#though its better to stay dry in any case

[bigolechompers]

as someone who has grown up in weather on the slightly colder side i have a pretty good idea what one might want to wear when it gets cold as fuck and what sort of things someone who lives in a cold as fuck area might wear

but i have no idea what constitutes as sensible wear in a hoot as fuck area like what the hell do you wear and why??

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt. 7

Word Count: 19.4k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, dubcon, vaginal sex, creampie, breeding, possession, mentions of pregnancy, FILTHY sex, fighting, gunshots, mentions of murder, manipulation, overstimulation if you squint, pet names like, kitten, sweetie, honey, alcohol consumption, drunk sex, Xavier appears

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh, @eliasxchocolate, @nozomiaj, @xmiisuki, @sylus-kitten, @its-regretti , @m0onlustre , @ve1vet-cake, @letgobro, @starkeysslvt, @yarafic, @prince-nikko, @leiaglmela @connorsui, @iluvmewwwww75, @biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer, @mysssticc, @babygirl-panda19, @someone-somewheres-stuff, @zaynesjasmine1, @honnylemontea, @altariasu, @the-slytherin-poet, @sorryimakira, @pearlymel, @emidpsandia , @angel-jupiter, @hwangintakswifey, @webmvie, @housesortinghat,

AN: Hi all, I know this chapter is a tad bit long, but I promise, its WORTH it. Per usual this is on A03! I'm like a day late from my usual uploading schedule (usually one chapter every 3-4 days) so I hope yall take this extra long chapter as an apology. I did not hold back on the smut, I genuinely hope yall enjoy!

“Let’s see…” he murmured, pretending to ponder, as if this were some casual decision for him to make. His fingers traced the nape of your neck, their touch light but chilling, sending jolts of dread through you. His hand moved with a practiced, deliberate care, as though every inch of your body was territory he owned. "Which one of these spots," he whispered, his voice taking on a dark, playful edge, "will make this kitten mewl?"

Read Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5 Pt.6 Pt.8

Xavier couldn’t tell how long he had been walking. Time had blurred into the inky darkness of the N109 Zone, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him with every step. His legs felt heavy, his throat dry, but his focus remained sharp. The soft, steady ping of his hunter’s watch echoed in the silence, pulling him forward. Somewhere ahead, the shoe store waited—the only lead he had left. And all he had to rely on was the sword strapped across his chest and his unwavering will to find you.

His fingers brushed the hilt of the blade as he walked, its weight a cold reassurance against his body. He wasn't sure how effective it would be against any other humans that attempted to mug him as he was used to fighting wanderers with it, but it would have to do. He was glad he had at least gotten out the car with it. He had moved it to his chest in case someone decided to sneak behind him while he was distracted and take it. Out here, in this wasteland, he was vulnerable without a vehicle, without the tools and resources he normally carried. But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was you.

The streets around him were desolate, the buildings crumbling and lifeless, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. He could hear his own breath in the silence, shallow but steady, the cold air biting at his skin. Every now and then, he’d catch the distant echo of movement—too far off to be a threat, but close enough to remind him he wasn’t alone in this forsaken place. The N109 Zone was crawling with people desperate enough to do anything, and he knew he needed to stay alert.

He couldn’t shake the memory of what had happened—the screaming woman, the setup, the way his car had been stolen right from under him. He cursed under his breath, the sting of his own stupidity still fresh. He had fallen for it so easily, and now he was on foot, more vulnerable than ever.

Xavier clenched his jaw, replaying the earlier scene in his head. The way she had cried out for help, clutching her side like she was in agony, the way her eyes had flickered with panic. He should have known better. He did know better. But in that moment, with everything closing in, he had let his instincts take over. He thought he was helping someone. Instead, he had been played.

“Dammit” he muttered to himself, fingers tightening on the hilt of his sword as he kept up a steady pace. He couldn’t afford mistakes like that, not now. Not when you were out there, somewhere, needing him to stay sharp. He had to be smarter, more careful. The N109 Zone wasn’t a place for second chances.

His legs were growing heavy, the muscles in his calves burning from the relentless pace. Every few steps, he felt the dull throb of fatigue creeping into his knees and hips, a reminder that his body wasn’t invincible. His feet, blistered and sore, screamed for him to stop, to rest—if only for a moment. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

"Just a little further," he muttered under his breath, clenching his teeth against the pain.

He had been walking for what felt like hours, the weight of the sword strapped across his chest growing heavier with every step. His back ached from the constant pressure, his shoulders tense and knotted. But none of that mattered. He couldn’t afford to stop. Not when he was so close.

Each step felt like it might be the last, but the thought of you—struggling, god knows where—kept him moving. The sound of your voice from the phone call replayed in his mind, the fear and desperation in your tone fueling him, reminding him why he had to keep going.

The streets began to blur together, one broken block after another. His breaths came in shallow bursts, his lungs burning as he fought through the exhaustion. He was tired—no, he was beyond tired—but his will to find you was stronger than the fatigue gnawing at him. He couldn’t let it win.

Up ahead, the faint glow of a yellowed sign caught his eye. It was flickering weakly, casting long, broken shadows across the pavement. He squinted, his tired eyes struggling to focus. There it was—the address the watch had been guiding him toward. The shoe store.

Xavier let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His feet felt like lead, every step toward the store a battle against the growing urge to collapse. But the sight of the sign was enough to keep him moving. He was almost there.

As Xavier drew closer to the shoe store, he couldn’t help but feel a knot of doubt tightening in his chest. The outside of the building didn’t match what he had expected. The flickering sign was barely legible, the letters worn and faded, and the windows were grimy with age, giving the place a run-down appearance. It didn’t look like the kind of high-end store that sold the sleek, expensive boots the clerk had described—the same shoes your captor had been wearing.

He slowed his pace, his tired feet grateful for the brief respite as he studied the building. This can’t be right, he thought, a frown pulling at his lips. The store looked more like a relic from a forgotten time, barely holding itself together in the decaying sprawl of the N109 Zone. The mismatched paint on the door and the rusted metal frame didn’t scream wealth or sophistication. Nothing about it said “luxury.”

Xavier’s mind raced, questioning whether his watch had guided him to the wrong place. The man who took you, S, wasn’t just some street thug. He had resources, money—it was clear from the boots alone. So why here? Why a store that looked like it belonged in the past, forgotten like rest of the city?

His fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword, the familiar weight grounding him. The exhaustion still gnawed at him, his body screaming for rest, but he pushed the thought aside. He didn’t have time for second guesses. Even if this place didn’t look like much, he had to see it through. There was a reason his watch had led him here, and right now, it was the only lead he had.

Xavier’s blue eyes narrowed as he approached the door, the soft ping of his watch still steady on his wrist. It had never been wrong before. Maybe there was more to this store than what the outside suggested. Maybe S had connections, or maybe this place wasn’t as abandoned as it seemed. Either way, he had to be sure.

With a deep breath, he stepped toward the entrance, his hand resting on the door handle. He could feel the tension building inside him, his muscles coiled and ready for whatever might be waiting on the other side.

Xavier pushed open the door, bracing himself for the dingy interior he had expected based on the store’s run-down exterior. But as he stepped inside, he was immediately hit with a wave of disbelief. The space before him was nothing like the crumbling facade suggested. It was… luxurious.

Golden light bathed the polished floors, and the soft scent of leather and expensive cologne filled the air. Rows of sleek, high-end shoes lined the walls, each pair displayed under soft spotlights that highlighted their craftsmanship. Everything from the plush chairs in the waiting area to the glass display cases screamed elegance. The contrast between the worn-down exterior and the opulent interior was staggering.

For a moment, Xavier stood frozen in the doorway, his tired feet sinking into a plush carpet that muffled every sound. This wasn’t just a shoe store—it was a shrine to wealth and exclusivity, hidden behind the illusion of neglect. Clearly, this place wasn’t meant for just anyone. The shabby outside had been nothing but a mask, a way to keep out the prying eyes of the city’s less desirable inhabitants.

They were certainly selling more than just shoes.

He scanned the room, taking it all in. The shoes were high-end, just as the clerk had said—designer labels, rare materials, the kind of footwear that cost more than most people made in a month. The kind of shoes that only someone with serious money could afford. Someone like S.

Looks really could be deceiving.

Xavier’s mind raced. If this store catered to people like S, then maybe he was finally on the right track. Maybe the person who had taken you had come through here, thinking no one would ever suspect a connection to a place buried so deep in the N109 Zone.

His heart pounded, adrenaline kicking in as the exhaustion in his legs momentarily faded. He was closer to answers than he had been all night.

Behind the sleek glass counter at the back of the store, two men stood in conversation, their voices low but animated. One of them was tall and broad-shouldered, his tailored suit fitting him perfectly, the fabric shimmering subtly under the warm light. His dark hair was slicked back, and his fingers twitched as he gestured while speaking, a fat cigar wedged between them, sending curls of thick smoke into the air. The smoke hung heavily around his face, casting shadows over his sharp, predatory features. His eyes were dark and calculating, darting between the man beside him and the wares in the store, as if always on the lookout for the next move.

The other man was shorter, with a stockier build and a face that looked like it had seen one too many fights. His nose was crooked, a clear sign of old breaks, and his lips were drawn into a permanent scowl. He leaned casually against the counter, but there was a hardness to his posture, like he was always ready to snap into action. His eyes, though half-lidded with boredom, flicked toward the door with keen awareness as soon as Xavier entered.

For a moment, the two continued their conversation, but when they noticed Xavier standing there, something changed. The man with the cigar froze mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto Xavier. His gaze shifted immediately to the sword strapped across Xavier's chest, the blade unmistakably visible under the store's soft lighting. The other man straightened, his scowl deepening as he looked Xavier up and down, suspicion clear on his battered face.

They exchanged a brief glance, their conversation forgotten. It was clear Xavier didn’t fit the usual profile of their clientele—well-dressed, wealthy types who’d come for rare shoes, not a man wandering in with a weapon strapped to his body, his clothes dusted from the road, looking out of place among the store’s refined luxury.

The man with the cigar took a slow drag, blowing out a cloud of smoke before speaking. His voice was smooth but laced with tension. “You lost, pal? Don’t think we’ve seen you around here before.” His eyes lingered on the sword a little too long.

The other man crossed his arms, his posture stiffening. “We don’t usually get the sword-swinging type in here,” he added with a sneer, his tone carrying an edge of hostility.

Xavier could feel their eyes drilling into him, the tension in the room palpable. They weren’t used to outsiders—especially ones who looked like they were ready for a fight.

Xavier remained unfazed by their stares, standing tall as he took in the two men sizing him up. His heart beat steadily beneath his chest, the weight of the sword across his body a constant reminder of the danger he was prepared to face. But he wasn’t here to start a fight—not yet, anyway.

“I’m looking for a pair of boots,” Xavier said, his voice calm and even. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the crumpled pamphlet the clerk back in Linkon had given him. He held it out, offering it to the taller man.

The taller man raised a dark eyebrow, his cigar still smoldering between his fingers. He didn’t say anything at first, just flicked his eyes from Xavier’s face to the pamphlet in his hand. After a moment of tense silence, he reached forward and plucked the paper from Xavier’s grasp, holding it between two fingers like it was something foreign. He glanced at it, his expression unreadable as his eyes scanned the image of the shoes.

"These," Xavier continued, nodding at the pamphlet, "were mentioned to me by a clerk. Said I could only find them here. Figured I’d check it out.”

The taller man took a long drag of his cigar before flicking the ash into a nearby tray, his gaze never leaving the pamphlet. Slowly, his lips curled into something that might’ve been a smile, but there was no warmth behind it—only suspicion. He flipped the paper over, examining it from every angle, as though looking for some hidden meaning.

"Yeah, these are high-end," the man finally said, his voice slow, almost mocking. “Not the kind of thing just anyone walks in and buys.” He held the pamphlet up, the glow from the store lights glinting off the printed image. “And you don’t look like someone who usually shops here.”

The stocky man leaned forward, still watching Xavier closely, his scowl deepening as if he didn’t trust a single word. “So, who exactly sent you here, huh?” His voice was sharper now, probing. “You’re not exactly our regular kind of customer.”

Xavier met their suspicion head-on, his expression calm and unwavering. He wasn’t here for their games. He was here for answers.

Xavier stood there for a moment, weighing his options. He could lie, make up some story about why he was really there, but deep down, he knew it wouldn’t get him anywhere. These men were sharp, too familiar with deception to fall for anything that didn't add up. He needed answers, not more dead ends. So, he decided to be straightforward—at least, as much as he could afford to be.

"I'm looking for someone," Xavier said, his voice low and steady. He kept his eyes on the taller man, watching his every reaction. “A man who goes by 'S'. I was told he might have been in here recently, maybe bought a pair of those shoes.”

For a moment, the room seemed to freeze. The taller man’s fingers stopped tapping the pamphlet, and the stocky one stiffened, his arms crossing even tighter over his chest. They exchanged a brief, tense glance.

Xavier could feel the shift in the air, the sudden unease hanging between them. It was subtle, but unmistakable. Whoever this "S" was, they knew him, or at least knew of him. And the fact that Xavier had mentioned his name seemed to set off alarm bells.

The taller man’s smile faded, replaced by a cold, guarded expression. He took another drag from his cigar, blowing the smoke into the air as he stared at Xavier, sizing him up once more. “S?” he repeated, his voice slow and deliberate, as if testing the waters.

“Never heard of him,” the stocky man cut in, his voice gruff, almost too quick. “Nobody like that shops here.”

Xavier held their gaze, not flinching. He could see the flicker of worry behind their eyes. They were hiding something. His instincts told him they knew exactly who he was talking about, but the way they clammed up the second he mentioned "S" told him they were afraid—afraid of being connected to something, or someone, dangerous.

The taller man folded the pamphlet neatly and set it down on the counter, his movements slow, deliberate. “You sure you’re not lost, friend?” he asked, his tone flat, giving nothing away. “This isn’t the kind of place you just wander into looking for people. This ain't the lost and found.”

Xavier felt the tension in the room thicken. It was clear they were stonewalling him, and the last thing they wanted was to get involved in whatever it was he was digging into. Whether it was out of fear of S or something else, they were keeping their mouths shut.

Xavier, sensing the deadlock and knowing he had to break it, leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as he played his next card. “Look, I’m not just some guy wandering in off the street,” he said, his tone conspiratorial. “I’ve got something that could be worth your while. High-grade protocores. Rare, illegal, and powerful enough to charge just about anything—if you know what you’re doing.” It was a lie, of course. He had no such thing, but he was banking on the fact that the promise of something so valuable might loosen their lips.

The taller man’s eyes narrowed, his cigar still smoldering between his fingers. He glanced at his stocky companion, who gave a subtle nod, before turning his full attention back to Xavier. “Protocores, huh? Those are worth more than a few pairs of shoes, friend,” the taller man said slowly, his voice laced with skepticism. “Where exactly did you get your hands on something like that?”

Xavier didn’t hesitate. He knew he had to sell the lie convincingly. “Can't say,” he said casually, leaning back slightly, as if it were no big deal. “You don’t get this far in the city without knowing a few people. Let’s just say I have connections.”

Xavier looked at them, not breaking eye contact, praying he looked confident enough to seem truthful.

The two men exchanged another look, this one lingering just a bit longer. The doubt was still there, but now it was mixed with greed. If there was one thing people in places like this couldn’t resist, it was the allure of something rare and illegal—especially if it was valuable.

The stocky man finally broke the silence, his scowl softening slightly as he uncrossed his arms. “Alright, we’ll bite,” he said, his voice less hostile now. “You’ve got these protocores, and you want information. Fair enough. What exactly are you looking to know?”

Xavier kept his expression calm, but inside, he could feel the tension slowly starting to ease. He was getting somewhere. “I’m looking for a man who bought those high-end boots recently,” he said, nodding to the shoes on display. “You said no one like S shops here, but I think you know more than you’re letting on.”

The taller man’s eyes flickered again, and for the first time, Xavier saw the cracks forming in their stone-faced resistance. The man took a long drag on his cigar, the smoke curling around his face as he exhaled. “Two guys come in here fairly regularly,” he finally admitted, his voice low. “Both of them wear masks. Don't ask names, don't care to. They both bought the same pair of boots you're talking about.”

Xavier’s heart skipped a beat. “Two men?” he repeated, his mind racing. He had been certain that S was the one who took you, but now... two masked men? That changed everything. “You sure it was two?”

The stocky man nodded. “Yeah, two of ‘em. Paid in full, no questions asked. They didn’t stick around long. Didn’t want to be noticed.” He leaned in a little, lowering his voice. “But they were a tad bit annoying. Seemed pretty close, cracking jokes and whatnot. One of them called the other "bigfoot". Got a laugh out of me".

Xavier’s mind spun with this new information. He had always assumed S was acting alone, but this revelation changed everything. If there were two of them, that meant he wasn’t just dealing with a single captor. Were these men working together to take you? And if so, what the hell were they planning?

“Anything else?” Xavier pressed, trying to hide the shock from his voice. “Did they say where they were headed? Anything at all?”

The taller man took another drag on his cigar, the smoke swirling in the dim light. “Didn’t say much. But they left in a hurry. Seemed like they had somewhere to be. Somewhere in the N109 Zone, from what I could gather. They didn’t strike me as the kind of guys who hang around too long.”

Xavier’s mind raced as he processed the information. Two men, both masked, buying the exact boots that matched the footprint seen in your apartment. This was bigger than he thought.

Xavier's pulse quickened as the conversation took an unexpected turn. He had to push this further. Keeping his voice steady, he asked, “Have you also seen a girl? Someone...matching this description?” He gave them a rundown of your features, his tone deliberately casual, though every fiber of his being was on high alert. The taller man's reaction was immediate and telling—his eyes widened ever so slightly.

“A girl?” the taller man echoed, his voice laced with curiosity. His gaze flickered to his companion before returning to Xavier.

Xavier nodded, fighting to keep his expression calm despite the tension building inside him. “Yeah. She would’ve come through here recently. Looks...rough.”

The man tapped his cigar against the ashtray, his brows furrowing in thought. “You know, now that you mention it…” He paused, his gaze sharpening as if recalling something. “I did see my bud, Reese, not too long ago before I came in. He was walking around with a girl that kinda looked like that. Thought it was strange, actually.”

Xavier’s heartbeat thudded in his chest, but he kept his face neutral. “Reese?”

“Yeah,” the taller man said with a smirk, taking another slow drag from his cigar. “She looked like shit, though. Like she’d been through hell. I was gonna ask him what was up, but I didn’t wanna get involved in whatever he’s got going on these days. Reese has been... keeping a low profile lately. Wonder what he’s up to now.”

Xavier’s mind raced and he felt like he just struck gold. Reese. Another name—another lead. The pieces were starting to fall into place, but there were still so many unanswered questions. Reese...was this the man you had mentioned over the phone that was with you? Either way, if this man had seen you with him, Xavier was one step closer to finding you.

His jaw tightened, the weight of urgency settling over him again. “Where can I find Reese?”

The taller man seemed to mull it over for a moment, his eyes narrowing in thought. Finally, with a sigh, he stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, the smoke curling lazily into the air as he leaned forward. “You want to know where to find Reese, huh? Well, you can find him over on the east side of the city,” he said, his voice low and casual. “But don’t get your hopes up. He’s never in one place for long. Always on the move. Kinda quiet too, y’know?”

He rattled off a series of directions and a description of a house, pointing out a few places where Reese was known to frequent, though there was no guarantee he’d be there when Xavier arrived. It was a lead, though—a real one. Xavier nodded, his mind already turning over the possibilities.

Just as he was about to thank them and leave, the smaller man, who had been quiet for a while, suddenly piped up. “Alright, enough talking,” he snapped, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Where are these protocores you were bragging about?”

Xavier could feel the tension in the room spike instantly. He had known this moment would come, and he had been prepared for it, but now that they were pressing him, the lie felt razor-thin. He could see the smaller man’s patience wearing thin, and the taller one watching him with quiet intensity.

Xavier's grin didn’t falter as he lied, but he could feel the weight of their growing suspicion thickening the air. “I’ll be back with the protocores,” he said, his voice smooth. “Just need to track down Reese first. After I get what I need, we can make the trade.”

The taller man’s expression darkened, the faint amusement fading from his face. His eyes darted to the smaller man, who had already started to reach for something beneath the counter. Xavier felt his muscles tense, every instinct screaming that things were about to go south.

“Yeah?” the smaller man sneered, his voice sharp. “You think we’re that stupid? You expect us to believe you’re just gonna walk out and come back with illegal protocores for a couple of thugs like us?”

Before Xavier could respond, the smaller man whipped out a gun from behind the counter, followed almost instantly by the taller man drawing his own firearm.

“Don’t think so, pal,” the taller man growled. “You’re not going anywhere without giving us what you promised.”

In that split second, Xavier’s mind went cold and focused, his body moving on pure reflex. He wasn’t going to wait for them to make the first move. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, pulling it free in a smooth motion just as the first shot rang out.

The bullet whizzed past his head, grazing the air where he’d just been standing. Xavier moved like lightning, his blade slicing through the space between him and the men as he spun out of the line of fire. The sword was an extension of his body, deflecting the second shot with a sharp clang as metal met metal.

The store was small, too cramped for a proper firefight, and that was the only advantage he had. He darted between the shelves, using the displays as cover as more bullets flew past him, shattering glass and sending shoes tumbling to the floor. His feet moved quickly, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, pushing him to act faster, think sharper.

“Get him!” the smaller man shouted, his voice thick with rage, but Xavier was already in motion, anticipating their next move.

With a swift slash, Xavier knocked the gun from the smaller man’s hand, sending it skittering across the floor. The taller man fired again, the flash of the muzzle lighting up the store in bursts, but Xavier was quick, his sword a blur as he deflected another shot, closing the distance between them.

There was no time to think—only to act. He couldn’t risk staying any longer. The exit was in sight, and Xavier knew he had to make a break for it.

As Xavier faced down the two armed men, his instincts kicked into overdrive. He wasn’t just fast—he had something else up his sleeve. Something that had saved him more times than he could count.

His Evol.

In the split second after the taller man raised his gun to fire again, Xavier made a decision. He’d have to use it. His fingers tightened on the end of his sword, but deep inside, he reached for the light, feeling the familiar surge of energy that came with it. The taller man aimed, ready to fire, but Xavier didn’t give him the chance.

With a flicker of thought, a blinding flash erupted from Xavier’s body, the entire store flooding with a searing white light. It was like staring into the heart of a star—overwhelming and inescapable.

Both men shouted in surprise, their hands flying to shield their eyes, but it was too late. The light had already done its job. They staggered, momentarily blinded, their arms swinging wildly as they tried to find him in the confusion.

“Wha—what the hell is this?!” the smaller man yelled, his voice frantic as he stumbled backward, clattering to the floor in agony. The taller man cursed under his breath, blinking furiously, but all he could see was the brilliant afterglow burned into his retinas.

Xavier didn’t waste a second. With the men disoriented and helpless, he made his move. His sword glinted in the light as he slashed out, knocking the gun from the taller man’s grip before spinning toward the door. The sound of their shouts barely registered over the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

The door loomed ahead, and with one final burst of speed, Xavier pushed through it, escaping into the night. The cool air hit his face like a slap, the sudden contrast from the heat of the fight inside momentarily grounding him.

Behind him, the men were still shouting, stumbling around blindly, their voices growing fainter as he sprinted down the street. He didn’t look back. The light was already beginning to fade, but it had bought him the time he needed.

Xavier’s feet pounded against the pavement as he ran, the city’s crumbling streets blurring around him. The shouting from inside the store had stopped, but he knew they wouldn’t just let him go that easily. They’d recover, and when they did, they’d be looking for him.

He turned sharply down an alleyway, his breath ragged in his throat, his mind already turning to his next move. Reese was out there—on the east side of town—and now, with the information he had, he was closer than ever to finding you.

Xavier’s feet pounded against the pavement, but with every step, a bone-deep exhaustion gnawed at him. The burst of energy he had unleashed through his Evol had taken its toll—draining what little strength he had left. His body ached, muscles protesting with every movement. He tried to push through it, to keep running, but it was as if his legs were filled with lead. His vision blurred at the edges, his head spinning. The lack of sleep was catching up with him fast.

He stumbled over a crack in the pavement, his feet dragging beneath him as the world around him spun. His breath came in ragged bursts, and the streetlights seemed to blur, their light flickering in and out of focus. A sharp, relentless ache had settled into his bones, and his vision dimmed as a wave of dizziness overtook him.

He fought it, clenching his fists, trying to force himself to keep going. But then a deeper voice inside cut through the haze. You can’t find her if you’re dead on your feet.

His steps slowed, and he blinked hard, fighting the swirling darkness closing in at the edges of his vision. He needed rest—just for a little while. His body wasn’t made for Earth’s atmosphere, not for this endless strain. His Evol had drained what little energy he had left, and he couldn’t keep pushing through it. Not like this.

"Just for a little bit," Xavier muttered to himself, staggering toward a shadowy alleyway. His eyes caught on an old, abandoned house at the far end of the block. The building was crumbling, its windows shattered and the door barely hanging on its hinges, but it offered some semblance of shelter. It was better than nothing.

I can’t find her if I’m exhausted, he reasoned with himself, though guilt already clawed at him. Every second he rested felt like time slipping away—time you didn’t have. But he knew if he kept going like this, he’d be no good to you when he did find you. He’d collapse somewhere on the side of the road, useless and beaten by exhaustion. He couldn’t let that happen.

Xavier staggered toward the house, the world tilting around him as he shoved the door open. The hinges groaned in protest, but he ignored the noise, stumbling inside. Dust swirled through the air, and the floorboards creaked beneath his boots, but he was already beyond caring. The interior was dark, musty, but a worn, sagging couch caught his eye in the dim light.

He dropped onto it without a second thought, his entire body aching with relief as he sank into the old fabric. The sword strapped across his chest rested heavily against him, but even the weight of the weapon couldn’t keep him awake. His limbs felt like lead, and despite the pounding in his mind telling him to get up, to keep moving, sleep pulled at him relentlessly.

His last coherent thought was of you—somewhere out there, waiting for him. Just for a little bit, he told himself again, his eyelids fluttering shut. Then I’ll find you.

Sleep came hard and fast, dragging him down into the deep, dreamless void.

When Xavier finally woke, he bolted upright, his heart hammering in his chest. His mind raced, scrambling to make sense of where he was, his breath coming in short gasps. For a moment, he stared at the cracked walls of the abandoned house, confusion gripping him. Then it hit him—he had fallen asleep. He didn’t know how long he had been out, but his body felt sluggish and stiff, like too much time had passed.

His heart hammered harder in his chest as his hand instinctively reached for his pocket, fumbling for his phone. His fingers trembled as he pulled it out and flipped it open, the cold glow of the screen casting a harsh light on his face.

His eyes locked onto the almost dead battery and then the date.

Three days.

Xavier’s breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening as the realization hit him like a gut punch. He blinked, staring at the screen, hoping—praying—that he was reading it wrong. But no. Three full days had passed.

"Three days…" The words felt foreign, like they didn’t belong to him, as if acknowledging them made the situation real. Three days of nothing. Three days of lost time. His stupid body had failed him once again.

He cursed under his breath, his frustration boiling over into something sharper, hotter. How had he let this happen? He had only meant to rest for a few hours—just enough to clear the exhaustion from his system—but his body had betrayed him. Now, three precious days were gone. Three days that you had been out there, alone. Three days that he should have been looking for you.

His grip tightened around the phone as the guilt gnawed at him. I was supposed to protect you, he thought bitterly. I was supposed to be there for you, and I’ve wasted three days doing nothing.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket, his jaw clenched tight. There was no time to sit around hating himself for it—he couldn’t afford that. Not anymore. His muscles were stiff from sleep, his joints aching, but he ignored it, pushing through the discomfort as he stood and grabbed his sword. The familiar weight of the weapon on his back grounded him, pulling his mind back into focus.

Reese. East side of town.

He had to find Reese. That was the only lead he had left. The man from the shoe store had given him directions, and even though it felt like a lifetime ago, they replayed in his mind, clear and sharp.

Xavier’s heart raced as he rushed out of the house, the cold night air slapping him awake. His body still ached from the strain of the last few days, but the fear of how much time he had lost was stronger, driving him forward. He couldn’t lose you, not now, not after everything. He couldn’t let three days of inaction be the difference between finding you and losing you forever.

With renewed urgency, Xavier broke into a sprint, following the path the man had given him toward the east side of town. His mind was clear now, the haze of exhaustion burned away by the crushing weight of time. Two days had passed, but he wasn’t going to waste another second.

Xavier’s legs felt like they had been running for hours, but he finally saw it. The house. It was run-down, like everything else in this part of town—its windows cracked, the walls stained with time and neglect. But his gut screamed that this was the place. Something about it pulled him forward, despite the fear gnawing at the back of his mind. He had come too far to stop now.

With anticipation and shaky breaths, Xavier gripped his sword tighter, steeling himself. He approached the front door cautiously, every instinct on high alert. This is it. She has to be here. You had said Reese was taking you to this place, and now here it was, right in front of him.

He rushed in, his sword drawn and ready to fight, his breath catching in his throat. His heart pounded in his ears, adrenaline surging through him as he scanned the interior. But as his eyes darted around the room, confusion began to set in. The house was... empty.

Xavier stood frozen for a moment, his chest tightening with disbelief. No, this can’t be right. He moved deeper into the house, his footsteps echoing off the rotting wood. The place looked abandoned—empty, save for a few bags scattered around the floor. He kicked one lightly, its contents spilling out—a white, powdery substance that made Xavier’s stomach churn.

Reese had a problem, that much was clear. But where was he? And more importantly, where were you?

Xavier’s mind raced as he searched the house, pushing open doors and turning over furniture, trying to make sense of the chaos. Panic clawed at him as the rooms yielded nothing but more bags and filth. You were supposed to be here. You had said Reese was taking you to his place. But now, it felt like you had disappeared into thin air.

He cursed under his breath, his pulse quickening as his frustration built. That was when he noticed it—off to the side, barely visible in the dim light of the house. A metal hatch in the floor, wide open, its rusted hinges silently beckoning him down.

Xavier froze for a second, his instincts screaming that this wasn’t going to be good. He gripped his sword tighter, the cold steel grounding him as he stepped toward the hatch. No sound came from below—just a heavy, oppressive silence. He steeled himself and descended, each creak of the stairs adding to the weight pressing on his chest.

As his boots hit the basement floor, the smell hit him first. The sharp, metallic scent of blood filled the air, thick and suffocating. The dim light barely illuminated the scene before him, but as his eyes adjusted, Xavier’s stomach lurched. There, lying in the center of the floor, was a mangled body, a gunshot wound to the head, its face twisted in a frozen mask of fear and pain. Dried blood and brain matter splattered the walls around him—too much to belong to just one person.

Xavier’s heart raced, a wave of nausea crashing over him. For a moment, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. Was this you? The thought seized his chest in a vice grip, panic surging through his veins. He took a step forward, the dim light playing tricks on his eyes as he squinted, trying to make out the body on the floor. The tattered clothes, the lifeless form—it could be you. No, no, no...

His breath came in shallow gasps as he moved closer, the sword still held tightly in his hand as if ready to defend himself from whatever horror he might find. His eyes darted over the body, searching for any sign—any clue that would tell him it wasn’t you.

Then, finally, in the dim light, he saw it. The face. It wasn’t yours. Relief crashed over him in a wave so powerful it nearly knocked him off his feet. The body was that of a man, not a woman. His hair was matted with blood, his eyes wide in a permanent expression of terror.

Reese.

Xavier’s breath hitched. It had to be him. The man who had taken you. The man he was supposed to find. But now, Reese lay dead on the floor, his life ended by a brutal, cold execution. Xavier’s mind reeled, trying to make sense of it all. What had happened here? Who had done this?

He stepped back, his mind racing. If Reese is dead... where are you?

Xavier’s breath was shallow, his pulse pounding in his ears as he forced himself to keep moving. He stepped closer to the streaks of dried blood on the wall, his eyes narrowing as he noticed something horrifying beneath the splattered crimson. A pile of bones—broken, jagged—and organs lay in a twisted heap on the floor, half-hidden by the blood. His stomach churned, his mind racing.

This had been another person.

The gruesome scene was too much to process at once. Xavier’s hands began to tremble, his sword shaking in his grip as the terrible possibility hit him—was this you? He felt his chest tighten, his breath coming in quick, panicked bursts. His legs threatened to give out beneath him, the weight of the realization crushing his resolve.

His mind swirled in a storm of fear and doubt. He had come all this way, fought through exhaustion and danger to find you, and now he might be too late. He tried to steady himself, but the thought of what this pile of bones and flesh might mean twisted inside him like a blade.

A violent shiver ran through him. His resolve, the fierce determination that had kept him going, began to crack. He stared at the remains, his thoughts spiraling, his heart hammering in his chest. What if I was too late?

Then, breaking through the suffocating silence, a voice cut through the air behind him.

"Who are you?"

Xavier froze, his body instinctively tensing at the sound of the voice. The click of a gun followed, unmistakable and close. His blood ran cold, and he turned his head just enough to see her—a woman, standing in the doorway of the basement. She was dressed in casual business attire, her dark hair hanging around her face in sharp contrast to the blank, emotionless stare she wore. The gun in her hand was aimed squarely at him, her finger hovering over the trigger with terrifying calm.

His mind raced. He couldn’t let himself hesitate.

Before she could react, Xavier moved. With a burst of speed fueled by raw instinct, he spun around and drew his sword, faster than a blink of an eye. The blade flashed in the dim light, and before the woman could so much as blink, the gun flew from her hand, clattering to the ground.

In a breathless second, Xavier had her pinned against the wall, his sword’s razor-sharp tip pressed against her neck. His eyes, once filled with fear, were now burning with intensity. The blade hovered just millimeters from her throat, the cold steel biting against her skin.

“Who am I?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “That’s not the question you should be asking.”

The woman’s expression didn’t change. She didn’t flinch, didn’t panic. She just stared back at him with the same unnerving calm, her dark eyes boring into his. For a moment, the two of them stood frozen in a tense standoff, the blade at her throat the only thing keeping her from making another move.

Xavier’s heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline still flooding his system. He had questions, too—too many to count—but first, he needed answers.

“Where is she?” he demanded, his voice sharp, his grip on the sword steady. “Where is the girl?”

The woman’s gaze didn’t waver. “The girl?” she repeated, her voice eerily even. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Her lips barely moved as she spoke, but there was something cold in her tone—something that sent a chill down Xavier’s spine.

He pressed the sword closer, the tip digging into her skin just enough to make his point clear. “Don’t play games with me,” he snarled, his patience fraying. “I know she was with Reese. Where is she?”

The woman’s eyes flickered, but her expression remained unreadable. “Reese is clearly dead,” she said calmly, glancing at the mangled body behind Xavier. “And if you don’t let me go, you will be too.”

Xavier’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his mind racing. The pile of bones and blood on the floor was searing in his memory, and the chilling possibility that you might have been one of Reese’s victims still hung over him like a dark cloud. But this woman—she was too calm. Too controlled. And she knew something.

“Start talking,” he growled, his blade still steady. “Or I make sure you never leave this basement.”

The woman’s cold laughter echoed through the basement, sending a shiver down Xavier’s spine. There was something deeply unsettling about the way she stared at him—no fear, no hesitation, just cold, calculating amusement.

“It’s a shame… she turned out to be a match too,” she said, her voice laced with icy detachment.

Xavier’s eyes narrowed, confusion and fury battling in his chest. A match? What the hell did she mean by that? His grip on the sword tightened, the blade hovering just inches from her throat. "What do you mean?" he demanded, his voice taut with barely restrained anger.

But the woman just stared at him, her expression unreadable. Her lips twisted into a faint smirk, the silence hanging between them like a lead weight.

Xavier’s patience snapped.

Without warning, he twisted her to the ground, slamming her onto the cold, dirty floor. She gasped as the air rushed from her lungs, her body momentarily stunned. He planted his foot firmly on her back, pressing her down with just enough force to keep her pinned, the tip of his sword now poised against the back of her head. It was a position he never imagined he'd put anyone in, especially a woman, but this was no time for hesitation. Not with your life on the line.

The woman’s breath was ragged, but her laughter returned, cold and mocking. “You know…” she began, her voice strained but still dripping with amusement. “There’s only one person who could have done this.”

Her words hung in the air, sending a fresh wave of dread through Xavier. His pulse quickened as he leaned in closer, his heart thundering in his chest. "What are you talking about?" he growled. “Who did this?”

The woman let out another chilling laugh, her shoulders shaking under his boot. “Don’t you wanna know his name?” she teased, her voice dangerously soft. “I’ll tell ya… if you let me up.”

Xavier’s eyes flashed with fury, his foot pressing harder against her back, his sword trembling slightly with the intensity of his grip. He was on the edge, his mind racing with the implications of her words. He had never been one to harm someone without reason, and the idea of taking this any further made his stomach twist. But he needed answers, and this woman was toying with him, dangling the information in front of him like a lure.

He hesitated for a moment, his conscience warring with the urgency of the situation. This could be his only shot at getting the truth. He needed to know who was behind this—who had taken you, who had turned Reese’s basement into a slaughterhouse. And if she had the answer…

“Talk,” he growled, the point of his sword pressing into the back of her neck. “Or I swear you won’t get another chance.”

The woman’s laughter stopped abruptly, the silence thick and unsettling. She let out a slow, deliberate breath, as if considering her next words carefully.

"Alright," she whispered. "But you'll regret it when you know."

Xavier, despite every fiber of his being screaming against it, slowly removed his foot from the woman’s back, allowing her to get up. His sword remained poised, ready, as he took a cautious step back. She pushed herself up, her breath ragged, her once composed appearance now disheveled—her hair wild and her expression no longer quite as cold. But she still wore that smug look, as if everything was unfolding just the way she wanted.

She dusted herself off and motioned toward the floor, where a few black feathers lay scattered among the blood and debris. Xavier's eyes narrowed in confusion, but he moved toward them, curiosity driving him. Kneeling down, he picked up one of the feathers, twirling it between his fingers. The texture was unnervingly soft against the backdrop of violence and death surrounding them. He stared at it, his mind spinning as he tried to piece together the meaning behind it.

The woman’s voice cut through the silence, pulling his attention back to her. "I’m sure you’ve heard of him," she said, a dark smile creeping across her face. "There’s not a single soul in the N109 Zone that doesn’t fear him."

No. It cant be?

Xavier’s grip tightened on the feather, his body tensing. He could sense where this was heading, but he didn’t want to hear it. Not yet.

"It’s a shame," she continued, her voice dripping with false sympathy, "Reese just happened to pick up his woman I guess."

Xavier’s blood boiled at her words. His woman? The idea of you being claimed by anyone, let alone someone like the monster she was referring to, made his vision blur with rage. His teeth clenched as he fought to keep his composure, the tip of his sword glinting as he took a step toward her, eyes blazing.

“Talk,” he growled, barely containing the fury in his voice. “And spit out his name. Now.”

The woman’s smile widened, pleased to have drawn out such a reaction. She took a slow breath, savoring the tension between them before she spoke again.

"Sylus," she finally said, her voice soft but heavy with meaning. “Y'know...leader of Onychinus? Supposed ruler of this godforsaken place."

Xavier’s heart sank, his mind whirling with the name. Sylus. The moment she said it, everything clicked into place, the puzzle pieces falling together in his mind. It was a name that echoed across every shadowy corner of the city, whispered in fear by those who lived in the Zone and outside of it. Sylus was not just a criminal; he was a tyrant, a leader of a notorious syndicate that controlled much of the N109 Zone through fear, violence, and manipulation.

He remembered the briefings from work, detailing illegal protocore trafficking, unsolved murders, and corruption on a scale most people couldn’t even fathom. Sylus’s name had come up more than once, but he had always remained just out of reach—never enough evidence to bring him down, always too elusive for law enforcement to catch. And now...S. It had been in front of him all along.

Sylus.

Of course. The man who had taken you, the man who had orchestrated this entire nightmare, was none other than the most dangerous figure in the N109 Zone. But what did someone like him want with you?

Xavier’s breath came in short, sharp bursts as his mind raced. His sword shook slightly in his grip, the feather in his hand slipping to the ground as the weight of the realization hit him. Sylus had you. The leader of Onychinus, a man feared by all, had somehow claimed you, and now, everything made sense. The secrecy, the power, the violence—all of it pointed back to him.

The woman watched him carefully, a knowing glint in her eye as she saw the shift in his expression. "You see now, don’t you?" she murmured. "Reese didn’t stand a chance. Neither did she." Her voice took on a mocking tone as she spoke of you, as if your fate was already sealed.

Xavier’s anger flared. He had to find you—now. There was no more time for games or hesitation. Sylus had to be stopped, and he wasn’t going to let anything stand in his way. Not anymore.

Xavier's grip on the sword tightened as he glared down at the woman. He wasn’t going to leave any loose ends this time. "You’re coming with me," he said, voice hard and unyielding. "You’re being booked in Linkon City Penitentiary. You're clearly not innocent in all this."

The woman’s expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle shift in her eyes—a flicker of something cold and calculating. She nodded slowly, seeming to comply, raising her hands slightly as if in surrender. Xavier lowered his sword, but kept it ready. He wasn’t taking any chances.

But before he could react, she reached up as though to fix her disheveled hair and, in one smooth motion, pulled a small pin from the messy strands. Her eyes flashed with intent as she flicked the pin to the floor.

It exploded in a quick burst of hissing gas.

Xavier barely had time to react before the room filled with a thick, stinging cloud. His throat seized, the acrid taste of the gas flooding his lungs as he coughed violently. His eyes burned, watering immediately as the toxic smoke enveloped him, blinding him completely. He tried to swing his sword, but his body betrayed him, each breath tearing through his chest like fire.

"Dammit..." Xavier choked, squeezing his eyes shut against the pervasive sting. The sound of hurried footsteps filled the room as the woman scrambled up the stairs in a desperate attempt to escape. He heard the hatch slam above him, the faint echoes of her retreating footsteps quickly disappearing into the night.

For a moment, Xavier stood hunched over, gasping for air, clutching his throat as he struggled to breathe. His muscles tensed, his mind reeling in frustration. I should chase her. I can’t let her get away.

But as the gas slowly began to dissipate, something in the corner of the basement caught his attention. Through the blurry haze of his vision, a small red light blinked steadily—tiny but unmistakable.

A camera.

Xavier froze, his mind racing as he staggered toward it, wiping his eyes to get a clearer look. The camera was mounted discreetly in the far corner of the room, aimed directly at the center of the basement floor—right where the mangled body of Reese lay. Its lens was still pointed at the grisly scene, and the red dot blinked steadily, as though it had been recording everything.

Xavier’s heart pounded as the implications hit him. Someone had been watching. Or at least recording. Someone had seen everything that had gone down in this basement—maybe even Sylus himself.

His first instinct was to smash it, to destroy the evidence, but another thought stopped him. This could be a lead. This might show me where they took her, or at the very least, give me more information about Sylus.

Xavier cursed under his breath, torn between the urge to chase the woman and the importance of the discovery before him. The camera could be the key to tracking down Sylus, but every second the woman stayed free, she became a greater threat. He weighed his options, his mind spinning with indecision.

But deep down, he knew the answer. He needed to know what was on that camera—no matter the cost. He wasn’t going to let this slip through his fingers.

Swallowing the bitter taste of frustration, Xavier moved toward the camera, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for it. He was going to find out what it had seen, and he was going to use it to track down Sylus and, more importantly, you.

Xavier’s fingers worked quickly, his heart pounding as he pried the small camera from its mount. His breath was still shallow from the lingering effects of the gas, but his focus was razor-sharp now. This camera—it had seen everything. It had captured the truth, maybe even the moment Reese had been killed, and possibly more.

He carefully ejected the tiny SIM card from the device, holding it in the palm of his hand. The small piece of plastic and metal was unassuming, almost fragile. But Xavier knew, in that moment, this was the key. This little card held answers—answers he had been chasing for days, through exhaustion, violence, and fear.

His hand closed around it, gripping it tightly, as if holding onto it was the only thing keeping him grounded. This was his way forward. The evidence, the proof—everything that could lead him to you and get you away from Sylus before he did something unthinkable to you.

"This…" he whispered, his voice low, filled with desperation. "This is it."

The weight of the situation pressed down on him, his mind spinning with possibilities. Maybe this small window of opportunity was all Xavier needed? Was this the answer?

His pulse quickened as the gravity of the moment sank in. He couldn’t waste any more time.

Clutching the SIM card, Xavier shoved it into his jacket pocket, securing it tightly. He glanced around the basement one last time, the gruesome scene of Reese’s body still etched into his mind, but the camera—the blinking red dot—was all he could focus on. Whoever had set this up knew more than they let on, and now he was one step closer to pulling it all apart.

He turned toward the stairs, every step a mixture of relief and dread. He had a lead, but he was running out of time. Sylus was out there, and so were you, caught in his web. Xavier’s mind was racing as he ascended the stairs and stepped out into the cold night air.

This SIM card, small and fragile as it was, was his best chance of finding you. He wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers.

The sound of water echoed softly in the small, dimly lit bathroom as you stood under the spray, the warmth of it doing little to ease the cold that had settled deep within you. You stared down at the tiled floor, watching the water pool around your feet, washing away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. Crying in the shower had become routine these past few days. The chain around your ankle clinked softly with every movement, its weight a constant reminder of the new reality you were trapped in.

Your fingers trembled as they moved through your wet hair, but you weren’t really here—not in this moment, not in this place. You were somewhere far away, in a life that felt impossibly distant now. A life where you were free, where you hadn’t been taken by Sylus, where your every step wasn’t shadowed by the cold bite of metal shackles.

You glanced down at the chain, watching as the water dripped from it, snaking down your leg in streams. No matter how much you tried to ignore it, the reality of your situation hit you over and over again. There was no escaping this. Sylus had made sure of that. He had bound you, not just physically, but mentally, emotionally—leaving no room for hope.

A shiver ran through you, though the water was still warm. You hugged your arms around yourself, trying to take some comfort in the heat, but all you could feel was the weight of the chain. It clinked with every shift of your body, its length enough to reach the shower, the toilet, the bed—everything within your small prison. Your world has shrunk to this, you thought bitterly, tracing the line of the chain with your eyes.

You had once thought of yourself as strong, capable. But now, standing here in this tiny, confining space, tethered to the will of a man who saw you as his lover, you felt anything but strong. Your mind wandered back to his words, the promise he had whispered in your ear before nestling next to you:

“Accept your place by my side, and have my baby.”

A sob choked your throat as the words echoed in your mind. The idea of being bound to him not just by the chain, but by a child—a piece of him inside you—made you feel like you were drowning. The water ran over your body, but it couldn’t wash away the fear or the disgust that festered inside of you. You had once given yourself to him willingly, drawn in by the promise of comfort, lust, the flowery words he spun so effortlessly. But now, you were reminded you were his prisoner.

You hated him. You hated yourself. The shame was like a living thing inside of you, coiling tighter with every second, every memory of the choices that had led you here. How had you fallen so far? How had you let yourself seek comfort from him, even for a moment?

But now, even as you stood here, shackled and trapped, there was something else—something you couldn’t shake. It was small, almost imperceptible, but it was there. A dark, twisted longing. A part of you, deep down, that still ached for something. Maybe it was safety, or maybe it was the comfort you had once felt in his presence just for awhile, before you were reminded who he really was. Whatever it was, it disgusted you, and you shoved it down again, refusing to acknowledge it. You couldn’t afford to.

The chain clinked again as you turned the water off, the sound grating in the quiet. You stepped out of the shower, your legs unsteady as you moved. The air felt colder now, biting at your wet skin as you wrapped a towel around yourself. The chain dragged along behind you as you moved to the mirror, fogged and hazy, much like your own mind. You wiped a small section clear with your hand and stared at your reflection.

The person staring back at you looked hollow, broken. Your eyes were red and puffy from crying, your cheeks tear stained, your lips trembling as you tried to keep yourself together. You didn’t recognize this version of yourself—this fragile, scared girl bound by chains and trapped by the whims of a monster.

Your fingers brushed the cold metal around your ankle again, and you swallowed hard. You had to keep going, somehow. Even if escape felt impossible, even if every part of you screamed to give up, you couldn’t. Not yet. Not while there was still a flicker of hope, buried deep beneath the fear and despair.

You dressed slowly, your hands moving mechanically as you slipped on the dress Sylus had left for you. Sylus had specifically avoided giving you underwear, as it made it easier to touch you as he put it. The feel of fabric felt like a weight, dragging you down further into this nightmare, but you couldn’t stall forever. The chain around your ankle reminded you of that. Every movement was a struggle, a tug of war between your mind and body. You didn’t want to face him. Not again.

But eventually, there was no more time to waste. The tension in your chest tightened as you stepped out of the bathroom, the clinking of the chain the only sound in the quiet room.

Sylus was waiting for you, sitting casually in a chair near the window, a pair of sleek glasses perched on his nose as he scanned something on the tablet in his hands. He looked up when you entered, his eyes immediately locking onto you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. That same, infuriatingly confident smirk that sent a surge of loathing through you.

He lowered the tablet slightly, tilting his head as he took you in. “There you are,” he said smoothly, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You look beautiful, kitten.”

The compliment felt like a slap in the face, but you didn’t respond. You refused to. You clenched your jaw and stared straight ahead, keeping your distance, trying to make yourself feel as far away from him as possible despite the small confines of the room.

The silent treatment was all you had left, your last shred of defiance. You knew it probably wouldn’t faze him, but you couldn’t bear to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Not after everything.

Sylus chuckled softly, clearly unfazed. In fact, your silence only seemed to amuse him. His smirk widened, his dark eyes gleaming with a playful, dangerous edge as he set the tablet down on the table beside him. He leaned back in the chair, his gaze never leaving yours, as though he was watching a game unfold exactly the way he wanted.

“Sweetie,” he purred, his voice low and teasing. “Have you decided to be mute today?” His eyes sparkled with that familiar arrogance, like he was enjoying every moment of your discomfort.

"Don't pretend you didn't hear me."

When you still didn't respond, he motioned to his lap, a casual flick of his fingers. “Come sit. Let’s not play this game all day.”

You stiffened, your heart pounding as you kept your eyes fixed on the floor. The thought of sitting on his lap, of being that close to him, made your stomach churn. But when had he ever cared about what you wanted? He was toying with you, seeing how long you would resist before you finally broke.

With your heart pounding in your chest and every muscle in your body screaming in protest, you moved slowly toward him. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the weight of the chain around your ankle had spread to every fiber of your being. You hated this. You hated him. But you also knew resisting further would only prolong the inevitable. The game he was playing wasn’t one you could win, not today.

As you approached, Sylus’s smirk deepened, his eyes lighting up with that infuriating confidence. He leaned back slightly, arms resting casually on the armrests of his chair, as though inviting you into his space with nothing more than the subtle tilt of his body.

Reluctantly, you lowered yourself onto his lap, your body stiff and unwilling, every part of you recoiling even as you complied. The moment you settled, his arms came around you, enveloping you with a possessive ease, as though this was where you belonged. The warmth of his body pressed against yours, a stark contrast to the cold reality of the chain that still bound you. You tried to sit as far from his groin as possible, but his grip tightened, pulling you closer, forcing you into his embrace.

Sylus’s smirk deepened, sensing your hesitation. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate tone. “What’s the matter? You’re usually so talkative,” he teased, his fingers brushing against his jaw as he watched you intently. “Or is this your new way of getting my attention? Hmm?”

He was baiting you, and you knew it. Every word out of his mouth was designed to make you react, to break through the wall of silence you were so desperately trying to maintain. He thrived on your defiance, and the more you pulled away, the more determined he became.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as you fought back the urge to lash out. Stay silent, you told yourself. Don’t give him what he wants.

But the room felt smaller with every second, the tension between you building with no escape. You kept your eyes fixed on a point across the room, refusing to look at him, to acknowledge the smugness in his gaze. But as much as you tried to focus on anything other than him, you couldn’t ignore the scent that clung to him. It was subtle, warm, and undeniably intoxicating—a mix of something clean and rich, like cedar and spice. It filled your senses, making your head swim for a moment before you forced yourself to snap back to reality.

“Let’s see…” he murmured, pretending to ponder, as if this were some casual decision for him to make. His fingers traced the nape of your neck, their touch light but chilling, sending jolts of dread through you. His hand moved with a practiced, deliberate care, as though every inch of your body was territory he owned.

"Which one of these spots," he whispered, his voice taking on a dark, playful edge, "will make this kitten mewl?"

Your breath hitched, every nerve in your body on high alert, and yet you willed yourself to stay silent, to remain still despite the overwhelming sensation of his touch. The way he said it—kitten—the pet name twisted into something playful, like he was subtly teasing a stubborn cat.

Sylus's lips brushed against your neck, soft and deliberate, sending another shiver through you that you couldn’t quite suppress. You hated the way your body reacted, even though it wasn’t out of desire, but out of an instinctive fear that coursed through your veins. His mouth lingered, warm and maddeningly slow, as if savoring the moment. You could feel his smirk growing with each kiss, knowing he was testing you, pushing to see where your defenses would crumble.

He trailed his lips down the curve of your neck, pressing soft kisses into your skin, searching. His breath was hot against your flesh, each exhale making your heart race, and your hands clenched tighter in your lap, nails digging deep into your palms. Sylus moved with such infuriating patience, his kisses slow and calculated, as though he were mapping out your every vulnerability.

“Here?,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and teasing. His lips hovered at the hollow of your throat, sending a jolt of fear through you. "Or maybe here?"

You fought to hold back the instinctive shudder that threatened to betray you, forcing yourself to stay still, to remain silent. But Sylus was relentless, his lips finding the most delicate parts of your neck, his hands lightly brushing your back as he pulled you closer into his embrace. The warmth of him was suffocating, his scent overwhelming your senses as you tried desperately to keep your thoughts from spiraling.

He pressed a kiss in the nape of your neck, lingering for a moment as though testing the spot. You shiver, letting out a small whine at the ticklish sensation as it scattered through your body, your stomach tightening. You could feel his satisfaction in the way he shifted, his lips curving slightly against your skin. His fingers brushed through your hair, his touch deceptively gentle as he whispered, “There it is.”

You try and get out of his lap but his hold on you is firm and tight, per usual. Heat crosses your face and you feel as though the room just got ten degrees hotter.

"Don't be shy, purr for me" he commands gently, beginning to press more gentle kisses in the same sensitive spot. You tense and whine with each kiss, jolts of pleasure tingling through your body, and eventually your core heats up, a wave of shame crashing over you.

His lips trailed lower, teeth grazing your shoulder blade as he continued his sensual assault. Each nip and lick sent sparks of electricity coursing through your veins, pooling heat low in your belly. You squirmed in his lap, torn between the urge to flee from the overwhelming sensations and the traitorous desire to arch into his touch.

"Please…" you whimpered, not even sure what you were begging for anymore. Mercy or more, you couldn't tell. Your mind was hazy, thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Please what, kitten?" His hand slid under your shirt, fingertips skimming the curve of your breast before dipping lower, teasing along the waistband of your pants. You shuddered, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood. The coppery taste flooded your mouth but you barely noticed, too focused on the ache building between your thighs. You felt the sudden hardening of his groin, causing you to gasp.

"Stop," you gasped out, twisting in his grip. "Please, I can't take anymore." Your voice was ragged, barely above a whisper. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, born of overwhelming sensation and a confusing mix of fear and longing. You were scared. Scared to let him in again. To let lust control you and lose yourself to him.

"I'll talk to you Sylus, just stop..." you whine.

For a moment, he didn't move, his hands still roaming your body with maddening slowness, likely deciding if he was going to concede. Then, with a soft chuckle, he released you and leaned back. "Very well," he murmured, his tone unreadable.

"We'll continue this another time."

You scrambled off his lap, nearly tripping in your desperate attempt to put distance between yourself and the man whose touch felt like poison. Your legs trembled beneath you, weak from the fear and the unbearable tension that had filled the room. One hand flew to your neck, instinctively covering the places his lips had touched, while the other pressed to your flushed cheek. Your breath came in shallow bursts as you backed away, unable to bring yourself to look at him.

You knew what you’d see if you did. Amusement—at your weakness, at how easily he could unravel you with nothing more than a few soft kisses. Or maybe frustration that you had interrupted his game by pulling away. And worse yet, a possibility you couldn’t even stomach: genuine affection, a twisted form of care that he believed he had for you.

But when you finally glanced at him, all you saw was a small, knowing smile.

Sylus sat there, relaxed, his fingers tapping lightly on his tablet as he readjusted his glasses. It was as if the entire exchange had been nothing but a passing moment of amusement for him, something routine to him.

Just like that, the little game was over.

He had won.

But the worst part wasn’t his victory. It was the way your body still trembled, the way your skin still burned from where his lips had been. The way you felt so utterly powerless against him.

You turned your back to him, heart heavy with shame, knowing that no matter how much distance you put between you, Sylus had already made his point. He controlled the game. And as much as you hated it, as much as it made your chest tighten in anger and despair—you couldn’t deny that this time, he had broken through your defenses.

He always did.

You stood there, shaking with a volatile mix of anger and shame, your back to Sylus as you tried to steady your breathing. The feeling of his touch still clung to your skin, like a sickening residue that wouldn’t wash away. You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms, as if the physical pain might be enough to distract from the storm raging inside of you.

Just as your thoughts began to spiral, the sharp sound of a knock echoed through the room. You flinched, startled, your heart pounding in your chest. Sylus didn’t react to you, didn’t even look your way. He simply set his tablet down, a small sigh escaping his lips as if the knock had interrupted something far less important than whatever little game he had been playing with you moments before.

He stood up and crossed the room with an easy, unbothered grace, leaving you feeling like a ghost in the background, insignificant in his world. When he reached the door, he opened it just a crack, his tall frame blocking your view of whoever was on the other side.

“Luke,” Sylus greeted, his voice carrying a tone of mild interest. “What is it?”

Luke’s voice, muffled by the door but unmistakably familiar, spoke up. "Kovi's asking to "play cards" again. "Says he misses his dear friend. Told me to let you know"

You saw Sylus tilt his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. A small chuckle escaped him as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest. "Ah, Kovi," he mused, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. "Always eager to strike a deal, I see"

Your heart sank at the casual nature of their conversation. It was like the cruel game Sylus had just played with you didn’t even matter, as though it were just another fleeting moment in his day. You felt a sharp pang in your chest, anger bubbling up again at how easily he could move on while you were left reeling.

“Tell Kovi I'll join him shortly,” Sylus said, still grinning. “I could use a game or two”.

"You got it, boss man!"

With that, Luke disappeared down the hall, and Sylus closed the door, his expression shifting back to its usual controlled calm. He turned toward you, that same smugness still lingering in his eyes as though nothing had changed.

As Sylus crossed the room, your heart lurched with unease. His entire demeanor had been so casual, so indifferent just moments before as he spoke with Luke about Kovi. You’d almost convinced yourself he was done with his game, ready to move on to the next part of his twisted day. But now, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made you freeze.

He stopped right in front of you, his gaze lingering for a moment, dark and unreadable. Before you could process what was happening, his hands gently cupped your face, pulling you toward him. His lips pressed against yours, soft at first, but then with a passion that made your heart pound in confusion.

This wasn’t like the teasing, mocking kisses from earlier. This kiss had weight, as if he were pouring something unspoken into it—something deeper, something more dangerous. The way he kissed you wasn’t calculated, wasn’t part of the game he always played. It felt… real.

Your mind raced, unable to comprehend the shift in him. Moments ago, he had been cool, detached, amused by your silence and defiance. But now, his lips moved against yours with an urgency, a need that you didn’t understand. It was like this was the last time he would ever see you—like this kiss was a goodbye, even though you knew you were still trapped in his world.

You didn’t kiss him back, but you also didn’t pull away. You were frozen in place, your body betraying your instincts as the conflicting emotions tangled inside you. Fear. Anger. And now, confusion.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes remained locked on yours, a lingering intensity in them that unsettled you even more. His thumb brushed softly across your cheek, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed like there was something else there—something almost vulnerable. But it was gone before you could grasp it.

"You've got more power than you think, kitten" he murmured, his voice softer than usual, almost affectionate. But there was an edge to it, something unreadable lurking just beneath the surface. “Don’t forget that.”

You blinked, unsure of how to respond. His words hung heavy in the air, making your pulse quicken with a mixture of fear and confusion. You couldn’t tell if he was complimenting you, warning you, or trying to manipulate you further. The shift in his demeanor left you off balance, unsure of what game he was playing this time.

Power? The word seemed like a cruel joke given how powerless you felt in this moment—shackled to the chain, trapped under his control, constantly fighting to keep your head above water while he pulled the strings. Yet, there was a strange certainty in the way he said it, as though he believed it more than you ever could. As though he knew something you didn’t.

Your breath hitched, the weight of his gaze almost unbearable. His hand lingered for a second longer on your cheek, and despite the fear that still gripped you, you couldn’t help but feel the tension, the push and pull between his control and whatever it was he saw in you.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to speak, not in that moment. Not with the confusion clouding your thoughts, your emotions already tangled in knots from everything that had happened. You searched his face, hoping to find some clarity, but all you saw was that same unreadable expression, his eyes watching you closely, waiting.

And then, as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. Sylus let his hand drop, his smirk returning, the walls coming back up around him.

"Behave," he added with a grin, before turning on his heel and walking away, leaving you standing there, shaken and confused.

His words lingered long after he was gone, leaving you to wonder—what had he meant?

You spent the hours after Sylus left in a haze of frustration and boredom, your mind spiraling as you tried to find something—anything—to distract yourself. The chain around your ankle clinked softly with every movement, a constant reminder of your confinement. There wasn’t much to do, and the walls of the room felt like they were closing in, making the silence unbearable.

You found yourself counting the links of the chain, running your fingers over the cold metal again and again, trying to memorize the texture, the length. Rolling around on the hard floor, feeling the chill seep into your skin, you tried to stave off the madness creeping into your thoughts. The same four walls, the same chain, the same agonizing routine.

A knock on the door broke the monotony, pulling you from your thoughts.

Sylus?? Wait no. He wouldn't knock on his own door.

The chef—another of Sylus’s loyal employees—slid your dinner through the small opening in the door, the one Sylus had installed specifically for you. No more shared meals in the living room, no more pretending you were anything but his prisoner. Now, even meals came through a slit in the door, like you were a caged animal.

You stared at the plate, untouched for longer than you’d care to admit. Eventually, you ate without tasting, simply going through the motions. The room felt colder than usual, the silence more oppressive.

After what felt like an eternity, your body finally gave in to exhaustion. You curled up on the bed, feeling the weight of your situation pressing down on you like a physical burden. Sleep came slowly, and when it did, it was fitful, filled with shadows and the echo of Sylus’s words: “You’ve got more power than you think.”

You woke to the sound of the door unlocking.

Your body stirred slowly, still groggy from sleep, and for a moment, you weren’t sure where you were. But the clink of the chain brought you back to reality in an instant. You opened your eyes slightly, blinking as the dim light of the room settled into your vision, and there he was—Sylus.

He stepped inside, the door closing softly behind him. He was loosening his tie, the fabric slipping through his fingers in an almost absentminded way. His usually sharp and controlled appearance seemed…off. His movements weren’t as fluid, his steps a little less precise. He tilted his head slightly, catching himself on the back of a chair with a small, humorless chuckle.

You froze, watching him closely. Something was different. He didn’t have the same air of calm authority he usually wore like armor. His hair was slightly mussed, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. You studied him for a moment, heart pounding as the realization hit you.

Is he drunk?

Sylus turned his head toward you, a slow, almost lazy grin creeping across his face. His eyes, usually sharp and piercing, were glazed over, a softness in them that you’d never seen before.

“Kitten,” he murmured, his voice lower, rougher than usual. “Are you awake?”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you forced your body to remain still, your breathing steady as if you were still deep in sleep. You couldn’t face him right now, not like this—not when he was drunk and unpredictable. Your eyes shut closed, and you tried to control the rising panic swelling inside you.

A soft chuckle escaped him, dripping with amusement, and you felt his presence closer, the faint warmth of his body invading the space around you. "You can’t fool me," he murmured, his breath ghosting against your skin. "I know what your breathing sounds like when you're sleeping sweetie."

The words sank into your mind like a sharp, twisting knife. He wasn’t wrong—Sylus had studied you, watched you so carefully that even something as intimate as your breathing while you slept wasn’t your own anymore. Your attempt at pretending was futile, and now, he was reveling in the fact that you couldn’t hide from him, not even for a moment.

You could feel his smirk without having to look. His fingers trailed lazily down your arm, drawing soft patterns on your skin, the touch deceptively gentle yet loaded with the dark weight of his control.

“I’ve spent so much time with you,” he continued, his tone almost affectionate, unnervingly gentle. “I know every little thing about you—every sigh, every breath, every flutter of those pretty little eyelids.”

Your breath hitched despite your best efforts to stay calm, and you cursed yourself for it. The small tremor in your body, the way your pulse quickened—he noticed it all. You could feel his satisfaction radiating from him, the knowledge of every part of you obvious.

Sylus leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice dripping with dark affection. "I can’t stop thinking about you," he murmured. "Even when I’m surrounded by people, all I want is you, kitten. You’ve been on my mind all night. You're gonna get me killed being such a pretty distraction."

The knot in your chest tightened as you lay there, your body rigid beneath his touch. You wanted to push him away, to scream, to do anything that would break this hold he had over you. But even in his drunken state, he held all the power, and he knew it.

“Look at me sweetie,” Sylus murmured, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “Let me see you."

His fingers moved to your hair, brushing it aside as his breath warmed the side of your face. You swallowed hard, knowing you had no choice but to acknowledge him now. Slowly, reluctantly, you opened your eyes, the room spinning slightly as his face came into view—so close, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement and...affection?"

“There she is,” he whispered, his voice laced with satisfaction. “My pretty little hunter."

Your heart pounded against your ribcage as his words sank into you, wrapping around your chest like a vice. His crimson eyes locked onto yours, gleaming with an unsettling mix of affection and control, as though you were something precious to him— like you were the only light in his dark world.

His fingers tangled in your hair, brushing it away from your face as he tilted his head slightly, studying you with that dangerous intensity. “You know, kitten,” he murmured, voice low and intimate, “when you called my name in that basement, I damn near went crazy. It keeps replaying over and over in my head."

"I wish I could bring Reese back to life. Just so I could kill him slower this time."

His lips were close to your ear again, the heat of his breath sending a shiver down your spine despite the panic flooding your system. You tried to focus on anything but the feeling of him—his scent, his touch, the way his words dripped with possessiveness—but it was impossible to escape. He consumed the space around you, his control inescapable, even when he was stumbling through his drunken haze.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” Sylus whispered, his lips barely grazing your ear now, sending cold dread through you.

“You make me feel weak, kitten. I hate it.”

He paused, letting his words sink in, his fingers still caressing your skin. The affection in his voice was dark, twisted, a perverse reflection of something deeper—something dangerous.

“And yet,” he continued, his voice soft, almost wistful, “I love it. You're the only one who can do this to me”

You clenched your jaw, fighting the urge to react, to push him away, but Sylus noticed everything. He always did. He leaned back slightly, his crimson eyes scanning your face as trying to read your reaction. His smirk returned, but there was something almost gentle in his gaze now—a softness that felt more like a trap than tenderness.

"I wish you hadn't ran. But it was the only way to teach you how safe you are here. And now I have to punish you, honey."

Your stomach dropped, fear twisting through your gut like a vice. The words hung in the air, suffocating, as if the room itself had shrunk around you. The threat in his voice was subtle, but unmistakable. He wanted you to know what was coming, wanted you to feel the weight of it before he even made a move.

Punishment.

The word echoed in your mind, and the way he said it—like it was something inevitable, something you’d earned—made you sick. You had done everything you could to escape him, to break free, but here you were, back in his grip, about to suffer for the one moment of defiance you’d dared to show.

Sylus’s fingers trailed down your neck, his touch slow and deliberate, making your heart race with every second that passed. "Don't be scared," he whispered, his voice surprisingly gentle. "You just need to learn how good you have it here"

You wanted to scream, to break free of his hold, but the fear kept you rooted in place, unable to move, unable to fight back. You could feel the pull of his control tightening around you, the chains of his manipulation wrapping tighter with every breath.

"I'm sorry Sylus..."you whimper, beginning to shake under his touch. "Don't hurt me...please don't hurt me. Please..."

The words came out fragile, breaking with every breath. You hated that you had to say them, hated how vulnerable and powerless you sounded, but you couldn’t stop. The fear, the desperation—they were stronger than your pride.

Sylus’s hand stilled against your skin, his crimson eyes flickering with something unreadable. For a brief moment, a smile tugged at his lips—not the smug, taunting smirk he usually wore, but something softer, more twisted.

He leaned in close, his warm breath tickling your face as he murmured, "Kitten... do you really think I'm going to hurt you?"

Sylus’s fingers moved swiftly, his touch almost gentle as he undid the lock on your ankle chain. It was locked with a number pad. One where the code changed every single time it was unlocked according to him. The cold metal slid away, leaving a raw sensation where it had dug into your skin. You glanced down, your breath caught in your throat as you watched him remove the shackle.

For a split second, there was a flicker of hope—was he letting you go? But that thought vanished as quickly as it had come. This wasn’t freedom. Sylus wasn’t offering you an escape. You knew better.

Confusion flashed across your features, fear giving way to puzzlement. You remained silent, watching intently as he moved away from you to sit on the sofa in the center of the room. With deft movements, he unfastened his belt, eyes locked onto yours the entire time. Finally shrugging off his pants, his rigid cock sprang free, standing at attention.

"Come here kitten, take your punishment" he commanded, patting his muscular thigh invitingly. Tentatively, you rose to your feet, not feeling like you had much choice. The sound of the ankle chain rattling in the room as you nearly tripped over it. Your heart pounded in your chest, a confusing mix of trepidation and strange anticipation swirling inside you. Stopping before him, you gazed down at his handsome face, searching his eyes for answers.

He was just going to have sex with you? How is this any different than the other times?

"Wha-what do-what is this?" you ask, gazing down at his erect member. You feel your throat go dry as you watch it throb, evidence Sylus's excitement already leaking from the tip. Sylus tugs on the hem of your nightgown, casually ignoring your question.

"Strip. You know how this goes."

You certainly did know how things went, but this did seem a little weird. Still, you followed orders and slowly but shakily stripped your clothes off. Sylus watched with hungry eyes, clenching his fists as if restraining himself from pouncing on you. Whatever, you would just dissociate like all the other times. Not much of a punishment that way.

"I must ask...why the couch?" you ask, taking the last part of your sock off.

"The couch is better for riding me don't you think?"

You freeze, praying to god you didn't just hear him say what you thought. He wants you to...ride him? You shoot your head up, eyeing his cock with more fear than ever. It was already a struggle getting it in when laying down how the hell were you supposed to...?

"It..it wont fit like that. Sylus...ple-"

"Sit, kitten. I'm not asking."

Shit. This was happening whether you wanted it to or not. You weren't sure what mind game he was playing this time but it would be best not to anger him. Taking a shaky breath, you stepped forward, closing the distance between you and Sylus until you stood before him, your trembling body bathed in the soft glow of the lamp light. His heated gaze raked over your curves, sending tingles racing across your sensitive skin.

Sylus reached out, fingers curling around your wrists as he tugged you closer. Wordlessly, he guided you onto his lap, large hands settling on your waist to anchor you in place. Immediately, you could feel the scorching heat of his erection pressing insistently against your plush backside.

"I'll hold you so you can balance" he rumbled, the deep timbre of his voice sending delicious vibrations through you. "The rest is up to you, sweetie."

You swallow thickly, your throat going dry again as you steady your hands on his broad shoulders. He lifts you with steady hands to balance you over his erection. Tears start to form in your eyes as you feel the beginning of his head begin to split your entrance to welcome him. Sylus let out a quiet groan, grip tightening on your waist but did not move as promised.

Your heart raced as you sank down further, thighs parting to straddle his muscular legs. Sylus's thick shaft nestled between your slick folds, the bulbous head nudging urgently into your entrance. A strangled whimper escaped your parted lips at the intimate contact.

It certainly didn’t help that Sylus hadn’t “prepared” you like he usually did but you figure this was part of the punishment.

You sucked in a sharp hiss through clenched teeth, your inner walls straining to accommodate his substantial girth. Inch by excruciating inch, you sank down onto his thick length, a sheen of sweat breaking out across your brow from the effort.

Burning pain radiated through your core as Sylus stretched you wider than ever before. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes and your thighs quivered with the strain of taking him so deep. But beneath the agony, a thrill of dark pleasure coiled hot and insistent in your belly.

"Shhh..." Sylus crooned, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back so he could capture your mouth in a searing kiss. "I know it hurts, you can handle it"

“Fuck,” you whimper, hands pressing against his chest, “you- you’re so big.” You certainly weren't trying to compliment him. This new angle just sent a whole wave of sensations pain and pleasure through our body. As much as you hated it, as much as you did not want to be sinking yourself onto him, as much as you loathed that he was making you take control, you couldn't deny the ache coiling in your belly.

“So you’ve said,” Sylus smiles, his hand squeezing your ass. "Keep going sweetie, you're almost there.”

By the time you reached the hilt, you were panting harshly, fingernails digging into Sylus's shoulders for support. Your abused passage fluttered and clenched around him, struggling to adjust to the overwhelming fullness. Sylus let out a guttural groan, hips bucking up slightly to bury himself even deeper. You hissed, shooting him a glare in pain.

"I'm sorry, you just felt too good honey" he smirks, voice slightly breathless as you clench and unclench around him. "My turn to behave this time."

You ignore his joke and focus on making him cum so you can get off of him. Biting your lip hard enough to draw blood, you started to rock your hips, rising and falling atop Sylus's thick length in a clumsy, unpracticed rhythm. Pain still lanced through your core with every movement but beneath it, a coil of building pleasure began to unfurl low in your belly.

"Fuck," Sylus groaned gruffly, gripping your bouncing breasts roughly, fingertips digging into the soft flesh. "I didn't think you could feel any better than you already did sweetie."

Blushing fiercely, you let out a choked moan, embarrassed by your own shameless motions. But Sylus's gravelly praise only spurred you on, hips undulating faster as you chased the rising tension threatening to consume you.

No. Don't lose to him again. Don't cum.

Sylus groans at the feeling of your skin slapping against his thighs with every bounce on his lap. The tip of his cock hits the sensitive spot deep inside of your cunt so deliciously that you’ve begun to drool, a choked moan escaping your mouth unwittingly.

The moan turns into a yelp when he spanks your ass, your body jolting forward. Sylus’s touches have grown rougher, his hands squeezing almost painfully at your flesh.

"I have to-hah-leave for awhile in a few days" Sylus groans, thoroughly enjoying the squeal you make when he grips your hips again.

"Tell me you'll miss me."

"I wont," you hiss, trying to drown out the sound of his voice with the sounds of your bodies slapping and sliding against each other.

Sylus growls and you feel like shrinking away when you see the glare on his face. He almost seems…desperate. Like he needs to hear you say it.

His hand shoots out, gripping your cheeks. You can feel your lips jut out into a pout and he’s leaning forward kissing you messily. You whine, forced to press yourself closer, tits squishing against his firm chest. Your hips slow and you find yourself fully sitting on his cock, gasping into his mouth at the feeling of being fully impaled, hard and fast.

"Is that so? Have you ever thought about the fact that we both of a piece of an Aether core inside us?" Sylus says, his words whispered against your lips.

"You..mgnh!...have one too?" you whispered, grabbing onto his shoulders to steady yourself against his throbbing member still sitting inside you. Sylus nods, seemingly enjoying the way you struggle against him. The tip of his cock was resting on a sensitive spot and you can feel the ache in your belly grow more and more as it kept pressing into it with each throb.

"Maybe...just maybe" he leans forward, breath hot against your ear. "We're two halves yet to be put together...even if your mind doesn't want me, your heart eventually will".

No. No, no, no. That would never happen.

"Never. That will never happen. All of me hates you. Soul included" you hiss, malice dripping from your voice despite the rising heat in your core. You jerk again as Sylus's member throbs, almost sending you over the edge. Shit, any longer and you would cum before him.

"I'm wounded, kitten" Sylus smirks, placing a kiss against your forehead. "Strangely enough, your body doesn't seem to hate me all that much."

You glare, almost ready to throw yourself off his lap at his words.

"You assh-"

You open your mouth to protest but he’s drowning your voice out with a kiss. He begins pounding up into you, sending electricity coursing through your body. He swallows every word that threatens to come out, his cock driving deeper and deeper until you’re crying out.

"Sylus!"

Gasping and mewling, you bucked wildly atop him, chasing the sweet oblivion that hovered just out of reach against your screaming mind. You didn't care anymore, the primal need to finish overclouding every ounce of sense. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, your velvety walls fluttering desperately around Sylus's pistoning length. You were so close, hovering on the knife's edge...

"Yes, yes! Harder!" you begged shamelessly, throwing your head back in abandon as Sylus pounded mercilessly into your sopping heat. The obscene wet sounds of your coupling filled the room, mixing with your cries of rapture.

"Much better..." Sylus whispers, slamming you harder onto his length, leaving your breathless and gasping for air. He's clearly near his own end, as his motions begins to falter and his hips buck into you. He could imagine it now…the ever growing curve of your belly, the swelling of your breasts, the way you’d carry the life he so desperately wanted to plant inside you.

"Fuck...I can't ever let you go..."

You sink your teeth into his shoulder, moaning. 

“That’s it,” he coos, and the drag of his cock is too hard to ignore, your walls clenching around him tightly as though not wanting to let him go.

“Just have my baby,” he whispers against your ear, slight desperation clawing at his voice. "Just get pregnant already, I can't lose you again."

His voice has you shuddering in your lust driven state, face pressing against his neck as you cum around him. Sylus grits his teeth, the squelch of your cunt growing louder as your slick drips down his length, coating his balls.

You collapse, exhaustion overcoming you and you lean against his shoulder, panting and whining from overstimulation in his ear.

Sylus doesn’t think he’s ever heard you sound so sweet. The shudder of your body, the softness of your voice. It has him groaning loudly, his hands pulling you down, making sure your pussy is flush against the base of his cock as he cums deep inside your belly.

You can feel the warmth of his cum, the way his sticky release covers the insides of your pussy. But you're too tired to fight it. So you sit there, trying to catch your breathe as you feel his warm liquids spreading across your belly and coating your cervix.

Again. He had won again.

You turn to bury your face in Sylus's shoulder, sobs wracking your trembling body as the emotional storm finally broke. Murmuring soothing words, he gently lifted you into his arms and carried you over to the bed.

With surprising tenderness, Sylus laid you down on the soft mattress, carefully extracting his spent member from your abused folds. You whimpered at the loss, a shudder rippling through you as you anticipated the familiar weight of chains once more.

But instead of restraining you, Sylus wiped himself clean with his discarded shirt before crawling in beside you. Tentatively, he pulled your quivering form into his embrace, strong arms cocooning you in his warmth.

"You did so well, kitten," he praised softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your damp temple. "I actually quite enjoy having you on top of me".

Sniffling, you peered up at him through tear-clumped lashes, noting the rosy flush coloring his cheeks. It was then you remembered his inebriated state, the alcohol likely responsible for his gentleness and vulnerability tonight.

"Have you been drinking?" you asked quietly, biting your lip with your teeth. "You seem...off?"

Sylus hummed noncommittally, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your heart ache. "Don't worry about me, sweetie. Right now, I just want to focus on you."

You lay beside him, the bed feeling far too small for the space that should exist between you. Sylus’s body was warm against yours, his arm draped loosely around your waist as if you belonged there, as if the chain had never existed. The alcohol had clearly dulled his usual sharpness, and now, he seemed content just to be near you, his breath steady, his tone softer than you’d ever heard it before.

For a while, there was silence, save for the faint sound of his breathing, but then he began to speak, his voice low and unguarded.

“My pretty little hunter,” he murmured, his words slightly slurred with the weight of exhaustion and liquor. His hand moved absentmindedly, brushing against your skin as he continued. “Just one glance at you and I needed to have you near me. I haven't acted the same since”.

You swallowed hard, your body tense as you listened to him, unsure whether to believe the tenderness in his words or to fear them. This wasn’t the Sylus you were used to—the one who controlled every moment, every breath, with calculated precision. This was someone else. Someone softer, someone…vulnerable.

His fingers trailed lightly down your arm, the touch making you shiver as his voice dropped even lower, almost as if he were confessing a secret. “I love you. I love you more than anything in this world. There is not a line I wouldn't cross for you”.

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Love? The same man who kept you chained, who toyed with you, who controlled you—loved you?

Your heart raced, confusion swirling through you. How were you supposed to feel? His words, though spoken with such gentleness, felt like a trap. Could he really mean such words?

You turned your head slightly, your voice barely a whisper as you asked, “If you love me, then let me go.”

Sylus stiffened slightly, his hold on you tightening, and you felt the shift in him even before he answered. His lips were close to your ear as he murmured, “I can’t do that, honey.”

A pang of despair shot through you, your heart sinking at the confirmation of what you already knew. He wouldn’t let you go. Not now, not ever.

“Then you don’t love me,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of your words.

For a moment, there was silence. You could feel his breath against your skin, warm and steady, but there was no response—no anger, no frustration. Just a low, quiet chuckle.

"So feisty," he whispered, his voice fading as his body relaxed against you. His grip loosened slightly, and within moments, you felt his breathing slow, deepening as he drifted into a drunken slumber.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, your heart heavy with the weight of his words and the chains that still bound you—whether they were physical or not. Sylus had fallen asleep beside you, but you knew the nightmare was far from over.

You don’t know when you finally drifted off to sleep, but exhaustion had eventually won out, pulling you into a restless slumber beside Sylus. The warmth of his body, the weight of his arm draped over you, and the tangled mess of fear and confusion had blurred into a haze.

When you woke, the room was bathed in the soft light of the lamp on the nightstand and for a moment, you were disoriented—until you felt it. The absence of the chain.

Your heart skipped a beat.

You shifted slightly, peering down at your ankle, almost not daring to believe it. He forgot to chain you. The shackle that had become a part of your existence, a symbol of your captivity, wasn’t there. You swallowed hard, the realization sinking in further with each passing second.

But that wasn’t all. The door—the door to the bedroom—was open.

Your breath caught in your throat. Sylus had left it open, probably in his drunken state, and now you had a chance. A chance to escape.

Slowly, cautiously, you turned your head to look at him. He was still lying beside you, his breathing slow and steady, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. His face, usually so cold and unreadable, was softened in sleep, but you knew better than to trust it. He could wake at any moment.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the fear and hope warring inside you as you looked between him and the door. This was it. Your chance. But the danger still lingered. If he woke up before you reached the door… you didn’t want to think about what he would do.

You moved slowly, carefully slipping out from under his arm. Every inch of movement felt like a lifetime, each breath so shallow you were afraid even the smallest sound might wake him. Sylus’s arm slid off your waist, falling limp onto the mattress as you shifted out of his reach.

Your heart pounded as you sat up, holding your breath, waiting for any sign that he might stir. But the only sound was his steady breathing, deep and even. He was still asleep.

Your feet hit the cold floor, and a wave of adrenaline shot through you. You glanced back at him one last time, your heart racing as you studied his face—relaxed, but the usual sharpness of his features still there, even in slumber. The alcohol had clearly knocked him out, but you couldn’t be sure how deeply. Would he wake if you moved too fast?

Your eyes darted to the door. It was open—just a crack, but enough. Enough for you to slip through and make your escape.

You rose from the bed as silently as you could, your legs trembling slightly beneath you. You grabbed your discarded dress from the floor and quickly threw it over your head. One step. Then another. Your breath hitched as the floor creaked softly under your weight, but Sylus didn’t stir. Closer. You were so close. The door was right there, freedom within your grasp.

But just as you reached the threshold, just as you thought you might actually make it, a low voice pierced the silence.

"Going somewhere without me?"

Your blood froze in your veins. You turned your head slowly, dread creeping up your spine, and there he was—awake. Sylus’s crimson eyes gleamed in the dim light, his face unreadable but his voice heavy with cold amusement. His earlier softness had vanished, replaced with the icy, controlled demeanor you knew all too well.

He propped himself up on one elbow, watching you with a lazy, calculating gaze. "What were you planning, kitten?" he asked, his voice smooth but dangerous. "You failed, just as I expected."

Your throat tightened, words catching in your mouth as your pulse quickened. His calm, composed manner sent a fresh wave of terror through you. He wasn’t yelling, wasn’t even angry—just disappointed, and somehow, that was worse. His voice carried a weight that made it clear he had complete control, even now.

This was...a test?

Sylus rose from the bed with fluid, deliberate movements, each step toward you unnervingly calm. His eyes never left yours, and that cold smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he approached. "You didn’t really think you could get away, did you?"

Sylus’s fingers wrapped around your arm, his grip firm but not painful—yet. He held you there for a moment, letting the tension build, his eyes locked onto yours with a cold, dangerous gleam. Then, without breaking eye contact, he slowly bent down and picked up the ankle chain from the floor, his movements deliberate and precise.

The clink of the metal sent a shiver of dread through you, and your body stiffened as you realized what was coming next. You swallowed hard, but it did nothing to ease the rising panic in your chest. Sylus straightened, holding the chain in his hands, his jaw clenched tight, though his expression remained eerily calm.

“I can't say I'm surprised,” he muttered, his voice low and dripping with quiet anger now. He knelt down, wrapping the cold metal clasp around your ankle with a precision that felt almost practiced, almost routine. The clasp locked into place with a sharp click, then the other lock, and the sensation of it once again digging into your skin made your stomach twist.

“You should know better than anyone that I don't make such silly mistakes,” he continued, his voice soft but laced with an unmistakable edge. “And here I thought we were making a little progress...” His fingers brushed against your ankle briefly before he stood up, towering over you once more, the chain now a familiar weight keeping you tethered.

There was no mockery in his tone now—just simmering frustration, barely contained. His earlier drunken haze had worn off enough for him to regain some of his cold composure, but the fact that you had tried to escape had clearly struck a nerve.

Sylus let out a slow breath, his gaze dark and unwavering. “You know I can’t let this slide,” he murmured, his voice quiet but heavy with a dangerous calm. “I’m disappointed, sweetie.”

The chain clinked softly as you shifted, your throat tightening as his words settled over you like a suffocating weight. You had no more energy to fight, no more defiance to offer—not when his control had wrapped itself so tightly around you, leaving no room to breathe.

Sylus had dragged you back to the bed that night, his grip firm but his usual taunts absent. There was no smirk, no teasing remark—just cold, unsettling silence. He had pulled the chain around your ankle tight once more, making sure you were secure without a word. And then, without so much as a glance, he had moved across the room to sit at his desk, typing away at his laptop, shutting you out completely.

The sting of his indifference lingered long after you’d laid down, staring at the ceiling in the dark, the weight of the chain around your ankle heavier than ever.

Days passed after that, and Sylus’s behavior only grew colder. He still woke up next to you, still kept you bound to his room, but something had changed. There was no warmth in his voice anymore, no possessive affection in his touch. His "good mornings" were flat, hollow, as though he was simply going through the motions. He didn’t even eat breakfast or dinner with you anymore. Instead, he would quietly leave the food for you and return to his laptop or disappear for hours at a time, leaving you alone.

He wasn't even asking you to strip. No teasingly touching your body while undressing you either. No mentions of wanting to have sex at all.

The cold indifference felt like a punishment, but not in the way you had grown used to. There was no anger, no violence—just distance. A distance that hurt more than you thought it could. For all the cruelty, all the manipulation, there had always been a twisted attention, a presence. But now, even that was gone.

You felt more isolated than ever. And he had mentioned leaving for awhile soon, which meant it would only get worse.

It was another of those nights. Sylus had been silent all evening, barely acknowledging you. He sat on his sofa, typing away on his laptop, the glow of the screen casting harsh shadows on his face. You watched him from the bed, the tension growing unbearable.

Your mind raced, trying to make sense of his sudden shift. Was this just another game? A new way to break you? You couldn’t understand it, and the uncertainty gnawed at you.

"Sylus," you called softly, hoping to get his attention. But he didn’t respond, his fingers moving methodically over the keys, as if he hadn’t heard you at all.

Frustration welled up inside you, but it was more than just frustration—it was a sense of fear, of rejection, something you couldn’t quite put into words. You hated how much it affected you, but the silence, the distance...it hurt?

"Sylus, I can’t sleep," you said, your voice small, almost hesitant.

He paused, his fingers stilling for a moment. You held your breath, waiting for him to turn to you, to respond the way he used to, with that twisted mixture of affection and dominance that had somehow become your world.

"Oh, now you want me?" you hoped he would respond, that stupid grin adorning his face.

But instead, he looked up briefly, his gaze cold and detached. "Count sheep," he said flatly, the words devoid of any emotion or warmth. Then, without another glance, he returned to his work.

The coldness of his reply hit you harder than you expected. It wasn’t just the dismissal—it was the way he said it, as though you didn’t matter at all. He didn’t even look at you for more than a second before his attention shifted back to the glowing screen in front of him.

You felt like you’d been punched in the gut, the sudden emptiness in his words leaving a hollow ache in your chest. For all his cruelty, for all the ways he had manipulated and controlled you, there had always been something in his eyes when he looked at you—a possessive intensity, a twisted form of attention. Now, there was nothing. Just cold indifference.

You lay back down on the bed, your heart heavy, the weight of the chain pulling you deeper into the suffocating silence. You stared at the ceiling, unable to shake the feeling of abandonment that settled over you. The ache in your chest refused to go away, and despite everything, you found yourself missing the twisted affection he used to show.

Even that, you realized, had been a kind of comfort.

But now.. now, you weren’t even sure if you mattered to him at all.

[astralis-ortus]

care for you

✱ boyfriend!bc x gn!reader

— to keep you safe is my priority.

w.count → 1.1k genre → fluff warning → reader addressed as baby and love♡ a.n → based on this request! this was really sweet, even writing this made me feel safe and warmㅠ♡ ⋆ see masterlist

originally, your plan was to have a short date night with your boyfriend. just some dinner somewhere near his studio, maybe take short walk after, and he’ll wait with you until your usual bus—after skipping at least one or two—arrives and take you away from his grasp. that’s all, nothing much, just to recharge your love batteries until the next time you could see each other again.

that was your plan—but it seems like seoul’s early summer weather has its own plan against you.

dinner was great. you and chan decided to try out the new sushi place located somewhere in between his apartment and studio instead. his teammates have all gone, and you’re pretty sure the only reason why he hasn’t been there was to keep it as an option for your date nights. you appreciate the effort, of course; you could kind of imagine the teasing your boyfriend had to sit through when he decided to pass on their little team dinner—all the ‘ew you’re so lovesick’ and ‘wow so now we’re no longer your priority?’ kind of joke, so you made sure dinner was as fun as it could be.

it was during your walk, however, when things started to go south.

with your hand in his warm ones, you arrived at one of the smaller parks near chan’s apartment. the weather was nice, albeit admittedly rather chilly for a summer night. you didn’t pay much attention to it though—afterall, the weather forecast said that the day will end without any rain at sight, and more often than not, the weather forecast is rather accurate.

well, apparently that wasn’t the case today.

not even 5 minutes since you stepped within the park’s perimeters, the wind started to pick up its strength and blew everything within its vicinity. the drops of water then started shortly after, and what felt like nature’s warning soon developed into a full-blown thunderstorm. bringing you home was nothing short of chan’s instinct to keep you safe.

as soon as you arrived at chan’s shared apartment with 3 of his teammates—which fortunately was still out doing their own schedules and plans, chan immediately ushered you inside his bathroom for a warm shower while he put your (and his) drenched clothes in the washer, pulling out one of his hoodie and sweats for you to change into before taking his turn while you dry your now chan-scented hair.

you weren’t planning on staying the night—you’ve never stayed the night whenever you visited chan’s apartment, and neither did chan when he visited yours. it’s not that you didn’t want to—but for chan’s sake, you two decided it’s better not to. when the thunderstorms weren’t dying down as hours passed by, however, chan couldn’t in his right mind allow to you to even think about stepping out of his clothes.

so here you are, laying wide awake at 1 in the morning on chan’s bed, enveloped in chan’s scent, trying to think more about the fact that you’ll be spending your first ever night over at chan’s place rather than the roaring thunder outside the window.

chan, however, was nowhere near you.

after tucking you to bed around an hour ago, right around the time where his 3 teammates arrived home with his laptop on hand—all more surprised about the fact that chan left his laptop in his studio than how you’re all cozied up in their shared space, chan simply wished you a good night before he slipped outside, walking right into whatever hushed commotion between the 4 young men. you really wished he hadn’t, though.

a sudden loud thunder caught you off guard, allowing a rather loud yelp to slip past your lips before you could even stop yourself. it didn’t even take a second before you heard a crack from the direction of the door, soon followed by a dip on the mattress on your right as a hand gently patted your shoulder.

“i’m here, baby—are you okay?” chan’s voice were soft, trying his best not to sound too worried as you peeked from under his beige duvet, eyes glossy with a little pout. the weak shake of your head made him feel a little guilty—chan was just trying to make you feel comfortable since it’s your first time staying at his place, and he didn’t want to push you too far by sleeping right next to you.

maybe that wasn’t the right decision after all.

“i don’t like thunderstorms,” you quietly admitted, a little embarrassed about the fact. thunderstorms always scare you, but you never really found the need to tell anyone since you usually would just pop a melatonin gummy should these sorts of nights come around and sleep before the thunders rage. tonight, however, was something you never thought would ever happen to you—at least not any time soon.

“can you accompany me tonight?” your question came out more of a whisper—but for chan, it sounded a thousand times louder than any of the thunders he had heard tonight.

“of course, baby,” his lips formed into a smile as chan brought his lips on to your forehead, “give me 5 minutes, yeah? i’ll clean up my set up and join you in bed.”

as soon as you confirmed with a nod, chan was out the door, hurriedly packing up his emergency set up—much to han and changbin’s confusion, but he got no time to entertain the younger two’s questions. he was as speedy as he could be, and in less than 2 minutes, he’s already all cozied up under the duvet next to you, engulfing you in his warmth.

“all better, love?” he hummed, fingers tracing patterns on your back over your—his, hoodie. “i’m sorry, i thought you would be more comfortable if you slept alone. i had no idea you hated thunderstorms.”

“it’s okay, i didn’t think it would be this bad too,” you mumbled, burying your face into his clothed chest and contently sighed upon listening to his steady heartbeat—which unfortunately wasn’t much of a help when you flinched over another loud thunder.

chan, however, was quick to your rescue as he gently started humming to tenerife sea, drowning any remaining sounds outside while pulling you impossibly closer to him. as the song ends, he then swiftly started to another, slowly inviting sleep over your now heavy eyelids.

“thank you, channie. i love you,” you forced a mumble, allowing your legs to tangle with chan’s before you finally succumbed to sleep, all comfortable in your boyfriend’s embrace—and when chan was finally entirely sure your breathing had come into a steady exhale, only then his hums came to a halt, lips pressed onto your forehead as he drifted to sleep.

“sweet dreams, baby. i love you.”

©️ astralisortus, 2024. | likes and reblogs are highly appreciated♡

[syoddeye]

Stumbling off an unsanctioned hiking trail when a freak thunderstorm hits, washing out the already suspect path ahead of you.

A deluge of water makes the way back too dangerous to descend, so you trudge further into the bush. With any luck, you’ll find a big, healthy pine or maple to shelter beneath. Some distance from the trail though, you spot a structure, barely—a camouflaged hunting blind. Pine needles and small branches litter its solid roof, and you figure, as suspect as it is, it’s better than the torrential downpour.

The door creaks open on its plastic hinges, and an unpleasant-but-survivable musty cloud of sweat, stale beer, and a vaguely earthy scent greets you. It’s empty, thank fuck, with only a worn patch of a carpet sample over the floor. The space itself is cramped, but not too dissimilar from a tent for two or three people. You shut yourself in, sling your day bag down, and sink to the ground. You dig out and hand-crank the emergency radio, swearing when only a few words crackle out of the cheap speaker. What you glean is that the storm will last for at least a couple of hours.

You weigh your options. Stay in the blind, where it’s smelly but dry, or risk it and try to head back down to the forestry road where you parked your truck. With a muttered, annoyed curse, you break into your snacks, resigned to waiting it out. You aren’t a complete imbecile, just an unlucky novice bushwhacker.

Soon enough, your energy wanes. It’s been a long day and the storm isn’t helping. Just in case, you position yourself facing the door, half-propped up, with your dinky but sharp knife in hand. You doze.

Minutes or hours later, difficult to tell, the sound of footsteps and men’s voices jolt you from sleep. You nearly bite through your tongue, freezing when they stop just outside the blind.

The door opens suddenly, and the looks on the men’s faces suggest they’re as surprised to see you as you are to see them. It’s a long, charged moment before the older one chuckles, and taps his knuckles on the frame.

“Well, Gaz. Wasn’t a complete waste of a hunt.” He takes a step forward, bringing with him the smell of rain and dirt. “Get the door.”

The younger one grins and doffs his soaked cap. “Yes, sir.”

[wildflowerluver]

sharing 

aaron hotchner x fem!reader

3 times aaron shares his clothes with you

cw: nsfw mentions, aftercare, bau reader, injury, case details

wc: 1.4k

༺♡༻

suit jacket

aaron hotchner is rarely seen during work hours in anything other than a suit. 

there’s exceptions, of course, such as cases up north where he can be found dressed in jeans and a quarter zip. but then again, how often does the team get sent to a place like alaska. 

the team was sent up to vermont. the suspected unsub lived and hunted in the thick forests which made profiling extremely difficult. days later, when you finally had a suspect, you and the team wasted no time in speeding through the pouring rain to get to his location. 

arriving first, you and morgan shot off running after the unsub who had escaped out of the back of his rural house and into the woods. the team stayed behind to raid the home for one of the missing girls as well as setting up a base camp for the arrest. 

by the time you caught up with morgan who had already apprehended the unsub, you’re soaked from the rain. it doesn’t help that you have to walk up another hill to get back to where you hope the team is.

you’re absolutely drenched and can’t stop shivering. 

the bullet proof vest that sits across your chest has transformed from its normal navy blue to a near black; mud streaks across it to add to the mess.

once you appear in the sight of the team, emily is the one who reaches you and morgan first. 

you’re both a little out of it from a combination of the weather and the chase. her voice is muffled but the hands cupping your cheeks are easy to feel. they’re warm and seem to ground you. 

the warmth you’re feeling is leaving as quick as you registered it. emily’s soft hands are replaced with larger, more calloused ones. ones you know very well; aaron’s.

“honey, are you alright?” his voice is quiet.

it takes you a moment to meet his eyes.

“s’ cold,” you chatter.

aaron takes you being able to respond to that as a win. his expression shifts to relief as he places a tentative hand on your shoulder. “the ambulance is here. we should get you checked out.”

you allow him to guide you over. morgan’s already been cleared which is a good sign.  

the emt’s waste no time in bombarding you with questions. you’re still shivering.

not even thinking twice, aaron slides off his suit jacket to place it on your shoulders. you know you won’t be fully warm until you get out of the clothes that you’re in but the jacket is a kind gesture. 

aaron doesn’t care in the slightest that his jacket is getting wet. you, on the other hand, frown and try to push it back. you know how expensive his work clothes are. they’re the only thing in your shared closet that gets sent to a dry cleaner for special cleaning.

“y/n,” aaron scolds. “please take my jacket.”

you feel like a child at his words. his usual term of endearment had shifted into just your name for emphasis. 

you grumbled quietly before allowing aaron to readjust his jacket over your shoulders. it doesn’t just provide you with warmth from the material, but simply from knowing that it was aaron’s.

he stays seated next to you the entire time. His arm had snaked around your waist to hold you close.

aaron waits until the emt’s successfully clear you and move to check on some of the others before he raises his chin so you meet his eyes. 

he leans down to kiss you gently. it’s short and sweet. you barely have any time to process it before he’s pulling away. 

“all better.”

sweater

the house is slightly chilly when you wake up.

normally you would take this opportunity to roll over and bury yourself into aaron’s chest. he was a personal furnace.

instead of finding aaron beside you, you’re met with an empty bed. his covers are neatly tucked in and his pillow is fluffed. the mattress is cold too, a telltale sign aaron’s been out of bed for quite a bit. 

though tiredness courses throughout you, the urge to find aaron outweighs that. 

you shiver as your feet hit the hardwood floor. the shirt you decided to wear to bed seems like a bad choice. across the room, a grey article catches your eye.

the sweatshirt is soft in your hands once you pick it up. you know it’s aaron’s judging by the print on it. he had a habit of keeping his old college apparel.

the george washington university logo had faded and cracked from years of wear but it smells like aaron. you don’t think twice before sliding it on. 

you pad down the stairs and shuffle into the kitchen in search of your boyfriend. 

the sleeves of aaron’s sweatshirt go a bit past the tips of your fingers and you bring your hands up to your chest.

aaron is by the stove, humming along to the music that plays out of the record player as he cooks breakfast. he’s dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. you have no idea how he isn’t cold though you’re sure he’s planning on building a fire in the fireplace to combat the chill of the blowing snow outside. 

you waste no time in moving forward to wrap your arms around his midsection. your head finds a place between his shoulder blades as you squeeze him a little tighter. 

“good morning,” you smile.

aaron places his spatula to the side and turns the stove down. whatever he’s making can wait. 

he’s turning around to face you. your arms remain around his waist and his move up to cup your cheeks.

aaron moves down to kiss you deeply. your heart beats faster as your lips meet. despite the months of dating, you never get tired of kissing him.

“good morning, honey,” he mumbles against your lips.

aaron’s eyes leave yours and look down at your frame. you bite your lip. 

“is that my sweatshirt?” he asks.

you hide your face in his neck. “maybe,” you mumble. you know he’s not mad but the embarrassment of getting caught makes your face flush.

aaron kisses the crown of your head. 

“i don’t mind. looks much better on you anyway.”

shirt

you’re still breathing hard when your head finally hits the pillow.

aaron takes his time pulling out. you whimper at the empty feeling but he kisses you gently as if to combat the feeling.

“so good for me,” he presses the words into your neck. “so perfect.”

aaron thumbs away a few stray tears, purely from pleasure, that have fallen down your cheeks. your eyes are still a little clouded and aaron notices almost immediately. 

“feeling okay?” he kisses your cheek, then your forehead, and finally your lips.

you nod, face flushing. “more than okay.”

aaron hums. aftercare after sex is one of the most important things to him but he first needed to make sure you were okay.

“c’mon, let's get cleaned up,” aaron snakes an arm around your waist to pull you flush to him. you keep your head in the crook of his neck as he helps you to your feet and into the bathroom.

aaron takes his time with you in the shower. he makes sure the water is just the right temperature before he pulls you in.

his hands are soft as they wash and massage your scalp. he’s mindful of your sensitivity and when you’re done, he wraps you up in a big fluffy white towel. 

“what can i get you?” aaron asks.

“bed,” you mumble, tiredness finally taking over.

aaron kisses your forehead. he squeezes your hip and leaves you to walk over to his drawer. he returns just a moment later with one of his t-shirts in hand.

“arms up,” aaron instructs gently.

you do as you’re told, the soft material concealing your body in the best way possible. the smile on your face tells aaron he made the right choice in his pick of pajamas for you. you can’t help it, there’s something so intimate about sharing clothes with a partner. 

you finally make it back to the bed. the sheets had been changed and the covers are pulled back to make it look extra inviting. 

aaron helps you before sliding in after you. 

you promptly curled into aaron’s side.

“goodnight honey,” he whispered.

you’re asleep before you have the chance to answer.

[mournings-stars]

i loved the adam with a fat!reader 🥹 so cute, id love to see lucifer with a reader similar? like maybe shorter like him and a bit on the chubby side 🙏

AHHH THATS SO CUTE

imagine you’re like a chef or baker or something, maybe hellborn, maybe a sinner, and you meet him at an event that he’s just required to go to, so he’s staying by the catering tables and just busying himself with food so he doesn’t have to talk to anyone

“i know it’s a buffet, darlin’, but you’re milking my lil’ supply dry.” and imagine you have the cutest lil accent like maybe it’s southern if you’re hellborn or soft, 50’s movie-type transatlantic if you’re a sinner (i kinda wanna write this now actually so tell me what u prefer…)

first he’d look up, just expecting you to be taller than him, but then he’d look down and see you and immediately try to hand his plate back because how could he take your business for granted when you’re standing right in front of his and so sweet… and beautiful — like he’s not blind, he can see that you’re gorgeous. and if he’s honest the food isn’t good enough to get so many plates, but your restaurant would certainly be popular when you’re the precious little face of it

but he has to stop himself because his thoughts are certainly bordering on rude now, so he’s scrambling to apologize like, “i’m sorry — i see why your food’s so popular now, HAHA, you’re gorgeous — i mean, your food is amazing, but—“

“but?” and then he just shuts up. “no keep going, but what, your majesty?” and he is fumbling, because he can’t tell you he thinks the food is mediocre when he’s been shoving it down his throat all night, but then you say, “i know it’s not my best; they had me here last minute, frettin’ over twenty trays each of my best dishes, which can’t be the best if they’re repeated twenty times,” and even though you’re talking on and on, he’s listening and nodding on and on because because you’re just speaking to him so naturally

“am i talking to much?” “yes — i mean, no! i could listen to you talk all night!”

the rest is literally history, like you tell him to come to your restaurant to see what your cooking is really like, and when he finds out its just a small little restaurant with a couple tables and an old kitchen, he’s amazed because it tastes even better than it did at the event

once he decides to ask you out, and he decides quick, he knows he can’t ask you out to eat, or to an event, or to his house, or to the movies, or—

“you wanna get somethin’ to eat sometime?” and you’re literally asking him before he can even think to ask. “maybe you could cook for me?” you suggest slyly and he’s too flustered to say anything so he just nods. “i’ll make sure i dress fancy for you then, majesty.” and this man is MELTING

and if there’s one thing he learns about you that night its that you are not insecure about anything — your first conversation of you doubting your cooking skills might’ve made him think otherwise, but now he knows it’s just not the case

and you have no reason to be insecure; about your cooking, about anything — hell, you look amazing all dolled up just to come to his home for his 8-minute spaghetti… at least he made homemade meatballs. and those were pretty good! you even complimented them, which gave him a very much needed ego boost to get through the night confidently

and when his confidence finally shows, you’re sure he’s what you want, so you don’t bother taking your time with leading up to kisses or anything past that. you take what you want, with permission, and give him what he wants

and he loves it about you, like, you’re so sure of yourself, confident, and carry yourself with so much charm that people just step out of your way, even with your short stature, which he also loves about you — it’s nice having someone shorter around for once, but he’d definitely shape-shift and let himself be shorter than you for a day or so if you wanted

along those lines, he would give you any and everything you wanted. even if you didn’t ask, he’d give it to you — he’ll get you a new restaurant, new equipment, appliances… hell, he’ll even get you a new apartment… that is, if you don’t move in with him

and he would ask, a million times he’d ask because he just loves being with you that much. whenever you come over, or he goes to your place, he’s stuck to you. he watches you cook, helps if you let him — he bakes! he can bake, but of course he finds out you can too, and he insists you’re much better, but you insist that you do it together since this was much less dangerous than letting him rummage through your spice cabinet

if he’s not helping you, he’s hugging you from behind and watching what you do, hands running all over you, feeling the soft plush of your thighs and hips, your stomach, anything you’ll let him touch which he kisses your cheeks and neck and shoulders — literally anything you’ll let him do because he just loves listening to your precious laughter as he loves on you, or your sighs when he marks your neck or shoulder

this man LOVES lying with his head on your lap or in between your thighs. literally anything to do with your thighs or resting his head on your stomach, like, he’s fully back in heaven

he also loves you on top of him, straddling him while you comb your fingers through his hair, legs across his lap as you read, cuddled up to him as you watch a movie or sleep, he can’t get enough of you

and don’t get me started on the nsfw like… head between your legs all fucking day, squeeze his head with your thighs — like actually do it because he will come undone

[zxoaii]

Get to Know You

fem! reader x Hiromi Higuruma

Summary: After spending six months as a personal assistant to lawyer Higuruma, he finally decides to get to know you better.

SMUT

WC: 2.6k

Wattpad: _Bolter

[ Y/n ]

My fingers skim through the folders in the filing drawer. I wish he'd listen to me and implement some kind of system... Half the tabs are bent or the names are smudged and illegible.

Jesus this job tests my patience. Oh, wait. I squint to make out the smudged letters. I think this is the right file. Really how am I supposed to tell though?

My heels tap against the floor as I carry the file into Higuruma's office. "Thank you." He's a mess. Papers are strewn all over the room. He has two whiteboards crowding the office, both completely filled out, and papers pinned all over the walls.

Not to mention the hundreds of tapes in stacked boxes behind him. Recordings of his thoughts from past cases.

"Do you need something?"

"It's just... I'm sorry if this is out of line but your office is a mess." He looks around at all of his things. "I guess it is. When I'm in court on Thursday you can work on it."

My mouth drops open at his comment. "Well, I'm not the one who has a problem with it. Are you headed home?" His eyes fall back down to his paper. I swear for a moment they linger on my chest.

"I am." It's half past when I was off. The overtime isn't worth it, I stay because Higuruma is a good guy and deserves the help. Ignore his bipolar mood swings and you have a real decent man in there.

"Want to grab a drink?" He drops his pen and leans back in his chair. I thought for sure he'd be here for a few hours looking through that file. He barely glanced at it.

"A drink?"

He raises his brows at me, testing if I'm actually going to make him repeat himself. "I... Do you know a spot?"

"I was a law student, of course I know a spot." The chair creaks as he stands up from it. Higuruma shuffles things around his desk. Maybe that's his version of organizing his papers.

"You don't usually leave this early." I shouldn't overthink this. Going to get drinks isn't a big deal. "On time? Yeah, I'm taking a break. I need to think... I'm at a loss right now."

His usually neat hair is slightly disheveled from the day. I've noticed when he’s stressed he will run his fingers through his hair. Our sounds are the only ones left in the building except for the janitor.

It's so quiet I swear I can hear him sigh when I bend over to pick my bag up from under my desk. I'm not sure I've ever directly confronted my feelings for Higuruma.

He's a lawyer. A handsome and kind lawyer. What woman wouldn't develop a crush? Still, I doubt he has any room for that in his life. He's always the first in the office and the last to leave.

He lives and breathes for law.

I've been working for him for six months now. I know him from observation. We hardly ever have any kind of personal conversation. He has me go to his home alone to get things for him but I don't even know the first real thing about him.

If you wanted to know the passcode to his garage door I could tell you. I could tell you the way he likes his suits dry cleaned and the liquor he likes to have waiting in his kitchen after being in court.

Don't ask me about his favorite color though. Or the songs he likes. Or even the food he likes. I don't know him like that.

Is he curious about me like that?

We stand together in the middle of the elevator, waiting for the doors to close. Higuruma scrolls on his phone while he waits. "You did get me my pass for my prison visit tomorrow, right?"

"Of course I did. It's in my top drawer."

He nods then looks back down at his phone. My heart thumps in my chest as my mind spirals. It's just a casual thing... Really, look at him. I'm not sure Higuruma could love anything but his career.

I focus on the hum of the elevator as it makes its way down to the lobby. Our arms brush as he slides his phone into his pocket. "You aren't a law student, are you?"

He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. "Uh... I'm- No, a law student? No, I'm a medical student." Higuruma extends his arm so I can exit first. "I see... That's fine, I was just going to bounce some ideas off of you." We wave goodbye to the security guard.

"You still can. I've learned since I started working for you ."

"Oh yeah?"

I look away to try and lessen the burning in my face. Why is he suddenly so unbearably... Sexy?

The street is busy with people. Chatter and laughter replace the quietness of the office. The city is so much more lively at night. "It's a little bit of a walk." Higuruma stops in front of the parking garage.

"That's ok. The weather is nice." I usually walk to work anyway. Plus I don't know if I could contain myself watching him drive. What's wrong with me?

"Alright." He holds an arm out for me to take. My hesitation earns a response from Higuruma, "There's a lot of people. You should stay close since it's getting darker." Really? Is he serious?

I take his arm, my fingers carefully gripping his bicep. He's muscular. More so than I had initially thought. Higuruma is talking about something. He'll expect a response. Why can't I focus? Oh my god, did someone drug me? Did I wake up lovesick today?

I start to notice the glances from people around us. That never happens when it's just me. I look up at Higuruma, maybe he suddenly grew another head.

He looks down at me, "Is something wrong?" No two heads. He's just that handsome. "Sorry, I just... I'm having trouble focusing."

"Me too."

Is he flirting with me? Higuruma moves on quickly from his comment, back to his ideas for his case. He shoots himself down every time. It seems like just saying it out loud helps him figure it out.

That must be why he loves his tape recorder so much.

Maybe I should try it sometime. It could help me study.

Before I know it I'm sitting down at the bar with Higuruma. People are doing karaoke across the room. They have darts and an unused pool table too.

"Hiromi! I haven't seen you in forever. Who's this pretty lady?" The bartender stops in front of us mid-pour. "This is my assistant, Y/n." His hand falls onto my back gently.

"Hello."

"Hello. We always speculated about the first woman Hiromi would bring to the bar. Figures it's his assistant." The comment goes over my head. Was it a joke or an insult?

The bartender moves to give the drink to someone further down the bar before making his way back to us. "Alright, I know what he wants. What can I get you, madam?" Is this one of his friends? Honestly, I assumed he didn't have any…

"What red wine do you have?"

"Just bring her the most expensive one you have." Higuruma doesn't let his friend answer. "Alright then."

.  .  .

My fingers trace the rim of my glass. Higuruma has been telling stories about his time as a law student. I've learned so much about him.

"I just never knew that you could do it like that so I got totally wasted. Blacked out. Oh god, it was the worst hangover of my life."

He looks up at me from his hunched position. "I like you, Y/n." I smile stupidly at his passing comment. "What?" His laugh is charming. "Nothing... I should head home now."

Higuruma jolts upright. "What? Why?" The crowd has grown denser around us. The bar is so loud now it feels like we're screaming at each other.

"Was it what I said?" His nail digs into the bar nervously. "No, it's just... Well I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea." I don't want to kiss you and you not kiss me back.

That's where I feel like going right now.

"Well- I... I-"

His teeth chew on his bottom lip while he thinks. A shuddered sigh passes my lips. I stand to leave. "Thank you for inviting me out. I had a lot of fun tonight. I'll go pay."

We stare at each other for a moment before I start to shoulder my way through the crowd. My underwear is hot with my arousal. I really underestimated how much-

"Do you want me?" The hot air in my ear scares me. If his voice wasn't so familiar I'd assume it was a creep. "If you don't we can be done with this... If you do let me have you for the night."

My eyes search the crowd around us. No one seems to notice or care. Higuruma's breath lingers on the side of my neck. I turn so he can read my lips.

"I want you."

He lets out a breathy sigh, his shoulders relax and I watch as his eyes trace the curve of my lips. "Follow me." He takes my wrist and pulls me through the crowd. We walk away from the door.

Higuruma reaches over the bar for something. The bartender sees and then looks away. We walk further into the building, into a dark hallway.

He grabbed a key. A key that he uses to unlock a door at the end of the hall. It opens to a medium-sized private karaoke room.

Higuruma tosses the key aside. The door shuts behind me when he presses me up against it. The lock clicks then his hand finds the small of my back.

I hungrily pull him in for a kiss. Our mouths clash together desperately. He deepens the kiss as soon as my mouth opens. His tongue works against mine while his hands undo the buttons on my shirt.

My thighs press together to create any friction. Higuruma pulls away for a short moment to breathe before kissing me again. With my shirt undone his hands cup the sides of my jaw.

He tastes like liquor and cigarettes. I can feel his erection against my stomach. Nothing could tear me out of this moment now.

I undo my pants, dropping them to my ankles. The kiss breaks again. This time so he can take in my almost naked body. He looks up at me through hooded eyes.

I wonder if he can see how aroused I am for him right now.

Higuruma starts undressing himself. He starts with his tie, then his shirt, then his belt. They all drop into a pile on the floor. His happy trail forces me to swallow the saliva filling my mouth.

I watch impatiently as he undoes his pants. I'm so acutely aware of every feeling in my body. The ache in my feet from my heels. The throb in my core begging for him. The rhythmic pounding of my heart in my chest. The butterflies circling in my stomach.

Then I'm aware of his hand on my hip. The feeling of the elastic trailing down one side, then the other. "Hiromi..." His name comes out as a desperate plead.

"Fuck, say it again for me love." He guides me around so my palms are pressed flat against the door. "Hiromi, please." I look over my shoulder to see him. His hardened cock stands flat against his stomach.

"Are you sure?" His fingers linger on the clasp of my bra. "Yes, yes, please just do it." My breath hitches as his tip brushes against my bare ass leaving precum behind.

I can hear people laughing and talking outside. What if someone hears us? We aren't far from his office what-

"Oh!" My hand grabs the door handle in a tight fist. Hiromi's length slowly slides into me. He nudges my legs further apart with his knee.

"Fuck you're soaked. You like me this much?" His laugh vibrates against my back as he leans in to kiss me. I bite back pained moans.

His girth hurts so fucking addictively. I shouldn't be so shameless like this. "Good girl, just... Give it a second." It's a beautiful agony waiting for my body to adjust to him.

The wait brings our anticipation to a new peak. We both moan as I finally give in to his size. Hiromi holds my hips steady as he starts rocking his hips back and forth.

My head falls between my shoulders. His rhythm gradually increases. I've never gotten this far in my mind with him. It's heavenly.

The pads of his fingers dig into my skin. Our skin claps together loud enough for only us to hear. His moans are overpowered by all the other noises though.

Not only is his pace swift, but each thrust is rough and deep. My hands press into the door to prevent my head from slamming into it. One of Hiromi's hands slides to my chest.

I moan as he roughly cups my breast. He pulls me back, meeting me somewhere in the middle. His chest is flush against my back. My fingertips just barely remain on the door.

"It was torture not knowing what you felt like for so long." He attacks my exposed neck as I lean my head back onto his shoulder. "People will see if you leave marks."

One of my hands reaches back to hold his head. "Your boss won't care." He pulls away before I can get my fingers in his hair. I return to my position against the door but Higuruma remains leaned over.

His gruff moans consume my mind completely. My legs tremble at all the stimulation. My orgasm rapidly builds up in my stomach. Instead of words, all that leaves my mouth are pathetic cries of pleasure.

Higuruma's cock against my G-spot and his moans in my ear drive me wild. My knees buckle under me, he catches me to hold me upright.

"I'm right there too, princess..." I grab the doorknob again for support. The inside of my thighs are slick with our arousal. "Hiromi-"

His hands grip my skin harshly. My forehead rests against the door as he finishes inside me. Hiromi's cock twitches as his grip loosens.

An unexpected whimper escapes as he pulls himself out of me. "I've made such a mess of you, pretty girl. I'm sorry." I turn to face him, using the door as support.

Some of his hair is plastered to his face with sweat. His cheeks are flushed and his stomach flexes with each heavy breath he takes.

"I didn't know... You could be like that." Hiromi pulls his underwear back up. He wears the same self-assured smile that I see when he knows he's got someone cornered in court.

It makes me want another round.

"I can show you a lot more than that but maybe we should do it somewhere else. Somewhere we can lay down so I can use my mouth for something other than arguing."

He picks up my bra off the ground for me. "If you want, I can go grab my car and pick you up here. We can shower at my place."

Hiromi places a playful wet kiss on my neck. "Well, I shouldn't decline my boss when he's treating me so well..."

Our eyes lock. "Good girl."

[collidescopeeyes]

Random Relationship Headcanons: Viego

- Wants to be near you literally all the time. Loves physical contact and will find any excuse to get it.

- He physically can't blush, which is a tragedy because otherwise you could see how flustered you make him :( you still catch him just staring at you with open adoration so it's ok though

- Gives you privacy if you ask for it but his default state is wanting to be around you. Kind of guy who would be thrilled to watch paint dry with you cuz it means you get to spend time together. Will follow you around until you pay attention to him, 100% sulks if neglected for too long but can't stay mad at you for long.

- Gets jealous easily but is working on not being so possessive, so he just gets clingy(er) if he's feeling insecure. It's kinda cute.

- Low key gets freaked out if he doesn't know where you are. His last love died painfully in front of him ok he's got Trauma

- Can tell immediately if there's something up with you, pls talk to him about it, he worries and he just wants to help

- Likes to read, from romance novels to historical texts. Goes through surviving texts from Camavor frequently, trying to jog his memory. Keeps a journal now, in case the mist takes any more memories. A lot of it is prose about how pretty you were today, a fair hand at sketching too.

- Likes animals, especially dogs and horses–royal hunts were a big family event growing up. Animals do not like him anymore, the mist makes them uneasy. It makes him sad sometimes :(

- Has strong opinions on wine and ballroom music. Will talk about the composition of a symphony for hours if you let him. Would love to teach you to dance.

- Used to care a lot about how he dressed, but those memories are still pretty fuzzy and he doesn't really think about it anymore–dying kinda puts vanity into perspective. Likes dressing you up though, and will definitely dress to match if you're going somewhere. He likes the idea of coordinated outfits.

- Gets moody occasionally, it all gets a bit much for him sometimes and he starts thinking about all his fuck ups. Alternates between sad and self-blaming to frustrated and kinda bitchy, but does his best not to take it out on anyone. Instantly feels bad and apologizes if he says anything out of line. Give him time, cuddles and reassurance and he'll start feeling better.

- Can't sleep without you in his arms. Doesn't choose to sleep often anyway (he gets bad nightmares), but will happily lay there all night watching you sleep. Doesn't like to admit that though bc he knows it's kinda weird.

- Doesn't need to eat or sleep or drink, but likes doing it anyway. The other wraiths in the isles are shadowy mist creatures because they're souls the mists have taken, and the bodies are somewhere else. Viego’s situation is closer to him ACTUALLY being the crown and just possessing his own body constantly, sort of like he'd possess anyone else’s. He's still technically undead though so his only real bodily need is the magic that's keeping him walking around

- The crown can't be moved, his head just moves with it. It's sort of like horns, except they're not actually attached to his head. Yank him around by it ;). He can demanifest it if he tries but it makes him feel numb and weirdly claustrophobic

- Speaking of, is claustrophobic. Man was trapped in a sword for like a thousand years; he was only quasi aware that whole time, kind of like having a nightmare or sleep paralysis, but it still makes him uncomfortable. Doesn't come up much since he just kinda mist teleports out if he starts feeling cramped. If it's ever for some reason necessary he will be holding you like an emotional support stuffy and you won't get a choice about it.

- His tears are black and dissipate into mist after a bit. It's very goth. Can control the amount of mist pouring from his heart; at its thickest it's almost like a small waterfall.

- Lets you put your fingers in his chest hole exactly one time. It was so cold you couldn't actually feel anything. He described it as akin to someone squeezing his heart.

- He can float but it takes concentration and he honestly prefers just walking. Also, he's tall asf. You need something off a high shelf, he's your man.

- His sense of temperature is fucked. He can tell if something's hot, but if you hand him an ice cube and a piece of wood he can't tell which ones colder without looking. Worries his hands are too cold for you since you always feel warm to him (they're not)

- Looking at his reflection weirds him out, and sometimes you catch him staring at his hands. Man doesn't have an introspective bone in his body though so he couldn't tell you why, but really he only sort of remembers what he used to look like and sometimes the dissonance gets to him.

- In the far far future of TIARW some of the restored shades will choose to stay in the kingdom, since apparently Viego was beloved by the people before his wife died and he went fully off the deep end. Viego gets the opportunity to redeem himself to his people and kingdom, and another shot at being king but older and wiser now. With you as his queen, he swears not to make the mistakes of his past and to rule with the best interests of Camavor in mind. Maybe I'll write an epilogue along those lines at some point.

NSFW (under cut)

- Look he's perma stuck in honeymoon phase he's Thirsty

- High libido. A menace if you let him be but 100% respects if you aren't feeling like it, he knows he can be a bit much. Does need lot of physical intimacy but that doesn't need to be sex necessarily, he just likes making you both feel good

- Despite this, doesn't jerk off much. It's being with you that gets him going, not that he specifically wants to get off

- He doesn't get tired. Like ever. 0 refractory, will just go until either you tap out or he's so overstimulated he can't anymore. Watching his cum drip out of you just gets him so worked up though so it's a vicious cycle

- He's got a filthy mind and will have you every which way he can think of, in every room you'll let him. Fav position is probably you riding him cowgirl though; he likes the view

- Likes leaving lovebites, but he lowkey feels bad if he bruises you by accident. He gets carried away and forgets his strength sometimes, you'll have to convince him you're fine. He heals too fast for you to leave marks on though, it's tragic :(

- He's touch starved, we all know this, he was trapped in a sword for a thousand years. In particular though, his neck is very sensitive, as well as his thighs and lower back. Doesn't like the area around his chest cavity being touched. Loves having his hair pulled.

- He's got experience. He was a heartbreaker in his youth and he figures out exactly what you like uncannily quickly

- Love love loves going down on you, he loves watching you and he gets to make you feel good, doesn't even care if he cums as long as he gets to eat you out

- Boss him around, he loves it when you take charge. Loves being both praised and degraded, will try so so hard to be good for you. Edge him until he cries, make him cum over and over, yank him around by the crown and tell him what a pathetic cum drunk slut he is, he'll take it all and beg for more <3

- Not specifically dommy so if you aren't taking the reigns he's the perfect combination of loving and so horny he can't think straight. Tells you how pretty and perfect you are while he makes a fucking mess of you.

- He's so loud. If he's not telling you how good you feel or how perfect you are, he's moaning and whimpering and swearing. Ask him a question and watch him struggle to put a coherent sentence together in real time.

- If you want to give him a task you know he'll fail, tell him to keep quiet. Fucks it up immediately and he gets SO upset, full tears in eyes begging to make it up to you.

- Will happily do whatever makes you both feel good, willing to try most things you want to. Hard limits, wouldn't like saying mean things or hurting you even as part of a scene (receiving tho, yes pls). Also, very mixed feelings about doing it anywhere anyone could ostensibly see you–on one hand everyone should know you're his and he's yours, on the other he'd have to kill them. It would be the only way, they gotta die.

- Aftercare is a must, whole nine yards, hot scented bath and cuddles and affirmations all around.

[chaotic-orphan]

hiii!! so i am asking (reaaaally nicely) if you are able to continue 'intoxicating fear'? its so good and your work is amazing. thanks for your time <333333

-athena (@andtheysaidspeaknoww

Intoxicating Fear — part X

ATHENA?! BADASS IN THE ARENA?! UNMATCHED, WITTY AND QUEEN OF THE BEST STRATEGIES WE’VE SEEN?!

I am honoured, I have always loved your work except for a couple questionable things with Medusa but I understand…

Of course! This is for you @andtheysaidspeaknoww I hope you enjoy it <3 I also want to dedicate this part to @xxgalgurlxx for making ART of the boys™️ which I’m attaching to the bottom because it is so cool and I love it a lot :;) ENJOY SOME FLUFF/comfort for Kit (Hero).

Also! In case you haven’t seen Hero and Villain have names now! Hero’s name is Kit, and Villain’s name is Ambrose. I will link their character descriptions here.

Read part one here

Continued from this part here

I hope you enjoy this part!

*~*~*~*~*

Kit cleaned his arms of the leftover blood, gritting his teeth and hissing when the water ran over his cuts. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to ignore them as much as possible, but it was hard to when they still hurt. When Kit stood from the bath his tracksuit bottoms clung uncomfortably to his legs. He stepped out with a squelch of his socks hitting the tile and dabbed the towel gently over his arms.

The towel came back with bright red streaks across it, and he wanted to scream. He can’t even have a towel in his own fucking house. Kit stormed out of his bathroom and straight into his room, slamming the door shut. Just for effect. Just to show Ambrose that he was pissed, and he would let him know it.

Though, now that he thought about it, the sadist probably got off on his anger or something.

Change out of those clothes.

The command echoed off the walls of Kit’s skull, but he just stood with his back against the door, hands on his knees. His breaths coming out laboured and rattly. Kit tightened his grip on his knees until his knuckles turned white, trying to hold himself back from obeying Ambrose’s command.

If he fought it long enough… when Superhero came back, he’d see.

Kit squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth as he felt his body fighting against his mind.

Come on, Kit pleaded with his limbs. Please. Listen to me, not Ambrose. Obey me.

Even if Kit wanted to disobey this particular command, he couldn’t fight the damp coldness permeating from the wet clothes. If he stayed in them any longer, he’d probably get sick for real. The sleeves on his shirt weren’t wet per se, just damp, cold and irritating. And his tracksuit clung to his legs awkwardly making Kit feel colder than he actually was.

Kit let out a sigh.

He would change, he decided, and that was important. That Kit decided to change, not Ambrose and his stupid power.

Kit took his hands off his knees and straightened up before stepping into the room and grabbing the bottom of his shirt and pulling it up over his head. Once his shirt was off, he already felt ten times better as he obeyed the command got out of his wet clothes. He quickly slipped out of his tracksuit; the soggy fabric slapping wetly against the wood. Kit took his socks off and dropped them on the dirty pile to bring to Ambrose.

He opened his wardrobe; eyes drifting lazily over the selection of clothes and froze. His eyes caught the multiple cuts on his inner wrist, and he wanted to throw up. Kit swallowed the dry lump in his throat as he reached over gingerly to run his finger down along one of the deeper cuts. He felt the ridges the knife created against his skin, the valleys between the flesh of his wrist and how much was cut away.

Kit stepped back, casting his eyes to the ceiling to stop the tears from falling. It wasn’t like they were the first scars Kit ever had, but it didn’t feel like a scar he got from fighting some random Villain. It was so much more personal than that.

So much more violating because Kit had done it to himself, but it was Ambrose’s marking. His brand. His sign of ownership over Kit his strings. Ambrose decided exactly how many cuts, the varying depth of each of them. A cruel, insidious reminder that Kit really was nothing except what Ambrose wanted him to be. That even if Kit fought tooth and nail against Ambrose, he would never be able to win.

A sudden, helpless fury overtook Kit, the energy coursing uncomfortably under his skin. Tight and wired and itching to be released. Kit drew his fist back and punched the wall of his wardrobe, and without waiting delivered a second harder punch.

“Kit?” Ambrose called from some other part of the apartment. “Everything okay in there?”

Kit swallowed a sob, a mix of anger and despair clogging his throat. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and swallowed again before calling back: “yeah fine.”

Kit pretended it didn’t come out as pathetic as it sounded, because that’s all he could do anymore. Pretend. Fool himself. Cower in his imagination away from Ambrose. Make himself appear more like a Hero and less like a… Fuck, what even was he anymore?

Kit grabbed a black crew neck jumper from his wardrobe and another pair of slate grey joggers. He slipped on another pair of socks before scooping up the wet clothes and walking out their door.

“Here,” Kit grumbled, handing Ambrose the wet clothes. Ambrose smiled down at him.

“Thank you, Christopher.”

“Don’t call me that,” Kit snapped. “It’s not my name.” Ambrose grinned and pinched his cheek like Kit was a child.

“But you did such a good job following orders,” Ambrose cooed. Kit slapped his hand away with a huff and turned on his heel towards his room again.

He hadn’t even taken a step forward when Ambrose spoke. “Ah, where are you going?”

Kit’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “To my room. Is that allowed?”

“Hmm… why don’t you ask nicely?”

Fury winded through Kit again as he turned, eyes blazing at Ambrose who stood with the wet clothes still in hand just smiling at Kit’s anger.

“Haven’t you humiliated me enough already today?” Kit demanded.

“Clearly not if you think you can take that tone with me,” Ambrose replied nonchalantly, cocking an eyebrow at Kit when he took a step forward.

“Please, just give me peace, for…” Kit said all anger leaking from his frame once he knew he wasn’t getting anywhere with it. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, licking his lips before continuing: “For an hour or two, I’ll be good I’ll just go into my room and make no noise or do anything bad I promise just please can I have a moment alone? Please?”

Ambrose said nothing for a minute. Instead, he just drank in the desperation oozing from Kit’s tired frame, his sunken shoulders and his hands out, palms facing up as if to show he was no threat.

Begging.

Maybe Ambrose’s lesson finally sunk in this time. Maybe he did crack a little of Kit’s usual steel resolve.

Ambrose inclined his head. “Fine. I didn’t really have anything else planned for the day anyways, so your time is yours.”

“Thank you,” Kit said with a breath. Closing his eyes and savouring the moment. Kit turned for his room again, walking towards it waiting for Ambrose to speak again. To laugh or say “gotcha” and force Kit to do another horrible thing to himself or…

Kit’s hand touched the handle of his bedroom. The cool metal beneath his palm and fingers a shock to his system, that Ambrose was actually allowing him to relax. Kit licked his lips in anticipation and opened the door. Before he walked in though, Kit looked over his shoulder at Ambrose. His dark eyes were following Kit the whole way, and when they met Kit’s the corner of his lips twitched up with amusement.

“Thank you,” Kit said again, forcing his gratitude and relief into his voice. Ambrose blinked, tilting his head slightly as if trying to see from what angle Kit was trying to get over him. “Really.”

Kit turned again and walked into his room after that, letting the door close behind him. Ambrose stood rooted to the spot, staring at the closed door where Kit had disappeared.

He swallowed, only remembering the wet clothes in his arms. Ambrose cleared his throat, ignoring whatever that was all about and focusing instead on getting the clothes out of his arms.

Perhaps he went too far… perhaps he did more than crack the little Hero. Ambrose’s gaze flickered back to the door.

Only time would tell.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

This is @xxgalgurlxx art for Kit and Ambrose. Which I love, thank you again <3

The Orphanage (plz lemme know if you want to be added or removed <;3) - @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @acer-gaysimpstuff @m3rakii @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom

[kaiso-woo]

Just Stay.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

-> Masterlist

PART 1 of my ‘Stay Series’ - a long hypothesised journey of a relationship between Bang Chan and Reader.

WC: 6.8k | Overall ‘Stay Series’ Synopsis: Bang Chan experiences the suic!des of Stays, so when you lot choose to die, he dies right along with you. Reader is the “antidote” to this condition.

Notes: Second Person Narration, Skz Fluent in English, Swearing, CaféOwner!Reader, Fem!Reader, Idol!Chan, Barista!Chan, Suic!de (Strong Descriptions), ANGST (LITERALLY EVERYWHERE, NO NEED TO SQUINT), Fluff (At the End)

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

PART 1

!!Casual reminder this is entirely fictitious - Chris/Christopher in my work does not represent the actual Bang Chan - this is purely my imagination and nothing more - this goes for all other SKZ-Members too!!

-

What should you do when you witness the end of a life? Cry and wallow in the darkest corners of disconsolation? Feel your heart shatter, a million fractals of sharply glittering reflections exploding in a mere fraction of a second? Some believe time is nothing more than an illusion though – so should you instead decide to lie on your bed, a place of restless solace, and stare up at the empty ceiling?

If this were the case, could you then be compared to a lonely garden gnome, fated to ponder life’s every aspect through a single perspective? Would you shrivel away from the light, choose to accept the pitiful concept of simply existing and allow your garden to wither; green to grey, flesh to bones, petals to stems? Perhaps your coping mechanism is to simply scream. Shut the doors. Close your blinds. Block your ears. Scream. Dry your eyes. Breathe…

Scream.

He does none of those. Instead, his eyes flutter closed momentarily, chest heaving, hands shaking, before he pulls himself away and picks up the computer mouse again. They’re becoming more frequent, or maybe he’s becoming more attune to them.

He doesn’t witness these deaths, exactly. He feels them; what it’s like to have the frigid wind tug at your hair, howling in your ears, the moment of impact with the blistering ground causing him to flinch violently, hand clamped over his mouth in a desperation to quell any yell; what it’s like to have your vision swim, blotting in and out of darkness, your throat constrict as though a pressure is forcing its way from inside out, desperate, erratic gulps for sweet sweet oxygen achieving nothing; what it feels like to stand there, shivering, your heart rate increasing tenfold, breaths quickening to mere pants, as you will every instinct in your body to remain still – ‘do not move’, you think, ‘it’ll be over soon’, you remind yourself, ‘the lights are closer now, and they’re fast, they won’t stop’.

How dearly he wishes for them to stop. 

He’s better at dealing with them now, definitely more subtle. The panic that envelopes him every time he realises something is about to happen however, will never leave him. He’ll drop what he’s holding, frantically disappear into one of the empty rooms in the company building, lock the door and rake a hand through his hair. The number of times the stylists have grumbled at him for messing up his styled hair is limitless, but he doesn’t care, why should he?

The studio door clicks open, and his head snaps to the sound. Immediately, he attempts to steady his breath, and pulls his expression into his signature straight smile :] as Jisung enters the room, a plastic bag filled with takeaway containers in his hand.

“Eh? What’re you doing here…?” Chan grins, his eyes widening dramatically. Swiftly, he swipes his computer mouse to the top of the screen to check the time.

2.23am

“It’s so late Jisung, were you practicing choreo?” he continues, hitting save on his keyboard so he doesn’t accidentally delete his work while distracted. “I brought you food,” Jisung mumbles, lowering it onto the coffee table and carefully unpacking it all. Chan’s mouth begins to salivate excessively as the smell of chicken wafts towards him, but he rubs his face and resists the urge to sit down with Jisung and eat to his heart’s content.

Jisung plucks a drumstick from the box, “Why are you working here alone?” he questions, a sad pout on his chubby cheeks as he wanders over to the computer, careful not to drop any crumbs. Chan shrugs, hoping it’ll satiate Jisung’s concern. 

It doesn’t, of course, and his pout morphs into a small frown. Jisung tries to shove the chicken into Chan’s mouth, offering it to him demandingly. “You eat, you eat,” Chan waves it away and turns back to his computer, “You wanna listen? I think it’s almost finished, something’s just not right with the auto tune… I think. It sounds off,” he picks the headphones off the desk and holds them out for Jisung, who has taken a bite of the chicken happily and is munching away. Again, he tries to give Chan the chicken drumstick, and refuses to take the headphones until Chan is eating the chicken.

As Jisung listens to the song, Chan’s mind drifts back to the corners of his thoughts, the shadows that have been swirling there for a long while now. He doesn’t know when it first began, doesn’t want to remember it to be honest. He was in his room, dozing off into a comfortable sleep, the purple LEDS providing a soft glow to the darkness. 

-

It was abrupt, swinging into him out of nowhere, but he sat bolt upright, hands grappling with the sheets desperately. His vision swam, and he retched on dry air. He groaned and keeled forwards, hands suddenly clutching his chest as it tightened painfully – corkscrewing into his heart, but at the same time it was as though someone was trying to pry it open. He retched again, and he regretted in that moment that he had chosen purple to light his room earlier. The colour was making his head pound, his belongings swimming in and out of his vision, worsened by his unstable swaying.

In a panic, he crawled over to the side of his bed. Then with a last hacking cough, he vomited onto the floor, the acrid taste on his tongue causing him to recoil, the stinging burn in his throat making his eyes water. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t see shit anymore. A dry sob escaped his lips, as he desperately tried to fumble for something to ground him back to reality. He saw speckles – grainy, fuzzy, surreal. 

The world tilts, and maybe he falls off the bed too. And he’s gone.

-

“It’s not the auto tune effect – it’s the timing of the bridge,” Jisung drags Chan back to reality, his head bopping slightly to the music. Chan blinks and scoots aside to allow the younger to fiddle with the computer mouse, rewinding the audio so he can listen again. Chan is finishing off the chicken drumstick, so he hums in acknowledgement instead to Jisung’s feedback. “Yeah, it’s the bridge. The vocals need to be delayed a little,” Jisung concludes, “Want me to fix it up?”

In the silence of the room, Jisung pulls over another chair and gets to work. Chan watches him contentedly for a while, happy to absorb himself in the clicking and tapping of his first child’s proceedings - watching him edit and perfect the track they’ve been working on for the past few months. Jisung glances at Chan, his concentration breaking, “You’re unusually quiet.”

Chan reaches over and squeezes his shoulder comfortingly, “Just thinking.” “Right... well, eat more. And then go to bed,” Jisung insists, briefly squeezing the hand on his shoulder in return. Chan sighs and hoists himself out of his chair, sinking back onto the couch so he can easily dig into the food. “Thanks mate,” he mumbles, and when the man makes no move of acknowledgement, Chan smiles softly and nibbles on some more chicken.

-

He woke that time, on the floor of his bedroom, dangerously close to the stinking heap that was his vomit. His head pounded, a dull ache ringing in his skull as he mustered all his strength to simply stand up and pull over the blinds.

“What the fuck was that?” He groaned, resting his head on the window and basking in the warmth of the early morning sun, so comforting, so full of life – a steady presence. After he spent the next ten minutes gathering his wits and cleaning up the mess, he brushed it off as food poisoning; maybe something in the food Hannah cooked last night (he’d never tell her that, of course).

On another day, in another place, maybe a few weeks from then, he had returned to Korea, jumping straight back into his busy schedule. They were in the middle of an interview, not the first, and certainly not the last. In hindsight, he was thankful he had chosen to stand in the back row. At first he thought he merely needed to cough, a ticklish sensation wrapping around his throat, a ghost of a hand caressing his neck. He swayed dangerously when he felt it tighten harshly, so suddenly, and his heartbeat escalated, his legs becoming jelly. 

His head snapped back as his whole body teetered over the edge of the platform he was standing on. A searing pain blazed across his neck for a second, causing him to grapple with it in shock. Changbin grabbed his arm at that point, preventing him from completely falling over backwards.

“You okay?” he whispered, careful not to draw too much attention to the pair, professional as always. Chan corrected himself and tried to control his breathing, forcibly inhaling and exhaling through his nostrils. He pulled a face, his eyes wide, and waved his arms a little, “Thanks. Almost lost my balance there.”

Throughout the rest of the interview, he remained silent, thinking hard. What just happened? And why did it feel like… he had just been… hung?

It took him months to string two and two together, months of spontaneous moments of death, in which he remained alive. He’d be drowned countless times, be stabbed infinitely, shot in the head, electrocuted, run over by train… after train… after train, until he fully accepts that these were all connected.

As time wore on, he began to hear things too, inner monologues he supposed, of their voices. He figured if this condition, whatever it was, lasted long enough, he’d soon be able to see it too.

-

Stay. Just stay. Stay’s. It’s you. You’re not staying. He was burning in the middle of a fire. That much was obvious by the scorching pain on his skin, brutal enough that he just wished he couldn’t feel. He screamed into the couch pillows, knowing full well that the studio was soundproof, but paranoid all the same that any of his members would hear him. 

‘Thank you Stray Kids, for everything.’ 

Stay. He couldn’t tell at this point whether the pain was his or from the person who was dying. Both, perhaps. All this time, the people who were dying, the people who were killing themselves, were Stay’s. Or maybe this time was a coincidence, maybe this person just happened to be a part of the fandom.

It wasn’t though. 

More and more often, in the midst of some version of death, he heard thoughts, whispers:

“You got me this far Stray Kids.” “Skz you’re my everything.” “Keep fighting Stray Kids.”

“Chan, I love you.” “Thank you Chan.” “Life was good thanks to you, Chan.”

Fuck. This. Shit.

Stay.

-

His members were either dense, playing dumb or he was an incredible actor and the sneakiest being on all of planet earth. He had no idea how he had managed to hide this, for so long, and not hear a peep out of any of them.

Sure, he attributed his puffy eyes (from tears) to a lack of sleep, or too much time in front of a computer screen. Maybe his lack of sleep could be contributed to insomnia, not that he genuinely didn’t want to sleep with the fear that he might wake abruptly to a strangling death. Again.

More recently, in an attempt to be more cautious, when that panic settles in - a familiar feeling of fear, 'I can do this. I'm going to do it. I want to die. Do I want to die?' - he'd excuse himself to the bathroom.

“Chan hyung’s gone to the bathroom.” – posts Hyunjin.

Yeah. To die.

-

He yawns, stretching as he returns to the studio from a genuine bathroom break. He’s excited to return to his work; a sample he’d stumbled across waiting to be incorporated into a new song. After he shuts the door, he checks the time on his phone.

There’s an hour and a half until 12am– he needs to do Chan’s Room soon too, it’s Sunday. He was comforted by Chan’s Room, to see so many Stay’s on his lives, thankful to have them there, rather than at the top of a building, or sinking at the bottom of a river. He decides that the sample can wait – it’s saved anyway.

He flipped his black hood over the top of his cap, carefully adjusting it so it was presentable, and began to set up the live. He had a few songs in mind that he’d play for you all but was really hoping you’d contribute to the song suggestions too. He smiled, and he laughed, and he danced along to the songs, joyously reading your comments and responding with enthusiasm despite it getting later into the night.

Then the mood shifted when his eyes skimmed over a particular comment. He froze, and his bubble of security popped. He wasn’t sure if he had managed to blot you out, or if the fear had only crossed through after you had sent that message, but he was positive that the person who typed the question, was the person currently pressing a knife to his heart – a small, sharp prick on his chest.

Chan inhaled sharply and swivelled in his chair, “Yeah don’t… don’t hurt yourself, yeah?” The chat exploded with questions and comments, wondering why he was bringing it up and offering words of comfort. The sharp pain on his chest receded slightly, but the fear was still there, the emotional pain ever present. “Just because you have a lot of stress, it doesn’t mean that you have to relieve it by hurting yourself.”

There. Same user. New comment. ‘Your future isn’t worth living for’? Bullshit.

“If you think about the future… it’s best to just keep away from that and find different ways of relieving stress.” Self-consciously, he fiddles with his hoodie drawstrings and swivels in his chair again, desperate to hide the panic flicker across his features briefly. The knife was back.

“You never know what’s going to happen in the future. Something might go wrong, then there might be a turning point and then- from then on you feel really, really regretful,” he’s rambling at this point, thoughts unhinged, spluttering and mixing like mush in his brain. He just needs to get you to stay. 

He takes a deep breath, and drills his eyes into the camera, pleading with what little he could offer, “If you really, really can’t help it or if you really just don’t know what to do or you’re really- really lost, as I’ve always said,” he smiles, eyes shimmering, “come here; look for me, ask me, talk with me.” He waits, praying, fiddling his thumbs below the desk.

And the agonising feeling fades, leaving him deflated, relieved.

“I’ll try my best to relieve your stress,” he concludes, then spreads his arms wide. He knows Stay didn’t ask for it, but he was offering one of his hugs more for himself than them.

-

His relief would be short-lived. He can’t save everyone.

-

I guess, it’s about time I introduce you. You, not as one of those who have given up. Not as one of those who have caused Chan’s suffering. I introduce you, as simply you. You, who carefully pulls your keys out of the café door. You, who draws down some of the shutters with a soft smile. You, as wonderful, loving, bubbly you.

You make your rounds around your haven, your café. It’s a combination of everything you could possibly imagine to be creative. It’s been your dream to create a safe hub for the public that incorporates a library, a café, study area, art studio, computer labs, rehearsal room and even a recording studio.

Pets were welcome, of all kinds, as long as they wouldn’t fight with each other, and you were open from 7.30am in the morning until 1am the following day.

If anyone fell asleep studying, working on music or reading, you’d leave them where they were and pull out the blankets you kept in storage. The policy for this was simply a bond of trust. Customers could stay working for the night as long as they didn’t mind watching you drift around in the morning in your bedhead and PJ’s, slowly beginning to set up for a new day.

You would always offer them a morning hot chocolate, coffee or tea, free of charge, but more often than not, they’d leave their money on the counter when you turned away, refusing to let you best them in a game of generosity.

Books could be borrowed, studios and study rooms booked, pets left in the backyard day/night day care. Equipment was supplied in all the rooms, instruments for loan, computers to log into, art tools for perusal. The rule for these? Don’t break them. If customers break them, they pay for them.

If something run’s out, let you know. You only offered the basic necessities anyways, so you restocked them yourself. Anything else customers bring for themselves. It was safe. It was cosy. It was yours. Yours to give. Admittedly, you still had to pay off the loan you took out to set up the place, and if time grew short you were considering shutting down the recording studio – it was the least used area. 

You pushed the last few stray chairs in as you considered whether to make yourself a final cup of tea before settling down in your apartment upstairs. There were two people currently dozing in various locations of Café Studio, one of whom was a regular. A third customer was sipping the last dregs of his coffee, watching your humble movements out of the corner of his eye. 

“Mind if I call it a night on one of your couches?” he asks, scraping back his chair to place his mug on the counter by the coffee machine. That’s James. James fucking Jamison. Always here for whatever reason, never not here, where you wanted him to be. You withhold a sigh and the temptation to pinch the bridge of your nose, “Yeah, go for it. You know the drill.”

You welcome all customers, all are valuable guests. Except for him. He just won’t take a hint.

He saunters idly over to you, hands in his pockets, and clears his throat, “So… are you sure you won’t be free any time this week?” You can feel his eyes drilling into your back and scrunch your nose distastefully, pulling out your phone as if to check something, “I can’t, I run this place.”

He’s still staring at you, so you whisk your earphones out from a pocket in your apron and plug them into your ears. It doesn’t take you long to press shuffle on your playlist, and immediately your current favourite song begins to play, as if it knows exactly what would help you through this situation, or maybe they knew. 

“What if you just shut the place down for the day?” he asks with an awkward laugh, running his hand through his hair dramatically. So cool. You roll your eyes and turn around to face him, internally dancing to the song in your ears. You give him a once over, genuinely considering him, “I can’t shut down my only source of income for a day.” “Even for-”

“Especially not for you.” The two of you stare at each other and you can sense that somewhere in those blue eyes of his, you’ve angered him. He’s not pleased, and he never has been with your constant rejections, but so far he hasn’t tried anything. He would be stupid to do so, with surveillance cameras set up everywhere and two customers sleeping not far away.

Go kill yourself.

You wince as sharp pain crackles across your forehead, “Sorry what?”  James blinks at you quizzically, his sizzling demeanour vanishing at your confusing outburst. “I didn’t say anything.”

Go. Kill yourself.

You hiss, hand clutching your forehead, and stumble into the nearest table. James is onto you in a second (“Woah there”) trying to support you, when the table was doing just fine. “Back off,” you snap, pushing him away, which causes you to stumble back into the window, the last one without its shutter pulled down, “and shut up.” Again, he blinks at you, ever the stupid dolt he is.

‘Heh… funny.’ Why’d I say that?

Desperately, you swivel and press your forehead to the cool of the glass window, groaning in agony. The music playing in your earphones becomes too much, so you tug them out of your ears, your phone lighting up on the paused song of “Silent Cry”, by Stray Kids.

I wonder if it’ll still be funny after- if I-

You crack your eyes open and peer outside, dimly trying to discern whether this was a voice in your head, or a voice in real life. It spoke with a pained clarity, exhaustion numbing what could have been a voice of laughter and passion. How you knew this, you had no idea. 

“Hey, are you good? Are you on your period or something?” James piped up helpfully, and if you weren’t so heavily concentrated on scanning your surroundings outside you might have kicked him out of your store right then and there.

Then you spotted someone. A lone figure, shrouded in the hazy glow of a streetlight, leaning over the bridge railing. Café Studio was located on the banks of the local river, wide enough for boats to barge through, deep enough to be terrified of the unknown creatures writhing within.

You watched, the incessant pounding in your head diminishing the longer you stared at the figure. If he wasn’t standing in the middle of the light, you wouldn’t have spotted him in his completely black outfit. Someone certainly wasn’t one for colour. He leaned further over the railing, clutching his beanie to his head as though afraid it would fall off in the wind.

In seconds, you had ripped your phone and headphones from your apron, leaving it on one of the tables, and fumbled with the key to unlock the café door. It was chilly out, but you ignored the goosebumps speckling your skin, and James’ confused fucking shouts – like would the guy stitch his mouth shut please. 

That was him. The idiot leaning too far over the railing was the one whispering nonsense in your brain. How you came to this conclusion was to anyone’s guess, but it was him. In the seconds it had taken you to sprint over to him, he had clambered on top of the railing, balancing precariously, his hands in his hoodie pockets, gazing into the depths of the water.

Maybe in another life, if you weren’t out of breath trying to stop him from ending it all, you might have been enamoured by his features. As you drew closer, you could make out the defined cut of his jaw, his wide shoulders, plush lips tinged with pink from the cold, dark eyes alluringly intimidating. This wasn’t that life though, and you paid no attention to any of it really. 

A dawning realisation settled on your features however, after a brief assessment of his face caused you to realise that you knew him, perhaps not personally, but still knew him. “Bang Chan?” you whisper, the name falling from your lips in a panicked whisper, “Chan no…” your legs work harder, and you pray almost deliriously that he doesn’t do it. Don’t do it. He can’t.

“Bang Chan!” you yell, losing all sense of discipline as he sways gently, contemplating, “Chan!!” he doesn’t appear to hear you, absorbed in his own mind. You’re there, you’re right there, and this time, when you call desperately, “Christopher!” his eyes snap up to meet yours.

It’s this particular moment, that will be ingrained in your mind in the following years. The way his eyes spark in shock at the sight of you, then relax, as though he understands, and has complete control over everything in his life.

Without hesitating, you snatch at his clothes and tug him backwards. His heavy body crashes into yours, but you don’t care. You wrap your arms safely around his waist as you tumble to the paved path in a heaped mess of clothes and limbs. 

He wriggles around in your grasp, trying to position himself more comfortably, and eventually wind up staring each other dead in the face, blinking through your lashes up at him, his palms on either side of your head.

An uncomfortable silence settles between you, fizzing in the limited space between your faces. Then without warning, you roughly shove your hand behind his head and pull him down into a hug, tears beginning to stain your cheeks.

“What the fuck? What the fuck?” you croak, needlessly shoving your hand underneath his beanie so you can tangle it into his curled hair, “What the actual fuck, were you doing?!” you cling to him tighter, and your breath escapes in garbled gasps that quieten to silence when you feel the trickle of wet tears on your neck.

Gently, you remove your hand from his head and relax your body, allowing him to remove himself from you if he so wished. He burrows his face further however, his arms collapsing onto his elbows, and suddenly you can hear him sobbing.

The tears on your neck weren’t your own. He sounds so broken, crying his heart out as though he were a lost little child who dropped his ice cream. The raw emotion and lack of restraint in his sobbing scrapes at the threads of your heart, and again, you’re crying. Crying with him, for him – understanding everything, and nothing at the same time.

Eventually, you wipe the tears from your face, trying to figure out what to do next. You need to comfort him, talk to him, remind him that he’s worth this world, and the world doesn’t deserve him because by god- if anyone knew even a scrap of what this man meant- he’s laughing. Why is he laughing?

His warm breath tickles your neck as he chuckles, his sobs magically morphed into an amused laughter, which is the most concerning thing by far. Chan pulls away from you, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he laughs and hastily dries the tears on his face.

“Sorry. I am so sorry you had to see that,” he grins, and you frown at him. “Sorry I had to see what? You almost jump off a fucking bridge, or your tears? It better not be the latter Christopher, or I’ll gladly rewind time and push you over myself.” Almost immediately, you regret the words tumbling out of your mouth when his face crumbles again, “Would you really?” he whispers, sitting up beside you.

“No. No I was kidding. I was just- you’re allowed to cry, Chan,” you sit up too, and then it’s just the both of you, sitting alone, a strange pair, by the railing of a bridge. “So you know who I am then?” he dutifully asks, gingerly fixing his beanie and offering a small smile.

“Yeah,” you take note of the way his posture deflates, and add quickly, “But it doesn’t matter. None of that matters. What matters is that you tried to…” your words die in your throat at the reproachful glint in his eyes, shimmering eerily in the lamplight. Instead, you stand up and offer him a hand. He cautiously accepts it, allowing you to help him stand with you. “Y/N Y/L/N. Nice to meet you,” you smile, giving his hand a shake. He stares at you, bemused, and shakes your hand back. “Christopher Bahng. And… thanks.” You’re not sure if he’s thanking you for stopping his plummet to death, or for helping him sit up, or for letting him cry… he could be thanking you for a lot of things, so instead, you do the next best option.

“Want to head over to my café? I’ll make you a cup of coffee,” you offer, flicking your head to the still lit building, where fucking James is standing outside, ogling you from afar, his hands on his hips. “Sure… only… I assumed you’d know I don’t drink coffee,” he shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets again, and as your eyes slide from James and then back to the man in front of you, you suddenly struggle to process everything that’s just happened.

“Why would I? We just met,” you flash him a coy smile and lead the way. You stroll into the café, holding the door open for Chris so he can step through, his hands still in his pockets. James makes to follow, but you slam the door shut in his face and lock the door swiftly.

“Uh…” Chris begins, his eyes wide, asking for an explanation. “No questions. He won’t leave me alone, and that’s that,” you grin brightly, then rush to disappear behind the café bar and begin to prepare him a drink. He seats himself on a stool and tries to watch as you work. You grow uncomfortable in the silence, especially with him watching you so closely, so you instinctively begin to ramble.

“This is Café Studio. You might have noticed by the sign out front.”  He nods, indicating he’s paying attention. “I run this place entirely myself, and I live above…” You tell him everything you can think of, from the studios attached to the café, to your favourite pets that frequently get dropped off for day care or overnight stays. His eyes light up when you mention the recording studio, and you have a feeling he’ll go back to the topic after.

In no time, you have two hazelnut croissants prepared, a steaming mug of white hot chocolate for yourself, and a mug of caramel hot chocolate with a dusting of cinnamon for him (you refuse to tell him what’s in his drink, which makes him pout sadly because he loves it). You lapse into silence as you eat and drink, and you know you need to breach the topic again, somehow, you can’t just leave it unattended.

“Can I ask…” you begin, but he interrupts you smoothly. “I just wanted to see what it would look like.”

Chan knew he could never tell you that he’d experienced death a hundred times over in the past months. You’d think him insane.

You knew you could never tell him you heard his voice, loud and clear in your head. He’d think you delusional.

“About that… recording studio… does anyone use it?” he inquisitively asks, and you shake your head sadly in response, wiping croissant crumbs off your face. “Not really… I’m considering selling it. I need to repay the loan I took out, and if the recording room is just dead weight then I don’t see why-” “Don’t. It won’t be dead weight,” he hurries, and is about to say more before he reconsiders, “Mind if I check it out?”

Of course you don’t.

--

Chris returns to his hotel later that morning. It’s 4am by the time you crawl into bed, recounting the events of the day in a sluggish fashion. Only 2 and a half hours ago you had pulled him away from certain death.

A shiver disturbs your spine as you replay the memory, and you curl tighter into your blankets. What if you hadn’t? His inner monologue certainly didn’t sound like he simply just “wanted to see what it looked like.”

-

Somehow, you manage to drag yourself through the rest of the morning, living off a few hours’ sleep at most. Thankfully, there aren’t many customers to begin with, giving you a chance to get organised a little later than usual. Chris had left with a small smile and a wave, and you watched him disappear down the street, a part of you worried he’d decide to try the bridge again.

He returns in the afternoon with the same small smile and wave, shocking you to the core. He’s got a cap pulled low over his eyes, hood pulled neatly up, and a black mask obscuring most of his face.

The only reason you recognise him this time is because of those actions, and the particular way his eyes crinkle, disappearing when he genuinely smiles. Quietly, he asks for the same drink you made him earlier that morning and asks to borrow the recording studio – “change of scenery,” he explains casually.

As the days go by, he visits as often as he can, always with those same twinkling eyes, and always still carefully covered up. You have no idea how he’s managed to convince his company to continuously let him out in public without staff, nor how long he’s staying here for.

He must be on vacation or something because this was certainly not Korea. You frequently check up on him too, never hesitating to ask whether he needs any support. He shakes his head every time and stares at you unblinkingly, trying to convey a message through only his eyes.

You’re already helping him. This haven, your haven, is helping him already. You don’t know this of course. Nor do you know that his odd connection to suicidal Stay’s has ceased. He hasn’t felt them in ages, and in a twisted way, he’s relieved – hasn’t felt this light in a while.

“Mind if I book the whole café out for a day?” he mumbles to you from your side, his hands nimbly working with the coffee machine to produce an order for a customer. One day he had asked if you could teach him a few things on the machine. Before long he knew how to make every drink, and happily watched underneath his mask as customers sipped his creations.

Every drink that is, except for the special one you made for him – it was actually your Mum’s recipe. You refused to teach him, but he could easily figure out the ingredients and method to make it for himself by now, if he really wanted to, which perplexed you every time he asked you to teach him.

Truthfully, he didn’t really want to know. He just liked seeing the tiny crease on your forehead and adorable smile whenever you refused. And now… he had even more reason to come back. For the hot chocolate. Definitely.

“The whole-? Library and everything?” you inquire, as you refill the jar of chai powder. “Mhm,” he hums, nodding to a regular as they float by, “Staff want us to film a Skz-Code Episode while we’re here, and they left it up to us to decide where.” “Oh. Sure. What do you need, for me to close up for the day?”

“I want you to stay though. Don’t disappear upstairs to your apartment… please. Can you stay and… watch?” he innocently asks, and you stare at him in surprise, clipping the jar in your hands shut with a snap, “Am I allowed to?”

-

It turns out that would be their last day. They returned to Korea on the following. In hindsight, you wish you had hugged Chris tighter when he tackled you with one before they left after filming, raising the eyes of several staff members and causing the Skz Members to chuckle with one another.

Chris was hugging you because he would miss you, and he was afraid that if he left, the traumatic episodes would return.

You were hugging him because you were full to the brim with Stray Kids’ warmth and happiness, but also because an unfamiliar safety nestled into your stomach as he hugged you, burying his face into your neck – the same place he had where he first met you.

“See ya soon, mate!” Felix called, carrying a box of your brownies. He had given you his recipe, and you eagerly followed its instructions while you watched them record their episode, smiling contentedly at their tinkering laughter, “These taste better than mine!” 

“No one can beat Felix’s brownies,” Hyunjin muttered through a smile, but he’s happily munching on one of yours all the same. Jisung also has his mouth stuffed, his chubby cheeks wobbling as he nods his head. Seungmin offered you a polite handshake, and Jeongin an energetic round of high fives.

Somewhere in the distance, Changbin calls out your name, and performs a half heart above his head. You complete it, sticking your tongue out playfully. Not surprisingly, you and Chris have to duck back inside the café to hunt down Minho, who’s been playing with the cats left in your care for the day.

You didn’t find out that Stray Kids were leaving until that night when you spotted a live of them on your YouTube at the airport, and your heart plummeted with a sadness you couldn’t explain.

-

What… a strange… dream. 

Everything become’s more surreal when you discover an envelope by the coffee machine the next morning, tucked neatly under the corner where Chris would usually stand to make his coffee’s. You pull it out carefully; there’s no name penned on the front. Curiously you pull out two sheets of paper. The first you open is in Chris’ handwriting (he had been leaving random notes and scribbling his signature wherever he could during his visits, so you were relatively familiar with it now), 

A B C D E F G I wanna send my code to you Eight letters is all it takes And I’m gonna let you know

Lyrics. You flip over the paper and stare in a daze at the phone number scribbled there. Further down the page, there’s more lyrics, but from a different song.

Together, I feel time has flown so fast In my time, memories are crowded I didn’t know the sky was so clear like this until I met you I thought the sun was only scorching Thank you for coming to me And becoming the same shadow as mine before approaching the light

“Chris you cheesy ass,” you laugh, heartbeat thumping loudly in your chest. 

You can STAY.

You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you almost forget about the second piece of paper. It’s a receipt. And on the bottom, are more words written in his handwriting.

The loan for Café Studio has been paid off, and the rent on your apartment. It’s all yours now. You can thank me when I come back.

Your eyes widen, and a small gasp leaves your lips. You fumble for your phone and add his number to your contacts. Then sparing no second, type out a message.

-

(A/N: When dialogue is in script format, it's meant to represent text messages)

You: “No you did not”

In the few seconds that you stare at your message, that you sent to Chris, disbelief written across your features, your phone buzzes with a response.

Chris: “Oh but I did”

You laugh, the sound gradually increasing as you throw your head back, giddy, a delicate pink tinge warming your cheeks.

“Something good happen?” James interrupts, rapping his knuckles on the counter to get your attention, “No side barista with you today? Who was he anyways, and what was with that mask?” “He’s… a good friend. Care for some tea?” “But I don’t like-” “Perfect.”

-

What should you do when you witness the end of a life? Cry and wallow in the darkest corners of disconsolation? Feel your heart shatter, a million fractals of sharply glittering reflections exploding in a mere fraction of a second? Some believe that time is nothing more than an illusion though – so should you instead decide to lie on your bed, a place of restless solace, and stare up at the empty ceiling?

If this were the case, could you then be compared to a lonely garden gnome, fated to ponder life’s every aspect through a single perspective? Would you shrivel away from the light, choose to accept the pitiful concept of simply existing and allow your garden to wither; green to grey, flesh to bones, petals to stems? Perhaps your coping mechanism is to simply scream. Shut the doors. Close your blinds. Block your ears. Scream. Dry your eyes. Breathe…

-

Chris: “Are you awake?” You: “I am now” Chris: “Sorry go back to sleep” You: “I was kidding Christopher” You: “Of course I’m awake” Chris: “That’s not a good thing” You: “Look who’s talking” You: “Are you all good? Can’t sleep?” Chris: “Just felt like a chat”

-

They only visited him in nightmares, he discovered, which was still an improvement from before. 

-

You: “Sure” You: “Care to explain your latest Insta post?” Chris: “No haha” You: “You burnt Stayville to the ground” You: “I think that deserves an explanation”

-

Chris smiles and flops back into his pillow. It certainly was an improvement from before. His mind was working over the possibilities, the many different choices he could make from here on out. Did you have something to do with this condition? Were you the solution to it all? What was it about you, exactly, that drew him to you?

You can thank me when I come back, he had written.

He thinks… he’ll be back for sure.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

-> PART 2 -> Masterlist

Yay! Milestone Event 1, Check!

Feedback is always appreciated, negative and positive alike. I apologise for any editing or formatting errors, I’m forever learning.

Until next read! - Kaisowoo

[flowerpotmage]

Tight Grip, Broken Dam (12)

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You don’t question it anymore, when Miguel appears in your bed at night. He’s not there for sex, no, you’ve never even kissed—though you would be lying if you said you weren’t open to the idea of kissing him. He’s there for comfort. For rest. If only it could stay so simple.

Pair: Miguel O'Hara & GN!Reader

Notes: for series: slow burn, ambiguous relationship, found family dynamics, reader is in their late 20s. for chapter: sexual tension, injuries and injury aftercare, references and nightmares about 90s comic run canon events

Word Count: 2.4k

Read this chapter on Ao3 here. If you like my work, please consider leaving kudos there as well! You do not need an account to do so.

a/n: deepest apologies for this series' absence! i hope this (only slightly) shorter chapter and the knowledge that i am already working on the next and hope to return to semi-regular updates will tide you over.

Your brief trip across town leaves you more winded than you hoped and less tired than you feared.

Your apartment is empty but for the presence of warm midday sun and green leaves when you return, kicking your shoes off and carefully setting yourself down on the couch, bones heavy with the weight of grief and exhaustion. There’s nothing to do now but rest, and so you don’t resist the warm embrace of sleep when it curls around you like hungry arms.

Brrring brrring!

The ring of your phone wakes you, the light now coming more brightly through your balcony doors.

A disoriented grumble escapes your throat as you shift, lifting yourself back up to lean against the back of the couch and immediately checking your side.

Sore. Sore, mostly dry, and unopened. Good.

Brrring brrring!

You find your phone in your coat pocket, having fallen asleep still fully dressed. Karen’s name lights up the screen. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes and clearing your throat, you answer the call and hold the phone to your ear.

“Karen, hey.”

“Hey!” She chirps through the line. “Matt and Foggy just won a case today, and–”

“Come drink with us!” Comes Foggy’s voice, shouted from somewhere in the room Karen has called from.

“I’m assuming you caught that.” You can hear the bemused expression on her face.

You try to chuckle, and fail, body too tired to force any levity. “I shouldn't tonight,” you say, wrinkling your nose and trying to roll out the stiffness in your neck. “I, uh—sick. Not feeling great.”

“Oh no!” Karen says, sympathetic. “Are you okay?”

You can hear the sudden silence from Foggy.

“Yeah, just uh. Out of it. Probably gonna just rest up for a few days, it’s a little rough.” You wince.

“Do you need anything?” She asks. “I don’t think it’s too far out of our way if you need some food. Some soup?”

You smile, heart warming at her thoughtfulness. “No, no, I’m all set. That’s really sweet though, thank you Karen.”

“Of course,” she says. “Rest up. We’ll see you when you’re feeling better.”

“Take an extra shot for me tonight.”

“Not like Foggy needs the excuse,” Karen laughs.

“What? What don’t I need an excuse for?”

“Wow, nosy,” you joke, smiling. “I’ll see you all next time.”

“Alright. Text if you need anything. I mean it.”

“You’re too nice. And I will, I promise,” you can’t help but smile. “Now go celebrate.”

Farewells are exchanged and the call ends. You drop the phone onto the couch, a heavy breath leaving your lungs. You linger for a moment before finally mustering the will to pull yourself off the couch and trudge into your room to change into your loosest pajamas.

Sleep pulls you back under its currents again.

Something pulls you from your slumber hours later, your cheek stuck to the pillow with dried spit, your vision blurry.

You haven't been this tired or slept so much since the spider bite that changed your life.

Your spider-sense pings and seconds later your bedroom door cracks open, Miguel in the open sliver between door and wall. His eyes meet your own, your head lifted slightly off the pillow from the surprise ping moments before.

“When’d you get here?” You ask, voice muffled and slurred.

“About an hour ago,” he replies, opening the door further. “You needed groceries, and I know you weren't going to be getting them anytime soon.”

You groan, letting your head fall back to the pillow. “You didn't need to do that for me.”

He crosses his arms, leans on the doorframe.

Now, with the door open, the smell of cooking finally reaches you and you rub your eyes. “ And you cooked?”

“I did.” There it is, his disproportionately endearing, pleased little half smile. Miguel crosses the distance from the door to your bed to help you up. “ Vamos, come on.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, when your feet finally find the floor. And again, after you’ve eaten and you sit side by side on the couch, sleep dragging down your eyelids once more: “Thank you, Miguel. For dinner, and… everything.”

“Of course,” he murmurs, and you slip into dreams once more.

The next morning, thankfully, finds you less fatigued. Miguel changes your bandages again, makes you breakfast, again, before leaving to fulfill his self appointed duties.

It continues like this as you heal. When Miguel isn’t at Spider Society HQ he’s in your home, cooking your food and cleaning your dishes and changing your bandages (You try not to go insane from the feeling of his hand on your bare skin). You don't ask, but you’re fairly certain the only sleep he gets is in your bed—a place you have to yourself less often than ever before.

Not that you’re complaining. Neither of you mentions it, of course, that he's visiting more while the skin over your ribs heals. You both seem to immediately accept this new normal and move forward as if it has always been the way things are. For Miguel’s part, he knows you don't have anyone here to take care of you properly—he knows you’ve lost family and more friends than most Spider-People usually had to start with—and so he takes the responsibility of you upon himself, and does so happily.

And mostly things are the same… mostly.

He learns about your favorite color, the watering schedule of your plants, how you miss having a pet but with the life you lead it doesn't feel like the responsible thing to do. He tries not to think about how it feels like learning more about someone you’ve been with for years, because he already knew which spoon was your favorite out of the somewhat mix-and-match selection, already knew about your aunt and your aunt's girlfriend on the force who still checked in on you up until her own death, your personal ASM-97 event.

He starts to feel disconcerted about how little he's shared in return, and tries his best to give something back. He mentions Gabriel in passing when talking about his childhood one day, during lunch.

“Gabriel?” You prompt.

“Ah,” he pauses, lowering his fork. To his plate. “My brother.”

The two of you are sitting on your couch, the balcony doors open wide to let in the fresh afternoon air that meanders through the open glass. Miguel holds his plate in one hand, you rest yours on your lap and your feet on your coffee table.

“I didn't know you had a brother,” you say. You want to rest your arm on the back of the couch, but despite your wound being at less risk of opening and bleeding, you’ve still been advised not to stretch the skin. So you pick at the couch cushion by your thigh with your nail instead, glancing at him.

Miguel nods. “Gabriella was named after him.”

Your heart squeezes. “Is he…?”

“He’s alive and well,” Miguel gives a reassuring, if rueful, smile. “It's just us two now.”

You nod. “Older or younger?”

“Younger,” he says, smiling at you. He rests his plate on his lap now, like you, and rests an arm on the back of the couch to angle towards you.

“Ah, oldest brother,” you raise your eyebrows and nod sagely. “That explains a lot.”

Miguel raises an eyebrow back at you.

You gesture at him vaguely. “I mean. Come on.”

Miguel scoffs, smiling, and then he tells you more about his family. About Tyler Stone and the secret his mother kept, how he’s not a true O’Hara but still carries the name. You sense he’s still keeping some things to himself, but you don’t press the issue, happy enough to even be let in this small amount. You hope that your adoration doesn’t show on your face too much as you watch him talk, lit with warm afternoon light.

Miguel feels lucky when he wakes up and can’t remember his dreams, because the nights that he does…

Flesh torn and shredded under his fingertips as gravity pulls the arm from his grasp, the man attached dangles infinite stories up from the streets and even farther to Downtown. The writhing gasp and scream of a man in pain and Miguel trying to save him and only making it worse. His father, angry and raging and taking it out on his mother. The smell of rotting flesh from his Vulture’s pantry, rotting cadavers stored haphazardly in a dark room in the underbelly of downtown waiting for—

No. Even in dreams it’s too sick to name.

Sometimes the horrors of his early days as Spider-Man blend with his life now. Gabriella’s rotting body in the pile in Vulture’s pantry. Gabriella, caught in an attack on his apartment, or in the crossfire between him and the Public Eye. You, hanging from his desperate grip after the lab explosion that changed him forever, your face twisted in fear and your arm shredded under his finger-pad talons as you slip from his grasp and fall to your death. You, in the pods for the long discontinued Corporate Raider program and killed in a fatal human-animal gene splicing test. You disappearing into the air, turning to less than ashes in his arms, or sometimes worse: You, holding Gabriella and reaching for him and the both of you disappearing when he reaches out, unable to so much as touch either of you one last time.

It’s not every night. Sometimes he dreams nonsense like everyone else, surreal landscapes with changing figures and storylines that mean nothing. Sometimes he dreams of happy memories or past almosts as if they had followed through on their potential. Schooldays with Xina or childhood games with Gabriel, or taking Gabriella to the Spider Society HQ like Peter does with May.

Sometimes he dreams about your skin, and your sheets, and your breath. Those ones always leave him distracted, off kilter and embarrassed through the rest of his day. He wishes he could bury them properly, leave them in his subconscious where they belong. Wishes he could keep himself from wanting to cross that line.

But tonight brings no dreams of pleasant pasts, no surreal landscapes, no ecstatic gasps and tangled sheets. Tonight he dreams of loss and pain.

A sudden jolt uproots you from sleep, dreams turn to evaporated particles in the air. At first you think there might be a threat, that perhaps your spider senses were what woke you, but the shallow and forcefully measured breaths in the bed next to you quickly inform you otherwise.

“Miguel?” Your voice is but a whisper as you prop yourself up, mindful of your ribs, your hand searching for him through the blankets. “Hey, hey, it's okay–”

He starts to say something, his voice dying in his throat before the first letter can even form on his tongue. His hand finds yours, wrapping tightly around palm and fingers alike. You scoot closer, doing your best with one hand now out of commission, and then you're partially hovering over him, your held hand supporting your weight.

“It's okay,” you whisper, and you begin to pet his hair back from his face. “You're okay.”

Even in the dark your eyes find each other. Before you can blink his arm is around you and you're pressed into his chest, his face hidden in your neck. You can feel each thundering beat of his heart through your chest as it slows, still beating too hard to fall into rhythm with your own.

“I’m here,” you whisper.

His arm tightens around your middle at that, a brief squeeze pulling you closer to him. His shuddered breath gusts across your skin where he’s buried his face.

“Bad dream?” you whisper into the hair above his ear, shifting above him to rest on his chest properly and rest one arm on the pillow by his head, the other sliding around his side to hold him in return.

“Sorry,” he whispers, ignoring your question, loosening his grip. “Your ribs-?”

“They’re fine, Miguel,” you say, your arm on the pillow by his head shifting.

As his heart slows, as his breath steadies and you wake fully, you become conscious of your body pressed into his. His face is still buried in your neck, and you feel his ribs expand under your body, raising you into the air.

His head falls back from your neck, resting on the pillow, and you lift your head to look at him in the dark.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

He pauses, eyes flitting between each of yours before he looks away. He pulls his arm back from around you, hand sliding to rest on your waist under your ribs.

“No.”

“Okay.” You prop yourself up further. “I’m here, though.”

He sighs, nods, closes his eyes.

Silence returns to the room, pressing in on your chest, squeezing your ribs like the bandages around your calf. You are too aware of your position nearly atop him, body pressed into the side of his chest with his hand still resting on your side, yours on his and your other bracing you above him on the pillow beside his head. You've been this close before, of course, and held one another much tighter in the dark. But something about this is different. Perhaps it's the way his fingers begin to unconsciously stroke your side and the way you've never gotten to look at him like this, above him, his eyes closed under you—

Your breath catches in your throat, and you lift your hand from his side to touch his face. His brow twitches, his hand tightens and relaxes on your side, and he sighs again as tension slowly drains from his body. You let your hand rest on his cheek more solidly, and his eyes flicker open to meet yours in the dark.

You hope he can’t feel the way your heart skips and then beats just that much harder. You swallow, hold your breath, and let your hand slide into his hair.

His eyes flutter shut, and everything freezes.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and the pressure of the air eases.

“Of course,” you finally say, your mouth dry, stroking your thumb back over his temple into his hair. You shift, settling down into his side.

His arms wrap around you once more. Neither of you speak, and you don't fall back asleep for a long while.

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[littlewalken]

~I think I posted this before, it might have got lost in the fog, so here it is again~

Citrus free Husbands, Aziraphale/Brother Frances comes to the rescue when Crowley/Nanny Ashteroth’s duties to Warlock cause some distress, woe be them if they are caught in a compromising position!

GOOD OMENS (Cold Nanny)

“Master Warlock I have told you to stay away from that pond! The ice is much too thin!” 

Aziraphale, in his guise of the gardener Brother Francis, hated scolding the boy, even if he was the Antichrist, but safety was safety, and he had heard the terrible sound of the ice breaking followed by a frantic splashing. 

I shall have to have a word with Nanny Ashtoreth about this, any excuse to see Crowley-eh? he chuckled to himself. “How about you make a snow fort? I’ll show you how…”

As Aziraphel neared the duck pond he saw Warlock and his friends running away from it. All for the better if you don’t want a scolding from your nanny! Where was she? Something was wrong.

At first the ice of the duck pond looked undisturbed. Then he saw the remote controlled vehicle Warlock had got for Christmas. Then he saw the umbrella.

“Oh help! Do help!” Aziraphale called as he made his way out on to the ice. “Someone help! The nanny’s fallen through the ice!”

Now, you should know there are a great many snakes who can swim. There are a great many demons who can swim. None of them however swim in icy water because none of them are the least bit built for the cold. For if you had taken any sort of notice in wildlife documentaries you would have noticed all the creatures of the arctic or antarctic are rather plump with a great covering of blubber. And if you were any sort of noticer of Crowley’s forms the words “plump” and “blubber” would not in the least bit apply to him.

It was by any and all means that Aziraphael managed to pull Crowley out of the icy water. “Oh! Poor nanny!” Aziraphael sighed, just in case anyone was watching. “You’ll catch your death a cold if you’re not warmed up!” 

The house was too far to take a human in wet quickly turning to ice clothes. The gardening supply shed was closer. Yes, get Crowley in there, put on the electric kettle, get him out of these wet things! So may wet things!

Aziraphale set Crowley on a pile of seed sacks in the gardening shed and plugged in the electric kettle. 

“Smudge pot,” he told himself. “I’ll light up a smidge pot!” Yes, even though that would be outside the door it would still put out a good amount of heat. “And then we’ll have to do something with getting you out of those wet clothes!” 

Always the angel was looking to see if someone else was coming, if anyone had heard his cries for help. How awful, just down right awful would it be to have the gardener be caught undressing the nanny!

Now you should assume two things about all of Crowley’s clothes, even in his guise of Nanny Ashtoreth. First they are all black, unless noted otherwise, and they are all made of artificial fabrics. That is, if they were made of natural fabrics such as wool, silk, cotton, or linen, their natural wicking motion might not have left the situation so cold and damp. 

To peel off the layers of the onion that made up Nanny Ashtoreth it was best to start with the outermost first. I hope we don’t have far to go, Aziraphale readied himself for the task ahead. First in removing all of Crowley’s wet things was the furry black muff with its red satin lining. This was hung up to dry. Finding a place to hang things up would soon become a problem of its own. 

Next came a felt cap, which didn’t look like a butter bowl, and a knitted scarf with just the slightest hint of red. The scarf was so wet it could be wrung out. Now it was time for the cloak with its little slits for one’s hands to poke through. The buttons for this were quite large and it seemed like each took a dreadfully long time. On being hung up upon a rake to dry the cloak began to drip as if it were going to worm a pond of its own.

“Here, now, miss Ashtoreth, have a nice warm cuppa.” Aziraphale said as he made a cup of instant tea for Crowley. He looked out the door at the flaming smudge pot. Oh please someone come and help me get her to the warmth of her bed. He put the cup in Crowley’s hand but the demon failed to grab it and the tea spilled to the floor.

The shoes had to come off. Leave it to Crowley to chose boots with countless eyes! The laces were quite frozen over and the boots were so tight the laces had to be pulled completely out to get them free and expose Crowley’s tosey-woseys clad in their stockings. 

One by one the fingers of the gloves were tugged on, loosening them up just enough so they could be removed. The removal of gloves could be a very sensual thing if done right. Done in a hurry they were bunched and pulled and dropped to the floor with a distinct splosh sound.

They were down to the winter version of the suit Nanny Ashtoreth always wore. Aziraphile liked the cut of the jacket, the slightly puffed sleeves, the wide cuffs, the little peplum in the back. It too was sopping wet. Fussing with the buttons the angel wondered if it was time to perform a miracle yet. 

Now it was time for the skirt. The cut of this Aziraphale didn’t like. It was too tight here, too full there, and the drape didn’t do any favors. Like the fasteners, who ever thought that a skirt needed a buckle? 

This would be the perfect time for someone to come upon us! Here is the gardener with the nanny bent over him as he fiddled with the zipper of her skirt! It would be nice if you could come to and help, dear Crowley. 

We must be nearing the end, the angel thought, how could you possibly be wearing much more? But Crowley was still wearing more. For being a demon and used to the fires of Hell he liked being warm and had been told the best way to keep a human body warm was to wear many layers. 

Aziraphale’s fingers went to the red silken bow of the scarf at Crowley’s neck. This was allowed to flutter to the floor because the blouse its self, wet, thin, see-through, and clinging to every inch of what lay underneath it, gave the impression of being real silk. 

“This I must be careful with,” the angel told himself as he cast a glance outside but no one except the smudge pot was watching. But by the third button he could tell the blouse wasn’t real silk and he allowed himself to rush along. 

By this time Nanny Ashtoreth was quite undressed but not completely. She sat on the pile of sacks, eyes presumably closed, looking half dead in a shimmering full length slip and stockings. If circumstances were different one might have found themselves distracted by the sight, admiring the human form that God had created in her own image. But a nearly naked and wet demon was turning a shade of blue that was not becoming to him. 

What few clothes that remained on Crowley’s body were somehow still soaking wet. The slip had to come off over his head, one of the satin ribbon straps was starting to fray, it would need to be replaced, that could be done tonight, nice and new by the morning. 

And still Crowley was wearing more! Under the slip there was a full and sensible brassiere and then some sort of girdle looking garment with suspenders that kept the stockings up. 

Knickers, were there knickers? Did Crowley even wear knickers? 

Yes, all these things seemed to be wet too but not as wet as the outer layers. These would have to remain on. As tempting as it would be to fuss with all the brassiere hooks and all the little clips holding up the stockings this layer of dainty underthings would have to remain.

Aziraphale quickly found a piece of burlap to wrap around Crowley. He thought he heard someone coming. If they were they’d find him outside at the smudge pot trying to dry his smock.

“How are you doing in there, miss Ashtoreth, feeling warmer yet?”

Warlock’s mother had come looking cold and quite worried, “Warlock said nanny Ashtoreth fell through the ice.”

“Oh, it’s not quite as bad as that but I’m afraid she’s quite cold,” Aziraphale said. “She should get promptly to bed though. I’ve been trying to warm her up, but slowly mind you, too fast might cause shock.”

***

Nanny Ashtoreth lay in her bed wearing a flannel nightgown under many layers of blankets. 

Brother Francis came in with a bouquet of winter flowers. “Feeling better are we, Miss Ashtoreth?”

“Yes, much warmer.” 

“I saw your clothes to the laundry for you.”

“Thank you, brother Francis.” 

Aziraphael looked around to see that they were indeed alone and leaned close to Crowley to whisper, “You could have lent us a hand with a few things there.”

“And deny you of all that fun?”

[ns-imagines]

Hurricane/Typhoon Prep

Platonic 141 x gn!reader

SFW | Word Count: About 500 |Headcannons/ Drabble

A/N: Its the Afternoon before the Typhoon (hurricane). There is currently a typhoon where i live in Japan. We rushed to get off work. Fingers crossed the power doesnt go off. This post is just for fun lol. Lemme know if I use too much military lingo. I’ll translate!

-Let's say everyone lived in the barracks. Even though Price, as Captain, would get base housing and Ghost would be in the officer barracks...anyways, you and the boys heard about the hurricane from Price. Apparently, this is going to be the worst storm the island has seen in a few years. They say that about every typhoon though.

-Ghost immediately went to the commissary (on-base grocery store), but he didn't get any good snacks. He just got stuff to meal prep in case the power went off. His idea of snacks is high protein snacks. The man loves to bulk up and maintain that muscle. Lots of protein bars... will 100% mention how he has to make up tonight at the gym.

-You and Gaz got stuck at work. "The typhoon doesn't dismiss you, I do." It's already starting to rain, and the wind is picking up. So much for staying dry. Gaz completely forgot to charge his portable batteries, even though you had a few days' warning before the storm. You’re pretty sure you have an extra!

-Price took his work home. He has a few mission reports to type up that can't wait. The commanding officer is waiting for them to review. #Officerthings So he took his laptop back to work until the power goes off. If it goes off.

-Soap managed to get off work before you and Gaz. He went straight to the gas station exchange (names of the stores on base) to stock up on snacks. There wasn't much left, but he grabbed everything that looked good. Some chips, ramen,and the last case of beer left!! Better than eating the MREs they hand out for typhoons. You’ll be constipated for days if you eat those…

-Finally, you and Gaz were let out of work and sped back to the barracks. You both took it upon yourselves to park really close to both sides of Soaps car. Don’t want the storm to blow it away! Changing into civilian attire, you both met in the hallway. Ghost and Soap were already together, hanging out in the room. They were quick to open the door as soon as they heard the knock.

-Soap definitely has the hangout room, along with Gaz. Gaz's room is more for drinking and playing cards all night, while Soap's is geared towards movie nights or typhoon campouts. The snacks lay displayed on his desk, and the fridge is full of beer and drinks. Not allowed to drink during a typhoon though. So soda and juice it is. Maybe one beer

-Price is the last to show up. He's been in the barracks for a while, but he wanted to finish that paper. All of you pick a spot on the couch or sit on Soap's bed to watch the movie. The wind howls outside, and the wind slaps the window. We'll definitely have tomorrow off.

-

This thing is literally edging us i want it to hit already so I can go outside!!!!!! Hopefully my motorcycle doesnt blow away or tip over….

Update: my motorcycle fell really hard and now im hiding it in my barracks room. Fml

[capn-twitchery]

buttercup for twitch and grace

Buttercup - Does your OC have any odd quirks/habits?

OOO let me think >:3c twitch up first but honestly it would be quicker to list what Isn't odd about twitch

obvious one is refusing to be seen without their glasses, those are very important!!

since they spend so much time at zee, they tend to walk oddly and sway when they're on dry land. zee legs too strong, ruined their real legs. (i wish i could find an irl example but this incredibly low quality jack sparrow video will have to do)

they are never, ever, still. if they're talking, they're gesturing. if they're thinking, they're pacing. if they're sitting, they're fidgeting around. if they're sleeping they are swinging the hammock. perpetual motion machine

terrible habit of hopping over the ship railing and just hanging over the side of the ship, for no reason whatsoever. yes they have fallen off before, yes they will fall off again, no this will not stop them

they make way too intense eye contact. you can't really tell, since you can't see their eyes, but i'm not sure if that makes it better or worse actually

not sure if this counts as a quirk but they 100% laugh way too loud. laugh you can pick out across a crowded bar

for grace:

he hums & whistles to himself a lot when he's alone working on tasks--mostly sea shanties the crew used to sing on expeditions

he won't go to zee (on the rare occasions he does now) without a sketchbook, some watercolours + something to read. he's seen cabin fever at its worst and wants to keep his mind busy

a semi-rich upbringing & navy training affect all of his mannerisms--he was there for a long time. perfectly pressed clothes, perfectly made bed, walk like you have so much purpose everyone gets out of your way instinctively even though he looks like a sad wet dog

he's Very still & calm, doesn't gesture much when he talks & is very good at staying stoically polite & approachable. (you can tell when he's stressed bc this starts to crack. if he's pacing he's 0.2 seconds away from a breakdown)

when he's nervous, he kind of obsessively attends to "duties." on a ship that means keeping extra tabs on crew & supplies, constantly making sure everything is accounted for, offering help to anyone within range. otherwise, it means cleaning. a lot.

internalised enforced politeness also means he greets almost everyone with a handshake like it's a goddamn business meeting. this is the only physical contact you will ever get out of him bc he values his personal space too much otherwise

has a habit of just kind of hanging around, in case he can help. he finds it difficult to know what to do with himself when he's not needed

Flowery OC Asks

[moosemonstrous]

(There's no time to explain, get in the jaeger)

Ghost Rider Pacific Rim AU - perception shift

“They, um. Mapped all the seizure points. The risk is minimal. I just don’t know how long it will take, so—”

Robbie doesn’t know who he is trying to convince – himself of Gabe’s shift teacher. Mrs Lai has the expression of someone who has had to sit enough children through conversations like this. He catches her glancing towards the box of tissues on her desk. Her eyes are dry.

“Of course. Gabe is more than welcome to stay in the children’s centre as long as you are away.” Mrs Lai winces, just a little. “But, just in case—”

“Just in case,” Robbie repeats like it’s a spell.

“We don’t have any next of kin information. Is there anyone...?”

He sat through a four-hour long psychiatric evaluation last night. He’s not going to break down in a teacher’s office. You cried in the shower like a little girl. And now he’s fine. Great. Can we get a move on? When he doesn’t answer for long enough, Mrs Lai nods to herself, one sharp movement like she’s putting a decisive dot at the end of a sentence.

“I will make sure to schedule Lisa for a wrap-around shift. She and Gabriel get along really well.”

He opens his mouth to say: that won’t be necessary, and shuts it again. Just in case.

Mrs Lai recommends that Robbie leaves through the staff entrance to avoid bumping into Gabe, then insists when Robbie wants to see him before he goes.

“It’s already halfway through the music class,” she says. Not unkindly. “I saw you tell him you will pick him up as normal. Let’s stick to that plan, shall we?”

Robbie never lies to Gabe. What is he doing? What the hell did he agree to? Only the best chance at making something out for yourself. Come on, move it, let’s go let’s go let’s go! The weird mix of dread and excitement makes him too queasy to even consider breakfast. He sits on the stairs at the back of the children’s centre with his head in his hands for who knows how long, until enough people passing give him weird looks that he has to go or attract security.

See, another benefit. Rangers don’t have to worry about security. Yeah. They only have to worry about catastrophic brain damage. The only type of brain damage worth having, if you think about it.

Robbie has been living out of the academy sweatpants for several weeks and the way the undersuit clings to his skin feels a little suffocating. It’s heavier than he expected, too. It’s all the circuitry. Pull the hip plates up or the techs will do it for you, and they ain’t gentle. The neck brace clicks in place, just push it together, it won’t break.

It’s like going through the motions, even though he’s never seen one of these suits up close before. Or maybe it’s just not that hard to figure out. Like in the academy, he has the vague sense of what to do next, and next, and next, and it all breaks apart if he thinks about it too hard, so he lets the instinct drive him forward in an unknown direction and hopes it will all turn out alright in the end.

Did he watch his dad suit up at some point? He must have.

Each active jaeger has its own dedicated drivesuit room, most at the top of the dome with the detached Conn-Pods waiting to be lowered onto the mech, and Cherno Alpha’s right off the walkway, feet away from the open hatch to it’s built-in cockpit. Hell Charger doesn’t have one set up – yet – so the techs have rigged one of the maintenance rooms a level below the access point with all the monitoring systems. At least a dozen pairs of eyes fix on Robbie as soon as he walks out from behind the stack of boxes serving as his changing room. Somebody takes his phone and clothes out of his arms – he meant to text Gabe before turning it off, is it too late to—of course it’s too late to back out, don’t be a pussy.

“Damn,” the head tech lifts up his goggles to take a better look at him. He’s a big guy, tall and broad and clearly used to people giving him a wide berth. “Ain’t this a blast from the past.”

Robbie swallows around the growing lump in his throat. “Yeah?”

The man reaches out for a handshake. At least the undersuit hides how sweaty Robbie’s palms are all of the sudden. “It’s Canelo. I used to run power routes for The Charger back in the day.”

Oh. Oh! “R-Reyes.” Don’t get star-struck, he’s just a wrench. “You knew my--?”

“There’s still a few of us around from the good old days, yeah,” Canelo slaps his massive hand on Robbie’s shoulder and pulls him to the centre of the room. He makes ‘good old days’ sound like a curse. “We’ll catch up once this whole thing shakes out, hm? I assume Cho talked you through the procedure.”

Robbie nods to confirm. When he looks, Cho gives them a thumbs-up from across the room. He always looks three coffees past bedtime, but he’s been extra jittery today. Even now, he’s gesturing around the screens with an open can of an energy drink and the tech next to him might brain him with her power tool if he spills anything.

“Stand still, limbs apart,” Canelo instructs Robbie, pointing to the markers on the floor. As soon as he takes position, he’s surrounded by people carrying pieces of the drivesuit armour. It’s not a full set; just enough to ensure Cho can monitor his brain activity. The uneven weight distribution makes him feel half-dressed.

“We disconnected the joint motors.” Canelo’s booming voice carries over the noise of the drills screwing the pauldrons to the chest plate. “You’ll only be able to move the head and upper torso after you plug in. It should lighten the neural load, keep you from going under.”

Killjoy.

Robbie does his best to cooperate with the techs, but he hates being prodded and he hates people looking at him, and rather quickly he finds himself hating the way the circuitry against his skin heats up when the switches get flipped. You can feel that? Shouldn’t he? Is something already going wrong?

The hot spiderweb along his spine cools down almost immediately. Huh. Maybe it’s just the initial power surge.

“Right,” Cho appears in front of him like he wasn’t just elbows deep in a mess of cables leading from the monitoring station to the back of Robbie’s drivesuit. His gloves are black from grease and some of it made it up his forearms. He’s got a surprising amount of know-how in this department for someone ostensibly in charge of the biology side of things. “Everyone else will be watching the feed up on the bridge. Canelo got a new helmet prepped; we’re going to modify the Conn-Pod so you don’t have to initialise the drift yourself.” He peels the gloves off to take said helmet from another tech. Yet another wraps the thick cable running from it’s top on a pole to hook it directly above Robbie’s head. Now that he's noticed, the whole ceiling looks like it's crawling with tentacles. Cables. They're just cables.

Here we go. It’s happening. Cho hands him the helmet and it’s honestly a miracle Robbie doesn’t immediately drop it. Keep it together. Think about the—the medical insurance or whatever. Come on, you’re panicking, do the breathing thing. He does, and Cho must notice, because his expression turns into something... guilty.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he says, sounding as confident as usual but with a very different set to his eyebrows. “I will see a seizure coming before you even get a tingle. We’re not taking any chances, we’ll pull you out the second there’s a blip on the radar, okay?” He puts his hands on the shoulder guards on either side of Robbie’s neck. “I’m not getting you killed.”

Robbie wonders if he feels like he did when speaking to Mrs Lai. He licks his lips, but there’s nothing to say, so he just nods instead. Cho nods back before stepping away, and then all there is left to do is to pull the helmet over his face and hope like hell he wasn’t lying.

The relay gel immediately washes down the HUD, the display flickering to life. He can tell when each circuit activates by the hot flashes travelling along his skin and he has to force his breathing even again. You’re doing great, kid. Keep it up. You’re nearly there.

“Alright, everyone to position,” Cho calls, muted through the helmet. “Prepare for drift protocol.”

Oh god, he’s going to throw up. You’re fine. Stay on the surface and don’t go chasing whatever you see, and you’ll be just fine.

“Drift activating in three, two, one—”

The washed-out blue pulls him in like a whirlwind, completely out of his body. It’s like travelling at high speed past monochrome images – he sees himself carrying Gabe on his back through the flooded ruins of Los Angeles, the face of the firefighter urging him through the break in the fence, Gabe strapped into the seat of the first car he bought. On the other side – there are no directions, everything is happening forward and all at once, but there is his side and the other side – somebody gets punched in the stomach, and his dad is stepping in front of him, and a helicopter barrels down from the sky. He does his best not to look – impulse triggers, Dr Montesi said. That’s how you lose the thread. Each scene flashes for maybe a fraction of a second, long enough only to register before moving on, and on, and on, until both sides crash into each other and—

Fuckin’ A, kid! A voice whoops like there’s someone standing right next to him. No, don’t focus on that. The egghead’s talking.

“—process successful!”

Robbie blinks. He realises he’s bent his neck forward at some point, and when he lifts his chin, it’s like the helmet suddenly weighs several tons. There’s a loud creak outside the room, followed by a second of stunned silence inside of it. Robbie blinks the blue away to see a tech run to poke her head outside the door.

Cho waves a hand, and Canelo steps into Robbie’s field of vision. “Any bright spots? Nausea?”

Without thinking, Robbie shakes his head no. More creaking from the outside, like a bridge settling. The lookout tech shouts something in Cantonese and Cho’s focused expression breaks into a grin.

“No signs of kick back,” he says. “Hey, Reyes! Can you shrug?”

Slowly, it dawns on Robbie what’s happening. He lifts his shoulders, the extra weight becoming more natural by the second. Someone cheers. Watch this. Next time he blinks, he’s looking at the hangar like he’s standing on the access walkway, and—

Oh god. He can see through the jaeger’s head cameras. He’s standing in the middle of a concrete room, and he is the jaeger, and then there’s a third view – he’s inside the jaeger’s cockpit, watching the status displays light up with something that feels almost like happiness blooming in his chest.

Excuse you, that’s my side.

When he blinks back to the control room, nobody seems to be talking to him for all the noise of multiple people speaking all at once. He blinks again, and the LOCCENT bridge seems to be within reach of his arm. The more he does it, the easier it gets to hold both views, like he’s inhabiting two bodies at once—

Three bodies. The third view settles in among the others, unmoving but undeniably there. He’s pretty certain Cho talked about this – normally, there are three views, but Robbie doesn’t have a co-pilot.

Don’t think about it too hard.

Are you--?

Relax, we’re one and the same, yeah?

Robbie focuses on his real body. Behind the monitoring equipment, Cho is frowning, but doesn’t look concerned so much as—

He’s fucking thrilled, that’s what he is. He wanted a solo drift and here you are, drifting solo. Enjoy the moment.

He wishes he could see The Charger move when he does. He’s seen the footage from his accident, but the miniscule shift of the giant head was almost imperceptible. Now, he can feel the hydraulics under the steel hull like he can feel the way his muscles strain when lifting a kettlebell.

Pretty cool, huh?

It—it really is pretty cool. He’s really doing it, and other than the quick bursts of heat along the circuit lines there is barely any discomfort. His bad eye feels a little hot, but it’s no worse than having a bright light shone into it during medical exams.

He’s not going to die. Told you. He’s drifting, and it’s working, and Robbie isn’t going to die.

“Reyes, talk to me,” Canelo taps on the side of his helmet. “How’re you doing?”

“Good,” he croaks out. He sounds a little manic. “Good, is it really moving?”

Yeah she is!

“Yep, we’ll get you the side-by-side later. Medical wants to know if your vision is clear in both views.”

He doesn’t even have to blink to be sure. “It’s clear,” he confirms.

Canelo nods and pushes the mic from his comm link to speak into it among the noise: “Pilot confirms, vision clear,” and the realisation hits Robbie like a freight train.

He’s piloting a fucking jaeger.

[imtrashraccoon]

I was looking forward to this prompt for so long but I couldn't pick between them so I had to do both!

@scrambledmeggys

First Day, Previous Day, & Next Day.

Day 12: Pillow Fort & Pillow Talk

You were helping clean up the kitchen when Frisk tugged on your sleeve to get your attention. "What's up, kiddo?" you asked and glanced down at them.

They smiled and signed, "Can we have a sleepover? With everyone?"

You chuckled and ruffled their hair. "What, am I not enough? We have a sleepover together every night, don't we?" you asked teasingly.

"It's not the same..." they pouted and crossed their arms.

"Ask Papyrus and Sans. If they agree, then it's alright by me."

Frisk grinned and you watched them scamper over to the sink where Papyrus had just finished washing the dinner dishes. Frisk practically threw themselves at him and hugged his legs tightly.

Papyrus smiled and after drying his hands, gave Frisk an affectionate pat on the head. "What Do You Want, Sunshine?" he asked gently.

You couldn't help but smile at the cute nickname. It kind of made you wish you'd come up with a better one for Frisk rather than just 'kiddo'. Still, they'd never complained and so it had just become your thing.

After Frisk had explained their idea, Papyrus nodded. "I Suppose We Could Have A 'Sleepover' If You Want One So Badly. You Can Ask Sans If You Want But I Doubt He Would Turn Down Any Excuse To Sleep."

Frisk beamed and darted off, undoubtedly to go find Sans. Papyrus chuckled and shook his skull slightly. There was a brief moment of silence before he asked you a question. "I Have Never Had A Sleepover Before, Could You Explain It To Me?"

You nodded, "Of course, Frisk and I used to have them a lot. We usually made a pillow fort and watched a movie, sometimes we even played games and had snacks."

He hummed thoughtfully, "I Suppose That Sounds Fun."

"It is, just give it a chance and I think you'll enjoy it," you said with a smile.

Unsurprisingly, Sans had agreed to participate as Papyrus had predicted he would. So under Frisk's supervision, the living room was transformed into by far the largest pillow fort you'd ever seen. The brothers had quite a few extra pillows and blankets, which when combined with having extra help, made the actual construction of the fort much easier than it ever had been on your own.

Sans plopped down in the nest of blankets and cushions that had been arranged on the floor. To your surprise, Frisk chose to settle down next to him which you found rather sweet. This left the couch to you and Papyrus, which was just fine with you.

You watched some sort crappy action movie together and while Sans seemed to fall asleep fairly quickly, Frisk persisted and managed to stay awake for half of the movie's run time. While the movie itself wasn't anything special to write home about, Papyrus held you close and once the others were asleep, you'd snuggled up closer to him as well.

When the movie was over, you reached for the remote and flicked off the tv. Rather than get up to put the disk back in its case though, you elected to do that later as you were pretty comfortable right now.

Papyrus seemed to silently agree and wrapped his arms around you in a gentle embrace. "You Were Right," he murmured as he gently nuzzled against your head. "This Was Fun."

"Right? I never did this sort of thing much as a kid but I started doing it with Frisk to give them something to look forward to," you said thoughtfully. "It's just nice to spend time with people I think."

Papyrus hummed quietly. "You Know What Would Make This Moment Even Better, Precious?"

"What?"

Instead of responding, Papyrus shifted his body to the side and tugged you with him. You went along with it since you were admittedly curious where this was going. He maneuvered your body in such a way so you were both laying down and facing each other on the couch.

For a moment, you both just laid there, gazing into each other's eyes. You found yourself admiring what a pretty shade of red his eyelights were and how they especially stood out in the now darkened living room. Part of you wondered if he could see any better than you could or if his eyelights just glowed for looks. That was something you should ask at some point.

"I Am Happy To Have Met You, Rihanna," Papyrus finally whispered. "Even Though We Are So Different, I Would Do Anything To Keep You And Frisk Safe."

You nearly let out an audible "aw" but restrained yourself for now. His words had touched you and you couldn't help but make a confession of your own.

"You want to know something? Of all the people I've met in life, you're the only one I've connected with this closely with before."

He smiled warmly and moved a few locks of hair out of your face. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something but then he didn't. You weren't sure why but the longer you two stayed there just gazing into each other's eyes, you had a realization.

You might actually love him.

Maybe he felt the same but you wouldn't know unless you asked. Yet, you couldn't bring yourself to admit it, not right now at least.

It wasn't meant to be. The King had ordered all humans to be killed and you were pretty sure he intended to wage war on humanity once the barrier was destroyed. Ever since you'd fallen down here, your death was inevitable, it was only a matter of time but you were going to die one day. Still, you could live in denial for a little bit longer.

"I guess I never told you much about myself, did I?" you asked quietly.

"No, But I Never Asked Either."

"I didn't think things would turn out like this, but there's some things I want you to know about me..."

You told Papyrus a little about what your life had been like on the surface. You told him about your parents and how growing up with an older brother had been. How you'd moved away from your small coastal town for college and met your best friend, Terence. You told him how you'd gotten a pretty good internship at a big corporate office but had been nearly working yourself to death. How Terence had passed away after a tragic climbing accident a few weeks before falling down into the Underground which nearly broke you. Then, you told him about your relationship with Frisk, how they had quickly become your world and you thought of them sort of like a younger sibling.

Papyrus listened rather intently as you spoke, absentmindedly tracing patterns across your back with his claws. He only asked a few questions to clarify some things but he was a bit surprised by what you'd said about Frisk. Apparently, he'd been under the impression that they were your biological kid, which while you could understand with how you'd been treating them, was a little embarrassing.

In return, Papyrus told you a little bit about himself, although you could tell he was a little hesitant at first. He told you how he'd grown up with only his brother and neither of them remembered who their parents were. How they'd had to be mean and scary in order to survive because of the "Kill or Be Killed" rule. He told you how it'd always been his dream to join the Royal Guard and one day become the Captain. Finally, he told you how he'd always wanted to have true friends, rather than having to make people afraid of him all the time, and how he'd always dreamed of seeing the surface one day.

It seemed like hours had passed while you'd both talked and when you'd finally laid everything out, you had the feeling that Papyrus was seeing you in a new light. In fact, you could see that he had more depth to him than you'd thought. Sure, he was still a powerful monster who had killed countless other people, but you felt empathy for how he'd struggled just to survive this long.

You didn't remember falling asleep but the last thing you did remember, was Papyrus pulling you slightly closer and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. You wouldn't know how much more he admired you now either nor how his opinion of you had changed a bit. Where before he'd assumed you'd had an easy life on the surface, he now could see that you were also a strong person; maybe not physically but emotionally.

He so desperately wanted to say that he loved you...