#but now for the first time in my life I'm like. free of it. I didnt even know it was possible... and I'm so sad how much I've lost out on | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dollgxtz · 1 day ago

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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.

"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.

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.

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.

#umi writes ♡︎#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #sylus #lads #love and deepspace smut #sylus x reader smut #sylus smut #lads sylus #love and deep space sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #qin che #sylus love and deepspace

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drdemonprince · 2 days ago

Note

Hi! I just wanted to hand something off to you. I was the one who asked about self-harm, cutting in my case, as a positive expression of sexuality (though I used sexuality as shorthand for what I consider a tertiary feeling to traditional sexuality, something that I think more closely describes my relationship to cutting as an asexual person, but that's a tangent). Anyway, your exceptionally open-minded reply bolstered my confidence, like, a lot. It motivated me to start pulling together relevant resources with help from other users in the Death Panel discord server. The first thing I was given back was a piece which immediately changed my life, and I wanted to share it. More specifically, I've always found something bothersome about the concept of "harm reduction" as a keystone in the topic of self-harm; primarily that it leaves open the "rhetorically" undeniable assertion that the ultimate reduction in harm would be abstinence of that harm in its entirety. I wanted to point especially at the concept presented in this article which concerns the definitive delineation of harm. I've tried like 4 times now to summarize the point made, but I cannot in a way which is as satisfying as the piece itself: https://pasleciel.substack.com/p/measure-once-cut-twice-in-defense Thank you again, because your act of understanding has genuinely saved my life. I don't think I'd have felt like I had a leg to stand on without your reply.

Thanks for sharing that link, I will check it out! I'm really glad you messaged and glad that my reply was helpful to you. I think "harm reduction" does kinda present the stigmatized act as one that does still cause some harm -- and in presenting it that way, it tries to convince the skeptical that permitting a behavior is better than attempting to ban or control it because acceptance allows that harm to be mitigated or worked around. That position still presents the behavior as a thing to be permitted or tolerated by others rather than the individual's right and sole business no matter what. The harm reductionist model came into being in order to push back against forced abstinence, forced institutionalization, and forced treatment -- the norm was already to rob the person engaging in the behavior of their autonomy by default, and so an argument for giving that autonomy back kinda had to be made. But abandoning that sort of thinking entirely and abandoning clinical judgements of excessiveness or harm is the logical next step.

If we continue trying to drag more behaviors under the banner of the "socially sanctioned" one by one -- as the piece you linked puts it -- instead of doing away with the power of social sanctions entirely, then we don't really get very far. We keep having to prove that the behavior has some prosocial and positive health benefit. I've always favored total libertarian anarchy instead. A person should be free to remove body parts, cause themselves disability, scar or mutilate themselves, change the shape of their body, change their body's functionality etc as they see fit because that's theirs to decide, and anything less means that people have the authority to judge whether their reasons are "good" enough (which usually turns into demanding that the person prove that the changes they want will make them more valuable to somebody else).

All said, I'm really glad you find cutting enjoyable and meaningful, and I brought up the example to my disability ethics class at the medical school this week thanks to you.

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sofreddie · 3 days ago

Text

More Than A Fan

Summary: The honeymoon phase has been bliss. When Y/N is exposed first-hand to their life, Dean worries that it will all change.

Characters: Dean Winchester/F!Reader, Sam Winchester/Eileen Leahy, Castiel, Others

Warnings: First Person POV/POV Alternating, Fluff, Angst, TW: Blood, TW: Trauma/PTSD, TW: Violence, Cockwarming, Oral Sex (Male Receiving)

WC: 12,264

A/N: Sequel to Not Our First Fan. My brain kept going on this one, and I'm really happy with how it came out. Feedback is appreciated. : )

My Masterlist

Not Our First Fan

Sam POV

I had been away for nearly a week, but the hunt with Garth only took two days. I wasn’t rushing back, knowing my brother too well, and I wasn’t looking forward to hearing him and Y/N throughout the Bunker. Maybe they’d chill when I returned if I gave them some time.

And I felt I more than owed it to both of them. I had been a thorn in their sides and an ass, I know. I had my reasons, but I was wrong. I was willing to accept that - now at peace knowing Y/N wasn’t a threat - and instead focused on backing Dean up and supporting their relationship.

As I entered the Bunker, it was quiet. After putting my bags in my room, I could hear voices, and I followed the sounds until I entered the kitchen. Y/N and Dean were cooking and chatting with wide grins on both their faces. The scene was so domestic that my heart clenched. They seemed happy, and I was left even more aware of how utterly alone I felt.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean greeted me as I entered the kitchen. I faced him from the other side of the counter, Y/N’s back to me as she worked at the stove. “How was the hunt?”

“Milk run,” I responded, knowing he’d expect more after I'd been gone so long. “I spent some time with Garth, Bess, and the kids, and then I took my time driving back.”

I shrugged and smirked as my eyes slid to Y/N and then Dean. He grinned and nodded. I hadn’t seen him this happy and excited in ages. He seemed sober, too. I was glad he was happy and relaxed.

“Food’s ready,” Y/N announced, moving several dishes to the counter. “Dig in.”

“You eating with us?” I couldn’t help but ask, afraid she might hide from me now that I was back.

“Yeah,” she scoffed, making a plate and sitting at the table. “I’m famished.”

Dean laughed and flashed a smug grin before joining Y/N with his plate. I sat last, my plate full of heaps of food.

“Didn’t you eat all week?” Y/N teased, and my last bit of tension faded as I laughed and nodded.

“Yeah. But I’m spoiled with your food now.”

Dean hummed in agreement, and we dug in like our last meal. God, her food alone had me itching to get back. I felt more nourished and satisfied in just a few bites than I had all week.

“So, any plans for today?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?” Y/N’s surprise had me pausing and glancing between them.

“Yeah, I was going to tell you over breakfast. I thought we could go shopping. You’ve been talking about getting stuff for the kitchen and bathroom. Now that Sam’s here, we can all go.”

“Really? Awesome.” She pecked his lips and blushed as she glanced at me before hurrying to eat.

“That sounds fun.”

I wasn’t sure if it would be, but I supposed we all needed to dive into life together. It would be nice to make things more homey, and anything to help her cook the excellent food she gifted us would be great.

Dean POV

I wanted to surprise Y/N with a trip to get things for the Bunker. I knew she wanted to, and we had our ‘free forever’ card. Plus, I was hungry for more of the everyday domesticity she granted me.

I hadn’t expected Sam to stay gone so long, but I was grateful he gave us time to ourselves. I was even excited for Sam to come along on our shopping excursion. Maybe he’d finally decide to do something with his room. Things were awkward when he left, but Y/N and I worked through that. But the real test came with his return. I hoped we could be a family—the three of us—at least until Sam found a girlfriend.

The ride to the store was short but pleasant. Music was playing in the background, and the windows were down. Sam was in good spirits as he talked about some nerdy thing he had checked out. Y/N was in the backseat with a soft smile as she listened to Sam’s tales.

I’d yet to have her in Baby, and seeing her in the backseat gave me all sorts of ideas. I would’ve pulled over if Sam wasn’t there, but I also knew I was struggling to keep my hands off her, and she likely needed a break after the last week.

We’d been fucking, eating, and sleeping all week long, having deep or silly conversations along the way. I found I enjoyed her company and companionship as much as I enjoyed kissing and fucking her. It wasn’t the most acrobatic or wild, but it was by far the most passionate and intimate sex of my life.

I parked at the store and quickly got out, rushing to the back to open the door for Y/N and help her out. I pinned her against the door and kissed her soundly. She giggled, and I wrapped an arm around her waist as we walked to the store. Sam walked on her other side, sandwiching her between us. I smiled at him, and he nodded in return.

Y/N POV

I had been having the best week of my life with the man I loved—a man I admired, that I looked up to, and was a hero in my eyes. He didn’t reject me or make me leave when he learned of my love. He gave me a chance, and I ran with it.

My anxiety was climbing with each passing day. I knew Sam would return, and I worried about what would happen. Would he disapprove? Would Dean return to usual and chalk it up to a fling? I hoped not and tried to stay positive. I had been on cloud nine and was sure it wouldn’t last.

When Sam returned, I was tense, but it was alleviated over breakfast. Things felt almost normal again, except for the unexpected family trip. But as we drove Baby to the store, I enjoyed the brothers being themselves and tried to think of what I needed for the kitchen and bathroom. Maybe I could even snag a few things for my bedroom—not that I’d spent much time there this past week.

Dean pulled me out of the car and kissed me deeply as we approached the store. I was worried about Sam and that we were in public, but Dean didn’t. He wanted to kiss me, so he did. That made me swoon harder than anything else.

Sam POV

I was distracted by discreetly watching Dean and Y/N. I stayed close to whatever side of her Dean wasn’t holding. It was an unspoken understanding: to protect our own. I was so happy for them but still lonely for what they had.

Luckily, I was further distracted when we entered the kitchen section, feeling overwhelmed. But Y/N lit up like a kid on Christmas, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Dean was encouraging her as she hesitated over items.

“Y/N,” I smiled at her. “Get whatever you want. Hell, get all the things.”

I wanted to help, too, to connect with her like a friend and a sister. And if it meant more food…

“See?” Dean pecked her lips.

Then she was off, mostly talking to herself as she threw items into the cart. I snuck away to get another cart as we went to the bathroom section. Seeing what she was getting and why excited me. She was going to make the Bunker a home.

She wasn’t anything like Becky or any of the women Dean had been with. I liked her more than Lisa, even, which was saying something.

Dean POV

Seeing Y/N give in and shop freely made me happy and satisfied that I could do this for her, even if it was a scam card. But I had an ulterior motive when I planned this trip. I hoped to get her to pick out bedding for ‘our’ bed. I wanted her to move into my room. But with Sam here, I was extra nervous. I knew whatever I did—smooth or not—that he’d tease me.

“Hey, Sam?” I paused in the aisle. “Would you grab another cart?”

“Sure.”

I was glad he didn’t pry, but I took the chance to guide her to the bedding area. I knew Sam would be back soon.

“Y/N?” I stopped and turned to her. She smiled sweetly, and I swallowed my nerves. “I was thinking, you know, that maybe we could pick out some stuff for my bed and room, and you could move in there? With me?”

Man, I was nervous as fuck, rubbing the back of my neck and shuffling my feet as I stuttered over my words. It wasn’t like I was asking her to marry me, but it was a big step and another way to show her how I felt.

“I would love to if you’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m definitely sure,” I took her in my arms and kissed her, making her giggle. “Don’t wanna sleep without you.”

“Sap,” she teased, and I laughed as Sam returned with another cart.

“I guess I could get some stuff for my room,” Sam shrugged as he studied different items.

Y/N and I reviewed it, picking out different things for our room. It felt like a total chick-flick day, but I was high on it. I couldn’t wait to get her home, make up the bed with the soft and fluffy bedding, and then make love to her all night.

My hopes were dashed as we squeezed everything in Baby, though there was barely enough room in the back for Y/N, and the trunk barely closed. Intent on heading home to see through my plan, Sam spoke up and delayed my efforts.

“Why don’t we hit the diner before heading home?”

“Oh! Yeah,” Y/N agreed. “I’m hungry.”

Well, I couldn’t deny them. My brother and my girl. My family. I was parked in the diner lot in a flash, my stomach grumbling, making Sam laugh.

Sam dashed out of the car toward the diner, Y/N hot on his heels before I could catch up. He picked a booth and slid in next to Y/N, leaving me to sit on the opposite side of the table from them. Sam laughed as he saw the confusion and annoyance on my face.

“Nuh-uh,” he teased. “You sit next to her, and it’ll be nothing but wandering hands and kissing. I wanna eat, not puke.”

Y/N’s giggle surprised me, and I resigned myself to sitting alone and cursing Sam. The waitress took our orders, and Sam’s eye caught something in the diner. His eyes widened, his cheeks flushed, and I had to search out whatever made him react that way.

“Hi, Guys.”

I grinned at the sight of Eileen, a fellow hunter we’d worked with that Sam had a serious crush on. If she was in town, there must have been a hunt nearby.

“Eileen, hey. Join us?”

She slid into the booth beside me and across from Sam. I couldn’t help but flash him a smug grin. If I couldn't sit next to my girl, he couldn’t sit next to his crush. After brief introductions between Y/N and Eileen, we dug into our food.

I invited Eileen back to the Bunker, and she readily accepted. It had been a while since Sam and I had seen her. I knew Sam was smitten with her, and I had encouraged him to pursue her for a while. Her arrival at the diner seemed a perfect opportunity to finally get him to make a move.

But the best part was I’d get to spend more time with Y/N. And I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about Sam being a third-wheel. Or Y/N, for that matter. With Sam occupied, I’d have a little more time before I had to face that possibly awkward reality.

Eileen had her vehicle, and Sam said he’d ride back with her. I tried to contain my excitement, knowing Y/N would be beside me again.

As Sam walked away, I turned to Y/N with a grin, taking her hand and leading her to the car. I opened the passenger’s door and closed it behind her, jogging around the back to the driver’s side and quickly climbing in. Eileen honked as they drove away, and I waved them off.

“Ready to head home?” I asked Y/N with a lewd grin, conveying my thoughts as I started the car.

“Don’t we have to get everything inside and set up?”

I shrugged, but the items were not my priority at that moment. “I figured we’d go home, maybe have a nice shower, and then I could take you to bed.”

I ran my hand along her thigh and squeezed as I stole a kiss. Her soft moan made me want to take her right there. But I knew she had a point. If we got all of this in and set up, the shower and bed would be even better. And I could tease the hell out of her, winding her up. Damn, just the thought was starting to make me hard.

I leaned in to steal another kiss, but as I pulled back, she chased me, her hands running through the hair at the back of my head and pulling me back into her as she devoured my mouth. Fuck, it was so hot to know she wanted me as much as I wanted her.

I bit at her lower lip, slipping my tongue inside her mouth. I was ready to take her right then and there. Just a quickie in the front seat to satiate the burning need until we could get home and I could give her more and more and more.

A knock at my window made her jump and had me groaning at the interruption. I turned my head to see a cop standing there with his bright-ass flashlight shining right into the window unnecessarily - it wasn’t even dark enough for the damn thing. I rolled down the window and gave my best smile, though I was thoroughly irritated.

“Evening Officer.”

He shined the light over me and then Y/N before looking back at me, “License and registration, please.”

I should have known making out in the parking lot of a busy diner would have gotten us caught, but I didn’t think about it or care. I was too focused on everything Y/N. I handed over the requested items, squeezing Y/N’s thigh to reassure her as the cop looked over everything.

“Can you step out of the car, Sir?”

That made me pause, but I wanted to finish this and get home. I stepped out of the car and closed the door behind me, walking toward the back of Baby with the cop.

“You know, it’s a crime to have a fake ID, Dean,” the cop said, his eyes flashing black. My heart sank, and I instantly went into fight mode.

Y/N POV

My eyes were glued to Dean as he followed the cop to the back of the car. Something didn’t feel right, something more than just odd protocol. When Dean began fighting with the cop, I knew something was wrong. I didn’t know what to do. I knew the smart thing was to let him handle it. I was way out of my depth here. But I couldn’t just sit by.

What if this was the random thing that killed him?

Before I could decide to move, the passenger door opened, and I was roughly yanked out the door from behind. I was too distracted watching Dean to notice there was someone else. I screamed for Dean, and I heard him shout my name back to me, but I was too focused on my attacker.

I twisted and bit and clawed and stomped until I was released and turned to face a set of black eyes occupying the body of a second officer. I knew how to fight, but a demon was another ballgame. He lunged for me, and I pushed him back, getting myself some distance and running for Dean's safety.

As I got to the back of the car, I saw Dean had downed his opponent. But I was stopped short by the other demon grabbing my hair from behind and yanking me back. Dean ran towards us, but the demon hit him hard, sending him back and to the ground.

Dean called to me, getting my attention and catching my eye before he tossed the angel blade towards me. I managed to grab it, surprising both Dean and myself. I ripped myself from the demon’s hold, which hurt like hell when my hair ripped out and turned to face him. My surprise was replaced by anger as the demon hit me hard. I recovered enough to lunge forward with all my strength and anger, feeling the blade sink into flesh.

We both froze, seconds drawn out as I looked from the blade in my hand to his eyes, noting he seemed as shocked as I felt. His body flashed with orange light, and I gasped, my body trembling as the demon shook, the tremors transferred through our connection of the blade. The light went out, and he fell to the ground, the blood-soaked weapon still in my shaking hand.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the bloody and lifeless body at my feet. I felt something touch my hand and turned to see Dean gently trying to ease the blade that was dangling from my fingers. That’s when I noticed my hand was covered in blood. I felt frozen, numb, and in a daze as I locked onto the crimson liquid that trailed and dripped from my trembling hand.

I felt Dean wipe down my hand and help me into the car, but I couldn’t focus on anything. In the back of my mind, I knew I was experiencing some kind of shock, but I couldn’t shake myself from it. Dean was talking, but I couldn’t hear him. I was still shaking, and I knew that was most likely my adrenaline running high.

I hoped it would stop soon because the shaking made it harder to control my thoughts. When the car's light changed, I was broken from my trance long enough to see that we were entering the long tunnel into the Bunker’s garage, which seemed foreboding.

I could feel it coming that I would break down soon. Cry or scream or just melt into a puddle of some sort. I probably had injuries I wasn’t even aware of. I just needed to get to the bathroom for a shower, and then I could take stock. I was out of the vehicle when Dean threw the car in park.

“Gonna hit the showers,” I mumbled as I rushed off to the bathroom, not wanting him to see me break down, to witness me so weak.

I went straight to my room, gathered a change of clothes and towel, and marched to the bathroom. I knew the adrenaline was wearing off, and I’d crumble. It was imminent. I’d rather be clean and safe in my room behind closed doors before that happened.

I moved quickly, removing my shoes and pants before working on my shirt. I had to pause, suddenly aware of aches and possible injuries that I was too afraid to examine. I struggled again and again, trying to remove my shirt, and cried out at the pain.

“Y/N?” Dean’s voice reached my ears through the bathroom door. I leaned against the sink with a groan, giving up on my attempt to remove my shirt, standing there in only that and my panties and feeling like a failure for not even being able to undress myself. “You okay?”

I saw Dean enter the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind him. His worried eyes rapidly examined me from head to toe.

“I can’t get my shirt off,” my voice wavered and whined more than I intended, my emotions starting to break through. “I…I think I’m hurt.”

“Let me see.”

Dean’s deep voice was gentle and soothing as he approached me, his hands held out. I nodded, which seemed to give him the permission he sought.

Dean POV

I watched as Y/N practically ran from the car into the Bunker. I hated that this had happened and that she was forced to defend herself. I knew she’d never faced something like this or had never had to kill anything before. A kill was never easy, especially the first one. I knew how that stayed with you and what she was likely going through.

I called Sam and told him what had happened. Luckily, he was at the Bunker with Eileen and said they’d handle it and call Cas for assistance. I wanted to go and clean up with him, but he insisted that Y/N would need me. I knew he was right, but didn’t want to turn my back on the job. There was clean-up, and I wanted to know how they found us and what they wanted.

This happened in the middle of our hometown and involved the police. If we couldn’t fix this, we’d likely have to go deep into hiding. But with Cas and Sam on the job, I knew they could handle things and would call if something went wrong.

With that situation addressed, at least for now, I knew I had to find Y/N. I could tell she was in shock, and I worried about her being alone right now. I eventually found her in the bathroom, her cries of pain alerting me to her location. I paused in front of the door, hearing her struggling inside.

“Y/N? You okay?”

I slowly opened the door, peeking inside and seeing her leaning against the sink. I closed the door behind me and walked towards her, scanning her body for any visible injuries.

“I can’t get my shirt off,” she complained, a tinge of pain in her voice. “I…I think I’m hurt.”

My heart dropped into my stomach. I wanted to rush to her but knew she would be jumpy after the ordeal. So, I strolled towards her with my hands out, like I’d do with a victim on a case.

“Let me see.”

She nodded, and I felt relieved. I helped her remove her shirt, careful of any injuries she might have. As she stood before me in just her underwear, I put aside any inappropriate thoughts, focusing on the task at hand. She didn’t need me to be horny and wanting, she needed me to take care of her, and I was determined to do so. Whatever she needed. I knew this was my fault and could never make it up to her. Looking over her body, I didn’t see any cuts, but she was definitely bruised and possibly had broken ribs.

“Might be broken,” I said, gently prodding her side.

Castiel appeared before I could speak further, making Y/N jump and hide in my arms. I growled at the sudden and alarming situation and the pain it probably caused her.

“Sam called me,” Cas explained in a gentle tone, noting the distress of the situation.

Reaching out a hand, he laid it on Y/N’s head, alleviating all of her injuries - the physical ones, at least. She took a deep breath and relaxed in my arms, and I could tell the pain was gone.

“I’m sorry for what happened,” Castiel spoke. “You were lucky you had each other, or it might have been worse.”

Cas disappeared before I could thank him. I was grateful Sam had gotten a hold of him and that the angel had healed my girl. I couldn’t bear to see her in pain.

She met my eyes, and for long moments, we stood, just gazing at each other. She tried to force a smile but only mustered a grimace, the dam holding back her emotional tide ready to burst. I knew the look, I knew the signs, I knew exactly what she was going through and how hard she was about to crash. All I could do was be there.

“I-I should s-shower,” she uttered suddenly, scuttling around me to head into one stall and turn on the water.

Y/N POV

I felt embarrassed, worthless, and weak. I couldn’t bear to look at Dean anymore, too afraid to see pity. It scared the hell out of me when Castiel suddenly appeared. I hated that I was so jumpy and naked and felt exposed in every way possible. I forced myself to leave Dean’s comforting hold, not feeling worthy of it.

Assuming he’d leave, I focused on the shower. Removing my panties, I went under the spray, focusing on the warm water's soothing feel; however, when I closed my eyes, flashes of the fight came straight to my mind, the blood coating my hand from the kill - my kill.

I had killed someone.

I tried to breathe deeply, but it only came in stutters. Balancing with one hand against the wall, I internally begged for my emotional walls to hold tight for just a bit longer.

Angry and unable to control my feelings, I grabbed my sponge harshly, lathering it up and roughly scrubbing my body. The images kept flashing through my mind, making me scrub harder and faster—as if I could wash them away before they manifested. But my mind focused on the memories. My hands switched to harshly scrubbing one arm and hand, then the other, the blood in my mind never washing away.

I couldn’t get clean.

The sobs broke forth then of their own volition, the dam collapsing as the adrenaline wore off. I dropped the sponge, my hands flying to cover my face as I began to sob hard. My knees weakened and wobbled, and I knew I would collapse, unable to hold myself up any longer. But the harsh smack of the tiles against my kneecaps never came.

Instead, warm and strong arms wrapped around me from behind, catching me as I fell and gently lowering me to the ground. I knew it was Dean, and the comfort of his arms made me feel like it was okay to fall to pieces. His arms stayed tightly wrapped around me as I sobbed with all I had, the spray of the shower raining down on my head and shoulders, washing away the snot and tears.

I didn’t know how long had passed before I finally calmed down, the water feeling lukewarm at best. It was then I became fully aware of the arms still securely wrapped around my midsection, holding me safe and keeping me warm while I fell apart.

I sat up, Dean behind me, and held me close in his lap. I only just noticed he was naked, too. I turned my head, looking over my shoulder, and found kind, warm green eyes shining at me with concern. Without a word, I stood, and he was there, ensuring my legs stayed under me. He turned me to face him and wiped the tears from my face.

Worn out, exhausted, and defeated, I let Dean silently bathe us both. He was quick and efficient, and I appreciated his attention to my hands, nails, and cuticles. I wanted to thank him, tell him I loved him, or say anything, but I couldn’t speak. I didn’t have the will or fight to do anything more than just be.

When he finished, he turned off the water and wrapped a towel around me before guiding me to sit on one of the locker-room-style benches off the side. A moment later, he had a towel secured around his waist and silently sat next to me. I knew he was worried about me, and I needed to say something. But my mind was stuck in a loop.

Dean POV

“I killed someone,” she stated as she stared off at the far wall, her soft voice much louder in the tiled bathroom. She turned to look at me, the tears gathering in her eyes again, one single tear escaping and finding a path down her cheek and jaw. “...I-I killed someone.”

I didn’t know what to say. Instead, I wrapped my arms around her for comfort as she sobbed into my shoulder. I knew the feeling of having death and blood on your hands, feeling like it never goes away. I didn’t want that for her, but it had happened, and now we had to deal with the consequences.

I wondered if this up-close glimpse into my life would make her change her mind and decide I wasn’t worth it. I wouldn’t blame her. If anything, I’d help her get as far away from me as possible. Especially if it meant she didn’t have to feel like this and didn't have to face the darkness of my world.

I helped her dress in the comfortable clothes she had brought to the bathroom. I hadn’t prepared, so I just held the towel around my waist with one hand as I guided her to our room with the other. She didn’t say a word as we entered the room. Instead, she moved to get comfortable in bed while I dressed in some boxers and a T-shirt. I was eager to get her into bed earlier, but this was farthest from what I had imagined.

I reflected on Cas’s parting words: “You were lucky you had each other, or it might have been worse.”

Luckily, I was there to defend her. But damn unlucky for her to even know me and be put in situations like this. No matter how hard I tried, I knew I couldn’t protect her from everything. But it didn’t keep me from feeling like shit about it.

I climbed on the bed behind her as she lay on her side, wrapping my arms around her and holding her close like I did in the shower. Her breath stuttered, but she soon settled. I was more than okay with just giving her the comfort she needed. I couldn’t sleep, so I nuzzled into her and mildly rested while watching her fitful slumber.

Sam POV

When we got to the diner, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to mess with Dean. When I sat beside Y/N, Dean’s look of dismay was more than worth it. I didn’t want to watch them make out the whole time, but it was more about the chance to tease my big brother.

However, when I spotted Eileen in the diner, that all changed. I hadn’t seen her in a while, but I loved spending time with her. Dean had been on me for a long time about ‘manning up’ and asking her out. But I knew relationships and hunting didn’t go well together.

We talked all the time, we hadn’t seen each other in a while. She was just as beautiful as the last time I saw her, if not more so. Seeing her now, in a Lebanon diner of all places, seemed like fate intervening - and I couldn’t be mad about it.

Eileen caught my eye and smiled, and I felt the butterflies in my stomach. I shifted in my seat as if that could calm them down. Dean quickly caught on, and the shit-eating grin on his face told me I was in for teasing.

I was grateful Dean invited her to sit with us - even if I was now lamenting that she was sitting next to him and not me - and even more thankful when he invited her back to the Bunker. I wasn’t confident I would’ve been able to ask her without stumbling over my words and acting completely awkward.

When Dean and Y/N went to the Impala and Eileen started toward her truck, I asked Eileen if I could ride with her, and she happily agreed. I used the excuse of the Impala being stuffed with shopping bags, but I just wanted a moment alone with her. When we got to the Bunker, I knew we’d all probably hang out, which was fine. I tried to use this ride - however short it may be - for a refreshing moment alone with her and away from my brother and Y/N.

Catching up on the ride, I learned Eileen had just finished a hunt nearby. It was too close for comfort, and I was worried that I hadn’t heard anything about it. I’d been a little preoccupied with my downtime interrogating our new housemate.

“So, who’s the new girl?” Eileen asked with a smile.

I laughed, “Y/N. She’s Dean’s…well, I guess she’s his girlfriend.”

No one had put a label on anything, and it was fresh between them, but with the declarations and Dean moving her into his room, it was something serious and committed. I hoped it was, anyway. Despite my initial protests and disbelief, I really wanted that for Dean. As I glanced at Eileen in the driver’s seat, whisps of her hair blowing from the partially open window, I knew I wanted that, too.

“So Playboy Dean Winchester has a ball and chain.”

That was a really odd thing for her to say and very unlike the way Eileen usually spoke.

“It’s just ‘cause he won’t let himself have it or believes he doesn’t deserve it,” I said, a little ashamed because I had made the very same assumptions.

As she parked in front of the Bunker and turned off the engine, I was met with a gentle smile.

“It’s good,” Eileen insisted. “More leverage.”

Before I could question it, her eyes flashed black, and she lunged at me in the front bench of her truck, pressing me back into the passenger’s door. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I had to subdue her and exorcise the demon. It was hard to maneuver in the confines of the truck cab, but I managed to push her against the driver’s door, pull the handle, and send her toppling backward out of the truck and onto the ground.

I hopped out of the truck and wrestled with the demon, pining them as I quickly recited the fifty words of Latin from memory. She fought, struggled, and threatened, but in the end, the demon was expelled, the black smoke leaving her body.

“Sam?” Eileen asked as she came to me, and I was relieved.

“You’re okay,” I reassured her, signing as I spoke. I had been learning since I met her, often practicing with her on video chat.

I led Eileen inside, leaving her in the map room as I fetched a few beers. I heard the echo of the Impala pulling into the Bunker’s garage, and I wondered what had taken Dean so long to get here. I handed her a beer, digging my phone from my pocket to call Dean and tell him what happened.

The phone rang before I could call. When I saw Dean’s name on the caller ID, my hunter instincts kicked into overdrive.

“Dean?”

I listened as my brother told me of the encounter he and Y/N had just had. I was pissed; whoever they were had to have been watching us, waiting until we were separated.

“No, let me handle it,” I told Dean as he went on a tirade. “Yeah, I’ll call Cas. Y/N needs you right now.”

After ending the call, I let out a long breath, staring at the phone in my hands as I contemplated what had transpired.

“Sam?”

Eileen’s curious voice drew my attention. I tried to give her a reassuring smile, but she could see right through it. Her ability to read and understand me so easily was one of the things I enjoyed about her.

“Dean and Y/N were attacked right after we left,” I explained. “They’re banged up but fine. Two dead cops were possessed, and there were a bunch of witnesses. It was late in the day in the middle of town.”

“The hunt I was on was demons,” Eileen explained, her hands rushing to sign as she explained. “I thought they were all gone, but when I left, one of them caught up to me. I didn’t even know I was possessed.”

I shook my head, hating that these things happened to us and those around us. Suddenly, Eileen wrapped her arms around me, hugging me tight, and I returned the embrace, needing it more than I realized.

“It’s not your fault,” I insisted, reassuring her.

“I’ll help,” she offered, signing with her hands as she spoke. She knew there’d be no stopping me from taking action, even if it was her hunt. “Whatever you need, I got your back.”

I was so grateful she was there and offering her help. I’d need it, but I’d want her with me regardless. It sucked that I suddenly had to work, but at least I still got time with Eileen—the silver lining on an otherwise dark cloud.

“Alright. Let me call Cas, and I should probably change into Fed gear. We’ll have to figure out how to clean this up.”

I tried my best to focus on the job at hand but struggled. My mind kept drifting over what happened, what could have happened. The bodies were gone by the time we got there, police tape and ambulances in the lot we had just left not that long ago.

It took some time and charm, but I got the security footage, Eileen identified the witnesses, and Castiel discreetly erased their memories of the incident. While this took care of the immediate issue, we still had to deal with other people possibly recognizing us in town and from the diner, and we still had to find out why these demons attacked.

When we returned, Castiel promised to investigate the incident further and left. I could tell Eileen was deeply upset—not just about being possessed but also about possibly being a pawn who led the others to us. It wasn’t her fault, but Hunters tended to blame themselves for everything. I was frustrated that our lives always had to be so messed up.

I offered her a drink, but she declined, retreating to the guest room she used when she visited. I had to remind myself that she’d just come off a hunt, been possessed, and then helped to clean up in town; she had to be exhausted.

I poured myself a half-full glass of whiskey as I sat in the library. Demons interrupting and messing with our lives wasn’t anything new to us. But Eileen had been targeted, and Y/N had to fight. It wasn’t just Dean and me under attack anymore.

Too lost in thought, I didn’t notice when Dean sat with me, a crystal glass in hand and the decanter on the table within reach—yeah, it looked like it’d be one of those nights.

“How’s Y/N?”

Dean POV

It took Y/N a while to get to sleep. Once she was, I felt it was okay to slip away. I didn’t want to leave her, but I desperately needed a drink. Or a whole bottle.

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been helping Y/N, but I was surprised to see my brother at the table in the library, drinking under a lone desk lamp. He didn’t seem to notice me until I sat down and poured a heavy drink.

“How’s Y/N?”

I sighed and rubbed my eyes, “In shock, I think. But asleep, for now.”

Sam nodded and finished off his drink before pouring another. I fetched a second bottle; it looked like we were gonna need it.

“Eileen was possessed on a demon hunt.”

“So she and those others showed up at the same time -”

“Eileen - the demon that was in her - was asking about Y/N; called her ‘leverage.’”

Fuck. Fuck!

This was precisely what I was afraid of happening. Of Y/N being targeted because of me and my damned life. I wouldn’t be surprised if she changed her mind and ran for the hills. Hell, I’d help her pack.

Sam explained to me what the three of them did to try and clean up the mess in our backyard. Were we gonna have to lay low in the Bunker until the heat died down? Just another reason for Y/N to hate me. I was ruining her life.

“I think maybe I can make some charms that might help. We’d still look like us but be unrecognizable.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. I was familiar with the type of magic and charm he was talking about. It might not be necessary and would hopefully only be needed for a short while, but it would be good to have, just in case.

Especially considering that whoever was behind this became my public enemy, numero uno.

“I’ll help with research, reading, and getting ingredients. Whatever you need.”

Sam took a deep, huffy breath, and I knew he was about to say something I wouldn’t like.

“You should take some time off to focus on Y/N. Me, Cas, and Eileen…we can handle this.”

“Our lives don’t allow for time off, Sam!”

I was right; I didn’t like it at all. How could he expect me to sit on the sidelines when something threatened us? Threatened her?

“If you don’t want to stay, then we should bring her with us. You, me, her, and Eileen. We’d be safer in numbers.”

I didn’t know what to do. The hunter in me wanted to hunt, to track down these bastards and put them in their place. But the broken man in me - who already cared more deeply for Y/N than I was willing to admit - wanted to both push her away and pull her close to shield her from it all.

Y/N POV

I had successfully defended myself against a stronger opponent in a surprise attack. That was good.

I had - in a me or them situation - been the victor. I was alive, and they were dead, and I escaped with relatively minor injuries, which Castiel had healed. All of that was good.

I had helped Dean and removed one more demon from the world. That was good.

So why did I feel so bad?

When I woke, I was hit with waves of darkness and depression as I recalled every detail. My body felt heavy and numb as it settled over me. I had killed someone, taken a life, and it stained my mind and my hands.

It took me two days to get out of bed for more than the bathroom. Dean had insisted that I eat and shower. He was a worried mother hen, and I’d be annoyed if I could muster it. Instead, I shuffled on autopilot and trusted Dean to guide me.

The dark thoughts in my mind told me he just desperately wanted me out of his bed, locked away in my old room to mope in solitude. But I could see in his eyes, hear in his tone, and feel in his touch how much he cared. It made me wish I was okay, if only not to hurt him anymore.

I thought that forcing myself back into my domestic routine would help me get through this and move past it. After breakfast, I decided the dishes would be a good place to start, so I gathered the items from the table.

“You don’t have to,” Dean reached for me but pulled back when I shook my head.

“You cooked. I got it.” I tried to give him a small smile, and he let me continue my mission.

Dean POV

I was glad to see her out of bed and out of the room. She seemed so fragile since the incident. She’d been having nightmares, but I didn’t know if she wanted to talk about it. I didn’t like talking about mine.

I was relieved when she joined me for breakfast and surprised when she ate a decent amount. But then she tried to clean up.

“You don’t have to.”

I wanted to touch her, reassure her, and let her know I didn’t expect anything from her. But she pulled out of reach, and I tried not to pout.

“You cooked. I got it.”

I relented but kept an eye on her while she worked. While I was glad she seemed better, I knew she could return to bed or break down. She knew better than me what she needed - at least, I hoped she did - so I would just make myself available to catch her if she stumbled.

Y/N seemed fine as she washed the dishes, head bowed and shoulders hunched. She wasn’t the bright, jovial person I was familiar with. Just a couple of days ago, we were practically honeymooning it, and now -

I heard the clatter of a dish breaking, followed by a hiss as Y/N’s whole body jumped and then tensed. I was up from my seat in a flash and at her side a split second later. There was a broken plate in the sink. She cradled her hand, which had a large and deep gash across the palm. Rivulets of blood dripped into the sink, mixing with the water and soap to swirl down the drain.

I grabbed a dish towel and tended to her hand, rinsing it quickly and turning off the water. It was deep, and I had to wrap the towel around her hand to stem the bleeding until I could call Cas or give her stitches. She had that same haunted shock from the incident.

Y/N POV

All I could see was red, my hands covered in blood again, my mind replaying the moment the angel blade sunk into flesh. I was in the memory and in the kitchen. I understood my hand was injured, but I couldn’t feel it.

“Y/N!”

I frowned when I realized Dean was shouting at me. His eyes were panicked. I wanted to be upset that he was yelling, but I knew he must be worried.

“Why are you yelling?”

“Baby,” he cupped my cheek, holding my gaze. “I said your name a bunch of times. You were somewhere else.”

“Oh.”

“I’m calling Cas.”

“What? No! Dean, you can’t call an angel whenever I get hurt.”

“Watch me,” Dean growled, and a moment later, Castiel appeared.

He didn’t need to be told, seeing my bleeding wound, the dish towel soaked in blood. He carefully removed the cloth and healed the gash, only a smear of blood left on my hand.

“Thank you, Cas,” Dean said, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.

I was still reeling over the blood, the killing. I was embarrassed that I was so weak, fragile, and afraid. I was ashamed that I’d hurt myself - even if it was an accident - and that Dean was so worried - again - that he called Cas - again.

I couldn’t look at either of them and turned to the sink to wash my hands. I scrubbed and scrubbed, but the blood seemed to smear and spread. I couldn’t get clean. I kept scrubbing until I felt cold and sore; still, the blood remained.

The tears burst forth on their own, and the sobs wracked my body so hard I couldn’t see my hands anymore. Only the red that seemed to stain everything.

I felt Dean move, then take my hands to lead them under the water. I only knew it was him when I saw the bright green of his eyes breaking through the tinge of crimson, like sunlight piercing through thick, dark clouds.

He gently and slowly cleaned my hands. He rubbed a cloth over the lines and creases and even focused on my nails and cuticles with careful precision and care. After drying my hands, I looked at them, and they were clean. When I looked back at Dean, all the red was gone, and I could see him clearly.

He looked exhausted and pained. There was light stubble on his jaw and dark circles around his eyes. My heart broke knowing it was my fault. Somehow, he was still incredibly beautiful despite his obvious suffering.

Dean had attentively cleaned invisible stains from my hands and was ready to punch and kill the ghosts and nightmares that haunted me. And now, he stood so quiet and patient, letting me inspect him.

I felt like I might cry, but instead, I cupped his cheek—the stubble pleasantly scratched against my palm—and kissed him with all my love and appreciation. He whimpered and then returned the sentiment, moving his lips with mine as his arms held me close.

I knew Dean cared, that he felt for me. But now I knew how deeply, and I hoped this wasn’t our last kiss. I hoped he wouldn’t do as I feared and send me away.

Dean POV

Once Cas had healed her, he left, and I was grateful because when she started washing her hands—so rough and abrupt—I knew she was about to fall to pieces. I had been there more times than I wanted to think about. My own hands were stained a deep red from the rivers of blood I’d spilled. So I did for her what I was always too proud to ask for.

I washed her hands for her. The actual blood that was present washed away quickly and easily. But the real blood wasn’t what she saw. I remembered how my hands looked in my mind and proceeded to cleanse. Once satisfied with her hands, I scraped out her nails and cuticles twice for good measure. With a final rinse, I massaged her hands under the water to give that feeling of a deep clean with elbow grease.

By the time I carefully dried her hands, her body was more relaxed, her tears stopped, and her breathing started to even out. She silently searched me, her gaze almost a featherlight touch. I didn’t know what she was looking for, but I left myself open for her to find it. Normally, I’d hide away, locking my thoughts and feelings so tightly that not even Sam knew.

But honesty was the cornerstone of our relationship. It started everything and carried us this far. It didn’t seem like the time to suddenly stop.

When she kissed me, I was surprised. It was so gentle and tender my heart skipped a beat, and I whimpered, but she didn’t seem to mind. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close, almost like I could shelter her in my ribcage like a vital organ. That’s how this, and she, felt.

I knew then I was a selfish bastard because I didn’t have the strength to be apart from her - to push her away or let her leave - because I was starved for everything she gave me, and she was slowly healing the cracks in my soul.

“Do you want to go back to bed?” I asked, seeing how tired she looked.

She nodded, and I led her by the hand to our room. I released her in the open doorway, remembering I wanted to change the sheets and put the new ones on.

“What are you doing?”

“Just wanna change the sheets,” I answered as I focused on my task. But her following words made me stop and look at her.

“I can go to my room if you want.”

She looked so defeated, so I rushed to her, holding her in my arms. “I don’t want that. I want us together, okay?”

She nodded, and I kissed her forehead before returning to the sheets. She came around the other side and started helping. As we finished laying the comforter on top, I knew I had a giant smile on my face.

“What are you grinning about?”

I shrugged, “Just the first time we made our bed, together, with our sheets.”

She smiled and chuckled lightly, and I felt like a kid who’d just discovered Christmas.

“Let me get us some clean PJs,” I offered, turning to the dresser. I was eager to take care of her and show her I could and wanted to - especially after her comment about her old room.

“Could -”

I stopped what I was doing and gave her my full attention, waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, I walked over to her and rubbed her arms. When she finally spoke, she didn’t look at me.

“Could we maybe sleep naked? I just want to feel closer to you.”

“Of course,” I answered because, of course. I tucked my fingers under her chin and pulled her lips to mine. I didn’t want her ever to be afraid to ask me for anything.

She ran her hands under my shirt, pushing it up, and I pulled from her lips to yank the shirt over my head and toss it aside. Then I removed hers, and we continued until we were naked and kissing in a gentle embrace. Despite her breasts pressed against my chest, her ass in my hands, or my cock pinned between us, it wasn’t sexual but intimate in a way that was new to me.

We settled in bed under the sheets - which were of a higher quality and felt incredible against my bare and heated skin - facing each other, and I pulled her as close as I could. She kept squirming, and I knew she wasn’t entirely comfortable.

“What’s wrong?” I asked into her hair as she nuzzled into my neck.

“Nothing, I’m being ridiculous.”

“Don’t make me get the serum,” I joked, and she lightly slapped my chest.

“I just…I don’t feel close enough.”

“What do you need?”

“I - I want you inside of me. Not for, you know, just -”

“I got you.”

I lifted her thigh over my hip, opening her to me. I ran my fingers over her core, just to make sure she could take me comfortably. Shifting my hips, I slid deep within her. She gasped, then relaxed, almost melted into me.

I was prepared to give her anything she needed. But I hadn’t realized how much I needed this, too. I wrapped myself around her and kissed gently along her shoulder. Whatever this was, it was beyond intimate - something I didn’t have a name for yet - and it was something I’d never felt before. But it was incredible and perfect, too much and not enough at once.

I tried not to think about being bare inside her unprotected pussy, though it made my cock twitch. I took deep breaths until I calmed down. This wasn’t about sex - and certainly wasn’t about breeding - and we’d had so much sex recently, though that was protected every time.

This was about closeness, connection, and sheltering in one another—everything I never knew I needed.

Y/N POV

When I woke, I felt surrounded by warmth, comfort, and peace, which washed over me and soothed me more than I’d felt in years. I didn’t have nightmares, either. I opened my eyes and smiled, realizing why I felt so good.

Dean was asleep and looked peaceful, the dark circles and shadows gone from his features. Although he was handsome - he always was, even injured, angry, or covered in blood - it wasn’t what caught me the most. This incredible man I loved held me together as I fell apart. He wasn’t turning from me because I was weak. He was doing whatever he could to give me his strength. To keep me whole.

In the back of my mind, I knew I’d still be plagued with trauma, but at that moment, I felt peace. And I desperately wanted to show my gratitude to the one who made it possible.

He had slipped from my folds as we slept, though we still held close to one another. I kissed down his chest and stomach. As I reached his hips, he shifted to his back but remained asleep. Disappearing beneath the sheets, I focused on his cock, thick and hard, as I kissed and licked along his shaft, tasting a little of my flavor mixed with his.

I licked his slit, and his cock twitched, and I knew he was awake. A moment later, the sheet was lifted and tossed aside to reveal me. The static from the sheet had my hair going crazy, but Dean didn’t seem to care as his sleepy eyes met mine.

I took him in my mouth until I hit the base, my nose pressed into his hair as he twitched in the back of my throat. It didn’t take long to have him coming hard and hot down my throat.

I kissed my way up his body, and he impatiently pulled me up to capture my lips and kiss me breathlessly.

“Good morning,” I grinned at him.

Dean POV

I was deep in a dream of Y/N sucking my dick, and it felt so real it woke me up. My cock twitched as I noticed the lump in the sheet, and a warm, wet tongue ran along my shaft. I flung the sheet back, and there she was, hair wild and lips stretched as she took me deep. It was better than the dream I had left behind.

More than a week ago, I had a dream of eating her out and then woke up to just that. Here again, another dream, another reality. It made me wonder how many of my dreams would no longer reside in only my mind because of her.

She knew just what to do to have me coming quickly. I would have been embarrassed if I could have thought, but my head was spinning, and I needed a second to recover.

As she kissed up my body, I felt cared for and worshipped. I could’ve cried. Instead, I pulled her lips to mine and kissed her deeply, thankful for the wake-up and her in general.

“Good morning,” she smiled at me, and I felt blessed. God damn blessed.

I let her lead us through what had become our morning routine - shower, dress, and head to the kitchen for coffee, with plenty of chances for kissing and groping because I couldn’t keep my hands or lips from her for long - feeling well-rested and relaxed, and grateful not to have to think for a change.

When we entered the kitchen, Y/N poured cups while I sat at the table where Sam and Eileen were awake and chatty. At least there was food, which had to be Eileen because Sam was all thumbs in the kitchen.

I shoved a piece of bacon in my mouth as Y/N passed me a coffee and sat beside me. I had to be dreaming still. All of us, together, happy, a family. I knew it couldn’t last, and we still had to talk about what happened and how to handle it.

Y/N POV

“How are you feeling?” Sam asked.

Well, no, he didn’t just ask. He flashed those devastating puppy-dog eyes at me - full of sympathy and concern - and I felt confused at his sudden, intense care for me, but I also melted a little under the influence of that gaze.

“Better,” I shrugged, focusing on my plate and shoving food around with my fork. I was hungry, but I also felt incredibly guilty. I made them feel uncomfortable because I couldn’t handle the fallout of a simple kill.

“You don’t have to be,” he added, and I couldn’t help but meet his eyes again. Seeing his sincerity, I struggled to hold back tears.

“I’m so sorry. This is my fault,” Eileen said.

I watched as Sam reassured her it wasn’t, using his hands and words, before he tucked her head under his chin and ran his hands down her back, comforting her. I felt this wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion.

“No, it’s our fault,” Dean insisted, pointing between him and Sam. “They went after you-” he pointed at Eileen “-to get to us, and you-” he turned to me “-had to kill something and are traumatized because of us.”

“Because of the demons,” I said calmly and steadily as I tried to eat some food.

“What?”

“It’s the demons' fault. We were all victims,” I stated firmly, staring Dean down and begging his stubborn ass to believe it.

I knew he was angry with himself, blaming himself for everything. It was what he did. I wasn’t sure I could break him of the habit, especially not over this, but I would still try—every time.

Dean stared back, a fire in his eyes and stiff posture as he shifted his whole body to face me. I met his stance and gaze, determined not to back down from this fight.

“They did it to try to hurt us,” he emphasized. “We’re hell’s most wanted and - newsflash, Sweetheart-” he seethed, throwing his arms up at his sides, and I internally cringed at the bitter use of the name and how utterly horrible and demeaning it sounded in that tone.

“That means demons coming at us. They always have, and they always will. So yeah, it’s our fault. Hell, probably mine because-” he turned to stare at his brother as he and Eileen tried to remain quiet and still as this conversation erupted. “-That demon you exorcised was asking about Y/N, right?”

He didn’t even wait for a response as he faced me again, his anger out of control, his face red, and his voice booming in the caverns of the underground Bunker. I held up a finger before he could continue - or before Sam could muster a response - more than fed up with his current train of bullshit.

“Okay, Hun,” I threw back at him in the same patronizing tone. “First off, it’s not your fault that demons come after you. You’re the best, and that threatens them. But you didn’t beg for demons to come into your life and keep it interesting,” I scoffed, rolling my eyes at the idea.

“And second, I knew who you were and what you were about since I came here, Dean.” I tried and failed to keep the whine out of my voice as I got loud and emotional. “I knew about your life and that things like this would happen. I don’t want to hunt, and I don’t want to kill. Taking a life…”

I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. Life was precious, and I wasn’t a killer, nor did I want to be. I knew this would stay with me, and I hoped it wouldn’t drive me crazy. Crazy with grief, sorrow, and guilt. I met his eyes again and saw he’d deflated some.

“But I would do it again, kill again and again, to protect and save you because you’re worth it, and I love you that much.”

Sam POV

Dean and Y/N looked happy and well-rested when they entered the kitchen. Eileen and I had made breakfast—well, mostly Eileen. I just handed her things, really - and I was glad to be able to help relieve some of the tension from Y/N. She usually did these things and cared for us all; now, she needed us to do the same for her.

I suppose I was too hopeful that she’d be alright, but I wanted her to know it was okay if she wasn’t. I should’ve known everyone’s emotions were running high. I had spent much time convincing Eileen that it wasn’t her fault, either. But she was about as stubborn as Dean or myself, and in the back of my mind, I knew convincing any of us that we weren’t at fault was a monumental task.

“It’s the demons' fault. We were all victims.”

The words seemed to suck the air out of the room. Y/N stared Dean down, almost as if daring him to argue with her. I’d seen them have plenty of interactions, but never angry or argumentative. He turned in his seat to face her, and I squeezed Eileen’s hand under the table as I braced for whatever tirade my brother was about to unleash.

“They did it to hurt us. We’re hell’s most wanted and - newsflash, Sweetheart -”

I winced at Dean’s tone as he hissed the nickname at Y/N. To her credit, she didn’t bat an eye. I glanced at Eileen, who seemed to feel the same as she turned her attention back to the others.

“That means demons coming at us. They always have, and they always will.”

I sighed, and my shoulders slumped because Dean was right. Demons were a constant nuisance in our lives. Eileen squeezed my hand, and I met her eyes. She nudged me, and I knew she was trying to keep me from blaming myself, just like I had done with her.

He’s right. I silently mouthed the words to her. She let go of my hand, and I was about to protest or wonder what I did wrong until I realized she was quickly signing with her hands low to be unseen by the others.

If he’s right, then I’m to blame, too.

I shook my head to deny her words, and she flashed me a slight smirk, proving her point. We all wanted to take the blame, but Y/N was right. We were all victims here.

“That demon you exorcised was asking about Y/N, right?”

His question caught me off guard. Surprised, I raised my brows but sat taller and squeezed Eileen’s hand for courage as I was roped into their debate. He didn’t wait for my answer before he turned back to Y/N, and she raised a finger to stall me, so I shut my mouth and relaxed back into my seat.

“Okay, Hun.”

Ooh, shit. Okay, she was throwing his shit right back at him. It was hard to hide my smirk.

“First off, it’s not your fault that demons come after you. You’re the best, and that threatens them. But you didn’t beg for demons to come into your life and keep it interesting.”

I almost felt like her words were for me, too, because they soothed and encouraged me. And she was right again. We didn’t ask for this life, for demons and monsters to hunt us as much as we hunted them. But it was our life, and Dean was okay with that until someone he cared about got hurt.

“And second, I knew who you were and what you were about since I came here, Dean. I knew about your life and that things like this would happen. I don’t want to hunt, and I don’t want to kill. Taking a life…”

Eileen and I leaned more into each other, our gazes falling to the table. We all had been there and knew the feeling of that first kill or a hunt gone wrong. It was a heavy, dark feeling that settled deep in your core and poisoned everything if you let it.

We had done this for so long. Even Eileen had been hunting most of her life and was a Men of Letters legacy herself. After a while, the killing, death, and blood all get easier. But you also find yourself drowning in it.

“But I would do it again, kill again and again, to protect and save you because you’re worth it, and I love you that much.”

And there it was—without a serum, and despite the horrible turn of events - she told him again that she felt him worthy and loved him. It was exactly what Dean needed to hear, pounded into his mind repeatedly until he understood. I suddenly felt even worse about how I had reacted before. Maybe I needed someone to pound it into my head, too. I turned and smiled at Eileen, who was looking at me sweetly.

My mind went back to my conversation with Dean. He wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving Y/N behind at the Bunker, being apart from her, and I still believed we’d be safer in numbers. But we’d also be able to watch and protect Y/N and Eileen.

“Dean,” Y/N sighed. “This is part of the Hunter Pie life. You can’t shield me, so you might as well prepare me.”

Yeah. That. She was right again, and I completely agreed with her. She was the odd one out, who wasn’t a hunter, a legacy, or a part of this world. But here she was, choosing to face it all because it was Dean’s life, and she felt he was worth it.

At that moment, I finally realized why Dean defended her and fought for their relationship. She was worth it, too.

Dean POV

“Dean,” Y/N sighed. “This is part of the Hunter Pie life. You can’t shield me, so you might as well prepare me.”

“Prepare you?”

“I don’t want to hunt,” she reiterated. “But I want you to train me to defend myself so I can be ready.”

“I can help,” Eileen offered, smiling at Y/N. “I want to help.”

“Yeah, me too,” Sam said, and I felt sick.

All I wanted was for Y/N to be protected from all of this. To continue being happy and carefree and not have to face and deal with the dark crap that plagued us. But everyone, including her, seemed to have other ideas. I didn’t like it, but she had a point.

She had handled herself beautifully in that encounter. With a bit of training, she’d probably be a pretty proficient hunter. I didn’t want that for her either, but if I remained in this life - which, who am I kidding, I could never leave - then she’d be in it, too, one way or another.

Then, there was what she’d said. Despite her shock and trauma, I was worth what she was feeling because she loved me that much. Those words alone took all the air and anger right outta me.

“Okay,” I sighed, shaking my head. Although I hated the idea, I knew I was outnumbered. “Okay, we’ll work on training you and bring you along on hunts. You can help with research and other things that don’t involve the killing part.”

She grinned broadly, leaned forward, and wrapped her arms around my shoulders, hugging me tight. It surprised me, but I was grateful, wrapping my arms around her tightly. It was our first fight—or argument, really—and all things considered, it wasn’t that bad. However, I still hated that we argued to begin with.

I never wanted to be the reason she was upset.

That didn’t mean I was thrilled about training her or taking her along on hunts, even if she wanted to avoid the monsters. I wasn’t too thrilled that this family of ours - that was so new and I was just in awe over - had banded together against me on such a hard-hitting issue. Why did I feel like I was the only one worried?

Eileen mentioned showing Y/N some of her favorite weapons and go-to moves, and the two of them excitedly talked as they left the kitchen, presumably to start Y/N’s training. Sam watched them go, then turned to me with a smirk.

“You’re freaking out, aren’t you?”

My little brother seemed amused, the ass, and I couldn’t help the groan that left me as I dropped my head to the table.

“I’m worried,” I reluctantly admitted, but I had to talk to someone about this. “She was already attacked once, and if we take her with us…”

“I get it. But she’s right. This is part of the ‘hunter pie life’ thing you two keep talking about.”

“You could have that, too.”

I knew Sam wanted that, a life like that. He usually talked about ‘getting out’ and having the ‘apple pie life.’ But if I could somehow swing this mixed world life, surely he could, too? At least Eileen was part of this world and life. I never wanted to bring anyone into it, but it was different if they already were.

What Y/N asked us to do was against one of my strongest beliefs: not to bring civilians into this world and life. But I failed at that the moment we let her into the Bunker, the moment I let her into my bed and my heart.

“Eileen was thinking about staying around for a while,” Sam said, and I could hear the hopefulness in his tone, not just for what that could mean but also for my blessing.

“Good. I’m sure Y/N would appreciate having another woman around.”

I smirked, and he smiled bashfully. He almost resembled his younger self, full of hope for the future. It was a little infectious. But I got it. Y/N made me feel alive and lucky to have her. I didn’t want to leave her behind; I’d miss her too much. I didn’t want her in danger, either, but I couldn’t have everything.

If she was determined, then so was I. If she was gonna come along, even if she wasn’t hunting, I’d make sure that she could survive, no matter what.

FOREVERS:

@lyarr24

@hobby27

@kazsrm67

@maliburenee

@440mxs-wife

@writercole

@spnbaby-67

@all-alone-he-turns-to-stone

@leigh70

@laycblack

@kr804573

@nancymcl

DEAN WINCHESTER:

@slamminmine

@deandreamernp

@awkward-and-indecisive

@akshi8278

@mimaria420

#more than a fan #dean winchester x f!reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester #reader insert #sam winchester x eileen leahy #sam winchester #eileen leahy #supernatural #spn #supernatural fanfic #spn fanfic #tw: blood #tw: ptsd #tw: violence

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soupcafe · 9 hours ago

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I have written and rewritten this post so many times after taking time to really gather my thoughts and sit with everything that has transpired in the last two weeks. If I'm being honest.. what has transpired the last three years of running the FindRPs server. Under the cut if you want to read. Warning: it's really fucking long. Sorry about it.

God I don't even know where to start, okay.

I have always tried to do my best to remain neutral in most situations and show a face of calm collection when it came to matters in the server. As a leader there, I believed that being anything other than that would only show instability of myself and on the rest of the staff. I always tried to make it known that I was willing to hear people out, and ready to enact changes if it felt like the right thing to do for the collective.

I don't know if that was the right choice to make, but it certainly felt like it for me, so that's how I ran things.. that's how I encouraged the rest of staff to run things. I've already said this to the former staff, but I have nothing but the highest respect for the hard work they put into that server. All of us were running that place for free, but it felt like a full time job with the way people treated us both on the server and here on tumblr.

Our goal was to provide a space for various platforms to advertise their rp groups, post 1x1s, post their resources, ask for help from their community, and more. FindRPs all started because tumblr tags became notoriously unreliable, group rps weren't able to mass fill their queues, sideblogs were being shadowbanned and deleted left and right. Why not streamline it into one easy hub? Why not make a place for a community? I've seen it said a few times now that we should have learned our lesson and not had any general chat or allow conversation at all. How fucking sad is that? In a hobby where the whole purpose is writing a story together... collaborating.... and you all can't even handle or have the civility to have a general chat.

I don't claim to have made all the right decisions, or to have said the right thing in a moments time. But things could so very quickly go from zero to one hundred there. Within minutes people would be at each other's throats and god forbid anyone on staff have a real life and not take care of it within seconds. I can't count how many times I was at work, or a family function, or a doctors office, and I get the ping that something happened but I can't deal with it right then and there. The anxiety of knowing that it will be talked about in the tags, and that if I or another staff member isn't online to take care of it right that second, we will get shit for letting it happen.

Isn't that insane? That I couldn't go about my daily life and do normal things without thinking about you all having no decorum and going after one another like children?

I was getting anxiety from not looking at the server for more than an hour or two. I don't know how in the world I thought I was going to be able to handle having a newborn and focusing on something that is going to be one of the most amazing experiences of my life, knowing that all of this would be in the back of my mind. It wouldn't be fair to my kid... to my family. And yeah... maybe that's me taking it too seriously. But when you dedicate three years of your life to this, and have been in this community on tumblr for as long as I have.. you fear the loss of it.

Don't even get me started on the lack of communication. Any blog that decided to let anons and rumors come into play and pass judgement on us with lies or half the story over the course of the server's activity... you all are complicit. No one ever came to us with their opinions and issues — the first thing that was on anyone's mind was which rpt blog can I go to. So instead of handling things like adults, you all hid behind anon and let someone else post it for you.

Because why attempt to make an actual change by speaking to us when you can just judge and bully us instead? No one ever said maybe they need some help and I should offer to join the team. But why would you... when you could see how we were being treated. When you were the one treating us that way.

Anytime something happened in that server, my inbox would fill with anon messages of death threats or otherwise inflammatory and cruel statements against me. I always deleted them and gave them no merit because what is some fucking anon going to do to me in my real life? Nothing.

This time though.. I was simply done with it. I was looking at the server, at my own happiness, at my own life and where I was being led, and decided that it simply wasn't worth it to subject myself and the rest of the staff to it any longer. All of us were preparing major life changes and were having conversations about possibly stepping down and handing the server off. I'm sorry that a few people decided to ruin it for the rest of you who never did anything wrong. I would have loved to hand over the reins to someone else and let FindRPs live on as the needed resource it was, but you all can make your own servers as you've said many times that you want to do. You can spend three years growing it to nearly 3k members of all rp backgrounds and life backgrounds and you can make your rules exactly how you want them and to deal with things exactly how you want to deal with them... I sincerely hope it thrives for you.

I'm going to call out a few specific blogs from this situation because you are directly complicit in the spreading of this. JJ (galitzined), Nan (nanschman), Xan (jimiin), Jas (snoopdoggs), Veda (nosyrpt), and fluoresceins. All of you decided that it was okay to bully. Several of you decided to say that I was subjecting Hermie, a Palestinian mod, to coexisting with zionists knowingly.. when it has always been the case that if they made themselves known we would ban them and Hermie would be the one to do it. We realized too late that we missed one glaringly obvious one and Hermie got the satisfaction of banning them before FindRPs was deleted for good.

All of us in our real lives are putting in the work to make change, you know, where it matters the most. Personally for myself, I involve myself in local and state politics and actively ensure that I am voting for representatives that align with Palestine or at the very least is not interested in supporting Israel. I donate to fundraisers when I am able. Not that I ever owed any of you a list of what I am doing... but I have always stood with Palestine. I fucking hate JKR, and was a moderator who voted to ban it in the initial rule change. (Love that some of you are trying to say I've been extremely active in the HP RPC and have proof because.... bitch where?) But you know... you all will spin anything to fit your narrative.

I said it many times that everyone on staff, every single one of us, was part of a marginalized group one way or another. Half of us were trans, more than half were people of color, I think literally all of us are queer. So you all decided that the best thing to do was to hurt members of your own communities, hurt the people that you claim to stand up for... that's incredibly telling about the kind of people you are.

Mar made a post recently that I think all of you need to read and take to heart. Many of us are so disheartened by the lack of change that we are seeing in the real world that going hard within a small community like the one here is where you can get your satisfaction — because it seems simple in a smaller space where you can watch change happen in real time. Mar put it really well, better than I ever could, so here is a link for you to read it yourself.

We are actively driving people away from this community. Some of them are warranted, but a majority of it is over the most petty bullshit that could be solved if we weren't so catty and quick to jump to conclusions.

Shadow, I do want to apologize to you. You did not lead to the downfall of this server, it was a long time coming. And I agreed with all of the resources you gave, I agree with wanting to educate someone. What I failed to communicate effectively, and I do take responsibility for this, is that you didn't need to do it publicly. You could have DM'd Lumos and taken care of it outside of the server, which is really all we were trying to say in that statement we made: why in the world are we having these conversations in the general chat of a rp advertisement server when you can just... talk to the person directly. Or I don't know... use the block button. All of you need to learn how to use that more. And you did already apologize for necro-ing it... but I believe you knew what you were doing there. Even on a laptop you had to scroll up to see the interaction with Lumos and there was no way you missed the timestamps. It was not the first time you decided to use a public space in the server to be mean to someone, so, I don't believe that you didn't know what you were doing there. Regardless of being correct in the information you were spreading, you were an asshole. We gave you a warning that the behavior wouldn't be tolerated and yet you continued to harass Lumos so consequences of your actions were to be banned. Not because of what you said or how you went about it, but because you didn't know when to stop.

I don't think Lumos has tumblr to see all of this, and I literally deleted everything from the server — I have no logs of anything that happened anymore. But we did rail into them. We told them that what they were saying was fucked up and they should read into the resources. All of us were talking about banning them anyways, but we wanted to take the time to think things through, to step away and sit with it and decide. Once again, God Forbid we handle things like adults and have real lives and think before acting, especially with all of you shouting into the tags about how we were handling it. They were getting death threats, both in their dms and out in the open in the general chat. Like what the fuck. Who in their right mind thinks that's an okay thing to do?

Anyway, we tended to handle things there privately. We preferred it that way because no one needs their dirty laundry aired out in front of 3k people, and have them weigh in on it while we're trying to handle things. Just because you didn't see anything happening on your end, doesn't mean things weren't happening behind the scenes. And screenshots are always a thing; we have never feared someone taking them for their records. I sent the screenshots to JJ because Shadow left out an entire part of the conversation. I didn't send it to "make ourselves look better" as Nan so lovingly put it. I did it for transparency.

Maybe we could have been more transparent over certain things, I don't know. But also.. some situations are simply none of anyone's business.

Anyway. It's gone now. I mourn the loss of something that I truly put my heart, soul, and tears into. I helped to provide a resource for the community who does not deserve it for free for three years of my life. I met some of the most amazing writers in there that I never would have crossed paths with if not for the server.

It's time to move on from the greater rpc for me though. I don't know if I am going to continue to be on this blog. I really don't have a desire to at this time. I do know I will be writing with my rp group and continue keeping in touch with others on discord. That's really why I'm not afraid to post all of this and let you all pick it apart. I simply don't care anymore. I'm a week away from my due date, and ready to take the step into motherhood. I'm so excited for it. My blood pressure certainly thanks me.

I urge you all to take a good hard look at how you interact with this community. I want you all to take a look at the complaints that are made all the time and have been for years now — of groups not surviving, of no one writing, of people feeling hopeless, or judged. You actively create this space. You truly want to be the change? Do better for the rpc then. Be kind, and if you can't do that, block and move on. The people you don't like and you don't agree with are going to be around for as long as they want to be anyway.

Best, Maeve.

#rpt #rpc #findrps

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jack-of-heartstrings · 3 days ago

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Oohhhhhhhh my God, you are absolutely right on every account but now I am... also picturing how that would actually go...

Can you IMAGINE Adrien being sat down to that news, with not only Ladybug, but Nathalie, Kagami, Felix... I'm still not sure if Placide ever actually knew about it but imagine if he did or if they told him first to ask for extra support in the group thing here.

Imagine if this happens AFTER their own reveal. Imagine if it's coming from MARINETTE, who he by then knows is also Ladybug, or if she admits her identity ALONG with this, for some reason...

I think the BEST CASE SCENARIO would be to tell Adrien AND ALYA and maybe a few other trusted folks at the same time. I think if Alya was ALSO there, and hearing it for the as-far-as-she-remembers-first time alongside him, seeing at least one other person shocked and horrified alongside him would make a world of difference. I think Alya's utter outrage on his behalf would be comforting in a way he wouldn't realize he needed otherwise, but that she would be just reasonable and far enough from the problem enough to help keep him grounded, too. To call everyone out on how messed up this was but to begrudgingly understand why they all struggled and respect that they are making the effort now, and help emphasize that to Adrien as someone who was not in on it herself. As someone he can safely believe would have told him immediately.

Because WITHOUT THAT, can you imagine being sat down by nearly every important person in your life to tell you something this big, and that you were— at least as far as it feels in the moment— the only one who didn't know. That ALL of them let you believe such a huge lie, like you're some fragile little doll they're afraid of breaking, after how the man whose honor they lied to protect treated you all your life.

You thought you were finally free to live for yourself and make your own choices, and it hurt like hell that it took something like this to reach this point, but you thought understood. You thought he really had been doing it to protect you, that he was being coerced by some outside force. You thought there was reason to believe he hated how much he was forced to put you through. One of the last things you ever heard him say, when he didn't know he was talking to you, was that he believed you were very happy. Under the lie, you'd wanted to believe that, that he was doing the best he could under the circumstances.

But no. Everyone is STILL making choices for you. Also you basically WERE made to be a perfect little doll, and a lot of those choices you took as you just being really averse to disobeying, or even you "just" being irrationally terrified, were never choices at all. You were his puppet, and Nathalie's, who was his sidekick by the way. And now you have to question your whole life before, too. Even your beloved angelic saint of a mother, she wore that ring; were you ever her puppet, too?

You might be inclined to think they're all the same, that none of them ever really saw you as a person once they knew what you were, but Felix and Kagami are right here and they didn't respect you any more than the others. Even they both got to know and thought you shouldn't.

Like...

Guys I am TERRIFIED that Adrien can now destroy memories. I am TERRIFIED that they chose to reference Chat Blanc in new ways in THIS episode of all things. I am terrified of the episode opening with them emphasizing everyone being able to use their powers over and over, and following that with Adrien wishing he could have a normal life where nobody knows him. And I hope to God we can have Alya and maybe like Luka and Su-Han or something finding out alongside him but I'm not sure even that would necessarily help.

Our biggest saving grace is that Adrien gets sad so much easier than he gets mad, but when he DOES get mad, or even panicked, well..... His feelings do tend to get destructive... 🫠

it's wild that Alya would actually hate Marinette if she learned the secrets she'd been keeping from her. I--I actually don't know what to say, I'm so shocked by the fact that she stayed mad the whole time she remembered the secret.

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falloutnewnobody · 2 days ago

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so i dont know how to feel about it but i had another pathologic rat dlc vision dream, this time from dankovsky's perspective.

Bear in mind that this dream came to me at 1am yesterday when i fell asleep at my desk doing calc homework after a 12 hour memory care hospital shift. I hadnt eaten or slept much in the past few days days so i'd spent most of that day and night lightheaded, derealized, and on my feet by the grace of caffine, aderall, nicotine, and adrenaline. if there was a headspace to trigger a dream in the head of daniil dankovsky that felt like it.

Onto the dream. As with the my previous pathologic rat dlc dream from december, i was just going through a slightly distorted version of the classic hd route for my character, in this case dankovsky, with his patho 3 mania/apathy status affects and of course, one critical detail changed, the tradedians required i bring them a set number of rats every night when i went to go watch the pantomime. I was playing danko from first person as if he were me and shifted between genuinely believing i was him and being an actor playing him, hence the use of "I" pronouns. This dream was genuinely one of the most stressful experiences of my life and somehow felt like 2 weeks of time in my 7 hour sleep. Sometimes things would skip and i wouldnt notice because dream logic.

i wasnt given an ultimatum or anything i just knew that i had to get the rats Or Else. Also daniil was being called by my work nickname, cheese (my name is brie lol. i was still danko people like just called him cheese sometimes which for a rat dlc is the funniest thing my unconcious mind ever did)

Every hour or so I (brie) would wake up still hunched over my desk in a cold sweat, check the time on my open laptop, wonder what the hell was going on and who i was and fall right back alseep before i could figure that out.

Over the course of the course of the dream daniil, or i guess I got smart and rather than picking up the rats with my bare hands, starting pulling these wiley cayote ass tactics to catch the rats. some highights and funnier tactics are

-kicking trash cans sent rats scurrying from their hiding places, and i could use the added mania from kicking said trash cans to run fast enough to grab a few rats

-the broken heart just had so many fucking rats i cried actual tears of joy walking in there. i think andrey tried to give me something for dealing with his rat problem but my inventory was too full of rats to pick it up.

-children traded rats but they were like, shmowder levels of rarity and price so it wasnt really worth it

-I agreed to break artemy out of prison for the cost of half his rats (i was really running behind on rats). after freeing him i discovered he had one rat, which after heated discussion, we king solomoned (something the pantomime bullied me for later fyi) if i had the inventory space for a gun i wouldve shot him. instead i just called him Vorakh, said "Tertia decima ratio mea es," watched my apathy meter hit zero and watched myself pull a gun out of nowhere and shoot myself

real me woke up confused, and fell back asleep like 30 seconds later. when i fell back asleep i was right back in front of artemy as if nothing had happened and kicked a trash can to boost my mania.

-by day 9 i was setting these big ass traps where i'd put a peice of toast in an open, on its side trash can, and then kick a trash can a few yards away, letting all the rodents scurry into the can. where i could close the lid and loot the rats. somehow this worked???? not once did i think to use actual rat traps

-on the final day i woke up on the stage in the theater as a tradgedian, now fully aware that i'm brie just like dreaming or something. danko, in the audience, approached the stage and who asked who i was. and why i was wearing his face (dream logic) i pretty much explained that i was an actor who played his role the past few days and now had to hand it off to him. he asked if i played this role before, as i seemed to know the role well and i was like "eh...kinda? it was a different sort of play. even now i guess part of me is playing you now'. he told me to stop doing that and i just shrugged and before i could say any more i woke up to my alarm. that had nothing to do with the rats it was just really fucking surreal and i need to get that off my chest.

#pathologic #pathologic 3 #мор 3 #мор утопия #daniil dankovsky #даниил данковский #pathologic rat dlc

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nitw · 1 day ago

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god i was SOOOO insecure about my appearance after coming out as a teen, not necessarily for dysphoric reasons but bc now that i was finally free to "live as a man" i became much more aware of how other people perceive me. even when -i- was pretty happy with how i looked i still didn't feel like i outwardly existed as an Adult Man and that made me feel like i wasn't progressing. i could never shake my fear of being infantilized and feminized even in queer circles.

i've only been on T for a few years now and i haven't changed THAT MUCH, but the ways i HAVE changed? even the small things?? it's fucking crazy how much it's boosted my confidence. being just..... noticeably hairier, having slightly sharper and more defined features, my voice dropping a decent amount.......

i'm nowhere close to the perfect idealistic image of what i could look like in 10+ years or something, but i'm GETTING THERE dude. and i'm feeling it. i've reached a point where, for the first time in my life, i feel like a pretty hot guy my own age. and that epiphany has broadened my love for all kinds of other transmasc bodies as well. i no longer compare myself to other guys' appearances, i just appreciate them more for what they are, including my own!! that's wild!! hrt is wild!!!!!!

#leo.txt #none gender left gayboy

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ziskeyt · 1 day ago

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The Ancient Gerudo and the Zonai

While playing Tears of the Kingdom I was struck by the choices made for the Lightning Temple, and this resulted in me going around to all the Gerudo ruins to compare what was different. I'm going to share what I collected through screenshots with you here today. Now, I do not know how to do free camera in my Switch games, and I'm not interested in attempting to mod my Switch to try, so you'll have to endure my game screenshots that will include Link just standing around. Sorry! Let's start with the ancient Gerudo ruins we have in game. Some existed in Breath of the Wild, some are new for Tears of the Kingdom. So let's explore!

Hallway leading toward the Eighth Heroine statue in the Gerudo Sanctuary. What you'll notice in the ancient Gerudo ruins, same in both game ruins, are the ornamentation patterns on the bottoms and tops of pillars and the bands near the top of the screen (mid-pillar) that look like they could either be further ornamentation or a language. New to the Tears of the Kingdom though, we have ruins with stairs and here we see the Gerudo of whatever time period made these liked to do designs on the faces of the stairs. Two more ruins from BotW that show this ornamentation band, one from the North Gerudo Ruins, and from the walls around the Seven Heroines. When I first noticed this band on the wall in BotW around the Heroines I honestly thought it must be some kind of language.

A refresher on the Seven Heroine statues from BotW: They have Gerudo text on the bottom parts of their robes that reads "The Seven Sages" in repeat. There are parts on the robes and on the ornamentation either of her head covering, or hair, that look like they were either painted at some point or somehow made of a different stone. The pedestals by their feet read "pedestal" in repeat where the balls go for the puzzle, these aren't in TotK.

In TotK they are the same, but they have now mostly fallen and are easier to get a look at:

The eighth Heroine in BotW is the same as the ones in the desert in model, but she her detailing doesn't look like it was ever painted, and her text still says "The Seven Sages" only for her, it is mirrored.

In TotK she is defaced to make way for the new cavern with the Tingle clothing piece. She has a Zonai device on her collarbone area now meant to receive the light beam for the puzzle to access the cavern in her head.

The eight statues in the Yiga hideout are a different model type than the desert. They are more blocky in styling, and here we do have all eight together in a circle before a raised platform in the middle. The text down the swords reads: "Gerudo an unblemished desert flo". (likely says "flower" at the end) They have triangles on their top parts, that along with the details on their collars are painted, and further unpainted designs that are meant to be the borders of their robes. The top front of their headwear has an oval with four lines around it a little like a child's sun drawing. The text on the walls to the sides of the statues reads "Gerudo there is no strife Gerudo like water we flow with life"

Note the designs on the sides of the statue by the swords, we see those again around the Yiga hideout, showing that this was fully something important to the ancient Gerudo and not just this area with the statues and Gerudo text.

-------

Now we've seen what we had in BotW for ancient Gerudo ruins styling. We got some more in TotK with the advent of the caves, so let's take a look at those.

In the Gerudo Underground Shelter, likely the first place you'll go and see them, we have a new model for the Heroine statues. They are much smaller and seem to either be painted or made of different colour stones. The reddish stones is a little similar to the stone of the highlands we find the Eighth Heroine only it's a different hue that leads me to believe these are painted.

Once you give them all their relics and open the chamber below we see a slab of Gerudo text, untranslated, but the game tells us what it is meant to say. The Zelda Wiki doesn't have anything from TotK on their Gerudo page, and I cannot find anything on ZeldaDungeon either, if you do know of anyone who has translated the Gerudo we got in TotK, please share! In front of it we see another new statue model. The new statue has designs on what seem to be the robe borders as with the larger ones in the Yiga Hideout, and then the same design on the sword. She has a stone in the front of her head covering, similar again to the larger blocky statues.

In the shelter itself we have a few other Gerudo ruins, the ancient Stele (only two pictured, and untranslated, but we are told what they are meant to say in game.) They do appear to at least have different Gerudo text from Stele to Stele.

And this mural that leads us to the quest to get the temple to rise from the sands. Gerudo text untranslated again, but we are told what it should say in game. It would still be nice to have them translated though! And, oh, what's this? Zonai ornamentation on the bottom? How curious. the Gerudo pillars framing the entrance to this area have a similar design detailing as the robe borders of the Yiga and new smaller statues.

From the shelter we can flow into another ancient ruin site, the Valley of Silent Statues where we get another new heroine statue, or well, a bust of one anyway. She seems to just be the model with stone, no detailing at all. She holds the magic Zonai lamp used for the puzzle in this area.

Along with her are the familiar ornamentation on the walls and stairs, and more of the smaller Gerudo statues.

There is another new model (hidden here slightly as this is taken after solving the puzzle) with Zonai detailing on her where the Gerudo designs were. These new models have the light receivers where the swords would be and they have reactive eyes, where the Gerudo designs on on the robes, we now have Zonai. We'll see her model again.

If we go into the Gerudo Sanctuary under the North Gerudo Ruins we encounter these stones that are usually used as tomb / grave covers. They have Gerudo text on them but we never get any in game text or dialogue that tells us what these are supposed to say, and honestly, I cannot get any visual on them good enough to be able to attempt it myself.

Once you make it through the winding pathways down in the cavern you'll get to the sanctuary where you find this slab with the story of the Eighth Heroine on it:

Again, untranslated, though this text is darker and likely could be, the game itself does tell you what it is supposed to say.

And then eight more of the smaller heroine statues. Interestingly, the eighth one, in pride of place, does not have the stone at the front of her head covering.

There are two more ruins with the Heroine statues with the Gerudo script, the Ancient Prison ruins have some that guard the hallway and final one who has her back covering an entrance to the cavern with the hidden shrine.

Then there is another another in the West Gerudo Underground Ruins guarding the Vah Naboris helm.

And then finally, we have the Gerudo statues that I'm not sure the name of who point you through the desert. Here you can see her surrounded by smaller pillars with the same designs as the others. She is made of a much lighter stone than any others around Gerudo, all or most hold a rusted sword for you to take if you need.

Okay, aside from repetitive ruins that just have the same assets in different ways and no new ones, these are all the ruins of the Ancient Gerudo in BotW and TotK aside from the Lightning Temple. As I'm now at the limit of images for a post, the deep dive into the temple will have to come in a reblog.

#the legend of zelda #loz #breath of the wild #tears of the kingdom #botw #totk #gerudo #gerudo ruins #zelda reference #there are two more posts in this chain please see those too!

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lixies-favorite-cookie · 22 hours ago

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⊹☾⋆⁺₊🎧✩°｡ music to my eyes ₊˚｡

♪ ⋆⁺₊ ahhh im so so excited to post this collab with my best friend and fav seungmin today minho tomorrow stan @sunnysdiary we have been playing around with some ideas for a duo write forever now and it's finally here! sunny really saved my life becoming my best friend at the time i needed her most and i can't wait to share this journey with you all where we will be posting lyric themed fanfics for all of our boys!! we spent 4 hours on call yapping about this

— there is not a set date when these will be posted because we both have a very busy schedule, so please be patient!

— feel free to send me or sunny an ask or comment to be added to the taglist!

— as always these are in the first draft stages so parts and pieces may change as we see fit.

— this is also in honor of 800 followers!! thank each and every one of you who have followed me your support makes my entire universe, and with that, happy reading!!

🎧 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐥𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 ⟶ @lixies-favorite-cookie

BANGCHAN has been your rival since FBI school, but when he dropped out to become a bodyguard you thought that was the last time you had to see his infuriating face again. That is until four years later, you've made a nice spot at the top of the FBI food chain when tragedy strikes. You were kidnapped and left for dead by the infamous Kaelthos, but now you're back—and you're not alone. What are you going to do when your supervisor sends you back to Thanatos Tower clad in a masquerade mask and your new bodyguard—bangchan.

Maybe I'm too Busy bein' yours To fall for somebody new Now, I've thought it through Crawlin' back to you — Arctic Monkeys, Do I Wanna Know?

🎧 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐞 ⟶ @sunnysdiary (aka my literal wife)

MINHO was way too nervous about finally taking you out after months of gazing at you from afar. All he wanted was to impress you, causing him to make some...questionable decisions. Beyond all that you decided to give him a chance.

Is it cool if I hold your hand? Is it wrong if I think it's lame to dance? Do you like my stupid hair? Would you guess that I didn't know what to wear? I'm just scared of what you think

— blink-182, First Date

🎧 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ⟶ @sunnysdiary

CHANGBIN and you had a planned date night, but girlhood of course had to slap you in the stomach, cramps beyond belief and so you asked to stay in and Changbin was more than happy to do that with you.

'Cause you watch the TV while I'm watching you There's not many people I'd honestly say I don't mind losing to But there's nothing like doing nothing with you

— Bruno Major, Nothing

🎧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⟶ @lixies-favorite-cookie

HYUNJIN has been there throughout it all. From the moment you stumbled upon him during a midnight walk, pacing back and forth with your first draft in hand to finding you atop a rooftop in the middle of seoul, sobbing after a crippling rejection from your dream publisher—hyunjin has been there throughout it all; yet you have never talked to him long enough to figure out his name. You don''t have to, you follow the red string.

About the star that couldn't shine or blink Out of a million, billion Felt like an alien, alien Then that little star was surely Going to become the biggest thing

—Stray Kids, youtiful

🎧 𝐬𝐡𝐮𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐧�� 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞 ⟶ @lixies-favorite-cookie

HAN JISUNG has never lost a race. Throned King of Tokyo's Midnight Circuit when he was 17, he hasn't lost the title since—that is until you come into town. You were a fucking icon, utterly anonymous yet beloved by racers all around the world, known for your pink flaming-heart glasses and electric nickname, Neon. Nobody knows who you are or where you came from, but when you wittfully correct his accidental slip-up one night, he quickly realizes two things: you were impossible to flirt with and he's no longer the best racer in town. What will happen when the Queen of Cali challenges the King of Tokyo to a race? Who say's Tokyo can't have a queen too?

If you can, baby boy, then we can go all night 'Cause I'm zero to sixty in three point five Baby, you got the keys Now shut up and drive (Drive, drive, drive) Shut up and drive (Drive, drive, drive)

—Rihanna, Shut up and drive

🎧 𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 ⟶ @lixies-favorite-cookie

LEE FELIX was your new bodyguard, and you hated his guts. In a world where all humans are expendable hate was your only shield from pain. Now you're 5,956 miles from home, landing in Seoul South Korea with your infuriatingly perfect bodyguard on a very important mission—locate and eliminate the man responsible for sending your father's worst criminals to prison. Will you be able to keep it together, seeing felix every day for the next year? There's so much that could go wrong. You can't fall in love with him, he can't fall in love with you—that would be apocalypse.

Your lips, my lips Apocalypse Go and sneak us through the rivers Flood is rising up on your knees Oh, please Come out and haunt me, I know you want me

—Cigarettes After Sex, Apocalypse.

🎧 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 & 𝐂𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬 ⟶ @sunnysdiary

SEUNGMIN finally takes the chance to kiss you after yet another successful date. He's so scared of what you'll say he runs off, little did he know you wanted it just as much as he did.

But we couldn't go very far 'Cause you locked your keys in your car So you sat and stared at my lips And I could already feel your kiss

—Troye Sivan, Strawberries & Cigarettes

🎧 𝐏𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⟶ @sunnysdiary

JEONGIN teases about proposing to you by proposing with paper rings, and when you least expect it, he actually does. With a real ring this time.

I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings Uh-huh, that's right Darling, you're the one I want, and

—Taylor Swift, Paper Rings

⊹☾⋆⁺₊🎧✩°｡ music to my eyes's fanfic genres ₊˚｡

🎧 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐥𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 ⟶ rivals to lovers, fbi profiler!reader, fbi bodyguard!chan, fake dating for the save of a mission, action, tension

🎧 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐞 ⟶ shy!lee know, highschool!au, fluff, cute-awkward moments

🎧 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ⟶ marriage!au, fluff, period comfort

🎧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⟶ red string theory, angst, hurt and comfort, author!reader, idol!hyunjin, strangers to lovers, very emotional

🎧 𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 ⟶ mafia!au, bodyguard!au, enemies to lovers, heavy forbidden love, found family, mystery!au, hurt and comfort, action

🎧 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 & 𝐂𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬 ⟶ bf!seungmin, fluff, nervous seungmin

🎧 𝐏𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⟶ dating!au, fluff x 1000.

⊹☾⋆⁺₊🎧✩°｡ music to my eyes's taglist ₊˚｡

—

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balesgirl · 3 days ago

Text

Drunken mistake

(Part 5)

♡Pairing: patrick bateman x fem!reader

Summary: one night, after too many drinks, you and patrick end up in bed together, but when morning comes it's as if nothing ever happened. Patrick carries on with his life, leaving you to deal with the weight of that night alone. as the days pass, patrick continues acting like nothing happened and you're left wondering if can you pretend it never happened too.

♡Contains: angst, no smut but sex is mentioned, reader (is it better to say y/n or reader lol) let patrick rawdog and is now going through a rough time, patrick IS a dick as always.

there's so much i want to do with this story but i just don't know if I'm doing any of this right or if anyone actually likes it. anyways, 🐇enjoy!🐇

Voices.

Muffled at first, like they’re coming from underwater. “Oh my god, is she dead?” Paul yells, sounding absolutely horrified.

“She’s not dead, dumbass!” Luis snaps. “She fainted!”

“Yeah, well.... people die after fainting all the time!”

“shut up and help me!”

a rough shake to your shoulders wakes you up—you groan as your eyes flutter open.

luis is crouched over you, eyes wide with worry, his hands on your arms. Paul hovers behind him, looking deeply disturbed, like he just witnessed a murder.

“Oh, thank God,” Luis lets out a breath, patting your cheek gently. “You scared the shit out of us.”

Paul scoffs trying to act like he wasn't about to start screaming and crying. “Yeah, mostly him.” luis shoots him a glare before turning back to you. “Y/n, are you okay?”

Your head is spinning, your mouth is dry and your limbs feel like jelly.

But none of that matters because the test–the results—your heart feels like it's about to fall out.

Luis must see the realization on your face because he squeezes your hands. “We saw it.” Paul nods, surprisingly quiet.

“I—” Tears well in your eyes before you can stop them. Luis immediately pulls you into his arms, rubbing your back. “Shh, it’s okay. We’ve got you.” Paul shifts awkwardly but reaches out, resting a hesitant hand on your knee. “Yeah. We’re not gonna, like…abandon you or anything.”

It’s the most awkward reassurance ever, but it makes you feel a little better.

Luis pulls back, brushing hair from your face. “We’ll figure this out, okay? But first, never do that again. My heart can’t take it.” Paul nods still looking worried. “Yeah, I really thought you died. It was horrifying.” he says with a dramatic shake. you sniffle, wrapping your arms around the both of them as more tears fall.

They give you a supportive smile, hugging you back. the weight of everything settles in your chest, pressing down on you heavily.

You’re pregnant. with patrick’s baby.

Luis pulls back, grabbing your hands to hold. “I know it’s a lot,” he says softly. “But you don’t have to figure everything out right now” Paul pats your back, a rare moment of sincerity from him. “Yeah. one crisis at a time.”

You wipe your tears, trying to steady yourself. “And what’s the first crisis?” luis tilts his head, hesitating before speaking. “Telling patrick"

you groan, pulling your hands free to cover your face–luis just watches you, his expression softening. “You don’t have to tell him right away,” he says. “But you should tell him.”

paul agrees surprisingly serious for once “Yeah. Better coming from you than from someone else.”

you exhale slowly, the weight in your chest growing heavier. telling patrick. It should be easy, right? It's just words, just a "Hey, I'm pregnant and it's yours" but Patrick Bateman isn’t someone who reacts normally. He isn’t someone who feels normally. Hell, you don't even think he feels anything at all

and you have no idea what this will mean to him.

luis squeezes your knee, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Hey. No spiraling.” he says sternly, you let out a sigh, ready to cry even more. “I just don’t know how to tell him.” and that's when paul grins evily “Well, i could do it.”

Luis smacks his arm. hard.

Paul pouts. “I’d make it entertaining.”

Luis sighs, turning back to you. “You tell him however you need to.” he says softly

Paul stands up, stretching his legs out. “Well, if you don’t wanna tell him, we could just show him. You know, throw a surprise party–Congrats, Patrick! You’re gonna be a dad!” He throws his hands up excitedly.

luis smacks his arm again.

paul frowns and you lift your head just enough to glare at him. “Paul, I swear to God–” he sighs dramatically. “Fine. Whatever. I won't tell him. Ruin my fun.”

Luis smiles at you “Whenever you’re ready, you will tell him. And we’ll be here no matter what happens.”

you force a fake smile back because no matter how much paul jokes or how reassuring Luis is, the truth remains—you're pregnant and You have no idea how patrick is going to react.

⸻ 🐇 ⸻

the next day you show up to work like nothing happened. like you didn’t faint in your bathroom last night because you found out you're now pregnant.

everything is still how it was yesterday. the streets are the same, the office doors swing open just like they did before, and the scent of overpriced cologne and coffee still clings to the air.

But everything feels different.

and the second you step into Pierce & Pierce, your chest tightens, patrick’s office is in its usual spot–but the thought of seeing him, of being so close to him makes your stomach turn.

you can’t do this.

You head straight for the receptionist’s desk, moving way too fast. “Hi” you clear your throat, trying to sound as calm as possible despite all the panic you feel. “I was wondering if there's any other desks available?”

She barely looks up. “Why?”

Because I’m pregnant and I can’t look at him. Because I don’t know what to do. because if I have to sit outside that office, I’ll Break apart right at my desk.

You force a tight smile. “Just need a change of scenery.” She finally looks up at you, frowning. “Are you sure? That desk has been yours for—”

“Anywhere else please! ” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended—and after a long pause of silence, she sighs. “There’s an open desk down the hall. Not as nice, though.”

“Perfect.”

you turn away before she can ask more questions, before she can look at you too closely and realize you aren’t as composed as you seem.

Grabbing your things from your now former desk, you move quickly, keeping your head down as you pass his office. You don’t glance inside. You don’t check to see if he’s there. You don’t care if he’s watching.

at least that’s what you tell yourself.

By lunch, Paul and Luis find you.

Paul spots you first, raising an eyebrow as he approaches. “Hiding?”

luis already knows, he takes one look at you, narrowing his eyes. “You’re avoiding him.”

Paul crosses his arms. “Is that even smart to do?”

You act like you don't know what they're talking about “i just wanted a new desk”

Luis isn't fooled at all. “Look, I get it. But come on. You think he’s just not gonna notice?”

you shrug. “He doesn’t care.”

Paul rolls his eyes “You think he doesn’t care.”—something about his words hit too close. You press your lips together, staring at the paper in front of you.

Luis exchanges a look with paul before sighing. His voice is softer when he speaks again. “Y/n, I know you’re freaking out, but is this your plan? Just…avoid him? forever?”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, voice quieter. “I just need some space.”

paul wants to crack a joke—say more, but he doesn’t, he just nods. “Fine. avoid him as long as you want.” luis reaches over, squeezing your hand. “Just remember, running doesn’t make it disappear.”

You don’t respond. Because if you think too hard about it—about him, about what’s happening inside of you—You’ll fall apart.

⸻ 🐇 ⸻

A week passes. then two. then three—and you still haven't told him. you go to work every day and avoid him, acting as if nothing is different, pretending your world isn’t shifting beneath your feet, but your body betrays you as more time passes–you start to grow a little bump, your nausea gets worse and you’re either snacking or rubbing at your belly, and today is no different.

you stare disappointedly at the untouched bowl of fruit paul enthusiastically set in front of you. the man had no concept of cravings–none at all. “This isn’t what I want” you mumbled, pushing the bowl away as your throat tightened.

Paul, sitting across from you with a drink in his hand, frowned. “It’s healthy. You need vitamins or something, right?”

Luis, sitting beside you as always, spoke softly “She said it’s not what she wants, paul.” then he turned to you, voice even softer. “Okay, sweetheart, what are we looking for here? Salty? Sweet?”

“I don’t know,” you sniffled, rubbing your stomach. “It’s just—ugh, I need something, but I don’t know what, and it’s driving me insane.”

Paul looked around the lunch room, not knowing what to do.“Well, I could uh… get you some champagne?”

Your eyes welled up with tears. Luis gasped. “Paul, are you insane?”

“What?! She’s upset, I’m trying to help!”

“She’s pregnant Paul! With a baby! She can't drink!” Luis shook his head, completely disappointed. paul groaned feeling bad, setting his drink down. “Right, right. So, what do pregnant women even eat?”

Luis rubbed your back as you wiped at your tears. “It’s okay Y/n We’ll figure it out.” paul then enthusiastically snapped his fingers. “Pickles!”

“I don’t want pickles.”

“Chocolate?” Luis offered.

You hesitated, lips pressing together. “Maybe?” Paul shot up immediately. “I’ll get the best chocolate money can buy.” Before you could stop him, he was already out the lunch room.

“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” you sniffled. “It’s just—I feel so emotional all the time.” you said, sounding confused, luis continued to softly rub your back. “Hormones, Y/n. It’s normal.” he reassured.

You leaned against him. “I don’t even know why I told Paul.”

luis giggled. “Because, deep down, you like watching him struggle.”

you let out a teary laugh. “Maybe.”

Paul returned almost twenty minutes later with an entire bag of expensive chocolates. “I didn’t know which one you'd like so I just got all of them.”

you stared at the bag, then at paul. then you burst into tears again.

Paul paled and dropped the bag. “Oh shit! What did I do?!” luis just got up and grabbed the bag, handing you a snickers “Nothing, Paul. She’s just overwhelmed.”

you wiped your face and took a deep breath, taking the chocolate and opening it. “Thank you for the chocolate paul."

Paul perked up, grinning. “You’re welcome. See? I am helpful.” Then, as if he just had to ruin the moment, he frowned and said “Honestly... I can’t believe you actually let bateman hit it raw.”

Silence.

luis’s jaw dropped. you just blinked at him, lips parting slightly in pure shock.

Paul only raised his hands, as if he hadn’t just said something incredibly inappropriate. “I mean, look, I’d get it if he were, like.. normal. But Bateman? You’ve met him, right?” Luis stood up and smacked his arm. “You absolute idiot!” Paul laughed, unbothered, as you buried your face in your hands.

“I hate you” you muttered, voice muffled from your hands.

“No, you don’t,” Paul said smugly. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t deal with me”

Luis shook his head in disbelief, but even he couldn’t stop himself from laughing when he saw you fighting back a smile. "at least I'll have tons of chocolate for late night cravings" you said, reaching for another chocolate—but you should've kept your mouth shut because as soon as those words left your mouth, someone walking past your table froze.

Craig mcdermott.

He stands there for a moment, as if he was frozen in place—but then, without another glance, he turns on his heel and walks away.

luis throws his hands up, looking confused as ever. “What’s his problem?” paul shrugs. “Who knows? It’s Craig.”

You don’t think much of it. You’re too exhausted to care, too caught up in your own thoughts to realize what just happened.

But Craig?

craig knows.

and he doesn’t keep it to himself.

the next day, craig, patrick, david and bryce all sit together in a club chatting about nothing. The conversation was dull, mostly revolving around stocks, restaurants, and the latest bullshit trends in men’s skincare that none of them actually followed, except for patrick.

Timothy was talking about a model he had taken out the night before, while david and craig argued over whether or not sushi was still a status meal.

and then the conversation shifted. “You hear about Y/n?” Craig asked casually, sipping his drink. patrick’s grip on his fork tightened slightly at the mention of your name, but he didn’t look up right away.

“What about her?” David asked, raising a brow.

“She’s pregnant.” Craig said all too casually like he didn't just drop a bomb. “Saw her with paul and luis the other day at lunch. They were talking about cravings or some shit.”

Bryce let out a low whistle. “Jesus. Didn’t think she had it in her.”

David grinned. “Yeah, she’s always seemed a little uptight. Wonder who the lucky guy was.” Patrick finally looked up, his lips pressed in a line. “She’s pregnant?”

Craig nodded. “Yeah, man. She looked like she was about to cry over a sandwich or something.” He chuckled. “Paul was there trying to help, but you know him. Useless.”

Patrick didn't reply—he was starting to sweat. Badly. meanwhile craig continued laughing looking over at timothy. “You think allen knocked her up?” bryce made a face. “Jesus, imagine that kid. It’d have the best taste in business cards.”

They laughed, but Patrick wasn’t listening anymore. his mind was already elsewhere. he thought back to that night—the one he had already thought about so many times.

The first time. The second time. the way you looked sleeping in his bed. The way it felt to kiss you—be inside you, and now, you were pregnant. and still spending time with paul even after he told you not to.

He picked up his drink and took a long slow sip, his expression never changing. But inside, a thought crept in, a very unwelcome one.

Was it paul's?

had you let paul touch you the same way he did? Kiss you? his jaw tensed slightly before he forced himself to relax. It didn’t matter.

Except—it did.

the words bounce around in his skull, overlapping with thoughts of what if.

He pushes his glass aside. “I have to go.”

David raises an eyebrow. “You’ve barely been here ten minutes.”

"I have to return some video tapes," he said as he stood up, adjusting his suit jacket. He felt watched, though none of them seemed to care why he’s suddenly so tense and sweaty.

He checks his watch. You should still be at the office.

⸻

You’re at the copier, minding your business, when something feels off—patrick is watching you.

you pretend not to notice, keeping your focus on the machine, but your pulse quickens. His gaze is heavier than usual, more focused and even more intense.

“You’re pregnant.” the words are spoken so flatly, so devoid of emotion–

they make your blood run cold.

Slowly, you turn to face him, trying to keep your expression calm. “Patrick—” his eyes drop to your stomach. Your coat is unbuttoned.

Your hands twitch to close it, but it’s too late. you want to lie, tell him it's just rumors–but the oversized blazer and loose—fitting button up isn’t fooling anyone. Your body has changed, and no matter how much you try to act like nothing is different, it is.

and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks visibly shaken, his expression flickers—with something dangerous. his nostrils flare and his brows knit together—he's pissed.

“Paul?” he says through gritted teeth and It takes you a moment to process what he just said.

“What?”

His voice is sharp and accusing. “It’s his, isn’t it?”

You're dumbfounded, caught completely off guard. “What?” you repeat.

“Paul,” he says again, his tone laced with something ugly. “You’ve been around him constantly. You’ve been with him constantly.” His eyes flicker back down to your stomach, and something flashes across his face��something close to fury. "Even after I told you to stay away from him."

Oh. Oh.

He thinks it’s Paul’s. you almost laugh at how crazy this whole thing is, but the way he's looking at you—the sheer anger radiating off of him—stops you cold.

he cares. Maybe not in the way a normal person would. Maybe not in a way that makes sense. But he cares. And this is killing him.

one second, he’s standing there, staring at you with something dark and disgusting—and then he’s storming through the office, his footsteps dangerously quick.

And then it clicks. He’s going to Paul.

“Patrick—wait!” You rush after him, your heart hammering—but it’s too late.

the moment you step into the main office, you hear a loud crack. a sickening sound, followed by a loud, pained shout. gasps ripple through the room–Papers scatter and chairs scrape against the floor.

Paul is on the ground, clutching his face as Blood spills between his fingers, dripping down onto his overpriced suit. His wide, disoriented eyes flick up toward Patrick—who's standing over him, fist clenched, breathing hard like he’s debating whether to hit him again.

"What the fuck?” Paul’s voice is thick and now—nasally. his nose is definitely broken. “Are you insane?”

patrick doesn’t answer him because he's not just angry—not just upset.

He's Livid.

You snap out of it, rushing forward. “Patrick, stop!”

Nothing. He’s just standing there, staring down at Paul like he wants to do so much worse.

you hear luis rushing to get something for paul's nose.

This is bad.

Patrick Bateman—cold, composed, emotionally vacant Patrick—just snapped in front of the entire office. And for what? over something that isn't even true.

You kneel beside Paul, who is still groaning in pain, and glare up at Patrick. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Patrick finally looks at you, and for the first time, you see raw, unfiltered emotion in his eyes. Possessiveness, Rage, Jealousy and.. sadness. Something that has been boiling under the surface for weeks. Something that should terrify you. But all it doesn’t.

You don't get a chance to say anything else before he's storming off into his office—

With shaking hands you press the sleeve of your shirt to Paul’s nose, trying to be gentle despite his constant whining. Luis hands him an ice pack, whispering a "sorry" as he dramatically flinches. “Hold still” you mutter.

Paul just grumbles, shifting uncomfortably. “I am holding still. But it fucking hurts.”

luis sighs. “Yeah, no shit. Bateman just decked you in front of the whole office.”

The reminder makes you feel sick. paul continues groaning and winning as he adjusts the ice pack. “That psycho better pay for my nose job.”

your gaze keeps drifting toward Patrick’s office. He hasn’t come out to apologize, justify, or explain anything.

luis follows your gaze and sighs. “You’re gonna go talk to him, aren’t you?” Paul groans. “Oh, come on. Just let him rot in there.”

Sorry this is lowkey rushed ☹️☹️☹️ maybe I'm overthinking it but i hate this so bad.

#patrick bateman #christian bale #american psycho #patrick bateman x reader #christian bale x reader #patrick bateman fanfic #luis carruthers #craig mcdermott #timothy bryce #patrick bateman x you #drunken mistake #american psycho fanfic

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cloudss-space · 1 day ago

Text

I need your help.

Hello, my name is Cloud and you might know me by the semi popular Killer Chat fanfic author. And I'm announcing my emergency writing and art commissions (my Kofi is linked) to help me find a cheap apartment to live in, alongside having donations set up. I'm currently a student in high school, and will be trying to get into a college or go into trade, and trying to get a job.

I'm not one to really reach out for help, but the situation I'm in right now is difficult. For the past 6 or 7 years of my life, I had to deal with my step father who is a down beat dad and an abuser. Now, I'm going to be living in my aunt's small trailer that's meant for one person.

When I first moved in with him at the age of 11 or 12, my family was homeless and he was an alcoholic. His alcoholism caused a lot of trauma for both me and my mother as I had to watch him abuse her. In 2019 we found a house, but in December he went to jail for domestic violence.

You might ask, "why couldn't you leave?" It's difficult to leave when you're financially dependent on someone, which my mom was. Alongside I'm trans and our shelters around us aren't supportive. So for my sake as a minor at that time, it was best to wait.

My step father went to jail, then to rehab, then came back. But from 2020 until now, his aggressive behavior hasn't gotten better. He didn't lay hands on my mom or me again, but the emotional and mental abuse was still there, every, single, day.

What caused this downfall for me was March 23rd, when my step dad started to spiral and made me fear my life, starting to hate crime me for being trans towards my mother, and I will not tolerate that. On top of that, for the past 7 months, he's been wanting to kick me out and has threatened to kick me out almost monthly.

I will not tolerate being hated, feeling unsafe, and fearing for my life. I'm tired, and I need out, and all the help I can get.

Me and my mother talked about it, but as mentioned, I'll be living with my aunt, especially since I am an adult and I'm able to leave. It's somewhere, but having a place that doesn't have a thick coat of tobacco is something I'm willing to work my everything for a place to call home all to myself and finally be free from this trauma.

So, I set up Kofi, alongside a PayPal, Chime, and CashApp account. I have commissions open, both writing and art, alongside a donation goal set up. All the money that's given is going straight to a savings account that I have towards a cheap apartment in the area of living I'm moving to. A simple one bed one bath.

I would like to thank you all for your love and support. You all are amazing and mean everything to me. If you can't donate, just reblogging would do wonders for me.

Thank you.

#donations #gofundme #announcement #transgender #queer

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lunarharp · 7 months ago

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played dragon age 2...just simple scribbles

#dragon age tag #i doubt that will see much use again..but who knows. vvv rambling below #weird game..the characters dialogue stuff and ending were good tho :')#i've played some of the first game but it kept crashing. i knew already despite knowing nothing that this guy was going to be my type #it doesnt feel right making video game art any more bc games like this end up feeling really personal - an experience that happened to me #if i design the main character a bit and fall in love then..that happened to me..i can't make Fan Art of that..only ive been through that..#like i cant make fanart of my dear companions in bg3 despite it having been a huge part of my heart in the last year #almost 1000 hours of playtime in something i can barely talk about bc it means too much.... lol #tons of ideas and conversations and extra thoughts and scenes and emotions about all the incredible times i've been through in bg3 #and the maelstrom just rotates around intensely in my own heart forever...but that's ok too...that is so precious to me #but fortunately i already knew people that have played this game and talked/drew abt it recently so it was saved from that for me #sharing scribbly fanart on my Blog is a way to capture the feeling just after experiencing something so it has good points #witch hat atelier escapes that by not being a GAME. games are so immersive. but my wha art & feelings are incredibly immersive too #which makes it difficult sometimes now. i live a complicated and emotional life <3 i am not suited to fandom <3 #my character ended up looking so much like oru without me realising that's what i was doing. Kind bearded fireball throwing gay mage. Hmm.#falling for a sad white hair memory trauma fellow that keeps you at a tragic distance. Hmmmmmm.#i see also how very much bg3 is inspired by stuff like dragon age now lol so i'm glad i experienced it. I WANT MY KIRKWALL LIFE BACK...#so dated though as well and unpleasant at times (the city and the dismal atmosphere was depressing.) i hate violence/horror..#bg3 is SOOOO very dismal but it feels like I am killing people and going through horrors because i have to survive i have to be free #Well anyway. ahh it's so refreshing to fall in love. my gay journey continues...

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deoidesign · 10 months ago

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#ok finally making a post about meds #I've not ever tried taking medication before. I was sorta raised with that classic 'dont rely on meds you have to learn to manage without'#I mean I was also raised with the idea that therapy is stupid unless you have 'real' trauma. and also like idk.#can't stay home from school unless your temp is over 100 or you're throwing up. etc. very suck it up mindset #so I was just really nervous to start. also of course worried about losing myself or whatever I know that's a silly fear but #it's also a common fear for a reason!!! anyways #so I finally was like 'I need to do something' when I realized I was so anxious I couldnt even get myself to go outside alone #like I just don't want to do ANYTHING alone to a detrimental effect. and it was butting into my ability to do my work...#for various reasons. but then ALSO adhd has been a constant issue with my work as well!#it is SO hard to write and draw on a weekly pace like I am without being able to focus #my whole life I've had these terrible nightmares constantly and I've always woken up constantly in the night #sleep has always been terrible so I've always dreaded going to bed.. ESPECIALLy because it didnt even make me less tired #it was more something that I just did because I had to.#but going to bed was always terrible. there have been times I was too scared to go to sleep for weeks on end...#I've been mitigating this for years of course. and recently I've been taking melatonin which has been helping too.#but I've also always struggled to get up. because I've always been EXTREMELY exhausted #but also anxious of what the day might bring... idk.#anyways it has all hit a point that I was like okay. I am doing as many coping mechanisms as I can. the psych said they were good too #but... it just has never been enough. it's never been enough to make me not tired it's never been enough to make me not scared #so I finally talked to the doc about it. and she was like youve def got smth wrong basically. which yah I know.. but yknow #anyways so I started taking wellbutrin. and I am so frustrated now. because it's WORKING #that constant looming sense of dread is gone. I'm excited to get up. I'm excited to go to bed BECAUSE I'm excited to get up #I feel like for years I've been holding on to the idea that I have to get up because I have to put something good out into the world #and I've been clinging to knowing that if nothing else. I am able to help other people feel better.#but now for the first time in my life I'm like. free of it. I didnt even know it was possible... and I'm so sad how much I've lost out on #and so frustrated how my whole life I've been told to put up with it and push through it. and treated like a failure for it being too much.#and just. It has only been 2 weeks. but the lack of anxiety is SO noticeable I'm so...#I'll never miss it. the adhd is still pretty present but like whatever. I can manage that better.#and I'm just crying because of all this combined.#I just. I hope I get to finally be the best I can be now. for myself but also for you guys!

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fearlesschimera · 1 day ago

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Friend, I made it!!!! 😂 I'm finally pain-free, so I can write without being interrupted by anything or anyone! ♥️

Let's start with the first part! The opening scene was A.M.A.Z.I.N.G. It gave me all the John Wick vibes (I don’t know if you’ve ever watched the franchise, but John is Roman, Roman is John ♥️). Dwayne deserves all the flowers for his entrance, and the same goes for Jacob, who was more than effective! I know Roman still doesn’t fully trust him, but I think he will be a valuable asset ♥️.The part I loved the most was Matteo’s ambush on Luca— that surprise effect was so well executed!!!

And now, the sad notes: Jimmy 💔 I have to say, friend, I have never been more conflicted in my life. Jimmy has his rights and wrongs, and the same goes for Roman. At some points, I wanted to scream at Roman, demanding some kind of mercy, but then, once he touched on certain points, I couldn’t say he was wrong. Same thing for Jimmy. Jimmy lost so much as well! He lost Roman, his father, his brother, and his twin, too, and he’s the one I blame the least out of everyone. Yes, he knew something wasn’t right, yes, he said nothing, but at the same time, he wasn’t involved, and the same goes for Naomi. I appreciated that Roman decided not to tell the whole truth about Rikishi, but if they ever manage to fix this mess in the future, I think he should know—because, even if it’s painful, he needs to understand what kind of person his father truly was. Maybe I’m too soft, but if I were Roman, I don’t know if I’d have the strength to keep Jimmy distant, not forever. Roman is conflicted, which is why I can’t and won’t lose hope 🥺🥺

Standing ovation for the suffering you put Paul and Seth through, friend 😂 It’s hard to say who deserved it more, but personally, I think Paul is a cut above—he was so fake and slimy, the personification of a snake! This sentence was a plus : “So much for that spoiler.” I screamed 😂

Sad notes, part 2: Jey 😭😭😭 A part of me just wanted to slap him hard in the face, and that part wanted to applaud Roman for the physical pain he put him through, but the other part of me, friend… that part cried like a baby! He’s so guilty and naive at the same time. His pride, jealousy, and stubbornness? A lethal mix. If redemption is possible for Jimmy, it’s very different for Jey. He is to blame for his decisions, and sadly, he is to blame for his wife’s death as well—because all of this pain could have been avoided. Now, he will pay the biggest price, and his kids will, too. Solana, being the wonderful woman and human being that she is, obviously asked Roman to spare him, and I couldn’t agree more. I know Roman is moved by anger, betrayal and a broken heart and I’m sure his instinct is to kill him, but I’m not fully sure he would actually do it, even if Solana hadn’t asked. I know forgiveness is off the table (?), but I think Solana’s request was more for Roman’s mental well-being than anything else. Because I think Roman has a soft spot for Jey—despite the conflicts of the past, maybe he is more similar to Roman than he likes to admit. Jey broke a code, broke so many hearts, made mistake after mistake, but… it’s Jey, and it’s not easy… damn it! 😂😭

Friend, the problem is that I need to hug this man 😭😭😭The image of him being home, alone, missing Solana… AND DULCE! 😭😭😭 Roman loves that cutie pie of a dog so much 🥺🥺🥺 And I was so happy he decided to talk with Lita. I was scared that this distance from Solana, combined with this giant trail of blood, would shut him off again, but his progress isn’t completely gone 🥺🥺He misses his wife, and he needs to figure out what to do with Matteo! I’m glad he finally decided to truly acknowledge his presence in his life and the fact that he knows, deep down, that he can trust him ♥️. That man left his wife and kids, too, in order to help and protect his fratello ♥️ (I love seeing some Italian words here and there, friend 😍🥺😂).

I know you’re not going to say anything 😂 but I swear, if that “you know what” is what I think it is—something I requested a while ago… let’s just say I already know I’m going to get complaints from my neighbours for how loud I’ll scream 😍😍♥️♥️😂Roman is surrounded by love. The betrayal was huge, but so is the love he is surrounded by. Life is slowly giving him back everything he lost, and it’s so beautiful ♥️Some voids are impossible to fill, but this is definitely an upgrade ♥️

Now, the end… FRIEND, THEIR MOTHER IS ALIVE???? 😱😱😱 I’m speechless, I’m in shock! What the hell has she been doing all this time? Why did she abandon her sons? We already know she never really wanted, loved, or even liked Roman, but still… WHAT’S GOING ON??? 😱😱😱

Side note: amazing job with the face claim, friend 😍. I’m not the biggest Monica Bellucci fan… that's why she’s perfect for this role 😂😂 However, I do love Harrison Ford 😍

I already know this last chapter is going to be SOMETHING! I loved that this one focused on Roman and his state of mind, so I can already tell it’s going to be even worse reading about Solana—because she has a different kind of approach. She feels everything, she’s a woman, she’s pregnant… a very bad combo 😂🥺😭.

Friend, you are something special. You did wonderfully as always, and I can’t express how fortunate I feel to be a small part of this journey that you decided to share with all of us! ♥️♥️♥️

looking through your eyes + thirty eight | part one

authors note: see at end of chapter.

warnings: angst and graphic depictions of violence. gore. torture. not for the faint of heart.

story song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

***gif credit goes to @romanreigns ***

cast+ masterlist +story playlist + taglist request form

words: 12k

"We need Tribal Combat!"

"There's no time for that! We need a leader now!"

"We need to follow the order of command!"

"What command? Roman is dead! There is no order anymore!"

"This is why he should have been dethroned a lot sooner! He left us no heir!"

"The child wouldn't be old enough to rule anyway!"

Aleki runs a hand over his haggard face. In a matter of weeks, he feels like he's aged another ten years.

He's getting too old to be dealing with this shit, and that's exactly what all of this is. A bunch of shit.

"Tribal Combat is the way our ancestors would handle a situation like this," he finally speaks. The situation being the fact that for the first time in his lifetime, the Bloodline is without a leader.

Roman is dead.

Solo is dead.

Roman left no heir, thus there is no clear path moving forward for what should occur. The past two weeks since the former Tribal Cheif's murder has been nothing but chaotic to say the least. Aleki is far too prideful to admit it, but a part of him blames himself. He should have known better than to trust Rikishi to get the job done. Should have known that just like he did years prior with Jey, he'd fall short.

Should have known his plan was not without holes. Holes that have left them in the mess they're in now. Allies demanding to know who is in charge, threatening to sever partnerships with a syndicate that boasts no formal, official leader.

A mess.

"And just how do we determine who is eligible for combat?"

Someone, another annoying voice, inserts their question among the mumbled conversations.

Another Elder handles the answer, offering, "it could be open to anyone."

Sione sighs, saying more to himself than anyone in particular. "Nakoa's bloodline has ruled for generations."

"And now his bloodline is all dead," Aleki counters. Cold. His voice and expression are as cold as the ice in his veins. "His son in his stubbornness has damned us to this mess." He gestures around the room, anger growing as he mulls over the situation. "We should have never allowed him to rule for so—"

His pending rant is cut short by the arrival of another attendee, which instantly has him scowling for two reasons.

One, all attendees who were allowed for this audience are present and accounted for.

Two, the identify of said attendee has him pissed.

"Dwayne." His voice is clipped. "This is a closed—"

"I don't give a fuck," comes the dismissive response of the man nearly insufferable as his late, younger cousin. Dwayne saunters over to an occupied seat, easily grabbing the seat by the back, yanking it out and knocking the person to the ground. A smug smirk sits on his face as he plops down and props his big ass feet on the table. Dwayne lifts the sunglasses from the bridge of his nose to the top of his bald head. "Oh, don't stop on my account."

"This doesn't concern you," Sione dismisses.

"Come on." The 'n' drags on as he props his hands behind his head. "I'm still Bloodline, aren't I?"

"You were apart of Roman's Bloodline, and he's dead now, so you have no place here anymore." Someone, an attendee whose name Aleki would never bother to know, counters with a huff. "Plus, where the hell have you been the past few weeks?"

Dwayne shrugs. "Around."

"Around." Someone else mocks. "Our empire in on the brink of collapse, and you've just been around."

"It's like candy ass small dick over here said." Dwayne gestures with his thumb. "I'm unemployed."

The insulted man slams his fist on the table, shooting up, "you smug son of—"

Dwayne quickly silences him by pulling out his Glock G-19 and shooting him directly in the temple, his lifeless body instantly dropping to the floor. Gasps sound around the table, Aleki angrily calling for security.

"You need to leave now!" He hisses. Aleki glances toward the door, wondering why the hell security didn't come barging in at the sound of a literal gunshot.

"See, I would, but I don't answer to you anymore." Dwayne replies in a significantly more serious voice. Gone is the nonchalant "devil may care" attitude. His big body shifts as he moves both elbows onto the table, gun still in hand. "I only answer to the Tribal Chief."

Aleki hisses. "Roman is dead. There is no Tribal Chief."

Dwayne's growing smile can only be described as sinister and predatory. Knowing. "You sure about that?"

Seconds later, not even a full minute, the sound of grunts and thuds from outside the conference room. The Elders and other attendees looking around in confusion.

Except for Dwayne.

He just keeps smiling.

And an almost thunderous sound is accompanied by two more unexpected arrivals. One significantly more unexpected than the other.

Jacob Fatu's unhinged, crazed look of insanity is accompanied by his big body throwing down two dead guards, their heads awkwardly and sickly hanging from their lifeless bodies. Snapped. Their necks have been snapped.

But, that grotesque sight is severely outmatched and borderline underwhelming compared to the inconceivable sight of a dead man walking.

Roman's hair is down and wild, his murderous gaze steady and focused forward. Brass knuckles attached to a chain are secured to his right fist. The table of men are suddenly in shambles, falling over and working to put as much distance between themselves and the man everyone has believed dead.

Again, everyone except Dwayne.

Aleki can barely compute what's happening before him. So much so that there's no time to react, no time to think, just a tremendous of pain that courses through his aged body. Because one minute, he's in his chair at the head of the table, and the next he's on the floor, an enraged Roman having slapped the heavy metal chain against his body.

The old man cries out in agony as the chain is whipped once more, cutting into his skin and laying heavy onto his already brittle bones.

"Please!" He begs, allotted a brief respite as Roman redirects his focus onto Sione and the other Elders, each being mercilessly whipped with the chains.

Punishment.

He's punishing them.

"You wanna take me out!" Roman's infuriated voice slams against the walls the same way he starts to slam his fists against the broken, bloodied men who sought to see him six feet under. "It ain't ever fucking happening!" Roman lands a bone breaking kick to the neck of one of the elders, killing him instantly. The next is killed not directly by Roman but by proxy, as he screams for Jacob.

Jacob, who grabs his gun and shoots out a window, marches over, snatching the man up, dragging him to the window and not wasting a second of a minute to toss him out of said window.

Onlookers watch in horror as one by one, Roman kills them all in various brutal ways. Suffocation. Slit throats. Snapped necks. A brutal beating with the brass knuckles. Various, violent methods and manners in which each meet an untimely, grisly demise. But, the best is saved for last. Aleki. A thorn in Roman's fucking side since he was a boy.

The older man is barely clinging onto life when Roman easily snatches that life away with each slap of the heavy chain, the brass knuckles slammed onto his face until it's disfigured beyond recognition. And finally, the severing of life is achieved via the slicing of the large hunting knife across his throat.

Heaving, splattered with blood, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, nothing but adrenaline and unbounded rage soar through Roman. His lethal gaze falls on the room of people who've been forced to watch the gory bloodbath.

The faintest hint of a smirk on his face.

Good.

Dwayne whistles. "Well, if it isn't obvious, he's not dead."

Roman shoots his older cousin a glare. Dwayne simply shrugs while Roman tips the chair back over, kicking Aleki's body to the side, rolling the chair and sitting down.

And silence. A piece of lint could fall off the wrinkled shirt of the man sitting a few seats down from Roman, and it could still be heard.

Fear.

Fear fills the room and dances off the walls, surrounds the men who just witnessed a bloodbath unlike any.

And then, finally, a brave—or stupid—soul decides to take a risk. Take a chance. "You're….you're alive."

Roman's gaze easily flickers to the man whose wide, horrified gaze is focused on him, trembling finger pointing in his direction. "We—we thought—"

One nod toward Jacob, and the man is barely able to stammer out an "I'm" before his head is violently forced to the side, the sound of his neck snapping followed up with the loud thud sound of it dropping onto the table.

The men around him back and cower away, eager and desperate to escape the death that's already claimed their pathetic lives.

"I was betrayed." Is the first thing to leave his mouth, the word 'betrayal' leaving a bitter, disgusting aftertaste that has him craving more blood. Craving vengeance. "They tried to overthrow me. Tried to kill me, and they should have." Roman stabs the large knife into the table, almost certain he heard someone whimper, as if about to cry. As if they were already crying. "They should have because they killed my wife, and now there's no fucking place on this earth anyone can hide or escape my rage." Saying it aloud is more difficult than Roman anticipated. Playing along with this storyline where Solana is no longer among the living. The discomfort is only quelled by the constant reminder that she is okay. That she's safe and simply waiting for him to return to her after handling business.

And, that's exactly what he's going to do.

Roman digs the knife deeper into the wood. "When I'm done with everyone involved in this shit, the only thing anyone will be able to see is red, and that's the fucking blood I'm going to paint this whole fucking town with." Sitting back in the chair, Roman leaves the knife protruding from the table. "But, until then, I need you all to send them a message."

Another foolish, ignorant, naive soul decides to ask what will be the final thing to leave his mouth before he leaves this room. "Wh—what m-m-message, s-s-sir?"

And for the first time since his entrance, Roman offers something other than a menacing glare. He smiles, but there's nothing humorous about it. If anything, it's predatory.

"That I'm coming."

Similar to the onslaught Roman bestowed upon the now deceased Elders, it's quick and violent. Jacob and Dwayne work almost simultaneously, not killing, but maiming the men. Severed, bloodied pieces cut from bodies. Fingers, noses, ears. Nothing fatal. Just warning enough.

And, it's only when each men has been left with a mark, a sign of Roman's pending revenge, they're ushered and forced out the room. Jacob landing a particularly painful looking blow into the back of the last disfigured, partially dismembered man.

Rolling his shoulders, Roman doesn't even need to instruct them on what to do next. Dwayne is reaching for the laptop, ripping a shirt off one of the dead elders to use it to clean it of the blood. "Fucking disgusting," he hisses, throwing it down once its completed the job.

Roman's eyes cut to the clock on the wall. Right on time.

He's uncaring of his appearance, focused on one thing and only.

Blood.

Roman is out for blood.

As Dwayne works to get everything set up and synced to the large TV screen anchored onto the wall, Jacob stands off to the side, waiting, observing, protecting almost.

Roman would be lying if he said he wasn't skeptical when Solana first told him about Jacob.

Told him how he allegedly protected her and vowed his loyalty to Roman and Roman only, as he recognized Roman as the Tribal Chief.

The only Tribal Chief.

Told her how not everyone in the Bloodline was involved in the coup, and many were waiting for Roman to show up.

Truth be told, Roman is still trying to test that. Test Jacob. So far, he's proven useful, offering Dwayne and Matteo intel and information on those allegedly involved and those not involved.

He's a a hell of a body to have around, capable of the most violent desecration of people. Useful. He's useful, but only time will tell to what extent Roman can trust him.

Can trust anyone, really.

"It's ready," Dwayne announces. Roman breaks from his thoughts, rolling his shoulders once more, ignoring the throb. Solana would have his ass for all the physical exertion. But, it needs to be done.

The sooner Roman handles this, the sooner he can have her back home with him.

Right where she belongs.

Dwayne and Jacob move to take seats, both on opposite sides of the table but in view of the TV that also serves as a casting source. The television screen is then filled with the exact person Roman wants to see next.

"This is a fucking waste of time." Luca's irritated voice is heard, his irksome ass face focused on something beside him. It looks like he's signing something. "Without someone of Italian blood at the head of your table, we have no alli—"

He stops, finally turning to look at the screen, and if there was ever someone to be as pale as Casper the fucking ghost, it's Luca.

"Roman." He all but whispers.

The Tribal Chief remains stone face. "Luca." He tilts his head. "You look surprised."

The younger man stammers, eyes darting around, hardening slightly when he lands on Dwayne who offers a small, mocking wave.

He then narrows his focus back on Roman. Clearing his throat, trying to play off indifference, he straightens his tie. "We were told you were dead."

"Were you?" Luca makes a sound. "I suppose that would have made things a lot more easier for you, now wouldn't it?"

Luca glares. "Just what—"

"Don't fucking play with me," Roman growls. "Do you think I'm stupid? I know you've been trying usurp me. That you were behind that missing shipment. The hit that killed our men. That you sent my brother to spy on me. That you were working with them to kill me."

Roman refuses to name them. Refuses to have their names on his lips. They're not fucking worth it.

Luca, to the best of his limited abilities, tries to remain unbothered. "I don't know what you're talking about."

At that, Roman chuckles, smiling, looking down and nodding. "That's….that's good." Roman can give credit where it's due. Albeit a paltry amount. But, just as quickly as he was smiling, he's glaring. "But, here's the fucking problem, I'm better. I'm better than you. Better than anyone else in this fucking family. I've always been better, and I always will be better." Always. "And you know what else?" A beat. "I'm always three steps ahead."

Luca opens his mouth to respond, fire and fury dancing in his irises when commotion can be heard through the TV.

Roman smirks.

Luca looks to the side, once angered, now confused, and then disturbed.

Gunshots. It's the sound of gunshots.

He curses in Italian, barking orders at what's probably security.

Roman says nothing.

It makes no difference.

None whatsoever.

He just sits back in his chair, enjoying the sound of men crying out in pain, bodies dropping, bullets being emptied into now lifeless corpses.

Luca's clearly shitting bricks, perspiring, gun in his shaky hand. He calls out another order that's cut short by what sounds like the door being kicked open.

Gunshots ring once more, back to back, strategic and aimed.

Luca curses loudly, holding onto his shoulder where he's been shot.

And seconds later, the base of his neck is exposed as another figure stands behind him, forcing his head back, gun pressed to his temple.

Matteo

True to his character, Luca uses his dying words to curse at not only Roman but Matteo who stands with a smug expression, giving Roman only a simple nod of acknowledgment.

Roman smirks.

He sits back in his chair, voice calm and collected. A contrast to the mayhem just unleashed. "Luca." The man in question struggles and works to move out of Matteo's unrelenting grasp. "Take this free advice. If you're gonna go for the devil, you should go always go for the head, because if you miss." A quiet chuckle. "He sure won't."

A loud bang followed by blood and brain matter splattering the screen, partially obscuring the view of Luca's lifeless body slumped over.

Like a bug, Matteo shoves him away, taking the seat, seemingly unbothered by the blood that stains his clothes, hair, and skin.

"It's done."

"Good." Sitting forward, Roman's mind travels to the mental list curated. "Get on the first flight back here."

Matteo nods. "Will do." The connection ends, and Roman closes the laptop.

Looking around the room, he readies to order Dwayne to start seeing about replacements for the Elders council but ultimately decides against it.

It can wait.

He has bigger, important things to worry and focus on, like making his way down his infinite kill list.

The OTC is coming.

---------

There are many, many things on Roman's to-do list once he arrives back home. Many bloody, violent things. Lives to take, primarily.

But, while that remains near the top, there are other things that also require his attention. Things he'd moderately prefer to not have to do but things he needs to do.

It's what leads him a few days later standing outside of Jimmy and Naomi's house. One of his first of many stops during his "revival" tour of sorts.

But, the minute the door is ripped open, and Roman is standing face to face, directly across from Jimmy, a new influx of confusing emotions fill him. The same way they paint the face of his wide eyed cousin.

Roman can see the way Jimmy continues to grip the door so tightly that his knuckles whiten. "It's….it's true." Roman's jaw twitches as he briefly looks away. "You're…you're alive?"

"We need to talk," is Roman's response. He looks at Jimmy. "Can I come in?"

A delayed response is followed up with an almost distracted head nod as Roman makes his way inside of his cousin's home, a place he's been in countless times over his almost 40 years on this earth. But, this…..this has to be the first time where it's felt different. Felt off. Felt wrong.

"Where the hell have you been?" Jimmy breathes. Roman turns around to face him, seeing the shock and confusion melt away into a bowl of anger. "We thought you were dead, Roman. Almost everyone thinks you and Solana—" He stops himself, pausing, eyes widening slightly. "Wait, is she—"

A pause. Hesitation. The moment Roman wrecked his brain over and over again trying to navigate the best way to handle such a tricky, complicated, complex situation. Ultimately, Solana's words and recommended or requested approach taking front seat. "She's safe."

Once the words leave his mouth, there's a semblance of regret. Like, he wishes he had gone a different route. Almost like he wishes he'd continued to maintain the story being spread about the fate of his pregnant wife.

Jimmy places both hands behind his head, walking away just enough to blow out a big breath. "What the fuck, Roman?" He growls, walking back over and pointing upstairs. "You got any fucking idea how gutted Naomi and I been?" He scowls, the anger and relief clearly at odds. "Thinking you and Sol were—"

"I know what you thought," he interrupts, hating his own emotions being at war. "You thought what we needed everyone to think."

Jimmy swallows. "Even me?" Silence. He once again motions upstairs. "Even Naomi?"

Silence

He runs a hand over his face, and in that moment, Roman can see for the first time the toll all of this has taken on him. He looks drained. "Roman….I know….I know what happened was fucked up. I'm not denying that. But, to treat Naomi and I like this when we ain't even do nothing?" He shakes his head. "When I'm already having to mourn my brother and father—"

"The same people who tried to kill me?" Roman interrupts, his voice sharp and even. "The people who kidnapped and were going to kill my wife?"

"I know that, Uce—"

"Do you?" A pointed question, as anger starts to overpower everything else. "Cause you're acting like I did something fucking wrong—"

"You did!" Jimmy snaps. "You kept us in the fucking dark when we deserved to know the truth!"

"The same way you kept me in the dark?" Is Roman's almost quiet response. He sees the way Jimmy's anger twitches, how it's briefly interrupted by what Roman considers to be a valid point. "For years, your father was trying to get ya'll to challenge me, trying to turn you against me, and you never said anything. Never told me shit!"

"I told you, I didn't realize—"

"I don't give a fuck what you did or didn't realize. I had a right to know!" He needed to know. Roman needed to know that the same people he considered family, the closest thing he had left to a father figure, even with them never necessarily being super close, was plotting against him the entire time. "If you had just told me—"

"Then what? It would have changed something?" Jimmy shouts, also unwilling to back down like the man across from him. "Would have stopped all this from happening? Would change what happened—"

"I don't know!" A forced, short, angry response as the Tribal Chief turns away, running his hand over his face. This conversation is equally heavy as it is challenging. He wasn't stupid enough to expect anything about it to be easy, but Roman can't deny a small part of him hoped it would go….different. In what way, he's not entirely sure. Just something….not this.

"Uce, we can figure this out—"

Roman briefly turns to him. "Can we?"

And, when Jimmy doesn't respond immediately, doesn't respond at all, Roman realizes in one area of all of this shit, they're on the same page. They're both confused as to how to untangle this massive mess of betrayal, lies, and hurt. Because for Roman, it's not even the coup organized by the people he once considered family, it's the fact that he also has to come to grips with that same "family" was a part of the plan that cost Roman his entire immediate family.

Left him essentially alone.

In many ways, that's what hurts the most.

But, it's also something Roman has opted to not tell Jimmy. As much hatred the Tribal Chief holds toward Solo and Rikishi, he can still acknowledge that was Jimmy's brother and father. He won't complicate his cousin's grief.

Because Roman doesn't hate him.

Doesn't hate him at all.

He just can't trust him anymore, and he's not sure if and when that will change.

Which is why he settled on the decision he did. The decision he's ready to finally share.

"When Solana comes home, and she will come home, I don't want to see you."

Gaze focused on the wall art in Jimmy's living room, Roman doesn't need to be looking at his cousin to know he's floored. "W-what?"

He swallows, recalling the specific wording he decided on. "You're out of my inner circle. I'll have Dwayne find a position for you in the Bloodline when things settle—"

"Roman—"

"Solana can decide for herself what she wants her relationship with Naomi to be, but I don't want either of you at my house."

"You can't—"

"I can do whatever the fuck I want." Even if he's not entirely sure it's exactly what he wants. It's the best Roman can do under these circumstances.

All he can do.

That doesn't mean there's not the reappearance of that damn weight that's been on his chest ever since he had to leave Solana. Even before that, if he's being completely honest with himself.

"My decision is final, Jimmy." Because maybe sticking to the facts, or rather the stipulations Roman has decided to put in place until he can navigate a better solution might be helpful. Emotions are getting in the way of business.

Jimmy just looks at him, stares at him, unwilling or maybe even uncaring of how visible his many emotions are. "So, that's it?" Roman's jaw clenches. "After everything we been through, the good, the bad, the everything in between. Almost 40 years of friendship, of being family….." He swallows, emotion and vulnerability on full display. "You're like my brother, Roman—"

"But not a brother, right?" Silence. "That's why you didn't say anything."

It's a deeply rooted point of insecurity. One that Roman hasn't really allowed himself to think too much about since he was a kid. That feeling of being "not like them." Of feeling like he didn't necessarily "belong."

An outsider among his own blood.

"This isn't fair, and you know it," Jimmy finally responds. "You're punishing me, punishing Naomi, for something that we didn't even do."

Perhaps. The Tribal Chief won't entirely deny that. He knows he can be vindictive, and maybe some part of him does want to punish them in a way he can't the deceased. But, the vast majority of him only seeks to have a temporary solution in place to relieve him of all the other very many tasks on his plate.

And, the deep fucking truth of the matter is also something he won't allow himself to admit aloud but feels fully.

He needs Solana.

Roman needs his wife to help him sort through all of this. He needs her support. Her safety. Her sage wisdom and soft way of helping him navigate these things. So, until that can happen, this is what needs to happen.

Roman takes a deep breath. For as nice and big a home Jimmy and Naomi have, it's suddenly feels a lot more stuffy than he recalls. A lot less welcoming. His presence more…intruding than anything.

"I have to go." Both a truth and a lie. The day is practically just getting started, but time waits for the Tribal Chief. He could stay longer, could maybe talk things through with his cousin.

Problem is he doesn't want to.

Not right now.

Not for a while, most likely.

Roman is a bit unsure why he's some level of bothered by Jimmy not protesting his leave. It's what's best….

Right?

"You're going to do it, aren't you?" Roman's hand is halfway to touching the doorknob when he's hit with the question. The one he knew was coming but hoping wouldn't. The one that makes sense. "You're going to kill him."

His eyes shut.

Debated. Roman debated the hell out of and with himself to try to figure out how he would tackle that one. Of course, Jimmy would want to know that. Would want to know if another person will be added to the list of lost loved ones. Especially his brother.

Jey.

Roman also considered how to respond to this, how much he wanted to share, if he wanted to grant Jimmy some sense of peace with knowing the answer or grief with also knowing the answer.

Roman swallows once more.

And, he walks out the door.

-----------

The only way for Roman to decompress from his heavy conversation with Jimmy and all that will come from the decisions that have been made is to cope the best way he knows how.

Murder.

Roman needs to cross off another name from his hit list.

Two, precisely.

"Where the fuck are they?" Dwayne complains and swats away a pesky fly that seems to prefer to fly around and in his personal bubble. "Fucking hate the outdoors."

Matteo snickers. "So, you wouldn't accompany Afia, the kids and I on a camping trip?"

Dwayne just stares at him. "Do I look poor to you?"

Roman manages a chuckle and a thought of something else. About the sacrifice Matteo is also making by being here with him. Standing with him. He's also separated from his wife. From his children. Agreeing to no contact to help keep Solana being alive a secret.

Roman swallows.

He didn't really realize until just now how massive an ask that was.

And how Matteo never once hesitated to agree to join him.

The sound of a truck engine revving is a welcomed distraction and something that allows Roman to reorient his focus to the task at hand. Jaw clenched, he watches the ambulance come to an abrupt stop followed by the drivers door being flung open.

Jacob's large body drops down, his boots leaving imprints in the slightly muddy ground as he stomps to the back of the truck and snatches the door open.

Hate fills the Tribal Chief as he watches Jacob angrily and almost erratically yank the two hospital beds out the back, both participants crying out in pain as they tumble onto the ground.

But, the cries of pain from one ease into a sick, twisted, laugh.

Roman's stomp onto his neck effectively silences that laugh. Seth's brown eyes peer up into him, that deranged smile on his face causing Roman to lift his foot and stomp once more. Seth almost instantly coughs up blood.

However, it's wheezing from the rotund man on the ground a few feet away from the lunatic under him that snatches Roman's focus.

Carefully, slowly, he walks over, anger accompanying each step until he kicks Paul over, a loud howl leaving his former advisor's mouth.

Tears stream down his face that has a large bandage on the right cheek and other unhealed cuts around various areas. "Pl—please."

Roman growls. That damn word has easily become one of his least favorites.

Similar to Seth, Roman lands his boot down on the top of Paul's fat neck. As the man screams out in pain, Dwayne chuckles.

"I know that hurt."

It all must hurt, Roman realizes. Hurt tremendously. Good.

For the first time, he takes in the sight and state of the two men before him still in hospital gowns. Their legs and arms covered with bandages, peaks of red, burned skin peaking out, the lesser of their injuries minimal compared to the latter end of severe.

Severe…

Nothing will ever be severe enough for them.

Roman barks for a knife, and the minute he's handed one, he crouches down and begins cutting. Not just the bandage. The fresh, still healing skin graft underneath the bandages as well. The screams of pain are ear piercing and music to Roman's fucking ears.

Methodically, like a butcher mastering his craft, he cuts away, ignoring the blood and body matter that splatters and splashes his clothes, tossing the mangled, ruined patches of fleshto the side like trash to the can.

Around him, no one interferes, no one stops him, and no one damn sure responds to Paul's blubbering as he transitions between screaming, apologizing, and eventually begging for Roman to just kill him.

That last is definitely on the agenda. Just not yet.

Because, one he's done butchering victim one, he transitions to victim two. Seth. Seth's torture is the eerily the same, the maniacal laughing eventually melting into sobs of agony. But, he doesn't beg for death, doesn't beseech the Tribal Chief for mercy.

No, that doesn't come until Roman is handed the electric chainsaw.

It comes then. Screams and shouts of unimaginable pain as Roman saws off arms and legs, one by one, blood shooting and spurting out. Again, the man intent on making their last minutes on earth nothing but horrific, forever uncaring. It's satisfying in a demented sort of way, but Roman doesn't care.

They're getting exactly what they deserve.

Heaving and sweating from the exertion expended through the torture, Roman only stops when all that remains is exposed bone from where he cut off their arms below the elbows and their knees slightly above the knees.

He would have continued too, if not for the fact both men are starting to lose consciousness, and that won't do.

He wants them awake for as long as humanly fucking possible.

Especially for the grand finale.

Roman snaps, speaking to Jacob. "Douse em'."

An order that doesn't need to be repeated. As Roman lifts off his shirt that's caked in blood, pieces of bone, and human flesh, tossing it to the ground, Dwayne hands him a towel to dry off and remove some of the other unmentionables.

Jacob moves quickly and efficiently, pouring the gasoline all over what remains of Paul and Seth's carved up bodies. Drenches them.

And with a wicked smirk on his face, Matteo tops it off, tops them off with the cherry on top.

An accelerant.

He forces their mouths open, the sound of them gurgling and choking sounded out with a kick to the side of the head. It's effective, allowing him to empty the bottle that he tosses to the side.

"Done," he says, voice ice cold as he goes to stand beside Dwayne and Jacob. None of them showing even the slightest hint of disturbance. If anything, there's more of a pleased, satisfied aura.

Recognizing they've reached the end of the road, that the men are mere minutes away from unconsciousness—and death—Roman stalks over to them. Slowly. A predator enjoying the final moments of his prey's existence. Moments that must consist of pain beyond human comprehension.

He looks down, the sight grotesque and enough to evoke vomiting from anyone without a seasoned stomach, but Roman is anything but. The sight makes him smile. The putrid smell of exposed bone, organs, and extensive blood pleasing to him in every sense of the word.

A dark, quiet chuckle leaves his mouth. "So much for that spoiler."

Stepping back, his eyes dart between the both of them, studying and committing the grisly image to memory.

Gratifying, indeed.

And without much thought, he pulls out the matchbox, lighting two matches, each thrown onto the men.

Turning on his heel, Roman walks away, tuning out their screams of misery and suffering.

"Let's go." It's spoken to the three men with him as they head out of the forest and to their SUV's. Extracting his revenge on the two men grants Roman with a sense of relief. He's relieved to know those two fuckers no longer breathe, or will breathe, the same air as him.

But, as gory and sadistically satisfying as Paul and Seth's deaths are, it still doesn't dull or ease the mixed emotions that fill the Tribal Chief at the thought of his next task.

Arguably, one of the hardest he has to complete.

----------

There's one reason and one reason alone why Roman asks Matteo and Dwayne to be present for this.

One very valid, important reason that can't be ignored or pushed aside. It's not his preference though.

Not really.

This is so personal that it feels almost wrong to have other parties present, but Roman also knows himself. Knows that when he fully succumbs to that uncontrollable rage that dwells within him, he can't see or think beyond it. It totally and wholly consumes him. Controls him.

Thus….his need for a contingency plan.

Roman has his back toward the door that's flung open, the intensity causing nearby photos on the wall to shake. Roman sighs. As effective as Jacob can be, he's…..a lot.

The Tribal Chief turns around just in time to see one cousin throw down the man Roman also once considered cousin.

Considered family.

Considered to be a brother.

As prideful as he can be, Roman would never deny the fact that he could have done a better job with being less hard on the twins. Less…..him. But, the truth of the matter is that despite the frosty disposition and irritation that marred a lot of their interactions, no one but the three of them know what they've been through. The countless times they've had each other's back out in the field. Protecting and looking out for each other.

The times Roman looked out for Jey.

All those moments that have boiled down to and left them right where they are now.

Jey, on the floor before him, hands on the ground, his fiery gaze on the man he also once considered family.

And seeing it, seeing Jey be upset with him?

It pisses Roman the fuck off.

He walks toward his table and grabs the brass knuckles. Both pair.

"Get out." A command directed only toward Jacob who offers no protest, walking out the same way he came in, standing watch outside the door.

"Roman…"

Roman has completely tuned out the voice of either Dwayne or Matteo. He doesn't know nor does he care.

Roman lifts his foot, kicking Jey right in the face with so much force that his body jerks back violently.

"You son of a bitch," he growls, not wasting a second to pounce on top of him, aiming for his ribs first. Jey's' howl of pain drives his determination—and fury—and distracts the Capo from his own lingering pain. The injuries that have not yet fully healed, marginally due to the fact that Roman has done nothing but exert himself from the moment he landed back home.

He'd kept his promise and continued rehab, continued to follow the doctor's orders, but that was all in between carrying out violent, bloody, brutal punishments for every fucker who turned on him.

Including the one underneath him.

And thinking of Solana, thinking of how she's not here, not with him, it only deepens the color of red he sees.

It's all he sees.

The sound of Jey's ribs cracking and his fruitless efforts to push the enraged man off him only drive Roman to lift the man up and slam him against the nearest wall. Another brutal kick to his ribs. Roman doesn't care if every single one is broken.

He grabs Jey by the chin, squeezing, enjoying the way his face remains scrunched up in pain. "You broke up my Bloodline." Not the massive crime syndicate that Roman has spent the better half of his life improving and making it into the billion dollar empire that it is now. He's referring to the family component, the familial bond and connection they shared.

That Bloodline.

"My wife isn't here because of you, Jey. You understand?" Roman continues. A part of him wonders if anything, especially that, means anything to Jey. He's unsure if Jey knows that Solana is actually alive or if he even cares, because his wife is most certainly not.

And, it's that, Roman is sure, that fuels Jey's hatred. Has him, despite the brutal beating he's receiving, refusing to cower, to show any sign of fear. Just impenetrable defiance.

"I looked out for you, I spared your fucking life, saved your ass time and time again, and what do you do?" Another fresh wave of rage, as Roman slams Jey's head back against the wall, shouting, "you break up my fucking family!"

Again, double, maybe even multiple meanings, all with one heartbreaking conclusion.

It creates a brief fracture in Roman's anger, paves the way for a small glimpse of what lies underneath all of that fury that courses through his big body. "I would have never done this shit to you, Jey."

Because, he wouldn't. Because for all the bad things Roman is, how awful he could be, he would have never stooped so low. Would have never allowed whatever prideful feelings he was struggling with to lead him down a path that could only end in heartbreak. But, Jey did. His insecurities got the best of him, and it's cost him.

It's cost him dearly.

Because as far as Roman is concerned, Nicki's death is on him.

"So just…." Jey coughs up blood as Roman realizes at some point in his inner dialogue, he'd moved back to pounding Jey into the floor. "Just…do it." Roman stops and stares at him, his own chest heaving. "You wanna kill me…..fucking do it then, Uce. It's…it's what you want, ain't it?"

Bullshit.

Roman can see right through it, right through the paltry front he's trying to put up in the face of a true life or death situation. Stubborn as all outdoors, very much like himself, Roman knows that Jey loves his kids more than anything. He would never want to "leave" them.

Especially after what's happened.

He's calling Roman's bluff, and that pisses him to fuck off.

For more reasons than the man under him and the two before him can realize.

Roman closes his eyes.

"Please." It's the pleading nature of her voice as well as the borderline desperation in her eyes that has Roman struggling. Struggling with it all. "I know….I know what he did was wrong."

"It wasn't just wrong, Solana," he calmly counters. Roman is working hard to be mindful of his tone with her. The anger that dances and burning within is 100% not aimed or geared towards her. Whatsoever. "It was unforgivable."

She swallows. "I know." He shuts his eyes once more as she continues to gently massage his scalp with one hand, the other tracing his inked arm, carefully maneuvering the ridges of disfigured skin from his burn scars. "But, I'm not….I'm not asking you to forgive him, Ro."

"No," he murmurs, jaw flexing. "But, what you're asking is a lot fucking harder."

Solana moves closer, her hand traveling to his face. "Roman….his kids lost their mother." She licks her lips and shakes her head. "We both grew up without our mothers, and I know that your relationship with yours was…..complicated, but….mine wasn't and not having her…." Her eyes watering is something he can't avoid. Can't ignore. "No child deserves that, Roman, and you know it." His silence is all that she needs to continue. "Baby, I know I'm asking a lot from you, but….please don't kill him."

He's always said and "joked" about never being able to say no to her. But, this….this might be a first. "Solana…."

"Please, Roman." Her voice cracks as she leans up, her forehead against his, breathing. "For me."

Roman is returned to the scene before him, to the decision he'd made just this morning. A decision he's not sure how he'll handle moving forward, but it's one he's accepted as his final answer.

"I'm not going to kill you," he announces. Jey can't hide his surprise, and Roman would bet his cousin and brother mimic similar expressions.

He hadn't shared his decision with anyone until this very moment.

"And, the only fucking reason I'm not is because of the woman you almost got killed," he hisses. Jey continues to look dumbfounded. "But, you are fucking dead to me in every other sense of the word. You've got a fucking week for you and your kids out of the city. Your security access is revoked, your position with the Bloodline done. You are done."

Jey continues to look around, obviously struggling to process what's being said. Like, he hadn't expected Roman to actually kill him and yet still expected Roman to kill him.

"I never want to fucking hear or speak to you ever again, you understand me?" It's a watered down warning. It's all watered down, truly. Even the fact that Jey lays before him, potentially half dead, in need of medical assistance. It's not enough. Nothing will ever be enough, even if he took his cousin's life with his bare hands. And, Roman knows this.

Still, this has to be one of the hardest decisions he's ever made.

"But, if you ever fucking step foot in this town again, I don't care what Solana says, I'll fucking kill you. I swear it on Fetu's grave." A vow to carry out the act of vengeance, love, in all the irony, prevents him from completing.

It's solely Roman's love for Solana that stops him from killing Jey.

Nothing else.

Literally nothing else.

Roman's final declaration is accompanied by another stomp, this time to Jey's face, effectively knocking him out cold. Standing up and rolling his neck, Roman grimaces and grabs at his shoulder.

Way too much exertion. Not that it makes a difference.

Jey is just one of many he plans to visit today.

He looks over his shoulder, uncaring and unwilling to discuss what transpired. What's done is done.

Roman so casually, and coldly, walks over Jey's slumped, unconscious body and snatches his jacket off the hook behind the door. "Let's go."

Footsteps of the other two men follow him swinging the door open, Jacob standing at attention.

"Make sure he's gone by the time I'm back," Roman commands. What's done has been done, and while there's a tremendous amount of unspoken, unresolved issues between himself and the man he's just effectively banished indefinitely, it's not a task he's up for.

Not now.

Not ever.

Roman meant what he said.

Should Jey ever try to return to the city, Roman will absolutely kill him.

But, until then, he might as well already be dead.

Because he is to Roman.

---------

Following Roman's dramatic, bloody return from his supposed demise, he places the city on lock down.

No one enters, and no one leaves.

Armed guards, a mixture of verified Bloodline loyalists as well as soldiers from the Legado Del Fantasma, remain stationed at every entrance into the city, whether it be by land or harbor, to ensure that this order remains non-violated.

Roman intends for not a single fucker to escape his bloody vengeance.

And bloody, it most certainly is.

Nothing but unbridled rage courses through Roman's body as he spends the weeks making his way down his list eliminating target after target. Traitor after traitor. Life after life, taken.

Doors are kicked down, pieces of shit dragged out. Some granted quick death. Simple head shots that leave blood and brain matter splattered in the nearest vicinity. Some are tossed off of buildings, leaving their splattered remains for all to see. Some are used as examples. Their tortured, mangled remains tied up on display in the middle of the streets as both a reminder and a warning. A reminder of what happens to all who dare to cross Roman fucking Reigns, and a message to those who played in any role in the coup that he's coming, and he's coming for blood.

Roman has the city in a state of terror and fear. Families keeping their children in the house. Picking them up and dropping them off to school to avoid being caught in the cross hairs. A bit unnecessary, as despite Roman slipping back into that dark space that consumed him before Solana, his few morals remain the same. Women and children are off limits.

Neither of those groups are included in his hit list.

Everyone else though…..tough.

But, while the adrenaline that races through him fuels his revenge tour, that fuel of sorts easily melts away when he arrives home later in the evening. Arrives to an empty home. No sweet, delicious aroma of Solana's cooking to greet him. Or the pitter-patter of Dulce's feet as she races to the front door, eager to jump at and try to lick him but mostly just wanting to be petted and to have her belly rubbed. Being able to come up behind his wife, holding her, kissing her temple, taking in the feel of her body up against his.

Things he'd gotten used to.

Things he misses.

He misses a lot.

He misses her.

He thinks about her, about what she could be doing, about whatever pregnancy symptoms she could be experiencing, as he follows along via the app she'd installed on his phone. He checks daily, each time wondering about the swell of her stomach, imagining the excitement she must feel. Or, the sadness.

Because there is something undeniably sad about them not being able to experience this together. Something that was so important to her.

Important to him.

Being there with her to support her as she carries his children, their children, is important to him.

But….but, her safety comes first.

Their safety comes first.

Her absence is with him every fucking second of the day, though on the back-burner when the sun sits comfortably in the sky, and he has the distraction of his murderous rampage. But, when the sun is replaced with the moon, and he lays in that same bed where they've made love countless times, where she's laid on his chest, talking about her day. Where he's held and slept with her, rubbing her belly, allowing himself to feel genuinely happy for a long fucking time.

All of that is soured and dampened by the cruel reality. Solana is not there. Dulce is not there.

She's not with him. They're not with him, because of them.

And then the rages builds up all over again.

It's a vicious, cruel cycle. One that he can't escape. One that leads him to the place he wasn't expecting or planning to visit anytime soon.

Too difficult.

But, necessary.

"Not gonna lie…." Lita trails off, shifting in her seat. It's one of the few times he's noticed she's not almost casually lounged, legs tucked under her. She's sitting with both feet planted on the ground, a small frown on her face. "Believing you to be dead only for you to show up with quite the return….and now having you in front of me, I'm not quite sure where to start except to tell you that I'm so sorry about Solan—"

"She's not dead."

Silence.

Lita, for all her expertise and experience, can't hide her shocked expression. "What?"

Roman looks away. Just as he battled with whether or not to tell Jimmy the truth about Solana, he experienced the same battle regarding just how honest he wanted to be with Lita.

That's not to say he doesn't have a host of other issues he could probably, definitely, benefit from talking and working through with her.

Like the two panic attacks he's had since returning home.

Or, the several nightmares that have awoken him from the little sleep he has received. The nightmares that started when he was in the hospital in Mexico. The reason Solana refused to go home and leave him alone, staying and sleeping with him. Comforting him.

She's his comfort, and not having her has him six different shades of fucked up. On top of the pre-existing level of fucked up-ness he is on any given day.

If there was any doubt in his mind before just how codependent Roman is with his wife, this whole experience has successfully zapped it all away.

Still, that doesn't take away from the fact that Solana isn't here, and he's not okay, so he needs to find a way to get his shit together.

And, the woman before him is his best bet.

It didn't take much research and digging to realize Lita had no connection or involvement with the coup, thus eliminating her from the hit list. But, there's still this overwhelming importance of only keeping Solana's true status a secret from anyone who doesn't need to know.

And, while Roman wouldn't consider Lita someone who needs to know the truth, it would help him a hell of a lot considering the whole reason he's sitting before her.

Plus….while Roman isn't sure just what trust means to him anymore, he trusts that if she didn't know before, the bodies dumped in the streets, should be all the reminder of what happens to anyone who crosses Roman fucking Reigns.

"She's….she's in hiding. Safe." He clarifies, not willing to offer much more than that. "I'm not bringing her back home until I'm sure it's safe to do so."

"I see…." Lita trails off once more, slipping into her usual sitting position, legs tucked under her. For some reason, it makes Roman feel slightly more relaxed. "It all makes sense, then."

He eyes her. Skeptical. Cautious. "What do you mean?"

She takes a deep breath. "Roman, I don't….I don't fully understand how all the crime shit works, but I know and have heard enough to know that you were betrayed, Solana was kidnapped, and my guess would be that they tried to kill you both." He says and offers neither agreement or disagreement. "I can understand why you're so angry and why you've been on a murder spree, making the town look like something out of a horror movie, but it's….it's deeper than that." She tilts her head, assessing in a low voice. "It's even more personal, because she's not here….you don't have her with you, and that's….difficult, I'd gather."

He looks away once more, fist forming at his side. Roman's voice is also low and quiet, as he admits aloud for the first time, "I'm not….I'm not used to it." He swallows, pushing back the pride, knowing he needs to talk about this. To unload at least one thing on his plate. "I'm not used to….to being without her."

He doesn't really know how to function properly and normally without her. Just knows how to channel all of that frustration in his killing and torturing.

"I'm sure," Lita murmurs.

"I—" He struggles, the word a tremendous weight that weighs him down to the point of needing release. "I miss her."

Lita presses her lips together, voice sympathetic. "Are you….are you able to spe—"

"No," he interrupts, voice gruff. "We're no contact to ensure her location can't be tracked."

"I see." She's quiet for a few minutes, eventually and gingerly approaching all of the other shit Roman now has added to his collection of baggage. "I've also heard that….that you were betrayed from the inside. That it was….some of your family members."

"They were never my fucking family," he growls. Roman has shifted from that place of vulnerability to that stainless steel wall of defense. "And don't fucking call them that."

"My apologies." She nods, recognizing that the extent of his regression might be more than she realized. Understandable though. Completely understandable. "Can I ask you something?"

His hesitation is noticeable. "What?"

"With Solana gone for the time being, who do you have?"

It's a delayed response. The question requires contemplation.

"My cousins, Dwayne and Ava," he finally answers, and for the first time, in a long time, Roman allows himself to be honest about the very thing he's avoided for years. Tried to pretend wasn't a thing. But, it is. And, it's been more than proven in the past few weeks. "And Matteo….my brother."

This time, Lita expertly shields her surprise at yet another shocking confession. "Your brother?" He says nothing. Expected. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had a sibling still living."

Tense and partially uncomfortable, Roman nods. "It's….complicated."

"I bet," she murmurs. "Do you…do you want to talk about it?"

No. He doesn't want to talk about anything. What Roman wants to do is be with his pregnant wife. He wants to not have to deal with any of this shit. Wishes it never fucking happened in the first place, but it did, and now he's here trying to use a dollar store mop for a rainfall of issues.

But….

But, in this midst of this storm of epic proportions, there have been some glimpses of….something.

Like the fact that Roman can't and won't continue to deny something he's spent his whole life avoiding. Trying to avoid.

That he has a brother.

That despite all off the bitter feelings of resentment and jealousy toward the man that got the same short end of the stick that he did, Matteo has more than proven himself to be someone Roman can….can trust.

Such a difficult, virtually impossible thing considering what happened, the depth of the betrayal, but the truth of the matter is that Matteo and so many others showed up when Roman needed help the most.

Needed his brother.

It's why he's decided to stop denying the truth and maybe, just maybe, himself.

Roman shifts in his seat. "I've…I've realized that….I should…probably try to form some kind of relationship with him." Because, it's time. "It's what Solana thinks I should do, and….one of my aunt's dying wish that I….make things right with him."

"Sure." A pause. "But, what about you, Roman? What do you want?"

A lot of things. The biggest thing? His wife back home with him, so he could have her by his side as he works through all this shit. But, that's not an option. It's not an option, and he has to learn how to be without her for the time being.

Has to learn how to navigate the waters closest to him.

No matter how much he hates it.

"I—I—" He also hates this fucking stuttering and stammering. It's so unlike him. "I don't know how….how to go about that."

An almost embarrassing admission but a truth, nonetheless. Solana is good with these sorts of things. Not him.

Lita keeps a contained smile. Regression has certainly occurred but not, perhaps, as much as she initially believed. There's something there she intends to grab and hone in on as much as she can while still acknowledging his already complex treatment plan just got significantly more complicated.

"Well….." She starts, standing up and walking over to grab the infamous box of Giant Uno off her bookshelf. "Murder and mayhem, I don't know, but that…." Trailing off, she takes a seat, offering another small, patient smile. One step at a time. "—That I can certainly help you with."

----------

"Ya know," Ava starts, lifting her beer from her mouth after taking and swallowing a decent ass amount. "I'm a little offended none of you fuckers have invited me along for the kill tour."

Dwayne chuckles, the beer in his hand looking significantly smaller than it actually is due to his big ass overall size. "Didn't realize that was your thing, cuz."

"Psshhh." She makes a sound, leaning back in the chair, lifting her middle finger to the sky. "They came after our family. Of course, I want my pound of flesh."

Matteo's smile is small as he traces the mouth of his bottle. "Well, there still remains a few outliers we haven't caught."

Being reminded of that makes Roman scowl as he tightly squeezes the bottle in his hand.

Despite his shutting down the city, a few bitches were perhaps smart enough to get the hell out of dodge when they realized Solo was also dead. When they realized that while Roman had been "eliminated," not having the protection of the men who led the charge meant their fates were left up in the air.

So, they ran.

Not that it's made a difference. Roman has accompanied Dwayne on various trips to other states where the Bloodline has locations, where tips from traitors who were dumb enough to stick around and ended up singing like canaries from a little bit of torture. Or, if Roman doesn't accompany Dwayne for said trips, Matteo does.

They're smart enough to know it's not wise for all three to leave the city at once. Not when they're working to restore order and balance.

A process that's…..going, which is good, but it's still going, which is the problem.

It's been two weeks, and they're still not there. At that point where Roman can bring his wife home, and that….that's been rough, to say the least.

It helps to have the people around him, but even them combined together don't equate even half of the comfort and relief his wife provides him.

"Good," Ava replies, smiling craftily. "Save some for me, then." She then gasps, looking around the room. "Has big ears told you what we came up with for you know what?"

At that, Roman rolls his eyes, but he can't ignore the skip and leap of hope that dances within at the shift in topic and conversation.

"Hopefully, you did most of the thinking, cause Lord knows this man ain't got a romantic bone in his body," Dwayne scoffs, gesturing to Roman who only scowls in response.

"I'd argue there's maybe one there." Matteo shrugs. "Or, half of one."

Ava snorts. "More like a quarter." Roman flips her off, something she entirely ignores. "Anyway, so here's what we came up with…."

As Ava moves into specifics, excitement painting her face and accompanying her hand gestures as she almost illustrates what they, what Roman primarily, intends to do for his wife upon her return. A plan months in the making, marked and interrupted by several setbacks but something he's ultimately decided to follow through with.

Roman tunes them out to a certain extent, focused less on the conversation at hand and more the people.

In under a year, his life has taken such a turn. Many unexpected turns. He's gained and lost, lost and gained, gained some more, lost some more, and started all over. Overwhelming in a lot of regards, especially considering the latest chapter has easily been the most traumatic.

But, there's also something else he can't deny. Something he's been working on in therapy with Lita, that he'd love to be able to talk with Solana about, but something he can't really deny, nonetheless. Even if he wanted to.

He's gained such a loyal, strong inner circle. People who, if he continues upon the path of honesty, have always been there for him. It's just been him, Roman, who's kept that wall up.

The wall that, according to Lita, kept the "bad" people out but also kept the "good" people from getting in.

She wasn't wrong.

Roman has spent so many years pushing people away, only letting a select few close to him, and while a few of those select few have caused him an insurmountable of pain, hurt and trauma, there still remains the fact that he still has people he can trust.

He still has family.

Even more, Solana's several statements regarding as such return to the forefront of his mind.

"The girls deserve to have a big family who love and support them, Ro."

Solana was also right.

His family might look slightly different now, but they're still family.

"I—" He cuts in, interrupting the conversation among the three regarding that. Equally important but not as germane as what he wants to say. Needs to say, really. "I want to thank all of you."

"Hell hath fucking frozen over." Ava scoffs. "Did you just…..thank someone?" She smirks, crossing her arms, head tilted. "I didn't think you were capable of that shit. Not unless it's Solana."

Roman scowls, but he doesn't disagree. "Are you done?" She rolls her eyes and lifts her hands in a defensive manner, signifying her silence. Roman shifts in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable with the three sets of eyes on him. "I know I….I'm not the fucking best with this shit, but I….I do appreciate the three of you. What you've done…..for me." He primarily looks between Dwayne and Matteo. "Especially you two….you saved my life." He swallowed. "I don't….I don't take that lightly."

"You better fucking not," Dwayne shakes his head, sipping some of his beer. "I don't risk my life for just anyone."

"And, you're not just anyone, Roman," Matteo adds, his tone more on the serious side. Sincere. "You're family."

"We're family," Ava corrects, looking among the men. "A dysfunctional ass family of killers and shit ton of trauma but family nonetheless."

Roman chuckles. "Yeah…." He clears his throat, carefully trying to balance vulnerability with some element of business. "Matteo…." His brother looks his way, eyebrow raised. "You said you trust Vinci, right?"

Vinci. The man who assisted Matteo in making his way back to Italy without the Administration finding out, allowing him the element of surprise needed to carry out his hits. A man who, according to Matteo, has worked hard for and with him for over a decade.

He offers no hesitation, just a nod of confirmation. "With my life." Skepticism is raised. "Why?"

A bit of a delayed response, because that damn trust thing. Roman isn't sure how he's supposed to trust anyone outside of the group of people who helped him ever again, and while this Vinci fucker isn't anyone he knows, Matteo does. Matteo is vouching for him, so that has to be enough.

For now.

"We'll need someone we know we can trust to handle business over there." At that, he and Dwayne share questioning expressions. "Because I need you two stateside with me."

Matteo is the first to respond, that skepticism still looming. "Yeah?"

Roman rolls his neck, explaining. "I….I need people around me I know I can trust." A survey of the gatherers. "And outside of Solana, I don't know anyone I trust more than the people in this room."

Ava sits forward, seeing her cousin's gaze on her. "Wait…." She lowers her beer, small smile growing on her face. "You're inviting me into your inner circle?"

Roman nods. "You may be a pain in the fucking ass majority of the time, but you're smart. Loyal. I know I can trust you, and I know you'd be a valuable asset."

"Hell yeah, I would." She agrees. "Some estrogen to tamper down all that testosterone would probably do you all some good."

Roman doesn't entirely disagree. He just continues to share the tentative plans he's been mentally mulling over since returning home. "I'm also….I'm considering including Escobar."

"Escobar?" Dwayne's look of skepticism sure. "Brotha, you sure you didn't hit that big ass head of yours at some point?" A sarcastic question, of course, but there's also a hint of truth. "You hate Escobar."

"Dumbo hates everyone. What else is new?"

Roman ignores Ava. Her being on his council will be….an adjustment, for sure. "I did, or I do, but….I can't deny what he did, and Lopez wants him to be the liaison between us and the Cartel, so it only makes sense to include him. In some things. Not all."

"Isn't he technically your in-law as well?"

"Don't remind me," Roman mutters, trying to wipe his brother's valid but irritating reminder from his mind.

"I hate to break it to you, Roman, but it seems Solana's maternal side of the family is….large." Matteo's comment doesn't help, but it's not meant to. Meant to remind The Tribal Chief that his future is most likely filled with forced interactions with….people. "It might benefit you to get used to….large family functions."

"Make sure that Stephanie girl is there."

Matteo frowns. "Did she not tell you, not so eloquently, might I add, to fuck off?"

"Sure did." Dwayne answers. Proudly, almost. "I'll wear her down."

"Oh my God." Ava rolls her eyes, standing up and heading to the kitchen. "I need another beer."

"I'll join you," Dwayne announces.

"Please don't," she objects. Not that it makes a difference as he says something about warming up a slice of pizza.

Their departure leaves Roman and Matteo alone. A blanket of silence befalls them. One that has Roman moving around in his seat, eager to down the rest of his beer. In the madness and chaos that's thrived and consumed his life in the wake of fixing everything, this evening of just….calm, of normalcy, is appreciated.

Needed, even.

"So…." Matteo starts, placing his beer down on the coffee table. "Your inner circle…"

The younger man nods, stroking his beard. "Well, there are openings now."

While Roman is dead serious, Matteo laughs quietly, shaking his head. "I bet there are."

For the Elder council as well, but that's also being taken care of. Another task Roman is overseeing with the help of his cousin and the man before him.

"Thank you, Roman." Matteo's voice has shifted to a serious, solemn tone. "I don't take the honor lightly. Especially after what's happened…."

Roman says nothing initially. Just nods as something unfamiliar and indescribable fills him. Emotion, maybe? Some form of it, perhaps. He just knows it's partially settled by the conversation he had with Lita about this.

One step at a time.

"You've earned it." Is the response he settles on. The latter portion of his response a bit difficult for him to share but a truth, nonetheless. "Besides, it might be kind of hard for us to work on this….brother shit, if you're on the other side of the world."

While it's not the first time Roman has referred to Matteo as his brother, it's certainly the first time he's verbalized it in an accepting manner.

Especially in front of Matteo whose small smile can only be described as one of relief.

And joy.

Happiness.

"I suppose you're right, fratello," he hums. "I suppose you're right…"

Fratello

Brother.

And for the first time, Matteo's use of the word doesn't anger Roman. Doesn't pick at a long-term, never healing, always open, fresh would.

It feels relieving.

Healing.

---------

Despite an evening of relaxation and camaraderie, the next day brings about more work. More shit to work through.

"So…." Matteo starts as the two walk into Bloodline Headquarters, Dwayne planning to meet them later in the day, tasked with carrying out a side quest for Roman. "Who are we killing today, fratellino?"

Little brother.

Again, no irritation. No vexation. Just….the calm.

"Depends on who pisses me the fuck off," Roman mutters, and the two brothers share a small laugh and chuckle that's almost instantly washed away from both the minute they walk into Roman's office to see someone already waiting, sitting in Roman's seat.

Roman's fist forms at his side. Alicia's days are fucking numbered.

"You got a minute to tell me who the fuck you are, and maybe I won't blow your brains out just yet."

The man smiles. Older. Very old. His face reveals that he's seen decades of this world past him by, his eyes filled with countless stories of mischief and mayhem. A smirk on his face accompanies him standing, revealing a height rivaling Roman and Matteo's. He comes to stand in front of Roman's desk, leaning back with his arms crossed over his slim build.

"Well, I'll be damned." His voice is thickly accented. Familiar. Italian. "Can't say I ever saw this shit coming."

Roman is ready to kill the old man and be done with it, but Matteo grabbing his arms stops him from adding to his never-ending kill count. Roman looks over to see Matteo's head turned slightly, studying, observing, but something else. Something unfamiliar. Alarmed. He looks alarmed.

Roman frowns. "What?"

But, Matteo says nothing. Not to his brother, at least.

"Nonno?"

And, at that, Roman's gaze shifts back and forth, quickly, between the two men.

His chest tightens, asking again, but for a completely different reason. "What?"

Gaze on the old man, Roman sees how he simply raises his chin, offering a nonverbal response. And confirmation.

Only then does Roman see it. The slight but now visible similarities between not only Matteo and this man, but himself and the man.

In all of them.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Matteo speaks in Italian, his voice even, the former shock and confusion easing into a coldness that Roman often feels and see in himself.

"Well." The older man makes a sound, rolling his shoulders, face turned up in a brief grimace. "Given all that's happened the past few weeks, we realized it was time—"

"We?" Roman cuts in. It's the first thing he's said to the man he now recognizes the same way Matteo does.

His nonno.

Their grandfather.

This is their maternal grandfather.

"Hi, boys..."

Another voice speaks, but this time, this time there is no word to describe just what courses through either of the brothers as they turn around in almost perfect synchronization. Initially guarded and partially alarmed, that's punted away the minute their sight confirms what the auditory already knew.

Roman doesn't get disturbed often. If ever. It's not in his character. Matteo's neither.

But, it's a miracle that neither man stumbles back at the sight before them.

She stands in the doorway, an expensive, beautiful, intricately designed scarf over her head, tied under her chin. A wrap that slender fingers with disfigured looking skin slowly moves to undo, allowing it to crumple in her hands. She swallows, the lines on her face prominent as she frowns, her familiar light brown eyes bouncing between the two stunned men.

The weight on Roman's chest has grown to an unbearable amount, so much so that it prevents him from speaking. From thinking. From breathing, it feels like.

No, Matteo is the one that finds the wherewithal to speak the word Roman can't find in him to verbalize.

"Mom?"

------

welp. do ya'll agree with roman's decisions regarding jey and jimmy?

also, yes.....matteo and roman's mother is still alive.

reminder: next chapter is the last one.

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