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bunny-jpeg · 24 hours ago

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sweetness like wine

fernando alonso

request: “she may seem like lollipops and rainbows but i bet behind closed doors she’s latex and whips.” with Fernando Alonso with Stroll!reader 71. “she may seem like lollipops and rainbows but i bet behind closed doors she’s latex and whips.”

tags: smut/pwp, age gap (20s/40s), stroll!reader, "innocent"!reader, doggy style, dirty talk & pet names

eros (the valentine's day collection)

your giggles were sweet. fernando alons for a long time couldn't figure out what kind of sweet. because while most saw lance's sister as the epitome of sweet. fernando knew that there was a heat to you, a certain kick that would leave most out of breath.

you made be like candy around the paddock, those around you hooked on your ability to make anyone you spoke to smile. dressed in soft whites save for the aston martin hat your brother made you wear. you were divine almost in the early summer sun.

but fernando didn't think of you as fluffy like cotton candy or tooth rotting sugary like milk chocolate. no, you were sweet the way wine was. it went down easy and quenched fernando's thirst.

to his surprise, the innocent stroll daughter wasn't as sweet as most first expected.

“she may seem like lollipops and rainbows but i bet behind closed doors she’s latex and whips.” was what fernando said to mark the last time they spoke to one another only a few weeks prior.

both men's gazes lingered on you when he made the comments. he had thought about it as you came to visit your brother and father on the track again. you had the summer off from your lovely graduate program overseas. neither your father nor brother knew what you got up other than your grades were spectacular.

fernando had an idea, but no confirmation that you were anything but a sweet virgin. that was until you bent over to adjust the strap of your shoe that he saw it. your behind was marked awfully dark for someone who is so innocent. it didn't look like an unfortunate sunburn, but rather bruises.

he smiled wickedly as he approached you quickly. when you stood back up he placed a hand on your arm and when you turned around he looked at you with those dark eyes of his. he said lowly, "be careful, i don't think you want everyone to see what you got up to last night."

your hand went to your behind and your eyes went wide. before you could say anything, he chuckled.

"not so innocent after all. i'm guessing you often have flavours of the week with your sexual partners." he leaned in a little bit with a hand casually on your hip. no one was watching you two, but your attention was solely on fernando as he asked, "why don't i be your flavour this weekend?"

you hated to admit it, you liked the older driver. your brother had a poster of him from a magazine that went 'missing' one afternoon. you nearly ripped the spine of the magazine trying to get it out. and now to have fernando alonso himself proposition you for sex. who were you going to deny him?

you swallowed and replied quietly, "will you be gentle?"

he pulled you in marginally closer, less to be close to you and more to establish dominance, "why would i do that? you wouldn't like that one bit." you also hated to admit that he was completely right.

fernando's hands felt good on your skin. it was the kind of feeling the enraptured you. it felt good, his hands were soft but strong. he had a grip as he touched your breasts that made your soul sing. there was a throb between your legs as he explored your covered skin.

"i see why your family is so protective of you. touching you is like touching an angel. your father made sure to send you to a university that would keep you away from trouble. but, your little rebellion is having men use you like a toy." he palmed your breasts, "you like it, don't you?"

"don't talk about my family right now. not right before we're going to fuck." you whined.

"mmm, well. since you asked so nicely. but, i want to know. where are you supposed to be tonight? i know your father asked." fernando said lowly as he started to unbutton your top. slowly he exposed your soft breasts to him. framed nicely by your bra.

you swallowed, "i told him friends were in town. i would be with them, they're nowhere here tonight. but my father trusts me." you looked away for a moment but fernando took you by the chin to look at him.

"well, not a total lie. i am a friend to the family. but tonight, i am something more more to you." then with a little help you got your shirt off and soon your bra.

you ended up on the bed and fernando got your skirt off of you, followed by the skimpy pair of panties, and even the short white socks you wore. you were naked on the bed and frenando gripped your sore ass. you hissed and jolted but he kept you pinned. you were naked and soon fernando was too.

"you look good like this, bent over for me. so precious that way, do you know how to be a good girl?" he asked softly. he pressed his forearm into your back again to keep you bent, "do you want to be my good girl?"

you nodded meekly and he rubbed his cock up against your entrance a little bit. you whined and attempt to squirm. but you weren't going anywhere, not unless fernando allowed it. it made sense that someone like him would get off to pretty young things who liked to be smacked around during sex. freak.

but then again, so were you. and as he sank his cock into you. you near bit the pillow to keep from being too loud. after all, your brother was in the next room over and you were supposed to be nowhere near the hotel. you shuddered under him and felt the swell of lust in your body.

fernando's pace left your core hot and his words felt like warm honey in your head, "mmm, that's a good girl. see, no need to be spanked until you were bruised." he made a pleased noise, "you're so agreeable, so soft. i love it. i can see why your family worries, something so whorish yet so sweet should be kept locked away." he kissed the shell of your ear as he rocked against you.

what a display you two made, to have fernando rut up against you aggressively.

there was a certain experience that fernando carried that left you holding on tightly to the covers. he was mature, but still carried heavy stamina that made you gasp into the covers like you were a virgin. he worked your body in a way that made everything run hot in your body.

"fuck, that feels good. fuck, that's it." you gasped as you arched your back and held on tightly. he fucked like someone your age, but had the ability to make you cum. his pace was punishing and full of force, it made the pleasure get knocked out of your mouth with sweet noises.

it was an intoxicating feeling, something about him just made you gasp and whine for more. you wanted him, you wanted him deeply. the sexual surge in your blood made you move yourself on his cock to meet his thrusts.

fernando held onto the back of your head and pushed your face into the pillows then shifted your hips to get better leverage of your sweet pussy. he let out a low groan as he continued to move against you. the pleasure was wrapped up around him, the feeling was hot, even without the implications of it. your cunt felt nice around him. your noises egged him on and he couldn't wait to get another feel of your sweet breasts. you really were the full package, and fernando thanked a lucky star that he finally got the chance to enjoy your beautiful body.

"you feel amazing." he mused, "i cannot believe i haven't tasted you before. you could get anything you want with a body like yours. a dangerous weapon for a girl your age."

you swore into the covers and let him continue to ravage you. the pleasure was a curl in your gut and you held on for dear. the hotel pillows were your only support while fernando fucked you. you wanted more of this, your braid, muddled with pleasure, was trying to figure out how to go to the next few races. you loved your family, but it was nothing compared to how fernando made you feel in that moment.

every other man you had been with had been blown out of the water by the pleasure fernando gave you. his thrusts were long, hard and fast, paced perfectly to rub up against your sweetest parts. it made you whine a little bit, only for fernando to push your face further into the covers.

"be good for me." he said, "i don't want to make that ass go purple. doesn't match the green of the team." he kissed the side of your neck as his thrusts became shorter but the force behind them was still there.

he laid his weight on you to keep you pinned with movements that made your thighs tremble. you weren't going to last much longer, not at the speed he was going. not with the heavy pleasure in your head. you could feel your head throb from the head rush.

"you feel like a dream." he said softly, "maybe i should keep you. i'll protect you, adore you, fuck you until you can't stand. isn't that what you want? someone to satisfy you?"

fernando's pace started to become erratic, the rhythm was sloppy as you reached your orgasm. he watched you fall apart under him. you came around his cock and tensed up. he continued to rut against you, the bed shook under the both of you as you tensed up then relaxed from the peak of pleasure. everything felt hot all over,

"beautiful." he sighed happily before he continued to fuck you with a feverish pace. everything felt hot all over and he couldn't get enough of you. when he came, he made sure every inch was inside of you before he finished. he painted your insides white as he slowed to a stop before he pressed his forehead against your sweaty back.

you laid out next to him and he held your face while he kissed your flushed face. you smiled lazily and said, "i have a feeling this won't stop after tonight."

"oh no, my love." he chuckled, "i have to find out what makes you scream and see if you're a good girl to not let anyone hear." <3

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skynights2 · 2 days ago

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Rich and Patty hall- Husband and Wife=Huggy and Kissy update

(spoiler chapter 4 near end)

so far

Chapter 2 confirms Rich has a note with hearts to call patty hall.

Chapter 3 Rich mentions he has a wife, and he is trying to be better for her! So with the in game clue left for us. Small piece each chapter. This points to Rich and patty being husband and wife as a strong Possibility. The only two character who are married in the employee list that we know of from the documents/vhs tapes.. Also noted Rich last name is never revealed and his year date on vhs. So this could mean slow big reveal.

It's never confirmed why Patty was defiant against the company.. But if Rich is the first who goes missing.. Then his wife would most likely get frustrated with no one knowing where Rich went. and we know from chapter 4 vhs they confirm they cover up missing people who worked in poppy playco company.. So patty not gonna get any answers unless she get their attention.. and she did...when they sent her to storage B, where we know Kissy is stored.. As documents state Patty hall has been dealt with...

Though not fully- As even when she becomes Kissy she still helping us the player, breaking the rules against the company that took her husband and also turned her into toy.

I am not sure Rich-huggy is aware of his wife fate... notice in game. both the bigger bodies of Huggy and Kissy have not interacted all game.

Rich statement- he trying to be better for her, his wife who he loves.. I could see this might be the turning point for rich/huggy turning on the prototype.

Also interesting thing in chapter 3 Rich mention he feels like everyone out to get him before he promoted..

From the doey clue, I think he might found huggy and patched him up. As when doey sees kissy. He is shocked and mentions to get the medic. They are also short supply down there.

Though other strong possibility is rich repaired himself with duct tape. As we know he worked in shipping, and what do box need when closed? tape and lots of it.

What could be end goal for Huggy and Kissy fate though in probably the last chapter?

Well from clue it's possible Patty was thinking of adoption, and Rich was aware. As chapter 3 Kissy is shown looking at one the children picture-possible one of the kids she would adopted if not turned into kissy.

And we do have a child, that being Poppy.

Poppy is a child as even in recent vhs tapes she states she misses her dad. When poppy starts to have a breakdown. Kissy concern for poppy over her own fear shows. Showing patty care for the child breaking infront of her. In the newest tapes Rich is shown looking out for his younger employee. and calls him kid. So to me this shows rich and patty might have adopted a child if not what happen to both of them. As in chapter 3 kissy was shown aggressive when we neared the abandons orphanage area.. And she know what they do the children in here.

As kissy stays behind to follow poppy and protect her from the prototype. She shows concern like a mother looking out for her child.

As we see her hang on the cliff ledge after she looses her right arm. choosing to stay behind and go after Poppy.

kinda symbolic now both of them have lost their arm. Kissy right arm, and Huggy left arm.

The only thing left is to See if Rich realize his Wife is also down here with him... Maybe they threaten Rich to behave or they turn his wife like they did him.. Rich did escape to some unknown house.. probably his house.. where he and patty lived.. Trying to go back to her.. but probably realizing his appearance would scare her nor would she recognize him while she was still human at the time.

Would explain Rich anger issue/behavior doing 180 for the company. Better for his wife safety. once they realized. He was patient all those years and showed no mercy in the hour of joy..

I think in the end when they reunite, after learning the truth.. Could maybe get them fixed up by the player, and poppy is adopted by Rich and patty..

#poppy playtime #poppy #kissy missy #rich #patty hall #storage b #theory #theories #chapter 4 #poppy playtime chapter 4 theory

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vyxenisl0st · 2 days ago

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╰┈➤ 𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙙 𝙜𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙄𝙑

Alastor x reader

🀥 Summary: You despised the TV Demon—the sound of his voice, his face, and especially his incessant news channel. But what happens when he finally says something worth listening to?

🀥 Warnings: fem!reader, slight angst, vulgar language

🀥 Word count: 1k

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V-coming soon

ﾟ･:,｡★＼(^-^)♪ありがと♪( ^-^)/★,｡･:･ﾟ

Back at the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor was doing his best to avoid the inevitable—talking to his wife.

He sat in the lobby, one leg crossed over the other, tapping his fingers idly against the armrest of his chair. His usual grin was still in place, but his mind was far from present. Angel and Vaggie were arguing nearby—about what, he neither knew nor cared. Their voices were just white noise, blending into the static that hummed at the back of his mind.

Instead, his thoughts fixated on her.

He had imagined seeing (Y/N) again countless times over the years. In some scenarios, she was furious, cursing his name with all the fire and venom he loved her for. In others, she was cold, looking through him as if he were nothing. But reality had been much crueler.

She had come to see him, stood right before him after all those years, and all he had done was push her away.

A mistake.

A mistake he didn’t know how to fix.

With an exasperated sigh, he snapped his fingers and teleported to the hotel bar.

Husk barely looked up as he approached, but the moment he caught sight of him, one of his brows arched in amusement. “Well, aren’t you just a sight?”

Alastor let out a dry chuckle. “Your job is to pour a drink, not make a statement.”

Husk smirked and grabbed a bottle. “Didn’t take you for the drinking type.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you here?”

Before Alastor could answer, Angel suddenly appeared at his side, draping an arm over his shoulder with an infuriatingly smug grin. “Oooh, somebody’s in a mood.”

Alastor didn’t flinch, nor did his smile waver, but his eyes flickered with something dark. A warning.

Angel ignored it. “I bet it’s about that chick that came to see you last week. What was her name? Wait, she didn’t tell us. Anyway, you’ve been out of it since then. Did she hit your ego too hard when she punched the radio static outta you?”

Alastor’s fingers twitched.

Husk sighed. “Angel, don’t.”

Angel simply gave him an innocent look. “What? I’m just saying, if I got my ass handed to me in front of a crowd, I’d be in a mood too.”

“I do not get my ass handed to me,” Alastor said, tone even but sharp enough to cut.

Angel shrugged. “Tell that to your face.”

Alastor’s patience was wearing thin, but he knew better than to let Angel get a rise out of him. Husk, however, had mercy on them both. “Her name is (Y/N),” he muttered.

Angel blinked. “Huh?”

Husk poured himself a drink. “The woman. She’s (Y/N). One of the oldest Overlords here. Runs the Pleasure District.” He paused, side-eyeing Alastor. “Alastor’s wife. Or, ex-wife. He’s not sure anymore.”

A sharp crack split through the air as Alastor’s fist slammed onto the bar.

“She is still my wife.”

Angel let out a low whistle, clearly enjoying the show. “Oof. You sure about that, buddy? Because she sure didn’t look like your wife when she stormed outta here.”

Alastor’s fingers curled tighter against the wood.

Husk shot Angel a warning glare. “Enough. Give us a minute.”

Angel held up his hands. “Alright, alright, I’m going.” He took a few steps away before glancing back. “Still think she’s too hot for ya, though.”

Husk groaned as Angel disappeared into the lobby.

A heavy silence settled between the bartender and the radio demon. Alastor had yet to lift his hand from the bar, fingers tense against the polished surface.

Husk sighed. “You know, you gotta talk to her eventually.”

Alastor let out a short, mirthless laugh. “And say what, exactly?”

Husk gave him a flat look. “Do you want her to forgive you?”

Alastor hesitated.

For all his confidence, his charm, his power, the idea of speaking to (Y/N) again—really talking to her—unsettled him in a way few things did.

He had always been the one in control, the one who dictated the game. But this?

This was different.

“…Yes,” he finally admitted.

Husk scoffed. “Then go and fucking apologize.”

Alastor stared at him for a long moment before sighing and rubbing his temples.

“Easier said than done, old friend.”

Alastor returned to his room, his usual confident stride feeling strangely heavy. The door shut behind him with a quiet click, leaving him alone in the dimly lit space. For a brief moment, he simply stood there, staring at the floor, lost in thought.

What could he possibly say to her?

Apologizing wasn’t something he was accustomed to. He was a man of charm, of carefully chosen words, of showmanship. But (Y/N) had never been fooled by theatrics. She knew him too well—knew when his grin was real and when it was just a mask. And after seven years apart, he wasn’t sure if he could still tell the difference himself.

With a quiet sigh, he crossed the room, heading straight for the nightstand. He hesitated for only a second before pulling the drawer open.

There, nestled in a small, elegant box, was his wedding band.

The silver gleamed even in the low light, a cruel reminder of what once was. His fingers hovered over it before finally picking it up, the cool metal sending a shiver through him. He turned it over in his palm, tracing the familiar engravings on the inside—ones that once brought him joy but now felt like ghosts of a past he had abandoned.

‘Forever yours.’

His fingers trembled slightly as he slipped the ring onto his finger, where it had always belonged. But it felt heavier than he remembered.

For years, he had been too ashamed to wear it. How could he? He had left her behind—disappeared without a word, forcing her to live in a world where he no longer existed. He had convinced himself that he wasn’t worthy of her anymore, that she deserved more than the mess he had become.

But now… now that was no longer for him to decide.

Whether she still considered him her husband wasn’t his choice to make.

But he had to see her again.

Taking a deep breath, he straightened his tie, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in his vest. He glanced at himself in the mirror, his smile—so often effortless—feeling foreign for the first time in decades.

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and left the hotel.

He was going to get his beloved back.

‿‿‿‿ ‿‿‿‿ ‿‿‿‿ ‿‿‿‿ ‿‿

Taglist: @msfandomsblog @l34n @l3rittany @hayamie @lynsexperience @sirens-and-moonflowers

#alastor #alastor x reader #alastor x reader smut #hazbin adam #hazbin alastor #hazbin angel dust #hazbin art #hazbin charlie #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor

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verstappenf1lecccc · 1 day ago

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One last time I promise after that, I'll let you go

the first time lando and y/n had met was based of pure coincidence.

they both had common friends who had common activities and that’s how the two got to know each other. their bond started growing right after that.

the friend group they had been a part of had a little problem of bullying and picking on certain members, with Lando and her they had decided to ship them together. it wasn’t a innocent harmless thing, they had actually started to make fun of them based of their ship name and how ugly their kids might be. yeah real mature.

y/ns first signs of infatuation were innocent and harmless, i mean which girl could ever ignore a guy who had stood up to their friends group and had personally told everyone to piss off and leave the both of them alone (that action in intensified their rumours) but Lando didn’t seem to care, it was her in the other hand that seemed to be a bit disturbed by the taunting and bullying.

in a haste decision y/n had decided to leave the friend group and had deactivated her socials, it was only Lando who had convinced her to come back just for him.

cute right??

that’s where everything went wrong and at times she wished she would have never met him.

what started as a innocent crush turned into something more, something more genuine and pure.

isolated incidents with Lando often at times where he was being a sweetheart and spending up to 14 hours a day on zoom calls with her, only ending them if he genuinely had to go or if her parents were upset. He knew her families drama, he knew all about her traumatic friendships and was there to defend her and always reminded her that she was better then them and didn’t need to feel inferior. he was her everything. it didn’t help that he’d always want to spend time one on one and never with the group.

they’d laugh together work together heck even ate meals on zoom together and yet they were not actually together.

y/n had tried multiple times to test and see if he cared about her in a different way one that wasn’t friendly. often times she’s pick a outfit that was rather short or something that wasn’t her to see if he’d ask why she was wearing that or whom she was going out to meet. he’d never say anything

y/n was a rational person and knew that someone like him would never settle for someone like her but a nagging feeling always made her believe that she had a shot. And it wasn’t just her gut, Landon’s own mother had on multiple occasions sat down with the girl and had mentioned just how lucky her son was to have known such a beautiful person both inside out and at one occasion even mentioned how much she wanted her as her daughter in law.

she had blushed rather hardly at that. secretly she had also wished the exact same thing. cisca would have been the best mother in law for her.

Lando’s relation with her wasn’t the only thing that had made her think that he too might have been into her, and no it wasn’t the fact that she was the one who had planned his birthday party nor was it the fact that her family were the only people invited to their Christmas party.

It was Lando’s relationship with her mother, he’d always listen to her no matter what. It often puzzled her why and cisca had the same reaction each time, the desperate mother had once asked y/ns mother to click pictures of lando since he would never let her. silly things yk?

but all these silly things add up and when they do things suddenly don’t feel as silly anymore.

after months of hiding her feelings and being persuaded by her mutual friends who had known of her crush y/n decided to ask lando out it was purely because her friend had said that she too things that lando liked her and was only shy and that’s why y/n should make the move.

stupid stupid decision.

it was peak Covid and tiktok was trending like no other app, whilst trying to find ways to confess without being all sappy she had come across the “Jenny darling you’re my best friend” trend and thought it was the perfect playful way to confess her feelings without it being too sappy or detailed.

With shaking hands she typed the lyrics out bit by bit

lan darling you’re my best friend (read 1:43 pm) (y/n)

yeh ik ( read 1:43 pm) (lan)

but there’s a few things that you don’t know off

(1:43 pm) (y/n)

huh? like wha? you on smth (1:44 pm) (lan)

why i borrow your hoodies so often (1:44 pm) (y/n)

i wanna ruin our friendship, we should be lovers instead

(1:44 pm) (y/n)

the risk that she had taken had backfired so magnificently that it was almost laughable.

Lando Norris was one person who wouldn’t be caught without his phone, and that’s why his sudden disappearance was like a punch in the gut for her.

it was a whole day later when he’d replied.

oh ok (2:30 am) (lan)

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speaknow-sw · 1 day ago

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•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : kissing, fighting, injuries, cult, mentions of nudity, knife throwing, TENSION,

A/N : chapter 4 for you, and I love this one. I think I did good with the tension. Hope you’ll like it. •| ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪᴠ : ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ |•

Even the sharpest mind can be dulled by devotion, for faith does not seek reason—it demands surrender.

BENEATH THE GILDED SURFACE OF ROME, beneath the marble temples and the deafening roar of the Colosseum, beneath the weight of empire and conquest, there are whispers. A name, a legend, a warning—The Cult of Romulus.

Few speak of them openly. Fewer still claim to know the truth of their origins. But in the shadows of the Eternal City, their presence lingers like the scent of blood in the sand. They are not men of politics, nor men of gods. They do not serve the Senate or the Emperor, nor do they pray at the feet of Jupiter or Mars. They serve only a name, a ghost, a myth that has never faded—Romulus, the first king of Rome.

It is said that when Romulus vanished, taken by the gods or swallowed by the earth, he did not truly die. His bloodline remained, diluted through centuries, hidden among the common-born and noble alike. The Cult exists for one purpose alone: to preserve that bloodline and to ensure that no false heir dares to rise. They believe the spirit of Romulus must remain undisturbed, that his sacrifice—the foundation of Rome itself—must never be undone.

Which is why he should not exist.

Anakin, the golden-haired barbarian, the lion of the arena, the undefeated gladiator. The one whose presence unsettles them, whose face stirs something ancient in the bones of Rome itself. They have been watching him for months, moving in the shadows, waiting for a sign, for proof of what they already suspect.

Now, they have seen enough.

Now, they must kill him before he remembers. Before he becomes what he was always meant to be.

The night is thick with the scent of burning oil and damp stone, the streets of Rome restless beneath the hush of midnight. The Colosseum looms in the distance, its arches gaping wide like the ribcage of a beast long since stripped of its flesh, waiting to swallow those destined for slaughter. The city sleeps, but danger does not.

Anakin walks at the center of a small procession, flanked by three guards. Unlike the other gladiators, he wears no chains. They do not need them. His reputation is enough to keep most would-be troublemakers at bay. The golden-haired barbarian, the undefeated wolf of the arena. A killer. A beast. He has earned his place in Rome’s bloody history, and yet, in the restless hours before dawn, the city whispers of something more.

They are watching.

They have always been watching.

The Cult of Romulus has been following him for months, moving in the shadows, gathering their forces, waiting for the right moment. Tonight, they strike.

It happens as they pass through a narrow alley leading to the outer gates of the Colosseum. The air is thick with the stench of piss and rotting grain, the streets silent but for the steady footfalls of the guards. Then, in a breath, the silence shatters.

A cloaked figure drops from the rooftops, landing with the grace of a panther, a blade flashing silver in the moonlight. A second follows, then a third. The guards barely have time to shout before steel meets flesh, the sickening crunch of bone splitting the night.

Anakin reacts before thought.

A sword is thrust toward him—he sidesteps, catching the attacker’s wrist, twisting hard until he hears the snap of bone. A dagger whistles past his ear, but he moves like a storm, relentless, brutal. His knee drives into a man’s gut, and as he doubles over, Anakin brings his elbow down on the back of his skull. The body crumples.

Another comes at him from behind—too slow. Anakin spins, grabbing the hilt of the attacker’s blade before it can plunge into his back. He wrenches it free and buries it in the man’s throat, ripping it sideways with a sickening shhk. Warm blood spatters his skin, the copper scent thick in the air.

But there are too many.

They are not common thugs. Their movements are disciplined, their tactics coordinated. They are here for him.

One of the remaining assassins steps forward, hood slipping just enough to reveal the glint of a golden wolf’s head embroidered into his collar. His voice is calm, even reverent.

"The blood of Romulus runs through your veins. The gods demand it be spilled."

Anakin snarls, launching himself at him before the words fully register. He fights with the desperation of a cornered beast, the instinct to survive overriding all else. But even as he kills, his mind races—who are they? Why do they speak of Romulus?

Why does that name feel like an echo of something lost?

Another blade slashes toward his ribs—he barely dodges in time, feeling the sharp sting of steel kissing his flesh. He has to move. Has to run.

He breaks through the last line of attackers, sprinting through the winding alleys, blood dripping from his fingers. The city blurs around him, the world reduced to the rhythmic pounding of his feet against stone, the ragged breath in his lungs.

Then he collides with someone.

Hard.

A body, warm and real, the force of impact knocking the air from his lungs. His hands snap forward, gripping their shoulders on instinct, ready to shove them aside—

And then he sees you.

For a moment, the world stills.

Your eyes, wide with surprise, meet his, and something in his chest clenches. He has seen you before. Not just in the forum, where you watched him bleed beneath a Roman whip. Not just in the stands of the Colosseum, where you looked upon him with unreadable eyes. Not under him, writhing of pleasure.

No, it’s something deeper. Older.

A memory just out of reach.

Then, just as quickly, his expression darkens.

"You," he growls, pushing you back as if your very touch burns him. "Of course you'd be here. Watching." His voice drips with hatred, but beneath it, there is something else—something shaken, something raw.

Behind him, the shouts of his pursuers grow louder. He doesn’t have time for this. Doesn’t have time for you.

But neither do you.

Because you have been watching, too. And for reasons you do not yet fully understand, you are not about to let him die.

The streets of Rome are a labyrinth of marble and shadow, narrow alleys twisting into grand avenues where torches flicker against towering columns. The city is alive even at this hour—merchants closing their stalls, drunk patricians stumbling home from lavish feasts, beggars lurking in the doorways of temples. But none of them see the two of you, running like hunted animals through the veins of the empire.

Anakin is beside you, breathing hard, his body still tense from the fight. Blood streaks his knuckles, some of it his, most of it not. His tunic is torn, and the moon catches on the sweat glistening over his skin. He’s fast—too fast for a gladiator who has spent years in chains—but you match his pace, weaving through the streets, slipping into shadows when patrols pass too close.

“You planned this, didn’t you?” he mutters as you turn sharply into an alley, pressing your backs against the stone wall to catch your breath. His voice is raw, hoarse with exertion. “Hired those men to test me? To see how well I fight?”

You almost laugh. “You give me too much credit.”

His blue eyes narrow, sharp even in the darkness, but there’s no time for argument. The Cult of Romulus will be looking for him—they might already be spreading through the streets. You grab his wrist and pull him forward, guiding him through the back ways, up a hidden stairway between two buildings, across the wooden scaffolding of a half-built villa.

Soon, the streets grow wider, the noise of the city softens, and the air carries the scent of blooming gardens instead of sweat and filth. You’ve led him into the Esquiline Hill, where the wealthy hide behind walls of carved stone and wrought iron.

Anakin slows, suddenly wary. He takes in the quiet opulence around him, the soft glow of oil lamps flickering from elegant windows, the fountains trickling in courtyard gardens. “Where are we?”

“Safe,” you answer simply, pushing open the heavy bronze doors of your villa.

The interior is grand—too grand for a woman who had walked unnoticed in the arena’s crowds. Marble floors gleam beneath the soft light of hanging lamps. Pillars stretch toward ceilings painted with the delicate brushstrokes of gods and myths. Fine tapestries soften the walls, and the scent of wine and myrrh lingers in the air.

Anakin steps inside hesitantly, eyes sweeping over the excess. He scoffs, running a hand through his tangled curls. “Of course,” he mutters. “You’re one of them.”

“One of who?”

“The Romans who watch men like me die for sport, then go home to silk sheets and fine wine.” His gaze flickers back to you, more cautious now, more closed.

You only smile, stepping closer, your voice low. “I never said I was Roman.”

Before he can press further, footsteps echo down the hall.

“Domina?” Your servant appears from behind a curtain, her expression shifting the moment she sees Anakin—his disheveled state, his torn tunic, the blood staining his skin. Her brows lift. Then, without hesitation, she tilts her head and smirks.

“Did you bring your boyfriend home?”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks before you can stop it. “He’s not—” you start, flustered, but Anakin’s low, irritated growl cuts over your words.

“I am not,” he snaps, his voice rough with anger, his glare sharp enough to cut stone. His posture stiffens, broad shoulders squared, jaw clenched. He looks like he’s ready to bolt—to run back into the streets rather than stay here, in this world of marble and wealth, where he does not belong.

Your servant, entirely unfazed, hums thoughtfully. “Then what is he? Your new guard dog?”

Anakin turns on her with a snarl, his frustration crackling like a storm. “I am not some pet you can collar—”

“No,” you interrupt, quickly stepping between them before he does something rash, though you can’t help but smirk. “He’s not my guard dog.”

Your servant raises a skeptical brow but says nothing, only waiting. You sigh, turning toward her with a knowing look. “Go check the temperature of the thermal baths. We’ll be needing them.”

She glances between you and Anakin, then nods, barely concealing her amusement as she disappears down the hall.

Silence lingers in her wake.

Anakin is still seething, fists clenched at his sides, but beneath his anger, you can sense something else—unease, restlessness. He’s never been in a place like this, never stood in a villa where everything is soft and warm, where no chains weigh his limbs, where no one is waiting to throw him back into the sands.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Relax, Anakin,” you say, voice lighter now, playful even. “No one’s going to throw you to the lions in here.”

His blue eyes flick to yours, dark and unreadable. “Not yet.”

You don’t hesitate as you step into the chamber of the thermal baths, your fingers already undoing the fastenings of your garments. The marble walls gleam under the soft glow of oil lamps, the scent of heated water and fragrant oils thick in the air. Steam rises in delicate curls, clinging to your skin as you let your tunic slip from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a whisper of fabric.

You don’t think much of it—why would you? Anakin has seen you bare before, in dreams, in lifetimes past, in fleeting moments stolen under the watchful gaze of the gods. And in this life, men like him are hardly spared the modesty of others; slaves and gladiators are stripped of dignity along with their freedom.

Yet when you turn, expecting him to follow, you find him standing rigid near the entrance, arms crossed over his broad chest, his blue eyes locked onto the baths with an expression you’ve never seen before.

You arch a brow. “Are you coming in, or do you plan to stand there like a statue all night?”

His gaze snaps to you, sharp, wary. He shifts uncomfortably, his fingers flexing at his sides. “I don’t—” He stops, exhales sharply through his nose, then grunts. “I don’t know what to do.”

For a moment, you simply stare.

Anakin Skywalker, warrior, gladiator, beast of the Colosseum—reduced to a confused puppy before a simple bath.

The realization makes something warm bloom in your chest.

You suppress a smile, tilting your head. “You’ve never been in a thermal bath before?”

His scowl deepens, as if offended by the very idea. “Gladiators don’t exactly bathe in perfumed water.”

“Pity.” You lean back against the stone, the warmth seeping into your muscles. “Come here.”

He hesitates but steps closer.

“You wash first,” you instruct, nodding toward a bronze basin filled with oil and scented water. “Use the strigil to scrape away the dirt.”

He eyes the tool with suspicion, picking it up as if expecting it to bite. His fingers curl around it, testing its weight. “And then?”

“Then you step into the bath.”

Anakin huffs under his breath, but he follows your instructions, pouring the oil over his skin and running the strigil over his arms, his chest. The motion is awkward, stiff—he’s used to wiping off blood and sand, not indulging in luxury.

When he finally lowers himself into the steaming water, he exhales, the tension in his shoulders melting, his head tilting back slightly as the warmth surrounds him.

You watch him, your lips curving. “Better?”

He cracks one eye open, giving you a look that is half-glare, half-reluctant surrender. “It’s… acceptable.”

You laugh, letting the water lap around you as you move closer. “You’re adorable when you don’t know things.”

His eyes darken at that, but before he can retort, you reach for a cloth and dip it into the water, wringing it out before running it gently over his shoulder.

Anakin stiffens—just for a moment—before relaxing under your touch. His skin is warm beneath your fingers, solid, real.

In the quiet of the bathhouse, surrounded by the scent of myrrh and the gentle ripple of water, you wonder if the gods are watching.

Anakin leans against the marble edge of the baths, his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that sharp, assessing look of his. His damp curls fall messily over his forehead, and the firelight flickers against his chiseled features, casting him in hues of gold and shadow. His eyes drag over you, studying, calculating—then, with that biting wit of his, he scoffs.

"What are you, anyway? Twelve?"

You freeze for a fraction of a second before giving him a flat, unimpressed look. “I’m twenty.”

His brows lift, amused, skeptical. “Right. And I’m the Emperor of Rome.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I am twenty.”

Anakin smirks, tilting his head as if to examine you more closely. “Could’ve fooled me. You look like a child.”

You roll your eyes, stepping closer, the silk of your robe whispering against the marble floor. “And you look like you’ve been fighting wars since the dawn of time.”

He lets out a short, dry laugh. “That’s because I have.”

You hesitate at that. There’s something bitter in his voice, something that lingers beneath the sarcasm. He turns his head away slightly, as if considering something, then exhales sharply.

"I'm thirty-five," he says at last, almost as if he's testing the words in his mouth. He shifts, stretching his arms, the movement making his muscles ripple. "I could be your father."

You scoff. "Hardly."

He smirks again. "I don’t know. You look small enough. Frail.” He leans in slightly, his voice lowering into something almost teasing. “Maybe I should start calling you ‘little one.’”

Your eyes narrow. “Try it and I’ll drown you in the baths.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and rich, but there’s something unreadable in the way he looks at you now—like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle that refuses to fit. “You don’t act twenty, little one.”

You tilt your head. “And you don’t act thirty-five, big guy.”

He gives a dry, humorless laugh. “No. I act older.”

Something shifts between you then, something quieter. He’s still watching you, but now it feels different—like he’s truly seeing you for the first time, searching for something beyond your face, beyond your words.

"You’re strange," he mutters finally, shaking his head. "I don’t trust it."

"Good," you say, smiling just enough to be infuriating. "You shouldn’t."

You work in silence, dragging the strigil over his skin with slow, deliberate strokes, scraping away the layers of grime, sweat, and dried blood that cling to him like remnants of battle. The water darkens as filth dissolves, revealing golden skin beneath—the color of sun-warmed bronze, marred only by the scars that speak of his suffering.

Your touch is methodical, careful. When you reach his back, your fingers still for the briefest moment, tracing the deep red welts left by the whip. Some are fresh, still raw, angry lines carved into his flesh. Others have faded into pale reminders of pain endured.

He doesn’t flinch when you touch them, but his shoulders tense.

You reach for a small alabaster jar resting on the bath’s edge, scooping out a thick, fragrant ointment made from crushed myrrh and healing herbs. You press it to his wounds, spreading it with gentle fingers.

Anakin hisses, his body going rigid beneath your hand. “That stings.”

“Good,” you murmur, working the salve into his skin. “That means it’s working.”

He exhales sharply, his voice edged with suspicion. “Why are you doing this?”

Your fingers pause for a fraction of a second before continuing their slow, soothing movements. You could tell him the truth—that something about him calls to you in ways you cannot explain, that he reminds you of a love lost to the hands of fate. That you are selfish, drawn to him not by kindness but by something deeper, something that pulls at your soul like a thread woven through time itself.

But you do not.

Instead, you tilt your head, offering him a small, unreadable smile.

“Because I own you now,” you say lightly, though the words taste bitter on your tongue. “And what use is a broken gladiator?”

His jaw tightens, his blue eyes flashing as he turns to look at you over his shoulder.

“You think I’m yours, little one ?” His voice is a low growl.

Your smile deepens. “Aren’t you?”

The moment the words leave your lips, something in him snaps.

Anakin turns, the water sloshing around his broad frame as he moves, faster than you expect. Before you can react, he cages you against the smooth marble edge of the bath, his arms braced on either side of you. The steam curls around you both, thick and heady, blurring the world beyond this moment.

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes—blue like the deep sea, turbulent with something dark, something dangerous. His wet curls cling to his forehead, water trickling down his temple, following the sharp lines of his jaw, his throat, the ridges of his collarbones.

“You think I belong to you?” His voice is low, almost a whisper, but there’s no softness in it.

A shiver runs down your spine, though not from fear.

You smirk, your fingers trailing through the water, brushing against his submerged waist. “Would you rather belong to someone else?”

His jaw clenches. His hands press against the marble, trapping you in the heat of his body. “I belong to no one.”

You hum, letting your fingers trail higher, grazing his stomach, the firm muscles tightening under your touch. “No one?” you echo, voice laced with mock innocence. “Yet here you are, standing in my bath, letting me tend to your wounds. Letting me touch you.”

His breath hitches—just barely, but you notice.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs, his face dipping closer, lips a mere breath from yours.

You reach up, cupping his jaw, your thumb tracing the sharp edge of his cheekbone. His skin is warm, damp from the bath, from your touch. His breathing is heavy now, uneven. His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up, hesitation warring with desire.

“I always win,” you whisper.

His control snaps.

Anakin crashes into you, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that is all heat and hunger, his hands gripping your waist, pressing you flush against him. The water ripples violently around you as he deepens the kiss, his fingers digging into your skin, desperate, as if he’s trying to carve his presence into you.

You let him.

You match his intensity, your arms winding around his neck, nails raking through his curls. He growls against your lips, the sound reverberating through your chest, sending a thrill down your spine.

When he finally pulls away, breathless, his forehead resting against yours, his grip still tight on your waist, you smile against his lips.

“Tell me again,” you murmur. “That you belong to no one.”

His breath is shaky, his hands flexing on your hips.

His breath is heavy against your lips, his hands still gripping your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he doesn’t want to let go. For a moment, he says nothing—just looks at you, eyes dark with something unreadable, something caught between defiance and need.

Then, his jaw tightens. His grip on you flexes.

“I belong to no one, little one,” he growls, the words rough, almost desperate.

You feel his breath against your lips, hot and unsteady, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, his hands tighten, his body pressing into yours as if trying to convince himself of his own words.

You tilt your head, fingers ghosting over his shoulders, the tense muscles beneath damp skin. "No one?" you murmur, your voice soft, teasing, but there’s a challenge in your eyes.

His breathing stutters. You see the war in him—the battle between pride and something deeper, something neither of you are willing to name.

And then, as if realizing how close he is, how much he’s given away, he pulls back, breaking the moment, the heat. His hands drop from your waist, his expression hardening. He turns away, stepping deeper into the baths, trying to put space between you.

But you see it in the way his fingers curl into fists beneath the water.

He belongs to no one.

The morning air is crisp, tinged with the faintest chill before the sun fully rises to warm the city. You wake slowly, the remnants of sleep clinging to your limbs, your body still steeped in the languid ease of the baths from the night before. For a moment, you forget where you are—lost between dreams and reality, between past and present. But then the weight of the world settles over you once more.

You rise from your bed, the silk sheets slipping from your skin, and pad toward the open window, drawn by the quiet stirrings outside. The city is already beginning to rouse—merchants setting up their stalls, servants bustling about their morning tasks, the distant sound of hooves against stone. But none of it holds your attention.

Because below, in the courtyard bathed in the golden light of dawn, stands Anakin.

He moves like something divine, his body carved from sun and shadow, the muscles in his back rippling as he shifts through each movement with practiced ease. His bare chest gleams with a fine sheen of sweat, his golden curls damp and unruly, catching the light as he breathes. His arms flex as he grips the weighted wooden sword—a rudis, meant for training—cutting through the air with sharp precision.

You watch, entranced.

He is not like the men of Rome, whose bodies are sculpted for decadence, for leisure. Anakin is built for war, for survival. Every inch of him is honed, sharpened by years of battle and hardship. His form is fluid yet unyielding, his muscles taut, his legs steady as he shifts his weight from one stance to another. He is practicing the drills of a Roman soldier—lunging, parrying, striking—movements ingrained into him through blood and sweat.

He turns slightly, his profile cutting against the morning light. The sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his throat, the beads of sweat trickling down the ridges of his abdomen—they all blur together in an image almost too perfect to be real.

You have seen gladiators before, warriors trained to entertain, their bodies sculpted for spectacle. But Anakin is different. He moves not for an audience, not for the pleasure of others, but for himself. There is something raw about him, something untamed. A man who refuses to be broken, who fights not because he must, but because it is the only thing he knows.

His breaths are steady, controlled. He swings the rudis in an arc, pivoting on his heel before thrusting forward, his entire body coiling like a predator about to strike. The sheer power behind each movement is undeniable. Even in stillness, he is a force—like a storm waiting to break.

The rising sun frames him in a halo of gold, casting long shadows over the courtyard. For a brief moment, he does not seem mortal at all. He looks like a god. A forgotten deity of war and vengeance, reborn in the flesh, cursed to walk among men who will never understand what he truly is.

And then, as if sensing your gaze, he stills.

Slowly, Anakin turns his head, blue eyes locking onto yours.

A shiver runs through you.

His stare is piercing, unreadable. He does not smile, does not speak. He only watches, his chest rising and falling with the ghost of exertion, his lips parting slightly as if about to say something—but he doesn’t.

Instead, he simply stands there, the sun at his back, the morning breeze rustling through his curls.

And for the first time, you wonder—who is truly watching whom?

You hear a sharp sound and then the air in front of you shift swiftly. You look to your right where a kitchen knife is buried in a concrete gap of the brick wall. You never saw him move.

A warning. I see you.

Your breath stills. You should move, step back into the safety of your chambers, but you don’t. You can’t. His gaze pins you in place, unreadable, searing through the morning light.

And then—he smirks.

A slow, knowing curve of his lips, arrogant and wicked.

Heat floods your face.

You step away from the window, heart pounding against your ribs, but before you can collect yourself—

A knock at your door.

Sharp. Insistent.

Then your servant’s voice, hushed and urgent—

"Domina… the Emperor’s men are here. They demand to see you."

He was made of gold—not just in the way the sun kissed his skin, but in the way he burned, untamed and eternal, a man the gods themselves had failed to break the first time.

#hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin x you #anakin x reader #evie writes

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carlarosenakilah · 10 hours ago

Text

I'm taking a break from The Osix Family and Wilted Ivory

Hi, you've read that right. I'll proceed to go into detail undercut

Warning that the following will be containing very sensitive topics such as su***idal thoughts, mental health issues, and whatever the fuck I went through to get me here and I don't know how to describe nor name them but overall its not pretty.

Getting straight to the point- im drained. I'm in a horrible place right now and I need to take a step back before it might escalate into something worse.

The Osix Family is always something that I will forever dedicate to. It has comforted me, carried me, and saved me from killing myself three years ago.

I asked myself, "If I'm not here, who will tell the story of The Osix Family?"

That made me stay alive, and im greatful for that because if not, I wouldn't have been where I am today standing with the coolest people I have ever met and my amazing partner in crime @alexusespido-dod.

I love Wilted Ivory too, and that's where it gets tricky.

My only plan for Wilted Ivory is to simply tell a story about growth expressed as a musical au. Hence why the art is so simple– not just to match the original Casino Cups style, but just to tell a story that I hope would inspire and comfort others. Of course, I'm happy it gained lota of love.

The Osix Family though is a different story.

Like I said, it means a lot to me, so I put so much time and energy into this series. I sacrifice time that could've been used to study for the next exam, but instead im working on the next few panels or planning the music and etc. Blood sweat and tears (literally) into making sure the art looks good, story is properly conveyed, scenes carefully picked. Even if it gained me bad scores in my exams that made me stress over about, in the end it was worth it to me. I didn't care if I'd be sick an unable to move, as long as I could at least think about it, then I would be happy.

Episode 3 was my worst.

I overworked myself for that episode. I was always in front of my tablet, I never moved out of my seat, I was just there, working on it even if it was 1 in the morning and that I should be sleeping. I told myself: "Everything will pay off! Sure you're in so much pain right now, but eventually it will all pay off! Episode 3 is looking good and interesting! This will FINALLY gain the audience and love the story deserves!"

I was proud.

Until I wasn't.

Reality hit me like a saw. The moment the episode was released I was hopeful. But nothing happened. It was all the same.

And it just hurt how something as simple as Wilted Ivory can easily gain attention and love because it was Cuphead related something well known. Meanwhile, The Osix Family–despite everything–is just barely seen.

I started to doubt myself. To question myself. Was I not doing enough. What more can I do. What should I do. Am I not good enough?

Is the story just not good enough?

That broke me. I began to have thoughts I shouldn't have. I wanted to end it all. I wanted to quit and disappear from the world. Because what was the point in pouring so much love into something only for it to dismissed.

Its not like I simply began having these thoughts.

I've had them over and over again.

As much as I hated involving him, my partner, Alex, had to deal with the many times I nearly ended it. To the point where even if he was in school, he'd go out of his way to stop me, I still feel guilty, even if he said it was fine.

I don't understand myself anymore.

Why do I even have such an attachment to this series? Its just a stupid silly series for funsies isn't it? Why does my life to depend on it?

Unfortunately, it just does.

It sucks. Pushing away my needs for the sake of this passion, only for it to just not go as I hoped it would go. Did I mention I'm also losing followers on the osix family blog? Thats so silly and coquette.

I'm so sorry if im coming off as guilt-trippy, please I don't want it to sound that way, I just want to express how deeply troubled I am because to me it actually DOES HURT.

I envy people who couldn't give a flying fuck about whether or not their stuff goes famous or gets love, I don't even understand why I am so dependent or hungry on whatever attention it gets. I hate that im like this. I want to be free from it but I just crave it.

So, for the sake of my mental health and whatever is left of my sanity, im taking a break, for good.

I will not be updating The Osix Family or Wilted Ivory at this very moment. For how long? It depends on how fucked up I have actually turned out to be today.

I might still post, keyword: MIGHT, its not any update but to just simply draw for myself, but the chances of me posting anything is horribly low.

I'm going to focus on myself, my needs, and whatever makes me happy or have fun with.

To those who supported The Osix Family or even bothered to check it out: Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

It means a lot to me, you have NO idea. Every single like, reblog, comment, hype or even the silliest amounts of theories or thoughts, they make me so happy, it actually heals me.

I can't remember names im sorry, but there was a time someone expressed how they were invested in the lore and loved the world building, it really made my day. Or when someone pointed out some small details on my waiting in a miracle animatic, it warmed my heart.

I have troubles expressing it, but im so, SO greatful.

Especially when some of my mutuals started making OCS FOR THE SERIES?? Like– it felt like a HUGE compliment.

I cant believe im tearing up as im typing this haha im so stupid lmao, but

Thank you. A lot.

And to those who weren't really into The Osix Family, its okay, don't feel bad, sometimes things are just not our cup of tea, I just needed to express my grief, cause honestly bottling it up isn't going to end well for me (and it really didn't multiple times).

I apologize for any false hope or let down your hype as Wilted Ivory was just starting and The Osix Family was finally coming back– but this treatment is overwhelming me that I need to take a step back.

That's all for now.

Thank you for... actually reading, you listening means a lot to me too.

Goodbye.

#vent #tw vent #tw sui talk #tw sui attempt #cddwtd #casino cups #cuphead #cddwtd wilted ivory #the osix family #original ocs

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irishironclad · 1 day ago

Text

Walking As Somebody Else

Some place in Tennessee that had no name nor number to describe it there sat a rusted mobile home that some folk might assume abandoned or housing squatters. It if weren’t for the relatively new truck that was parked next to it.

It was summer, the small AC unit dripped moisture and rattled in its struggle to warm the space that was too large for it. Vincent kept a clean home, any time there was a mess he felt an unnatural fear that someone would appear to scream at him about it.

There were no pictures, no personal belongings unpacked, with everything away in luggage or small chests. The cupboards held one plate, one bowl, one mug, and there was one set of silverware.

Vincent sat in an old leather chair that he didn’t remember ever buying yet was wrinkled with his shape. He stared at a television he hardly ever bothered to turn on. While nursing a glass of Chattanooga 1816 Reserve paired with one of his cigarillos. Smoothing back his sandy blond hair he sighed and paid attention to his breathing and heart rate - listening for any abnormalities. There was no reason for an incident to happen now, but he worried about it constantly. There was no one he could call if it happened again.

Today was the day he did it, the day he tainted his hands. He remembered trailing ash into the recruitment office, they didn’t question him none. More meat, another body. Vincent had hoped to die over there in the desert, but the Devil had other plans for him. So when they rotated him out, citing his ‘heart condition’ as why he couldn’t go back - he returned to nothing.

The recession didn’t touch those who hadn't nothing to lose. Whatever Vincent had inherited from his daddy was left to ashes, and as far as the banks were concerned he died in those flames too. They weren’t too concerned to look, so he only needed to move to the other side of the state and no one thought much of it.

So one bothered him, except for the lady who kept knocking on his door. See he’d made the mistake of getting involved, he realized soon enough that if he sat around doing nothing for nobody then soon enough he’d find himself eyeing the barrel of a gun. So he’d found himself working as a bounty hunter, as well as getting a P.I license. Helping out the local boys with a case here or there. Was even a sheriff’s deputy for a while. All that fell apart, it didn’t take long for them to get a whiff of who he truly was. No lawman. No protector. The stink of blood remained no matter what title he had.

The woman at his door didn’t seem to get the message. Sarah-Lynn James had been calling on him a few times now. Vincent sighed and put down his drink, taking a moment to smooth his shirt and look presentable before opening the door. There stood a single mother, worn and tired, with gray streaking her once vibrantly red hair she now stood teary eyed with a freshly made casserole at his doorstep.

“Mister Valério, I made you-”

“Mrs James, that's very kind of you but I have to direct you to the sheriff again, I know you’re hurtin’ but I’m a bail bondsman not the police,” Vincent said calmly.

“I know you’ve found people before who ain’t out on bail,” Mrs James said, her voice quivering, she shoved the casserole into Vincent’s arms and he had no real choice but to take it. It was still warm and smelled like it was chicken.

“Mrs James those were criminals and known fugitives, missing children ain’t really-”

“Her name is Jane, she just turned twenty, a tiny thing she never ate right. She’s allergic to shellfish and has a beauty mark on her right cheek,” Mrs James produced a polaroid of her daughter, she looked like a younger version of her mother. With all the life and energy of youth. Vincent’s chest tightened.

“Ma’am the sheriff’s department…”

“Won’t lift a finger, says she’s an adult, she only just turned eighteen! And she’s never been one to leave like this!”

He wanted to help, but there were complications. It was outside of his licensing, even if he was a former sheriff’s deputy this was stepping out of the line. Vincent had been careful, folk were out looking for people like him. It had been on the news more and more, and putting himself into harm's way - it only invited exposing himself. And really, what right had he to do good? That wasn’t he. He found bad people, not good ones. It was a different sort of hunt.

“Mrs James…” he started. He had a hundred reasons he could give, but when he caught her gaze they died in his throat. Mrs James brown eyes were red and puffy and lined but they were the same as her daughters. Vincent saw they had the same laughter and joy in them, or they did.

“Thank you for the casserole…” Vincent sighed. “Maybe… I’ll come by later, look at her room, see if I can’t find a lead.”

“That's all I ask, thank you, thank you so much.”

She left blissfully quickly and Vincent was able to close his door and place the casserole down with a sigh. He could humour her, head over, take a look, and tell her that there’s no way to find her daughter. That would be the smart thing to do. That would keep him safe. Even if the look in that mothers eyes struck at his heart.

He got away with how things were, deputies turning a blind eye, using a false name. But this was real detective stuff… it would draw attention. Yet, the feeling in his chest wouldn’t go away. If he couldn’t do this then why was he…

Vincent shook his head and stood up. Stuffed into a corner was a footlocker, hidden under stacks of files and old paperwork. Vincent cleared off the mess and opened the footlocker, inside were more notes and some leather bound journals. Layed on top was a chain with dog tags hung from it. Vincent barely nudged them with his finger before he felt a nauseous anger boiling in his throat and he snapped the footlocker closed. He rubbed his eyes and chewed his lip, unsure what to do, yet unable to ignore the nagging need that urged him on.

What use are you if you don’t?

He could just keep it quiet and not bother anyone.

You have sins to repay.

Vincent clutched his hands into fists. He could almost feel it, the prickling stabbing sensation that he had run from. Would he need to do it again?

Freaks like you don't deserve to be alive if you don’t do nothin’ for nobody.

Vincent avoided phones these days, but he had a burner that he kept around just in case. Dialing a familiar number he got an answer with only a few rings.

“Deputy Jones speaking.”

“Hey Jim, it’s Vince.”

“...hey man, you doing alright?”

“Yeah, could you do me a favour? Wondering if you know-”

“-Vince… the boss has been wanting to talk to you, something about a case, this one has the feds involved.”

“...what’re they saying?” Vincent asked carefully.

“You’re not a suspect but they just wanna talk, I don’t know the details.”

“Right, well, can you tell me anything about the Jane James case.”

“Jane James… Vince, did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah, the case?”

“It isn’t one, she’s an adult and ain’t been gone a day, why’re you asking about this?”

“Thanks Jim,” Vincent said, hanging up immediately. He snapped the phone in half and tossed it in the trash.

Feds weren't a good sign, but he’d always known they’d sniff him out eventually. Most of the boys had some inkling, but he was useful enough they didn’t care. Some of them even understood, others wished they could have done the same. But they didn’t know for sure, they didn’t know the details.

How long could he remain in hibernation? Not long, not if the feds were here. Vincent considered the casserole on his table. If he was going to be found out anyhow then what was the harm? That was the cold logic he gave himself, in truth the way Jim had dismissed the case all together. That didn’t sit right.

He took the time to shower and shave, considering his jawline in the mirror Vincent decided to keep his mustache. He felt it made him look professional; as well as making his face look a tad different. He carefully combed his hair, cleansed his face, moisturized, and applied his favourite cologne; citrus and vanilla bean. He didn’t do all this to impress, it was like a cleansing ritual, attempting to wash off the taint from himself. Apply enough perfume and you couldn’t smell the stink of blood.

He pulled on his boots and an old denim jacket and left, deciding to take his 1992 Harley Daytona for the short trip. It usually lived concealed under a tarp behind the trailer home, but some part of Vincent figured it may be a while yet before he could ride it again.

Mrs James lived on the outskirts of Nashville in a small little home on a hill apart from the other houses. The grass hadn’t been cut in a long while, and the house desperately needed a coat of paint. Mrs James welcomed Vincent in with offers of sweet tea and more food which Vincent politely declined.

Jane’s room was on the second floor, it had a window but a sheer drop below it. The room was no less messy than one would expect from a young woman. Though the drawers and closet had been left ajar from what looked like her quickly packing clothes.

You picked up a few things tracking people, and Vincent had learned the easiest way for folk to go missing is when they go missing by choice.

“You say she’s disappeared before?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mrs James said. “But never this long, and not like this, she's never packed before or stayed out more than a night.”

“Did you let her go out like that?” Vincent asked. As much as he hated to think it, there was always a possibility Jane was running for a reason.

“I didn’t approve but I knew she was young and… I should have been more strict, I shouldn’t have let her go out, stupid, but I didn’t want to bar her like some animal.”

The tone was sincere, if Mrs James was the issue she would have blamed her daughter. Vincent carefully stepped around the room, looking for anything out of place. If she didn’t run away, then she may have been running to something. A boyfriend?

“She never dated,” was mom’s answer.

Could’ve been a secret boyfriend, maybe, but mom said she never dated not that she wasn’t allowed to date. Hiding a boyfriend usually came after the first boyfriend who mom didn’t like.

“Friends?”

“Yeah, I mean, a few, sometimes and she’s gone out with them but never any real close friend you know? I worried sometimes about that, you need folk you can rely on.”

Vincent was entirely sure mom wasn’t to blame at this point. Sounded line Jane struggled to really connect with folk, but maybe she wanted to. Maybe that was what this was all about. On the veranda there were pictures of Jane, with friends, never the same ones. Always with her seemingly with a group, never just her and one other friend. Always tacked on, an addition, an afterthought.

You’re sure you’re talking about Jane?

No computer in the house, so if there was someone tempting Jane out of her home it was done in person. Vincent found no letters, no notes, not even a diary or day planner. He was beginning to understand why the sheriff’s department didn’t want to touch this. Still something smelt off, twinged the hairs on the back of Vincent's head.

Back in the desert he’d grown this awareness for things, a look here, a movement there, one rock out of place. Helped with keeping the boys from being shot when no one was looking. Helped even more shooting the other boys when they thought you couldn’t see. You never did stop looking for targets in the sand, even when there wasn’t any sand.

There was a trash bin though, and inside of it Vincent found a few wrappers and random bits of discarded paper. But then there was a ticket, fairly new, punched. On it read ‘Visions - Bar and Dance.’ Vincent thought for a moment and was fairly sure that wasn’t anywhere in Tennessee.

“Cincinnati,” Mrs James said. “She’s been to that one before that… that was the only time I ever got mad at her for going out… I didn’t want her crossing state lines Oh God did I push her-”

“Ma’am I've seen cases with runaways before,” Vincent said. “A lot of them parents gave their kids a lot of reasons to run away and it took years before they did, I don’t think this is your fault.”

“I’m just… I just want her back safe.”

“I’ll… do what I can, ma’am,” it felt odd. To hunt down something lost, something wanted. Then to hunt what no one wanted anymore.

Mrs James attempted to force money into his hands again, but he wouldn��t take it. Not this time. Not anymore. He left her with a promise. Hell or highwater he’d bring her girl back.

Vincent returned to his trailer, his breath caught in his throat when he approached the footlocker again. He swallowed and opened it, pushing aside the dog tags and the papers to find a wooden box buried underneath. He retrieved it and quickly sealed the footlocker and its memories back up.

The box contained a gift. A browning hi-power handgun, the grip was mahogany and the steel blues with silver engravings encroaching up the sides. The word’s “Be Not Afraid” written on the slide. It was polished and clean, never fired. Vincent pressed the cold metal of the slide to his lips. He didn’t need the gun, he knew this, but it allowed him to pretend.

He retrieved a magazine and loaded the weapon with a click of the slide and the hammer. He stuffed the weapon into his waistband and hid extra magazines inside of his jacket. There wasn’t much else to take, none of it he needed, and none of it he’d be able to keep once he was caught up to. Better to travel light.

On his way out Vincent gave the trailer a pat on its siding as a goodbye, and he did the same for his bike. As much as he wanted to take it out with him it just wasn’t practical. So he got into his brown 2001 Ford Ranger and set off without so much as a look back at what had been his home for the better part of three years.

It was a five hour drive to Cincinnati. Vincent drove hard to the Kentucky border, he didn’t know how long before a warrant would be put out for him. But he was sure whatever courtesy he’d gained with the sheriff wouldn’t hold off the feds forever.

He stopped at a twenty-four hour diner just across the state border, the sun having cast itself into the west with an explosion of orange light. Vincent sat down and ordered coffee along with steak and eggs. No one paid him any mind. The radio softly cut through the din of the various truckers in the diner eating and taking a rest. It cut between country blues and Elvis, and Vincent allowed himself to relax.

The last song slowly faded away and a voice replaced it.

“Thank you for listening to 181.6 FM, your voice on the road. I’m Jared Culsinger, and I have here with me Bobby Kinney, he’s the founder of the Preservationist Foundation here to talk about the latest reports of so-called Metahumans appearing across the United States, thanks for being here Bob.”

Vincent froze, mid sip of his coffee, and resisted the urge to spit it out. He could physically feel the palpations of his heart pulsing through his body like ripples in a lake.

“No problem Jared, thanks for having me.”

“Now as it stands the federal government as well as any of the states have refused to comment on the existence of these Metas, so what can you say to people at home that’re skeptical?”

“Well Jared all you have to do is pay attention, multiple medical experts have stated on the record about these cases, we saw just in the news a few weeks ago a young girl burned her way through a concrete wall, these people are out there whether the government wants to admit it or not.”

“And to the people at home should they be concerned at all?”

“They should but I don’t want to fearmonger. Metahumans are people, they just have a condition, they’re scared and they often don’t know how to control what's happening to them. It’s in their best interest as well as the public’s that they be identified and given the help they need.”

Vincent let nothing show on his face or in his actions. He calmly glanced around and it didn’t look like anyone was paying any attention to the radio. He wasn’t even sure what he’d do if he were to be found out; though it was ridiculous enough that anyone could tell what he was.

“So Bob, how would the folk at home be able to tell one of these Metahumans from someone normal?”

“It can be hard, but a few things to look out for. There’s the obvious like them doing things that a human shouldn’t be able to do, feats of strength, injuries that would kill someone else. But what we’ve found is that they can never hide what they are from friends and family, so we find so many of them homeless or drifting. So I’d say give a close eye to anyone who seems to be wandering into town for no good reason, doesn’t seem to have any connections to anyone else, they give vague details about where they’re from. That sort of thing.”

Vincent decided to keep on driving through the night. Only stopping once to catch an hour of two or sleep on a back road off the highway. He made it to Cincinnati by early morning.

The whole place was a mess of office buildings and construction. Vincent never liked cities, but they were good places to disappear into. And harder places to find someone. Whole place smelt of piss, Vincent sneezed.

He drove around a bit, getting a feeling for the area. It didn’t take long for him to wander downtown and soon the streets were lined with bars and clubs. The neon lights flickered brightly even in the brightening light of the morning. He didn’t see anywhere labeled ‘Visions’.

Vincent figured that if Jane were here to go clubbing she would have gotten a room nearby so she wouldn’t have to walk far. He began driving in ever larger circles around the block until he found a hotel which matched the seedy tone this part of the city had.

The receptionist was a lovely middle aged woman who looked Vincent up and down while dragging on a cigarette. Vincent recognized the look, and he wasn’t above using it to his advantage.

“Hello, darlin’” he said, laying on the accent a tad smoother and thicker than he would naturally. “Hopin’ to stay a night or two.”

“Absolutely,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Visiting someone?”

“No one special,” it was a practiced dance, something he’d picked up over the years. “Know any good places to get a drink around here?”

“Depends what you’re drinking,” she said. “What're your tastes, hon?”

Men.

“I like to try new things,” Vincent drawled. “Heard there’s a spot nearby, Visions?”

“Oh that's definitely new, all sorts go there, I’ve been there a few times,” the receptionist leaned on her hand. “Maybe I could take you?”

“Why don’t you sell me where it is, sugar, and I’ll meet you there tonight.”

“It’s a date,” she said, and she scribbled an address and her number on a scrap of paper. “Still needing that room, hon?”

“Something tells me I’ll find a place to stay tonight,” Vincent said with a wink, and the receptionist blushed violently. Vincent sauntered out, he memorized the address she had written down and then tossed the paper without even glancing at her number. In fact he hadn’t even looked at her name tag.

The false face had come easily, the smile practiced, the look in his eyes, the way eh drawed out his vowels. No one taught him this, it was a natural thing. Different face, a different name. Alway walking as somebody else.

Evening came soon enough, and with the neon signs illuminating the dimming streets Vincent. As he walked the streets he realized he felt elated, a smile growing on his face without his consent. The trail, the hunt, the chase, the searching. He missed these things, it felt right, it felt like him.

Once he noticed it, instinctually he tried to push the feeling down out of reflex. Scared of what it meant, of why he felt this way. Forcing himself to remember his first hunt, his first kill. Acid scorched Vincent’s throat. By the time he found the club Vincent was frowning again.

He watched as people lined up outside to get in. It was only half your average club crowd, frat boys and girls dressed in too little for the cold. But the other half was interesting, suits, all older, all were able to skip the main line and enter right away.

Some of the suits the bouncer just glanced at and let in, but others had to wave cash. That was a way in quickly. Vincent was just about done eyeing his way in when he heard buzzing from his glove compartment. He opened it, pushing away the empty cigarillo packs and unpaid parking tickets to find one of his burner phones buzzing away.

Vincent raised his eyebrow, he didn’t get scammers or anything. Anyone who called that number knew it and knew who they were callin. So Vincent flipped it open and answered.

“Mister Valério?”

“Who’s calling?”

“Agent Milton, FBI.”

“Right, and what can I do for you Mister Milton?”

“Is this Vincent Valério I’m speaking to?”

“It very well could be but I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

“Right, well, Mister Valério I have a few questions for you and I’m wondering if you might come down to the local station.”

“Well I’m a might busy right now, Agent,” Vincent glanced behind him out of habit. No one was sneaking up on him.

“I thought as much, when I visited your trailer you weren’t there and your vehicle was gone.”

“Nice of you to stop by.”

“Yes, do you mind telling me where you’ve gone?”

“Off to visit family.”

“Right, according to our records you have no living family.”

“Is that so?” Vincent rummaged around his glove compartment and managed to find a cigarillo. His voice had been calm, but this was a ploy. He had to play this game to buy himself time but he could feel the well of shame in his gut; a cauldron of self disgust that threatened to spew out of his mouth. The taste of tobacco on his lips soothed it slightly.

“Your father died in 2006 right?”

“I’m sure you know already.”

“And you enlisted to the US Army Rangers that same year, correct?”

“You tell me.”

“It’s not exactly normal behaviour to enlist right after a close family member dies is it?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“And then there’s the manner of his death, coroner didn’t even know what he was looking at, it was like something tore him apart from the inside. He couldn't even put down cause of death.”

“I didn’t read that case,” Vincent said. He dragged heavily on his cigarillo as the memory came to him. Gurgling and choking, red spikes piercing flesh from within.

“Listen, Vince, I made this call out of professional courtesy for the work you’ve done and out of respect for you as a veteran but… I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you come into the station or I’ll have to get a warrant.”

“If ya could’ve gotten a warrant you would’ve already,” Vincent said. “So ya’ll either can’t or ain’t wantin' to, either way Agent, you and I ain’t gunna chat again.”

Vincent hung up and snapped the phone in half, tossing it out the window before getting out and approaching the club. He joined the short line of suits who paid to get in. The bouncer raised an eyebrow at him, but accepted the wad of cash Vincent offered him.

“Only 200$ to get in,” he said.

“Keep the change.”

“Much obliged but you sure this is your scene, cowboy?”

“I’m sure, maybe you can point me to who I’d talked to if I wanted something… different?”

A hint of displeasure showed on the bouncers’ face “Talk to Chase at the bar, he’ll set you up.”

“Thank ya”

The pounding beat of music vibrated through the neon halls. Doorman was right, it wasn’t his scene at all. Vincent never did like techno much.

There were three sorts of folks here. The ones with a lot of tattoos and too little clothes. Full of piercings and strange colours all over. Then there were the suits, stiff and coked up; looking for something they could only taste privately. Then there were the staff, all young, too young. Girls and boys both. Vincent felt something settle in his stomach that he didn’t like.

The dance floor was crowded with people lost in a haze of substance and song, neon beams streamed across them like search lights. Older men pulled young women into private rooms furnished in velvet. Vincent noticed the weight of his gun more and more.

Vincent skirted around the crowd and towards the bar, he sat down with a sigh. Pinching his nose, he had to focus on Jane. He began to think through how he would search the place, that was until he was distracted by the bartender.

His messy curly brown hair was pulled back in a short loose tail, his turtle neck hugged his body a little too much. And he smiled sweetly at Vincent, who couldn’t help the grin he got on his face.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“Whatever you’re best at, sugar,” Vincent drawled. The bartender batted his long eyelashes and grinned, reaching down to grab a glass. Vincent swore he was showing himself off.

“What’s a cowboy like you doing here?”

“Looking… for something.”

“Oh yeah?” the bartender delicately placed the drink before him, his nails were painted blue. “What would that be?”

Vincent slowly sipped the drink, tasting sweet whiskey and pomegranate as he looked him over.

“You first, what’s your name, sugar?”

“Chase,” he purred.

“And what’s a pretty little thing like you doing working here?”

“It’s a job,” he shrugged a graceful shoulder. “Now you got a name, cowboy? Or you too mysterious for that?”

“V- Cain”

“Cain,” Chase repeated, tasting the sound of it. “Very mysterious, that your real name?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not at all.”

“Good.”

“Still haven’t told me what you’re looking for, so what is it, cowboy?”

Vincent paused, weighing his options. For all he knew he’d be arrested on return home, one night couldn’t hurt… he snuffed that thought quickly. It was tempting, but not important, he had work to do.

“Looking for something different, taste wise,” Vincent said. “I heard they did that sort of thing around here.”

The playful light dropped from Chase’s eyes and his smile dropped, Vincent hated it.

“Yeah,” he said, he sounded almost robotic. It was as if he was forced to comply. “This way.”

Chase brought Vincent past some curtains and down a long hall, the music faded to a distant hum as they entered a large dimly lit room. There Vincent joined a group of suits, all of whom looked strung out. They sat in plush velvet chairs, watching a dim stage in anticipation. Vincent joined them.

The lights faded into a purple haze and from the curtains came ten women. Girls actually, the oldest couldn’t have been older than twenty, and the youngest was only twelve. Their faces were glazed over, staring off into the middle distance. All were dressed as if they were going to prom; with short skirts dressed full of sequins. The suits perked up, eyeing them and panting like rabid dogs.

Vincent clenches his fists, he could feel a stabbing pain in his heart. His blood physically reacted to his anger, and threatened to reveal itself. He breathed through his nose, and scanned the lineup.

It was hard to recognize her immediately with all the makeup they had plastered on her face. But there she was, Jane. The light from her eyes was gone. Vincent scanned the room, there were bouncers at every corner, likely armed. He would need to get Jane alone first.

Chase came around and handed each man a menu, there displayed was each girl as if she was some premium cut of meat. With her age, her weight, and even her ‘mileage’ and though many of them had a number there Vincent was relieved a little to see Jane’s was zero. The price for each girl was barely that of a new car.

Vincent’s heart pulsed but he maintained an air of calm; he indicated to Chase that he was interested in Jane. The suits chose their prize, Vincent struggled within to not kill them all here and save the other girls from what would happen next. He reminded himself he was here to do a job. One job. And getting himself killed helped no one.

The girls were pulled off the stage and pushed into side rooms, the suits eagerly followed them, panting like dogs. Vincent swallowed back the acid in his throat and followed Jane into the room she was placed in.

She stood waiting for him, staring off into the distance. She shook like a leaf, and blinked back tears. Though she otherwise looked unharmed. As Vincent stood there thinking of what to say she silently began to unclasp her dress.

“Stop,” Vincent said quickly, Jane jumped in fear. Vincent softened his face and knelt down, speaking as calmly as he could.

“Your name is Jane,” he said, and she froze. “Your mother is named Sarah-Lynn James, she sent me here, I’m not here to hurt you, I’m here to get you out.”

“Are you… with the police?”

“Not exactly, my name’s Vincent, just breathe okay?”

Jane continued to sob softly into her hands. Vincent scanned the room, besides the lush bed and cushions, neon lights, and mirrored ceiling; there wasn;t much. No secondary exit. Vincent began considering how far he could get with Jane in tow before he was stopped; not far.

He was considering hiding her under his jacket when the neon lights shut off abruptly and they were left in darkness. Vincent heard shuffling outside, footsteps, shouting. He gripped his pistol and pulled it from his waistband.

Speakers crackled to life, and a soft voice spoke out into the darkness.

“Step out.”

Vincent felt an immense pressure in his head, like the words physically weight a tone on his mind. His legs nearly moved to obey, like he was meant to do so; yet he caught himself. He blinked in confusion, and in that moment of lost focus he didn’t immediately realize Jane had left his side and walked towards the door.

He jumped to his feet and shoved himself in front of her as she stepped into the now bright lights of the stage room. Jane bumping into Vincent’s back was enough to knock her out of her trance and she froze again.

Vincent gripped his pistol with white knuckles but did not raise it, they were surrounded by twelve armed men who pointed pistols and shotguns at them. In the middle of them was a portly balding man who smiled brightly at him.

“It doesn’t work the best on people like us,” he said, his voice reverberating through Vincent’s skull. His heart beat thumped in his head.

“You don’t recognize me but I recognize you… Vincent, right?”

Vincent said nothing, he did his best to tune out what he was saying and scanned the room. Only one exit.

“You look good, been working out? You’re not as skinny as you were but then we were both young.”

Vincent observed the armed men, they all had that glazed empty-minded look about them. Behind them, just barely, Vincent could swear he saw Chase hovering behind them.

“I was in the program too, Vince, I’m Basil remember? Cut pretty early because they realized my voice… well everyone hears it… everyone listens you know?”

Vincent was having trouble not listening but he managed to keep his face blank even though he felt an urge to reply. Like he was obligated to, like he wanted to.

“No matter what I say, everyone wants to listen and do as I say, except us, except metas, the stronger they are the more they resist,” Basil laughed. “Took some trial and error to figure out, but I realized what this meant. These people, they’re meant to serve me, I’m meant to command you see? That's why I have this voice.”

Vincent tried to remember how many bullets he had. Thirteen rounds in each mag, one locked and loaded, two more in his pocket. That made thirty-nine rounds. More than enough if he was accurate, but he didn’t know if these thugs were wearing body armour, or if there were more waiting to bust in.

“I realized these people are like cattle, so I treat them like such, bought and sold, meat for me to do as I will; but you, oh your power is even greater. You were a warrior. I could use a warrior, Vince.”

Vince spotted Chase again, he was staring at him from behind the thugs. His eyes were wide, and has lost the glazed look that he had before. He stared at Vincent, and at Jane. Vincent looked at him intensely.

“All your life, Vince, you’ve been a lapdog for the state, for the obsolete! We’re the next step, stronger, faster, smarter, it just takes time; that’s what I’m building here don’t you see? A world where we don’t have to walk as if we’re something we’re not!”

There was a pause, as Basil spread his arms open in expectation. Vincent stared at him unimpressed, and the smile slowly faded on Basil’s face.

There was a crash and within a moment the whole room was plunged into darkness. Vincent reacted immediately, grabbing Jane and throwing them both to the side. Lunging behind the stage the darkness was cut with bright muzzle flashes as the thugs opened fire.

Vincent shoved Jane onto the floor and covered her body with his as the bullets ripped around them. When there was a break in the gunfire he quickly popped out of cover and spit out a flurry of ten rounds, unsure if he even hit anything.

Jane was crying, Vincent’s ears rang with noise. He smelt blood, and swore he felt sand between his fingers and the scent of blood mixed with the stench of burning oil.

He grit his teeth and popped out of cover to fire three more times, until his pistol clicked empty. This time he definitely heard a body hit the floor; he dove back down to quickly flick out the empty magazine and replace it with a fresh one.

The door to the room slammed open, light from the bar spilled into the darkness and illuminated a wide strip of the room. Five or six more bouncers rushed in, and Vincient stood and fired accurately as they paused to take stock of the situation. Two shots per man in rapid succession. Vincent threw himself backwards, his back slamming into the floor as bullets ripped through the stage, throwing wood splinters everywhere.

Vincent felt his last magazine slip from his waistband and clatter to the floor, sliding under the stage and into the dark where he couldn’t see. While controlling his breathing he pulled back the slide on his pistol and saw he only had one round left. Next to useless, he stuck the weapon into his jacket.

“There’s no way out of this, Vince!” Basil shouted from across the room.

Vincent felt Jane’s trembling hand holding onto his arm. His heart beat hard in his chest.

“All your life you’ve been running, the only way out of this is to show me what you are!”

Vincent placed his hand over Jane’s, his fingers cracked like they were full of ice.

“Keep your eyes closed and don’t move until I come back,” he said softly.

Vincent’s heartbeat palpated through his body. Splinters formed under his flesh, spreading like ice. Hardening into crystal. Vincent found a nail on the floor and picked it up, before he got to his feet and slowly stepped out of cover.

He kept his hands open and arms spread and Basil kept his men steady. The lights flickered back on and Vincent saw he was able to bring down seven of the thugs.

“I know what you are,” Basil said, grinning triumphantly.

“Doubt it,” Vincent said, and he took the nail to his wrist and tore open his flesh.

Crimson blood spurt forth in a wide shower, immediately solidifying into razor sharp fragments which hailed down onto Basil and his thugs. They ducked and stumbled, covering their heads and eyes.

Vincent flicked his wrist and blood rapidly formed a long spear which snapped off from his open wound, he gripped it and swung it in an arc knocking three of the men down by sweeping their legs. Adjusting his grip he shoved the point into the throat of the man to the far right, his pistol clattered to the ground as he gurgled on his own blood.

Gunshots rang out, Vincent felt two pinpricks of pain on his back. He dropped the spear and turned, seeing a bouncer staring at him with wide eyes. A spike formed in Vicnent’s hand and he tossed it forcibly so it flew through the air and buried itself in his forehead.

He whipped around and with the rapid movement of his arms Vicnent unleashed a flurry of spikes into the remaining bouncers between him and Basil. They ducked and stumbled to avoid them, but Vincent’s aim was true, and all of them fell to the ground with a six inch spike buried in their flesh somewhere.

The room stank of blood and echoed with the sounds of dead and dying men. Basil lay on his back, staring up at Vincent with a mixture of fear and excitement.

“Don’t you see what you're capable of? Don’t you see what you are?”

Vincent approached, blood dripping from his arm. He grabbed Basil by the throat and hoisted him up.

“We’re… brothers, you and I,” he croaked.

Vincent pressed his palm against Basil’s eye.

“I killed my brother”

His skull cracked loudly as the crystal shard shot right through his brain.

Jane kept her eyes shut as Vincent led her out of the club, a trail of blood followed them. Yet just as quickly as it strained the floor the blood began to ripple and flow; pushed by an invisible current as it followed Vincent. Crawling up his leg to squeeze its way into his wound. The crystals shattered apart and melted into liquid which followed the flow. Vincent’s heart pumped painfully, the second he got to his car he popped an aspirin.

He only told Jane to open her eyes when the club was far out of sight. She refused to listen until they were out of Cincinnati and headed towards the state border.

Vincent inspected his wrist, only a thin scar remained. It had been so long since he’d done that. It felt… he hated that it felt good, like a pressure was released, a weight off his shoulders. Yet it also came with sickness, his heart hadn’t stopped aching. His head sounded, his blood felt heavy; constantly reminded of what was inside him.

“Why didn’t ya call the police?”

“What?” Vincent asked, starting out of his own thoughts.

“The cops, why didn’t you call ‘em when you found me?” Jane asked.

“Couldn’t be sure they’d actually help,” Vincent said. “Place has been there for a while, good chance five-oh know ‘bout it, and they’ve done nothin.”

Jane was silent for a long while, Vincent scanned his mirrors. Looking for anyone tailing him, be it Basil’s goons or the feds.

“He called you a Meta,” Jane said. Vicnent glanced at her in his rearview mirror, she was staring out the window at the passing farmland.

“Yep.”

“I’ve heard talk about them on the radio, folk don’t like ‘em.”

“Yep.”

“That… man, he was one.”

“Yep.”

“Are you?”

Vincent considered the road for a moment.

“I’m just here to get you home.”

They rode in silence for a long while, until Jane spoke again.

“I won’t tell no one.”

Vincent couldn’t help but smile softly to himself. He saw a turnoff that led to a service plaza, little more than a gas station, a truck stop, and a few other amenities. But there was a McDonalds.

“You hungry, kid?”

Soon enough Jane was sitting munching on fries and a burger, she even managed a little smile. Vincent smiled back as he sipped a cup of coffee.

He tried not to think about how Jane would turn out later, how any of this would affect her in life. But maybe, just maybe, a few quiet moments feeling like a little kid again would help. He sure as hell never got that.

“Can I get a McFlurry?”

“Knock yourself out, kid.”

They took their time but soon enough they were off again down the highway, Jane slurping down a milkshake and Vincent feeling a little bit better. The drive back to Tennessee was remarkably uneventful, Vincent even found himself not looking around for danger. A sense of peace came over him, the last thing he did as a free man was a wholly good one.

He pulled into the driveway of the James home, Mrs James opened the door, her eyes welling with tears. Vincent had hardly parked his truck when Jane ran out and sprinted into her mothers arms. They were both wailing and laughing, touching each other's faces.

Vincent stood off, hands in his pockets. Allowing them their moment, before he quietly stepped back into his truck.

“Wait! Mister Valério!” Mrs Jones rushed up to the window of the truck, leaning in to kiss Vincent on the cheek.

“Is there sure there’s no way I can pay you?”

“Like I said, ma’am, the casserole is enough, take care of your daughter now,” Vincent looked over at Jane. “Stay out of trouble, you hear?”

“Yes sir,” Jane said with a smile.

Sirens echoed through the air and Vincent pulled out of their driveway, speeding off as the sirens got louder. He blew past the turn that led to hsi trailer, seeing the distant glow of police lights heading that way.

He turned back towards the highway. He was sure he wouldn’t get far, and a part of him screamed to give it up. Yet a more base animalistic voice drove him to run, flee, at least try to escape the noose tightening around his neck.

Vincent turned onto the highway, as he did so, seemingly out of nowhere, three black SUV’s turned onto the highway with him. They matched his speed exactly. Vincent glanced at them through his mirrors, their windows were tinted illegally dark. Feds.

He pressed onto his gas, the old engine in his truck shuttered. One of the SUV’s pulled ahead of him. Vincent tried to swerve but hsi front locked with the SUV’s rear and pitted him into a spin. Vincent kept himself from rolling over and came to a stop, looking up to see his truck boxed in and surrounded by men with guns and dark shades.

Game over.

Vincent placed a cigarillo in his mouth and lit ii, casually stepping out. He half expected to get shot right there and then, but he wasn’t. He frowned. Cops weren;t this quiet, even Feds. He looked around, they all had weapons trained on him, but no shouts, no commands to see his hands, nothing. No logos either…

“Mister Valério,” a woman’s voice said. Vincent turned around, a brown woman in a suit approached him. Her heels clicked against the pavement, the tip of a tattoo poked out from her collarbone. She extended a hand.

“You can call me Saturn,” she said, her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I have a career opportunity for you.”

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