle @iambored24601 @elisabethch82 @herondale-lightworm

[ubeb0nes]

hiiii could you also do pitfighter reader with sevika next?? i loveee your writing!

HECK YEA, i was lowkey pulling for this one to win on the poll anyway (i'm definitely invested in bar owner!reader now that i've written for her, though!)

Silco goes through henchmen like water through a grater. And of course- like everything else- it falls on Sevika to keep his forces topped up.

She gets a lot of the dumb bruiser types from the Pit Ring. Easy to come by and even easier to hire once you wave just a little bit of money and status in their faces.

The higher in the rankings you are though, the less likely you are to take Silco's second's deals. Life as a Pit fighter is never easy, but the top percent definitely make more than they would as lackeys.

You were one such. Sevika had seen you a few times in the ring when she'd come down to pick up new blood.

You swung like somebody had taught you with intention. There was the charming roughness of Zaun ingrained in your style, but you had clear skill. Every time Sevika came back, your name was a little higher in the rankings.

She always got good seats due to her social standing. Close enough to see the look in your eyes. Controlled, if a bit empty.

You'd made eye contact with her once, right after toppling the second-ranked fighter. You'd given her a once-over that nearly offended her, like you wanted to get in the ring with her. Sevika scoffed at the very notion.

She couldn't lie though, even she felt the buzz of excitement permeating the crowd leading up to your face-off for the champion seat. This time, she was just here to watch.

It was the first time she'd seen you struggle. First time anyone had. She could tell from the moment you walked into the Pit, something was wrong.

The champion is killing you. Literally. It stirs something in Sevika as she watches him pin your head to the gritty ground with one hand, and beat on your skull with the other.

She jumps in before she even realizes what she's doing. What the hell was she doing?

The whole arena held its breath as someone who wasn't nameless, wasn't just some violent nobody presented themself.

Sevika knew what it looked like. She knew that word would get back to Silco and he'd ask her what the hell she was doing in the very center of a place like the Pit. But all she could do was spit on the ground, and square herself to the champion as if to say "Come try it with me, I dare you."

And he was about to, until he saw the whirring glow of her metal arm beneath her cape. The champ shrugged her off, taking his own leave while Sevika slung one of your arms over her shoulder.

It's not like he had anything to gain from fighting her. You were the only one he needed to beat.

"Why the hell did you do that?" You muttered out of a broken jaw.

"Yeah, it was no problem, don't mention it."

She starts to help you towards the locker room, until you tell her to take you to your apartment since it's only a little walk away.

It was definitely nicer than a lot of other units in Zaun. It looked untouched though, like you barely spent any time in there. She… lets you kinda crumple on the couch, before rummaging a bottle of alcohol from your pantry and removing a vial of Shimmer from her holster belt.

"Get that shit the fuck away from me."

"You done it in the past?"

"Hell no!"

"It's not gonna trap you after one dose. Trust me, you need it. You look like shit."

You give her some more shit, but eventually take the vial and the shot of vodka. Something about her is undeniably warm. Honest. You had no reason to give your trust out freely, but she seemed to have gained it without your knowing consent.

A part of your heart clung to it, the authenticity and honor she possessed that hadn't existed in so much as a whisper in the Pits.

Even as your entire nervous system seized the moment the Shimmer touched your throat, you were wholly conscious of her hand gripping the back of your neck with gentle, grounding firmness.

Her thumb subconsciously massaged into your trap muscle, and you heard her smoky voice urging you to "breathe, it'll be over soon". When had someone last touched you without the intention to hurt?

Still, after the Shimmer had passed through and you were feeling much better, you gave her a similar once-over to the one you once had before.

"Bet I could beat your ass."

"And I bet you'd die. Actually, this time." Yeah, that shut you up.

"So… what do I owe you for this?"

"Hm?"

"I still get a share even though I lost. C'mon, what percent's your cut?"

"I don't need your prize money. Or consolation, I guess."

"Rub it in, why don't you?"

She's ignoring you now though, electing to peruse the not so short row of books on your wall. "A well-read Pit fighter, huh? Well, you're number one in something in the Pits."

"Okay, what the hell do you want? Why'd you step in to help me?"

Her silence says she doesn't know, but you don't know that. You just think she's being an ass. Before you can tell her such though, she speaks up. "You know who I am, right?"

"Everybody in the Pit knows who you are. I saw the champ almost shit his pants."

"Then you know why I come to the Pits at all?"

"To play superhero, apparently."

"No. To recruit."