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casuallyanidiot · 4 months ago

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Yandere FarmBoy

[Yandere M. x F. AFAB Reader]

it's a bit longer than i initially wanted this to be, but i had fun writing it! it's a bit more rushed towards the end so sorry if it shows. this was supposed to be for october, but i ended up not finishing it in time, so i'm very happy to have it finally done

TW. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT Noncon, fingering, baby trapping, yandere, slut shaming, victim blaming, bullying, non consensual touching, misogyny, gaslighting, manipulation, implied future forced relationship, abuse of power

The local golden boy your father has hired has taken a keen interest in you, an impoverished farmer's daughter, and you can't seem to shake him off. As he doubles down on pursuing you, and you continue to refuse him, the lengths he goes to ensure you'll be his increase drastically with one autumn night and a chase through a wheat field.

7.2k words

You didn’t know why Daniel insisted on working on your father’s farm. It wasn’t like his family wasn’t well off. In fact, out of all the families within the valley, his was the most successful by far. Hell, they were the only ones who could actually afford to employ other people. He drove a shiny new truck just like the rest of his kin, and lived in a big, multi story house at the top of the hill.

Your daddy could only really pay him scraps. The land you lived on was rough to say the least, all overgrazed and tough, untenable soil that had a Ph level that could’ve come straight out of hell in your honest opinion. Basically, there wasn’t shit to be earned, and the only reason why your folks even tried to desperately keep growing crop after failed crop was because if they didn’t, then you’d be flat out homeless and starving. The stock your family produced wasn’t worth a dime, either. Milk too sour, corn too small, eggs so dull and tiny people thought that they weren’t even from chickens; you were surprised people even bought from your daddy at all.

The poor state of your homestead was reflected in nearly everything else around you. You always looked some kind of mussed up: Wild, unkempt hair, dirt under your nails, clothes that looked either too small, too big or way too out of fashion. You got bullied quite a bit by the other young ladies in town. That is if you could even be called a young lady. There wasn’t a lick of lady in you it seemed.

You and your family were always on the edge of going broke, going hungry or some other kind of misfortune, so you found it increasingly odd why the Petusky boy was so keen to get his hands dirty when there was nothing he could get in return.

Daniel Petusky, or Danny as he would so kindly remind you to call him, was by most accounts the sweetest, most eligible young man in town. He was a tall, stocky sort of guy with large, rough hands and a handsome smile. You’d be stupid to say he wasn’t quite the looker, and not to mention he was all muscular and strong lookin from all his time working. When you were in highschool, he’d been the star of the school’s football team, and there were even rumors that he was getting offers from big, fancy schools in big fancy cities. You remembered how blooming with jealousy you were back then because of that. But, as you were so constantly reminded of through seeing his working boots that had to be worth at least a couple hundred bucks, he was wealthy too.

He helped out around town, was sweet to older folks, and made all the ladies swoon with a flip of his sandy blond hair. He charmed your father just as easily, asking him if he could work his land for him, or at least help him with it. Of course your daddy would say yes. He needed all the help he could get, and lord know you weren’t nearly enough to actually keep this place afloat. Plus, who else would accept such low pay? It wasn’t like there was a line out the door for a chance to work at the [Last Name] farm, now was there?

You sighed as you hauled a bag of feed over to the chicken coop. It was mighty heavy, and you grunted as you nearly slipped in the mud. Hands shot out and grabbed your waist, and you gasped in surprise as the bag landed on the ground with a large thud.

“Careful there, wouldn’t want you to take a tumble now,” Daniel chuckled softly. His voice rumbled in your head like thunder on the horizon. He steadied you and pressed you close against his chest. Your heart thumped wildly in your ribcage, though only part of it was because of your little fall. No, it was the way his fingers inched over your curves, toying with the waistband of your jeans. You swallowed thickly.

“Thanks…” You mumbled out before you stooped down to pick up the feed once again. You didn’t miss the way his gaze stuck to you when you did.

“You really shouldn’t be doing heavy liftin’, you know,” He said and pushed you to the side to grab it from your strained arms. He made it look so effortless, and it annoyed you to no end. You followed after him into the coop, an encasement of wire around it. “That’s what I’m here for.”

You frowned and didn’t respond to him. You just kept on going as you ripped open the sack to spill out all the seed. The birds rushed around your feet to get their meal, and normally you would’ve laughed and indulged in petting a couple of them, but normally you didn’t have company. Daniel had been getting better at finding you it seemed. Day by day it felt like you saw him more and more.

You tried not to be one of those people that held onto their younger years, but whenever he was around, all you felt were the lingering memories from highschool. You were mocked on the daily. Most of the adults thought you were lost cause, always late to classes and struggling through the course material. You were called all sorts of names: ugly, stupid, slow. While he never bullied you directly, you always felt him staring. At games, in class, when he would drive slowly by you while you walked home everyday. You shuddered to think about it.

You always remembered a very specific moment that happened back in highschool. Especially now that you saw Daniel everyday again.

“What do you think about the farmer’s daughter?”

“Which one?”

He sounded so innocent, so sweet. Like he didn’t know.

“Don’t go fuckin’ with me, Petusky,” One of the guys chuckled, a cruel hint in his eyes. “You know which one I mean. The trash.” Oh… they were talking about you.

You were sitting in the diner eating a small plate of fries. You couldn’t really afford to eat anything more than that with your limited allowance and pay. You clenched your fist in your lap as you listened to the group of guys speak harshly about you. You were just out of view around the corner, all alone in the tiny booth usually reserved for couples and the like. The waitress shot you a pitiful look, and she slipped you a milkshake for free. It should’ve made you feel better, but it did more harm than good. She knew. Everyone knew you as trash.

“Come on, don't talk about her like that. She just ain’t got the means,” Daniel laughed. The sound rang in your ears, and you felt sick to your stomach.

“Or the looks.” A chorus of snickers erupted.

“She ain’t that bad,” He started, but he stopped short and just let out a playful sigh. “Hey, if y’all hate her, then y’all hate her. Can’t stop you from not wanting to fuck her if you don’t want to haha,” He joked. You could hear the strain in his voice and just imagine his blinding white smile. You busied yourself with the milkshake and tried to ignore how gross it felt to swallow down.

“Yeah, no way I’d ever touch that bitch without a three foot pole. Probably got fleas or somethin’.”

“Haha yeah…”

They sat there chatting shit for a while longer, and you sat there miserable, shaking, and on the verge of tears. You wanted to sink into the checker patterned floor and disappear forever. You knew people didn’t like you, but was it really that bad? Were you that awful? Your eyes stung, and you just stared at the empty seat in front of you.

Eventually, the group of guys, all clad in their Ariat branded clothing and snap back hats got up and got ready to leave. None of them spared you a glance, too busy filing out to their trucks to look around them. But Daniel did.

His hazel eyes swiveled over towards you, most likely just out of habit, and caught on you. He froze. The two of you stared at each other, and his face morphed from quiet shock to anger. The planes of his features, so normally joyous and polite, shifted into something so ugly and unfamiliar that you flinched.

No one else had seen, and no one, not even him, had ever brought it up again.

Daniel liked to follow you around when there wasn’t really much work to be done. The property wasn’t the biggest, so he could find you quite easily if you weren’t by the house. Like now, while you were lounging in the barn and reading a book while hidden behind some shelving. You clutched onto the pages of the novel (some old faded copy of a Jane Austen book that you had plucked from a free bin at the local thrift store), and looked up nervously as you heard his heavy footsteps thudding against the concrete floors. He loomed over you and hummed softly.

“What you got there?” He asked and crouched down to your level. You flinched back and glanced between the small, hard to read print and him.

“A book…” You mumbled out. It was always hard to speak when you felt so embarrassed. Everyone and their mother knew that you struggled severely all through school. The teachers pretty much gave up on you, and you stumbled your way through graduation. You’d never been very smart, but sometimes you wish you were. When that happened, you tried to push yourself and learn.

“Seems like a might hard for you,” Daniel chuckled and plucked it from your hands. You let out a noise of protest as he thumbed through the pages with a low whistle and patted the top of your head. You bristled a bit. “I’m sorry? Whaddya' mean by that?”

“Just that there are all sorts of fancy words in here,” He shrugged as he cozied up beside you. You could feel the warmth of his skin, burning from all the sun he soaked up, through the fine cotton of his shirt. It was long sleeved so that he wouldn’t get burnt during the heat of the day, but it didn’t make you feel any less flustered.

He was so confusing. Did he act like this with all the other girls in town? It was stupid to picture him as some robot who had his settings permanently flipped to flirt mode, but you genuinely couldn’t figure out why else he would be slipping his arm around your waist and pulling you into his lap.

“Daniel-”

“Danny.” He interrupted quickly, and you flinched from just how barely concealed his annoyance was. You tried to get up, you really did, but he was just so much stronger than you. You squeaked as he yanked you over his thighs. His strong bridged nose was pushing itself in the crook of your neck. “You call me Danny, you hear?” He murmured. His breath was so warm. All of him was just muscle and heat. You’d never been with anyone like this, never felt a guy’s chest pressed against your back.

Your daddy would skin you alive for this, surely. There wasn’t a single chance in hell that you wouldn’t be punished if not run out for fooling around with a respectable young man who you weren't even dating.

“The only thing we got is our dignity. It don’t pay no bills, but it do keep us in good graces. You do anythin’ stupid- and hear this well, girl. You do anythin’ stupid, and you’ll be out of this house before you can even pull your pants up.”

The threat was always so clear to you that it was impossible to not whimper and tremble as he groped you over your clothing. He chuckled, a soft sound that made you feel all sort of sick, and held you tight.

“Now honey, you don’t have to go all spooked on me.” He was kissing your shoulder, all tense and rigid. You felt like a piece of wood being bent far past what it should. Your bones were about to splinter, your heart about to fly out like shrapnel and just crack all over his insistent, firm hands.

“Don’t… It ain’t- ain’t right,” You stammered out. The spell was broken, and you started to grab at his wrists to get him to slow down. “ I’ll get in trouble,” You tried to reason, to hope that those golden boy manners would win out. Hope that he’d get off of you and leave you alone.

“Trouble? Hon, who you gettin’ in trouble with?” He laughed and reached up to cup your chin and face. Your head was pulled up in a craning stretch, and his fingers squished your cheeks in a playful, humiliating gesture. “With your folks? Don’t be silly [Name].”

“You’re grown, I’m grown… this is just normal between two grown people,” He hummed and started to tug up your shirt.

“H-hey! Quit it! I’m serious! I don’t want to,” You repeated, gaining your voice as he wriggled his way under the band of your soft, worn bra and began to knead your breast. He picked up the book while he pinned your legs underneath his own heavy ones and forced you to look at the random page he opened it to, completely ignoring your plea.

“Tell me, honey. What does this mean?” He asked

“What?”

“Read for me.” He drawled in a demanding tone. Your eyes flitted around nervously. “I want to know what you think you’re doing when you’re not with me. Hon, you really shouldn’t be wandering alone like this.”

“This is my farm-”

“Your Daddy’s farm,” he corrected and tugged on your nipple. You whimpered as a bolt of arousal coursed through you. Your cheeks flushed with heat. You’d never had such need dripping from between your legs before, and it got worse and worse as he pinched and rolled the sensitive nub between the rough pads of his fingers. You could feel the way his smirk felt against your skin.

“This ain’t your land, but that’s okay. I could buy it for your folks, make it so y’all don’t have to work so hard. And you’d get to sit pretty in the house all day, reading these books and whatnot. Now wouldn’t that be nice? Not having to work to the bone? Not having to get your pretty little face all mussed up?” He whispered and nipped at your cheek. You were on the verge of tears, watching helplessly as he threw your beat up novel to the side. You watched in detached horror as the words and ink were smudged and bled out by the small, dirty puddle it had landed in. Your hands curled into fists.

“Just say yes, honey. I’d treat you real nice. Promise.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and your entire body thrummed with shame, fear and arousal. You didn’t want to admit it. You’d rather have your heart torn out than ever in a million years say that it felt good, or that the attention he was sneaking you made you feel fuzzy inside sometimes. Because it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he made you feel like this weirdo for ignoring him when he was, in fact, an actual, honest to god threat.

“No.”

“Hm? Repeat that for me now, would you honey?” He purred.

You gritted your teeth and with a burst of strength, you shoved off of him. His molten caress was gone in an instant, and your thighs shook as you scrambled to crawl away. Your chest heaved in little short bursts, and he looked at you with genuine surprise. He looked at you as if it was the first time he’d considered you could even do that.

“I said no!” You didn’t think it was proper for a lady to be hollering at a ‘nice young man’ like that, but you did. You didn’t care who heard you, not that it mattered. The barn you were in was a decent ways away from everything else on the property. You smoothed your hands over where he had touched and kissed you, like it would get rid of the pure lust he was heaping onto you.

Daniel’s pretty face scrunched up into a glaring, furious version of itself. You could see the way his veins bulged in his neck and the way he flexed like a predator getting ready to pounce. You swallowed thickly, but you managed to wobble up onto your feet, to for once be able to look down on him.

“I don’t know what you think your talkin’ about, but I am not some- some easy girl that- that you can just sweet talk into giving you some,” You spat out. He moved to stand, and you took a step back. His hands came up in a placating gesture.

“Now, don’t go rattlin’ off about nothin’ you don’t understand,” He said, voice sharp. There was an undeniable frustration to the way he carried himself, to the way he huffed slightly and never took his narrowed eyes off of you. “I’m not talkin’ about foolin’ around, honey. I wanna have the real thing. Kids, a nice wedding, to come home to you every day… I wouldn’t just leave you,” he nearly spat. His lips curled in anger, but it wasn’t directed at you. No, it was more the suggestion that he was fucking around.

“You and me, [Name], are going to be a proper couple one of these days. And you’re gonna be my wife, I’ll tell you that.”

You shuddered. There was a slimy feeling working its way up your body, through your guts and through the tips of your stood up hairs on the back of your neck. He was crazy. A downright maniac. There was that similar look in his eyes, the one he had given you years back in that diner, and you wondered how deep this went.

How long did he spend stalking you through the fields, hoping to have you pressed under him? How long had he been trying to worm his way into your life? More importantly, when exactly did he decide that just faking nice wasn’t going to cut it anymore?

“Like I’d ever let that fuckin’ happen,” You spat and ran straight out of that barn all the way home.

There was a fall festival happening in town. Your daddy was preparing to sell things at the market, though there wasn’t much interest in buying fresh produce this close to winter.

“Now there ain’t enough to go around for you to go. Just stay here and we’ll bring you back something real nice,” Your mother had said with a small, pained smile before they packed up the truck full of goods and lumbred off into the orange painted sky.

You were left standing in front of your empty house with the porch light fighting off the oncoming darkness of night. It was quiet when your family wasn’t here to fill out the house with sounds of cooking, arguing and just life in general. There was a weird sense of unease that settled in your gut now that you were on your lonesome. It felt like shit to just be abandoned like that, to know that your kin was out there having fun and interacting with the rest of the town while you were stuck closing up the farm for the night. You sighed, fists curling at your side as you kicked idly at the gravel pebbles on the path.

Well, there wasn’t much use in throwing a pity party. The coop needed to be locked up, the heaters in the barn needed to be turned on, the gates all had to be checked. It wasn’t all that much work all things considered, but it was enough to have you pushing through the shadowed fields at a hurried pace.

You carried out your tasks, floating through the empty farm with a goal of relaxing down in your cozy bed to read more of that novel you had been so desperately trying to finish. The cool autumn breeze brushed past your skin and made you shiver. Goosebumps. How strange… it wasn’t cold enough for that.

It was nearly silent save for the rustle of leaves and the crunch of your feet against the ground. You hummed softly and rubbed your arms as night finally fell over your quaint home.

“It ain’t supposed to be this chilly yet,” You grumbled to yourself as you walked down the path to get back to your house from the back of the property. You eyed the wheat field and stopped in your tracks. Hey now… there wasn’t any harm in taking a shortcut, now was there? It wasn’t like your father was there to holler at you for walking through the crops. You knew your way through it pretty easily, didn’t get turned around or nothing even if it was completely dark. The moon was full and practically beaming down onto the golden stalks, now painted pretty and silver.

You weaved through the field with ease, sighing softly as you could see the roof of the house through the leaves. You caught sight of the peeling paint and nearly slumped in relief. Well, you were being excluded from the fall festivities, but at least you could get all cozy for once. You stepped out past the edge of the field and now in the open, eyes fixed low on the ground as you tried to not trip over your own damn feet, but when you looked up you couldn’t help but freeze.

There, standing in front of your porch, was a tall imposing figure silhouetted in the hazy yellow light buzzing above the garage.

You came to a halt instantly, your breath hitching right as your heart stuttered. “What in the…?” You whispered to yourself as you took in the sight of the stranger. He was looking at the spaces where the truck would normally be, and you had half a mind to not just run up and start hollering at this stranger. What if he needed help or something? You didn’t see any car around or nothing, so maybe he was in trouble. You squinted, and you couldn’t help the little gasp that left your lips as you realized that he had on a burlap sack fitted loosely over his head. He had gloves on too, the nice leather kind that you knew cost more than what you spent on groceries in a week. But no good man wore gloves when he wasn’t working, and this guy wasn’t doing anything but staring at the front door.

Your fingers twitched as you just stood there wide eyed and slack jawed. What the fuck should you do? The kind, ladylike thing to do would be to ask if he needed anything or if he was lost, but there was something stirring in your gut that was telling you to go and hide as quickly as you could. You slowly began to back away, one footstep at a time. It was like everything was frozen around you, your breath stilling in your lungs.

You couldn’t look away from him, even as you retreated further and further. His head swiveled slightly as he examined the porch of your house, and you were sent further and further into a frozen spiral as he finally turned to finally look at the fields. The fields where you were inching towards, to be specific. Of course you couldn’t see his features, but there was no mistaking the fact that he was searching for something. And when he finally turned so that you could fully take in the way his muscles tensed and his posture hunched into something more haggard and eager than you’d ever have expected, you realized that something was in fact you.

A scream tore out of your throat as he barrelled towards you, his hands outstretched and ready to catch you. You could hear him calling your name, but you just started running. How did he know you? It didn’t matter though, not when you could practically taste the danger in the air with every ragged breath you inhaled.

Leaves whipped against your face and arms, leaving faint red lines from how harshly they scraped you, but you kept going. The man’s heavy footfalls thundered after each of yours, and you shrieked in pure horror as he reached up and grabbed the back of your shirt and roughly yanked you back. Your feet skidded in the loose dirt as you thrashed and tried to fight him off.

“Stop fussin’ and behave!” He commanded, his voice gruff with annoyance. It sounded like he was purposefully speaking deeper than his normal voice would allow. He followed his words up by clamping his gloved hand around the back of your throat and shoved you down to your knees.

“Ngh! Let me go! My folks will be back any second, a-and then you’re gonna get it you fuckin’ spineless little-!”

Your snarling was cut off with another cry of fear as he squeezed down on your windpipe for a fraction of a second. He grappled with your shaking body as he pushed you up against his chest and pressed you down into the earth. Your eyes were wide and your nostrils flared with panic at the feeling of soil against your cheek.

“Your family ain’t here. They ain’t gonna be here for a while. Quit cryin’ before I give you something to really cry over… shit and I’m tryin’ to be all romantic. I know you’re stubborn but shit…” He grumbled and nuzzled his face against the crown of your head. The burlap of the sack was rough and unpleasant, just another layer upon the mountain of shit you were in. He inhaled deeply, sniffing your neck and shoulder through the barrier of fabric. You shuddered and balled your fists up.

That voice, that touch: it was all so horribly familiar.

“Daniel?” Your voice carried a hint of betrayal you wish wasn’t there. You disliked him, thought of him a creep, but this was beyond anything that you would’ve ever thought him capable of. But then again, when had he ever given you the chance to actually trust him. If anything, you should’ve expected this. Should’ve known. Should’ve done something.

He stilled behind you, his feverish panting ceasing all at once and replaced with eerie silence. Sweat beaded on your forehead as the moment seemed to stretch on forever. Slowly his hands slid over your belly, pressed between the ground and your soft skin and ruching up the fabric of your shirt.

“Daniel,” You repeated his name, more panicked. It was like you were back in the barn again, but this time you felt no warmth from his skin. His sun kissed boyishness that had you squirming with unknown feelings was now replaced with simple cold dread, bathed in silver moonlight and casted with iron resolve. “Daniel, stop it.. Please,” you croaked out as tears gathered in your lashes.

“... You can still say yes [Name]” He whispered, nearly as desperate as you were for a brief moment. You flinched at his voice, but you found no sympathy in his rigid form. You opened your mouth again to beg, but you squeaked as he covered your mouth with his thick, gloved hand. You squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m tryin’ to give you the world here, and all you have to do is be a good girl for me and take it, alright?”

The sound of your clothes ripping filled your ears, and he yanked the tatters of your sweater away. He grunted at the effort, shoving you further down to secure you while he reached underneath your squirming form to unbutton your jeans. The denim burned your thighs as it scraped past, leaving your skin sore to his kneading of the soft skin. His breath hitched once his fingers wormed their way past your clenched legs to cup your pussy through the worn cotton of your panties.

“ Oh…” He sighed, sounding so dreamy and fascinated. It was like he weren't about to do the worst thing that had ever happened to you. “Would you look at that,” Danny murmured and fucking squeezed. You kicked against him as hard as you could, and he only laughed softly. “You’re already wet.”

You screamed in protest at that, but he whispered shushes into your ear.

“No use denying it, honey,” He almost sounded amused as he dragged your underwear down to finally reveal what he’d been after. He finally let go of your face, and you gasped for air, letting out a string of curses so foul your father would've surely beat you for even uttering them. He ignored your profanities and wrangled your pelvis into his lap, your thrashing legs on either side of his thick waist. Your nails dug into the dirt as you tried to crawl away, but he shook you harshly. “Quit squirmin’! I deserve a good look at my future wife…” he grumbled, annoyance muffled by the burlap sack. It was even worse that you couldn’t see his face.

Suddenly, your cunt was burning. You hissed, and your fingers curled around the earth. “Ow ow ow!” You cried. Daniel made a curious noise.

“Hm, was hopin’ you’d be a bit looser… relax honey, I ain’t gonna hurt you. You just gotta relax a bit,” He cooed and stroked your lower back, squeezing the globe of your ass and holding you in place with one hand while the other was currently trying to stuff its digits into your tight, clenched walls. You squeaked as his thumb pressed harshly down on your clit, and you jerked at the sensation. “Shh, shhh, it’s okay …” he murmured. It was the same way you would speak to frightened livestock before it was sent for slaughter, all placating and sweet despite the animal knowing something was obviously wrong. Your dry walls clenched around the leather, pulsing as he worked at the little bundle of nerves until pleasure sparked like embers. Slowly, but surely, he worked your hole into a leaking, slicked up mess, his glove covered in your juices.

After a while of prodding and trying to roughly finger you, he finally stopped. You were crying, your tears mixing into mud now smeared across your cheeks. Instead of relief, dread took over your gut.

“I think you’re ready, honey…” He whispered, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. Your thighs trembled as he stroked them and moved you once again. His arms wrapped around your waist, his muscular chest pressed against your back. His breath was hot against your neck and ear, the burlap sack rubbing against your skull. The sound of a zipper flying and denim rustling flowed into your frazzled brain. You couldn’t even find it in yourself to say no anymore, your head rolling forward limply to try and avoid his heady gaze that you could feel burning into your skin.

Something hard and hot pressed against your ass cheek, and you jerked away. He fumbled around for a bit, trying to line himself up with your clenched entrance. There were no more hushed promises or niceties, just rough grunts and the strain of his muscles against you.

The first thing you noticed was how much it burned. It wasn’t like that of being burned, though you wished it was. No, it was more like the stretching you would do in gym class way back when. It was past the point of comfort, feeling muscle thin out and weaken while you breathed deeply to stop feeling it so much.

He groaned in your ear, loudly too.

“ Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” He rasped. “To have a moment like this?” You gasped as he bottomed out. Your guts were all squished up in places that you didn’t even know existed before. You moaned softly, partly out of pain and out of surprising warmth. Something stirred within you as he drew back, shuddering and stilted.

It took him a few moments to get it right, and he laughed in boyish glee when he finally managed to keep up a steady pace. He burrowed his head in the crook of your neck, joining you in the mud. Warmth spread through your gut as he pumped into you. At first it was just harsh prodding that hit the wrong angles in your stupidly wet cunt. Every blubber of fear, every hiss and whimpered ‘no’ only pushed him to find different places, find different ways to make you see stars and gasp when you should’ve been screaming.

“You’re always- fuck, you’re always fuckin’ teasin’ me,” He bit your earlobe through the thick fabric covering those charming, poisoned lips. “If it ain’t your goddamn folks around to stop me, then it’s you,” he practically spat, breathless and heady. “You ain’t got not right to say no to me when you know damn well that I’m the only one who can treat you well,” he snarled as his hips met yours roughly.

You felt so full, and when his hand dipped down once again to find your clit, you could do nothing but squeal as he pinpointed those spots that had you seeing blurry from both inside and out. Your back arched despite your muscles feeling like they were pulled thin to the point of no return, flexing and twitching with every slap of his balls against your thighs.

“You’ll see- hngh- you’ll see how good you have it,” He promised ominously.

He picked up the pace all of a sudden, emboldened by whatever was going on in that thick skull of his. You let out a strangled cry, your scuffed shoes kicking up dirt everywhere as the pressure in your belly finally started to rise into a frightening, all consuming pulse that rippled up your entire body. It was like nothing you had ever felt before, and it was fucking terrifying. Your eyes were blown wide, and you began to shriek and buck your hips not to meet his pace, but rather to seek and escape from the impending climax that was gripping your limbs and locking them in aching pleasure.

Danny shoved you further down, wrapping over you like he was some kinda snake. It felt like an apt comparison considering that this was the closest to being eaten alive that you could imagine anyone going through.

“ [Name] [Name] [Name] “

He chanted your name as he pumped his cock further and further into your pulsing heat. He was lost in the fervor of it all, too caught up to make his words coherent anymore. Not that anything would register through the haze of your tears and impending doom, but at least you didn’t have to pretend to listen.

“Ngh! Fuck!”

He had to be close by now. Your thighs were a mess of your own juices and smeared with his precum and sweat, and the two of you writhed together in some mockery of tenderness. Daniel gasped and tensed, his muscles locking together as he finally spilled his release inside of your waiting walls. His voice became high pitched and whiny, and then, in a moment of pure heat and desperation, he finally spilled within you.

You didn’t know when Daniel left your side, but it had to have been a few hours at the very least. You hadn’t moved, too shocked and sore to do anything but bleakly stare into the thick maze of wheat stalks just beyond your fingertips. But he did leave at some point, and when your folks came back, you were alone.

As you had suspected, your father was livid.

“ HOW COULD YOU BE SO FUCKIN’ STUPID?”

It was awful. Almost as awful as what had been done to you, but it was somehow even more shameful. It had been terrible, sitting there on a rickety dining room chair that screamed and groaned everytime you flinched and shuddered. Your mom at least had the decency to wrap a towel around you while you were torn into.

You had tried to tell them, “It was the Petusky boy” and “It wasn’t my fault”. None of your words seemed to hit.

“Danny wouldn’t do something like that.” Your Pa’s response was immediate, and you shut your mouth quickly, gaze boring into your hands curled in your trembling lap.

“Did you see who it was?” Your mom tried to coax out of you, though you got the impression she didn’t believe you either.

“No he had a mask but-”

“That settles it then,” Your dad cut in as he paced the room, his jaw was set tight, and your stomach churned uneasily. “He’s a good boy. A smart one too. He wouldn’t do something like that, and certainly not with you. Be honest [Name], you had to be askin’ for some shit. I’m not stupid. I swear-! We leave you alone for a goddamn second and you’re spreadin’ your legs for the first fool that comes by. And you have the nerve to blame it on an honest man,” he hissed out, and you felt tears brimming to your eyes.

Your mama glared at him, but she did nothing to say anything against her husband. She merely shushed you and rubbed soothing circles on your back.

“From now on, you ain’t settin’ a foot off of this farm, you hear?” He snapped. You sank further into yourself, wishing you could just disappear. “Now, we’re going to keep this quiet. You’re going to keep your trap shut about this, and you’re not going to say a word about this to Petusky boy. And if I find out you did or if you managed to knock yourself up? You’ll be out on your ass before the sun comes up.” The ultimatum was laid bare, and you could do nothing but bite your lip and nod.

In the next few weeks, it felt like you were living in hell. Daniel still worked on your family’s farm, and you tried everything in your power to avoid him. It was strange, though. Even though you could feel his eyes following you everywhere, he hardly spoke to you since that night. You almost could’ve mistaken yourself for having imagined it if it weren’t for the warning looks your Pa shot you nearly every hour. Honestly, it probably would’ve been better if you had just made it all up.

Of course, you couldn’t just forget, but you wish you could.

“Shit…” You murmured as you looked down at the faded calendar you had stashed in the barn along with your collection of paperback romances. It had been your escape recently, but now you once again were forced to face reality. You were late for your period. Pretty late at that, by at least a week in and a half. It was hard to ignore the reality that you could be pregnant, especially since he’d finished inside.

“What’re you lookin’ at?”

You screamed and tried to spin around, but Daniel quickly reached out to grab your arms and pin them in place, holding you still as his lips brushed against your earlobe. Revulsion and fear coursed through you, and your heart beat rapidly as he plucked the calendar from your trembling fingers.

“Hmmm,” His voice hummed low in his throat, a sweet noise that should’ve put you at ease, not on the verge of a breakdown. “You’re gonna have my baby,” He announced, smiling against your neck. Panic coursed through you, and you tried to squirm away as he snuggled up against you and dragged you over to some old crates to sit down. He played with the hem of your shirt, positively beaming with excitement.

“N-no I ain’t!” You protested with a face full of terror. He just laughed and hugged you.

“ I know… I know…” he murmured soothingly and pulled out a box, something rattling around inside. “But there’s a chance, ain’t there?” Pregnancy tests. A fucking two pack. You bit your lip, you couldn’t deny that you needed to know if you were or not. You silently took it from him and walked over to the run down bathroom. He waited, giving you space for the first time. Probably because he knew that even if he did, you had nowhere to run.

Two lines on both tests. You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose as Daniel smiled softly.

“See? I told you I was going to make you my wife,” He reminded you, and you felt sick.

“My folks don’t believe that you did it.”

“Really? Well ain’t that something… don’t fuss too much, honey. I’ll just work my charm, and you’ll be up in my house with a rock on your finger by the end of the month,” His promise was firm, and he squeezed your side, careful not to press too hard on your lower belly.

“And what if… what if I don’t want to?”

The question was quiet, desperate even. His eyes burned a hole into your skull, digging around in your brain and trying to pull on your thoughts and feelings. Slowly, he reached his hand up and grabbed your face. It was just rough enough to make you stumble forward, and you gasped.

“ You think that anyone out there is gonna believe you over me?” He asked softly, deceptively so. “That anyone gives a damn about what you think and feel, [Name]? I am the best option you’ve got. I’m the only option you got,” He continued, entwining one of his hands in yours as he walked you to the door.

“Your folks don’t care, no one in this town thinks of you as anythin’ but a tramp, and, shit- when you start showing? You think anyone is goin’ to give you a chance to prove you’re anythin’ else? Now I know you ain’t stupid, honey. Come on, you know as well as I do that this is the best that you’re ever gonna get,” Danny’s words were mocking, and his handsome face was obscured in shadow by the light pouring in from the barn door. You swallowed thickly as he wrapped his fingers gently around your throat.

“And…” His voice lowered as he leaned in to look you in the eyes. “ If you decide you want to be dumb, then I don’t mind tryin’ again to set you straight. Matter of fact, I’ll keep doin’ so until you get it in yer pretty little head that you’re gonna be mine.”He dragged you out of the barn, down the dirt path, and up onto the rotting porch of your house. Daniel flashed you a dazzling smile, his fingers digging into your own. As he reached for the doorknob, you thought of a million ways of how you could get out of this, could leave and run for the hills, but in the end you could only stand there. He seemed to notice you lost in thought and pause, raised your hand to his lips, and planted a swift kiss to your knuckles. “Don’t you worry, honey. I’ve always got you.”

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l00ney-m00ny · 1 year ago

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OK so I'm kinda curious,

When you lived with your parents (or living with them currently), and you didn't like the food that was served

Now, this is for when you despised the food. For when you hated it so much that you would vomit if you ate it. Like pov your at the table and peas are served and you just cannot keep peas down. I'm talking food/textures that make you cry thinking about.

If you see this, please answer it and rebagel for sample size. Feel free add your own scenario in the tags if I forgot one.

#tw food #food mention #vomit mention #throw up mention #tw eating issues #tw triggering food issues #(if i miss a tag here for the tws let me know)#social experiment #experimental #poll #experiment #food #parents #parenting #parenting issues #pyro speaks #rebagel allowed #tw force feeding

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nerdygirlramblings · 7 months ago

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Stuck on Reader being someone like Penelope Garcia from Criminal Minds, stationed in the US under Laswell

Off to See the Wizard (1)

eventual poly!141xfem!reader

TW: mentions of canon-typical violence

"You'll find exfil three klicks north, far side of lake," you say. You have the intel about their op open on the monitor to your left; the time in the corner reads 6:30pm. Your stomach grumbles, reminding you you skipped lunch, and you tell yourself you'll eat dinner when the op is done. Your eyes flick back to the time on the monitor in front of you. You can see Task Force 141's helicopter waiting; local time reads 4:00am. It's been a long few days, and you can't imagine how tired they are.

"tch, lass, 's a loch," Sergeant MacTavish whines. Despite sounding a little like a toddler needing a nap, his breathing pattern tells you he's moving quickly, trying to stay quiet.

"Copy that, Sergeant," you chuckle back. "Exfil's north of the loch." You wait a beat before adding, softly, "Get home safe, boys."

Captain Price's voice rumbles in your ear, "Copy that, Oz." He, too, waits a beat and says, "Thanks for the help."

You roll your eyes at the nickname: Oz, like the great and powerful wizard of. When you asked, Sergeant Garrick said it was due to how you seemed to anticipate their needs when you're Watcher. You tried telling them over and over again anyone doing your job would do the same, but they all swore you were Laswell's best. Their best. "You know there's no place like home, luv, and you make sure we get back every time," the Sergeant said. It made your heart flutter to hear it, and you have no idea how much their affection for you grows each time your magic gets them home safely.

You pull yourself out of your musings and focus on the drone feed for the next twenty minutes, needing to see all four heat signatures make it to the helo. As they cross into view, you immediately notice something off. They aren't filing in one at a time like usual. There's one out front and three together behind the first man.

"Bravo-6, what happened? I'm seeing unusual movement at the helo,” you say. You wait several long moments, listening to the crackle of satellite communications. You're about to say more when the Captain sighs.

"Gaz took a bullet," he said calmly. "It's a through and through, and Ghost already put Celox on it."

You try to calm your breathing, but even though you know, you know, these men have dangerous jobs, you can't help your reaction. One of your boys - not yours, not yours - is hurt, and you're an ocean and a half away. "Bravo-6, I'm putting in a forward call to your temporary base," you tell him as you bring up the base's medical building information over the op intel. "They'll be waiting on the tarmac for you." You haven't spoken to them yet, but you will make sure someone is there to take care of Sergeant Garrick.

"See, Oz, always ten steps ahead," the aforementioned soldier chuckles in your ear. Despite the distance, you can hear the strain in his voice.

“Don’t try to sweet talk me, Sergeant,” you scold. “Keep your strength,” you say more softly. “I- we want you back in one piece.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he responds quietly.

Your office is quiet for the next few weeks. Laswell directs most operations to other groups, giving the 141 time to rest and recover, and while you support whomever Laswell tells you, your work is mostly with the 141. You've been their primary point of contact for nearly a year now.

Despite not covering them in the field, you're a bloodhound, following any scrap of gossip about your boys. You know after the bullet tore through his thigh on that last op, Sergeant Garrick - “Gaz, please, Oz. Or Kyle,” he insisted softly when you checked in - had multiple surgeries to repair the wound.

Months back, during an op that had them embedded on a snowy tundra for more than two weeks, you found yourself chatting quietly to whomever was on watch during your shift. You were their anchor to the real world, "Oor very ohn angel on the airwaves," Sergeant MacTavish cooed. One long, quiet night - local time - Lieutenant Riley mentioned some of the things from home they missed. You squirreled the information away, as you did everything you learned about them.

While Kyle was in surgery, you sent a care package to their barracks, timing the delivery with their return to Hereford. You needed to feel like you were doing something to aid in everyone's recovery. You didn't expect to receive a call from Captain Price - "None of this Captain stuff, yeah? Yer not one o' my men. It's Price or John to you, dove." - thanking you for "making the barracks feel a little more like home."

While Kyle recovers, Laswell sends the others out sporadically on short missions. You make sure to be on this side of the monitor when any of them are deployed. It's superstitious, but you fear what will happen if you aren't there to watch their backs. You keep Sergeant MacTavish from walking right into a hostile camp whose heat signatures barely registered on the drone. You'd missed it too, until a blip from what had to be the terror cell's servers made you look closer. Afterwards he says,"Ya watched me clear the place, bon. Ya knoo how ah got mah name. 'S time ya use it, ya ken?"

Another time you're watching John and Lieutenant Riley on a mission to liberate human cargo. The Lieutenant is in his sniper nest, waiting for the buyer, plying you with his dry humor as he's done before, and this time you have a response. "Hey, Lieutenant, why do seagulls fly over the sea?" You give him a moment to think before continuing, "Because if they flew over the bay, they'd be bagels."

He groans and follows with, "If we're trading jokes that bad, Oz, call me Simon. No leftenant in his right mind would chuckle at that rubbish." Unlike the others, he didn't want to give you the choice of using his call sign. He was no Ghost to you.

As each man offers more of himself to you, you fall harder. You are not aware they do it because they are all falling for you too and are trying to break down the walls between you.

Five weeks after Kyle's surgery, he's deemed fit for duty, and Laswell mentions an op that's going to embed the boys in the desert for close to two months at least. She wants someone forward at Hereford, acting under her direct authority, to minimize delays with intel, communications, and decisions. Unbeknownst to you, Price has all but demanded Kate send you.

She comes into your office early, startling you as you read over the details of the 141's new operation. It worries you: eight weeks embedded in Uzbekistan, where intel says there's been an uptick in black market trafficking of both weapons and people. The 141 are being tasked with sorting enemy from friend, identifying their buyers, routing their sources, and cutting off the supply chain. It's a massive undertaking, one you're sure will take longer than predicted. Your heart aches for what your boys will have to do.

Laswell stands in your doorway and says your name, pulling you from dark daydreams. "Yes, ma'am?" you ask.

"You got a go bag?" You don't answer. In theory you know what a go bag is, but you've never needed one in all the years you've worked for her, and she knows it. "I have a forward assignment for you. Three months, maybe more." She reads the confusion in your face and continues. "The 141's new op is bigger than we've done in quite some time. I need eyes and ears I trust over there, able to make smart decisions on the fly, and they need someone whose priority is a successful mission, and that includes getting them home safe." She pauses and lets the information settle. Then she holds your gaze. "That's you, Oz. I know it, and more, the boys know it. Other than me, you're our best chance of pulling this off the way it needs to be done."

You don't even need a moment to think. "What should I bring, and when do I leave?"

Laswell smiles wide.

In short order you're boarding a military transport with two duffle bags and a hard-side case full of your tech. Laswell said you'd be put up in the barracks and be given a secure workspace in one of the base's office buildings.

The flight is uneventful, so you spend the time mentally preparing for finally meeting the 141 in person. You feel like you know them from the little glimpses you've had into their lives, but this will be your first true interaction with them. You hope they aren't disappointed to see the woman behind the curtain.

You're going over your role for the hundredth time when the plane finally lands. You grab your bags and follow other personnel off the back of the bird into a damp, overcast day. Your watch says 11:00, but with the weather, it could be any time really. You want to settle your things down and find the base canteen for lunch before setting up your work space. As much as your heart thrums in your chest about finally meeting your boys, you remind yourself this is a job.

Price stands inside the open hanger door, watching everyone exit the transport. Laswell told him you'd be arriving today, and he wants to be here to greet you. He knows if he said something - if the boys knew you were the intelligence specialist Laswell was sending them - he'd have had to fight them all to stay away. He knows they're all a little in love with you. If he's honest with himself, he is too. Which is why he needs to run interference, or they might scare you off.

He finally sees a woman in civvies with a nondescript duffle bag slung over each shoulder and rolling a shiny silver piece of luggage that screams fancy technology. He walks over, catching your eye as you take in the details of your new surroundings. You don't startle much as he approaches; he likes that you keep your cool. That combined with the look on your face that isn't delight or awe, just a cool calculation, filing information away for later, raises you in his esteem even more. You slow your stride until he's right in front of you.

"Hello," you say cordially. Price is a little surprised. You're usually much warmer than this. But then he realizes he's never seen your picture and only knew it was you because everyone else on the plane was clearly a soldier. Perhaps you don't know who he is. Yet.

"Oz, dove, so glad to have you," he rumbles, holding out a hand. He sees the moment his words hit, your eyes opening a fraction wider, mouth popping open a bit.

"Oh! Captain Price?" You're hesitant but proffer your hand to shake his. You know his voice over comms, but in person, the rich timbre is more rounded and melodic. You'd question it, but he's the only one who's ever called you dove.

"'s me," he replies, warm hand wrapping around yours, "An' I'm not yer Captain, remember?" You feel his callouses against your palm, and you smile widely at him. His moustache twitches, and you see his crows feet crinkle. He seems pleased.

He reaches over and snags one of the duffles from your shoulder before you can muster a protest. He leans down for your equipment, but you hold fast to the handle. "Sorry, sir. Can't let this go 'til I've got it in a secure location." He hums at that, and you swear his smile grows.

"Knew you were who we needed here,' he says quietly. He looks you over again. "You must be tired. Let's get you settled, yeah?"

"That sounds lovely," you tell him. You follow in his wake as he makes his way across the base. He points out various buildings as you pass them: medical (not that you'll need it), gym (not that you'll want it), armoury (not that you're allowed in it), mess (not canteen), and various office buildings. Price stops at this last destination, leading you to the secure room (keypad entry only and you get to set the code) where you drop your equipment. For now, it's enough that it's in a safe place. You can set it up after some food and sleep. The 141 doesn't ship out for this op for another week, so you have time to settle in.

After you lock the door behind you, Price takes you past the training grounds to where the classrooms and barracks are. "This isn't much, but it's ours," he says, a little bashfully, ushering you into a small building on the edge of the training ground. You notice 'TF 141' painted in black over the door of the grey building. "Welcome to your temporary home away from home."

You stand in the entryway and look at Price. Clearly your emotions are all over your face because he huffs out a laugh. "Didn't Laswell tell you we were putting you up in our barracks?"

You splutter, shocked. No, she certainly did not! "She simply told me the barracks. I had no idea I'd be..." You wave your hand around the space. How will you cope with basically living with these men whom you've grown so fond of? You panic. They'll be able to read your feelings a mile away. They're highly trained SAS soldiers.

Price waits you out, silently cataloguing your physical changes. Your eyes dart around, never staying on one thing for long. You're breathing just a hair faster now, and through your mouth as if desperately trying to fill your lungs. There's a bead of sweat forming at your hair line. He can tell you're nervous, but he doesn't realize he's the cause, him and the rest of the 141, so he says, "If it's a problem, Oz, we can find a bunk in the women's quarters with the recruits. Laswell and I jus' thought you might prefer the quiet of personal quarters instead."

You quickly come back to yourself. "No, no, it's fine!" You know your voice is pitched too high, but you can't help it. You're being offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to live with these men and you refuse to lose it. "I was just a little surprised," you rush to continue. "I don't mind if you all don't." You look at Price and hope your smile isn't as deranged as it feels.

He chuckles softly, and the sound causes warmth to blossom in your chest. "A'right then. Come see the place, then I'll introduce you to the boys." He points down a short hallway to the left, noting where his and Leftenant (not lieutenant like you've been calling him) Riley's offices are and telling you there's one the Sergeants use that you're welcome to. In front of you are a pair of double doors Price says hide the common room and kitchen area. There's a door to your right he takes you through, and this is the living quarters with a communal bathroom at the far end. Most of the doors are closed, though a few are propped open. "Most task force units have nearly a dozen members, but we only got us four, so there's plenty of extra space. Take any open room ya want, dove." You almost ask where everyone else is to position yourself best, but in the end you take the interior room closest to the bathroom.

Your last stop is the shared space. You aren't sure what to expect from a space shared by a group of men with such very different personalities, but stepping in, it reminds you of the fraternity living spaces you'd been in during college. Two worn but comfortable looking couches and a mixed collection of wingback chairs and recliners are arranged in front of a large television. Wires peek out from an entertainment center under it, and you suspect more than one gaming system is hidden behind the doors. A few bookshelves stand like sentinels along the back wall, covered in various books and movies and games. To the left is a small kitchenette. You see an electric kettle and coffee maker on the counter next to a microwave and hot plate with cabinets beneath. There's a small refrigerator too.

You take in all these details in an instant before settling on the most important thing: the other members of the 141, who have all sat up, conversation forgotten, as Price leads you into the room. You barely have time to consider what they must make of you as Price starts introductions. He starts with his men, pointing first to a man who is the living embodiment of the Tasmanian Devil Looney Tunes character, all compact muscle and startlingly blue eyes with the most ridiculous, and completely against regulation, haircut you've ever seen. "That's Sergeant John MacTavish, but you can call him Soap." Price must not know you've been urged to do just that. He continues around the room to an absolute beast of a man: nearly as broad as he is tall in his seat and covered entirely in black. "Leftenant Riley, goes by Ghost." You blink; that's not at all what he told you, though you realize he never gave you his callsign at all. "And Sergeant Kyle Garrick. We call 'im Gaz." Price is pointing to a brown-skinned man who, if you weren't seeing him with your own eyes, you wouldn't believe really looked that good.

You're about to introduce yourself to the room when you catch a slight smirk on Price's face. He puts a hand on your lower back so gently you think it's an unconscious gesture. With a little pressure, he pushes you further into the space the men inhabit. "Boys, meet Laswell's intelligence agent, Oz, the Great and Powerful."

an: Whelp, this spiraled quickly out of my control. There is absolutely more as I haven't even gotten started.

series masterlist | main masterlist

#cod #poly!141 #poly!141 x reader #tf 141 #tf 141 x reader #nerdygirl says #john price #simon riley #johnny mactavish #kyle garrick #off to see the wizard

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yanderenightmare · 8 months ago

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♡ TW: noncon, gangbang, elf-reader, orc captors, racism between orcs and elves, captive reader, enslavement, piss drinking, mindbreak, mentioned toe-sucking and rimming, navigating cultural differences

♡ FEM reader

♡ P1: THE PILLORY

The orc bandits sold your fellow elves off like slaves, but the commander ended up saving you for himself.

You’d been out of it throughout the ordeal. Already with the feeling of being numb, dumb, and tingly from the top of your crown down to the tips of your toes, you’d soon been overcome with fever as if taken by sickness—or withdrawal. Kept warm in the lap of your captor, you could barely keep your eyes open and must have passed out again—all to the sound of your troop's despair as they were bid on individually and dragged off by different buyers, all adorned collars and chains.

When you woke up again, whatever had you so enthralled and pliant was gone, leaving you feeling much like those times you’d woken from drinking more than your limit—along with a sore ache spanning your entire body, leaving you bedridden.

Lying there, on a massive fur pelt in a fire-heated tent with a pair of shackles upon your ankles, you decide against your former poor judgment of making demands—this time, staying still and deadly silent, causing no fuss and voicing no complaint in petrified fear of the heavyweight resting at your back, breathing soundly like a beast in hibernation.

You still don’t understand what happened—still don’t understand what got into you—why did you act that way? It was as if you’d completely lost your mind—hijacked by something unholy and depraved—something vile. You’d been possessed—you must have been! To be bred by those monsters, swallow their semen—drink their piss. Thinking about it, the shock of it all cancels out the disgust. How could you have done all that? Sure, you were forced, but you could swear… somewhere halfway through, you started to enjoy it.

“Why so quiet, elf-pet?”

He must have felt the shift in your breathing. Beasts of war sleep with one eye open, after all. Still, you don’t answer—you don’t move a muscle. Stiff and lifeless, you remain, even as his hand—the one dwarfing your hip—slides south.

"Afraid to wake me?"

You just swallow thickly with a whimper as his thick orc finger, weathered by labor and battle, pets your naked sex, rubbing your clit before splitting the lips and playing with the poorly treated hole beneath it.

“Where’d all that fight go, hm?” he rumbles at your stillness, amused by it as he prods your entrance and pulls your bottom against his bulge. “Don’t tell me I fucked it all gone…”

All you do is quake and tremor, even as his digit breaks through and starts prepping you—slipping in and out slowly, drawing slick as if your cunt was already trained to do so.

His pleased hum rumbles at your back, wreaking your bones—making you feel fickle like a sprout.

“Elves make such good pets once you tame them,” he states, chuckling. “You love cock and cum so much it makes you dumb—a single taste of it and even the priggish of elves like you turn into filthy little whores hungry for more.”

You feel him fatten behind you—clenching your thighs as it swells up against your rear.

His arm, the one beneath your head you’d been resting on like a pillow, coils around your neck and pulls you back snugly against him.

“Don’t worry, elf-pet—” he grins, teeth by your ear in heated words, “I’ll keep feeding you good and full.”

And that's how it goes. Anytime you sober up, he fucks you silly—well and truly silly—silly in the way it makes you indiscriminately slurp his cum off the ground and suck his toes and lick his ass and squeal with joy as he swarms your womb with piss, “Ah feels so nice and warm inside—I love being master’s piss-bucket! Thank you!”

It’s been that way for months now.

He’s taken to calling you Putty because of how dumb and malleable you’ve become, eager to do anything he says, just to please. It disgusted you in the beginning, but you’ve since learned to accept the weakness of your nature—if only for the sake of survival and your own sanity.

There’s no point in beating yourself up about it—not in this godforsaken part of the world where everyone seems out to do it for you.

You’d known orcs were soulless creatures, but truly, nothing could have prepared you for their level of depravity. If you could, you’d stay hidden inside the tent and never expose yourself to the horrors outside—already sated with those you have to endure within its thin drapes. But unfortunately, your master enjoys bringing you with him wherever he goes.

Many orcs do, you’ve come to understand. They like parading their slaves, mostly fae-folk like you, around—all dressed skimpily, all with collars—nymphs and fairies often with their wings clipped and elves with their heads shaved in shame.

Today, you’re out walking the market—you, with your leash on, and him, with his fist tugging it close behind him.

He’s looking at weapons and armor for the most part and the odd toy or article for you. He likes keeping you pretty, in jewelry and sheer silks that let everyone admire what he has warming his bed.

Since becoming his slave, he’s taken you to get plenty of piercings and markings. You can’t read their scripture, but he’s told you what he’s marked on your pretty skin several times. His name, of which you’re not allowed to speak, paired with his title as your direct master, as well as his guild’s seal, stating their ownership of you—all in three intricate patterns down your right arm. So, even if you ever do get home, you’ll never be able to wash him off. Another train of patterns on your left arm shows your status as a slave and your worth if anyone but your master were to damage or kill you accidentally.

For all their cruelty—you’re surprised by their level of organization. Though you don’t agree with it, you can at least admit that what they have is some variation of civilization—as supremacist as it is. But then again, elves are much the same—always thinking themselves better than everything, even other groups of fae.

It’s funny, but in a way, you’re almost convinced this is divine justice—the gods punishing you for your false sense of superiority by forcing you to live your life in suffering as an orc’s slave.

It’s a trial—your last chance at redemption before death. Fulfill it, and heaven will be waiting for you with open arms. Yes, that must be it.

The crowd becomes thicker near the end of the market street. It seems there’s an ongoing roadside show that many are keen on watching. You hear the jeers and hollers, the oos and ahs, and coming out empty-handed from the market trip, it seems the commotion is enough to pique your master’s interest enough to make him battle his way through to the front with you in toe just behind him—paying no mind to how members of the crowd paw at you.

One is even so brazen to spit on your chest. But it comes as no shock—nor does your master’s indifference. In orc culture, all orcs are masters and can do what they want to any and all slaves with respect to their direct master. In fact, it’s not uncommon to see masters chain their slaves up like mutts in the street—free for all to have a go.

Actually, you can bet that’s what gathered this flock.

And sure enough, you’re spot on.

Three fellow fae are on display up on the stage, naked and drenched in cum and sweat and other fluids—all made fully dumb by it.

You’ve theorized why over the months of being subjected to it and could only come up with one sound theory to explain it. Orc fluids must contain strong aphrodisiac properties, maybe even other substances that make their victims so agreeable—a type of natural incentive, possibly to make breeding more plausible and easy for a race so ugly.

Yes, that must be it. It’s the only thing that could make any sense of the heart-eyes and love-cries you witness on all your otherwise dignified fellow fae.

One of them is folded between two orcs, desperately sucking on one of their tongues with her eyes closed in bliss, taking both their cocks in both her holes. It’s hard feeling sorry for her when she looks so happy, but you know the situation yourself—it’s like your mind’s been replaced by a fluffy cloud, and all you can think to wish for is to be taken higher.

Another girl is on her knees, ass up and head down—with a heavy foot placed on top of her cheek, squishing her pretty face against the wooden stage—tongue out and eyes crossed as he fucks her sloppy cunt with his whole entire fist. The poor girl is so mindbroken she just giggles with a smile, thighs shivering in delight as she squirts out a puddle beneath her.

The orc pulls his fist out like pkug, making more liquid stream, giveen her ass a hard slap—as if to say atta girl—before he starts working on screwing his knuckles inside her butt next.

The last girl is placed on her back on a beam—ankles suspended in the air, tied tightly to two poles—arms tied together under the bench. She’s also got two of them having their fun with her—one in each end in a spitroast.

You’ve been in her position once—shared like a piece of meat—stuffed overfull with no freedom to spare. You wonder if she’d spoken out of place, too.

The orc by her head tugs his cock in his fist, standing over her head, letting her lick the sweat off his balls before dropping his length on her chest, bunching her tits and fucking through them with a groan, letting his balls swing and drag over her pretty face. But it’s not long before he steps back and puts his shaft to her lips, holding her throat in a light grip as she sweetly teases his dickhole with the tip of her tongue. When he gives her a firmer squeeze, she obediently widens her mouth, gaping to receive the head.

The girl holds it in her mouth like you do for your master, trying your best to suck but only ever managing to drool around it like a roasted pig with an apple between its teeth. Oh, but then something impossible happens.

You swear it’s like watching a circus act—you look on in horror and awe—unable to grasp it as more of the orc’s meaty member disappears down the girl’s swallow—one girthy inch at a time. You watch her throat swell, eyes wide in disbelief as her pipe blows out to accommodate the size, letting it sink inside all the way through down to the hilt.

The audience whistle and shout at her performance—all impressed as the two orcs fuck her on time with each other—out, then all the way in. And honestly, you’re one of them. Blinking at the display, you can barely trust your eyes—the two cocks must be kissing each other's tips inside her.

“What good whores,” your master mumbles at your side, swinging you against his chest with a grip on your jaw, making you face the scene.

“You see that, Putty,” he gruffs and points at the one you’d already been watching, wide-eyed and drop-jawed. “One day soon, you’re gonna be just like that.”

You dont know why, but watching the filthy scene makes your gut gurgle. How can you be hungry at a time like this?

“A perfect throat-sleeve for me. So deep, I can finally touch your guts from both ends and fill your belly just how you like.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Shigaraki, Enji, AFO ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Toji, Kenjaku ♡ HxH – Uvogin

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

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nikovraskol · 7 months ago

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crack baby ; one

wc ; 3063 masterlist after dying, you expected to be greeted with the open arms of the void swallowing your body, mind and soul. what you didn't anticipate is waking up sixteen once more with a chance to change your fate -- but something strange is happening, why are the locks changing and why are all eyes suddenly on you ? tw ; brief mentions of death, neglect, abuse, curse words

prologue, one, two, three, tbc..

The walls feel different, you’re unsure why or how but they seem almost suffocating, each crevice and crack threatening to suck you up, to consume you and hold you between its atoms until you can’t breathe, until you’re stuck in eternal darkness between the Manor’s walls, ordained to watch your family thrive without you.

Though, that may very well be because of Bruce flipping Wayne walking besides you, an awkward silence stretching between the two of you, his stature large and intimidating, covered in scars from adventures you wouldn’t dare to even dream about.

As the vigilante Batman, you held an undetermined amount of respect for the man. He is Batman, after all. He protects Gotham, and by proxy, he protects you. But as Bruce Wayne, you feel little to nothing for the man.

Sure, the actual sixteen-year-old (Name) would’ve jumped for joy at a chance to even see her father, let alone walk the halls with him, at eighteen there was a period of time where you loathed the man, where you would curse yourself for sharing DNA with him. But you’re technically twenty-one, and twenty-one year old you was grateful to him for housing and feeding her, but resentful for the neglect they faced.

These conflicting emotions inside you mixed together to create a cocktail of complete and utter apathy towards the man.

“Alfred mentioned you didn’t come down for breakfast, you’re growing, you should eat a sufficient amount of food everyday.” His voice broke through the deafening silence, the Manor feeling bigger for some reason as you send him a confused expression, your brows furrowing as you take in your father in earnest.

There wasn’t a time where you had a chance to take him in fully. Aside from when you first came to the manor, but that time was behind you and you made an effort to push anything about that to the back of your mind.

He looked cold, as untouchable as he did on TV, he felt far away despite the fact that he was right beside you. For a moment, you were transported back in time, back to when you’d sit on the floor, knees to your chest as you stared at the old, laggy TV before you.

“You look like him.” Your mother hummed from behind you, she was sat on the old beat-up couch where she slept each night, brushing your hair with the utmost of care as she avoided the man on TV, Bruce Wayne, your alleged father. A smile dawned your face as the flickering of the TV casted an almost eerie glow into your living room, a premonition for what’s to come, evident by the way your mother’s movements grow more rough, by the way her hand curls in your hair, forcing you to look away from the man. You didn’t protest, you knew better.

You look like him? You wouldn’t say so, when you picture yourself you picture your mother – though that may be your bias talking, you’ll always prefer your mother, despite the ache in your heart whenever you think of her.

“Right..” You mumble, not sure how to reply to him. This was uncharted territory! How do you converse with a father who you’ve never spoken to before despite living under the same roof for ten years, despite sharing blood, despite sharing a last name.

You’ve always felt like a black sheep, uninterested in the nitty-gritty of being a vigilante. You had nothing to contribute, in a family where transactions formed bonds, you had nothing to give. You were nothing, not Batman, not Robin, not anyone. Just (Name), like a piece of cheap plastic glued into a small crack on a pristine, porcelain vase. You didn’t belong, you cheapened them all, it’d be better to peel you off.

It’s why they never looked back at you, no matter how much you cried, begged, It’s why Dick would send you a half-hearted grin and a promise of ‘’I’ll take you somewhere later’ to placate your begging, to make you shut up. It’s why Jason would push past you in the hallways, why Tim would blatantly ignore you, and why Damian would sneer whenever he’d see you.

You weren’t able to migrate to Cass or Steph, and by the time Duke had joined, you had already given up on the prospect of forming any meaningful relationship in this Manor and it’s looming walls.

Then suddenly, a thought hits you, a rush of something – this was your perfect chance, you likely wouldn’t see your father again so it’s okay for you to ask now, right? There will be no other chances.

“Can you.. lend me some money?” You ask suddenly, cringing on how that sounds. That isn’t really the best thing to ask the father who you haven’t interacted with for fuck knows how long – he was probably picturing you as some money-hungry leech. Which is fine, his opinion of you meant nothing to you anymore, he can imagine you as whatever he likes.

But you need money if you’re going to live in a half-decent area of Gotham, getting a job and saving money for a house would take too long on a minimum wage salary, and your piggy bank was completely empty, and you couldn’t move cities. Not at sixteen.

“What do you need it for?” Bruce asks, his eyes sliding over to you cooly. A pang of something hitting his gut like a physical blow, his hands clenching as he struggled to look at you for too long. You looked like him.

When Alfred came into his office, sighing about how he was worried for his second-youngest child, Bruce was confused. Tim was fine, he hadn’t gotten hurt on patrol, and he wasn’t sick – at least, to Bruce’s knowledge.

“I’m not talking about Master Tim, I’m speaking of Master (Name), they’re acting in an unusual manner.” Alfred sighs, his gaze narrowing at Bruce – the judgement clouding his gaze heavy as he stares down his master.

“(Name)?” Bruce mumbled, his brow raising – he remembers you. Maybe. He remembers the concept of you, the product of a one-night-stand he had, a child he was forced to take in because of the death of your mother. He remembers the look in your eyes as you stared up at him, and he distinctly remembers the way you had clutched onto his hand, tears pooling your eyes as you sniffled, scared of the world, seeking comfort from the man everyone called your father.

But after that, nothing. His mind drew a blank when it came to picturing you – his first born blood related child, the thought made his stomach churn with guilt. His hand clenching as he avoids Alfred’s disdainful stare.

He tried to read the documents before him once more, his loyal butler’s scornful gaze burning into his back as the guilt in his stomach dug it’s claws into his lungs, squeezing until it became unbearable.

He’ll check on you, he decides. He’ll make an image of your face, that’ll settle the all-too familiar guilt inside him. Or at least, that’s what he told himself as Alfred led him down the familiar halls of his Manor, until he hit the other side – a side untouched ever since Bruce was a child, an area of the Manor he didn’t bother with.

Why were you here? The guilt in his stomach intensified, clawing it’s way up his throat as he reached your door. His hand hovering over the handle. This wouldn’t do. His guilt was increasing, weighing heavy on his back. The silence was unnerving, on the other side of the Manor, where everyone else resided – there was always some sort of background noise.

The silence surrounding your room was sickening, threatening to encase his form. This really wouldn’t do, he’d create an image of your face and move your room, somewhere close to his. Somewhere where he can occasionally drop by, he’ll sedate his guilt surrounding you, cutting off the bud of the problem before it can grow into something deeper, he didn’t have time for any of that as Batman.

And with that, he opened your door.

“I need it to buy a house.” You shrug, feeling a little awkward talking about this with your father. Did he even care? You didn’t think so. Oh goodness, the silence was so stifling you wish you could be shot all over again and–

You stop when you notice he isn’t walking beside you anymore, turning your gaze behind you to take in his expression and– why the fuck does he look shocked?! Your expression scrunches up as you take in thee Bruce Wayne, thee Batman looking at you, completely caught off guard.

It’s an expression you’ll never forget until the day you die.

“Buy a house? Why?” He asks, his lips tugging into a tight line as he stares at you with that same calculating expression, the one that made your nerves stand on end – the one that made each cell in your body burn with the urge to curl into yourself, to appear as small as possible and and plead for mercy. You hate it (It reminds you of her).

“I’m– moving out..” You say, your voice smaller than you had intended. The walls are slowly crushing you, you’re sure. This all feels like a cruel dream, a twist of fate you don’t want to accept. Oh, please, you don’t want that look, you want him to look at you with another expression (with the expression he gives others, the expression of a father),

Bruce paused, his body going rigid as he exhales through his nose – the guilt simmering in his body, each muscle threatening to snap, he hates this feeling. He wants to know you, he wants to know his child, the child tucked into the corner of the Manor. How cruel is fate, to threaten to rip you away, to pluck you from his garden the moment he took notice of your pretty petals.

“Do you have any in mind?” Bruce asks, his head tilting as he scans you from head to toe, his voice growing lower, colder. A familiar rush runs through you, the rush you felt when you were in that piss-soaked alley. The undertone of danger clear – what was his problem?

“I’m not sure yet, but– I saw a nice apartment by Gotham Harbour..” You mutter, your hands wringing behind your back nervously. This was strange, scary, unnerving, anxiety-inducing – pick your damn description! “I’ll.. see about sending you some.” He says gruffly, before nodding and walking away without another word. Instantly, you let out a deep sigh, your hand clutching your heart as you mumble curses, stumbling back to your room. That was–..

If you were actually the sixteen-year-old (Name), you’d probably be on your way to get a tattoo saying ‘my father spoke to me!’, but as you walk down the long, foreboding hallways all you can muster is fear. You don’t know why, but that exchange felt like a catalyst for something big, the future has changed. You’re swallowed by the realization that whatever power you had is slipping away, the future has changed almost comically fast and you’re left standing alone in an abyss of uncertainty.

Something’s going to happen, you just hope you’re not a part of it.

Meanwhile, on the other, brighter side of the sullen Manor, Bruce is brooding in his office, the tick-tocking of the grandfather clock matching the pace of his heartbeat. His dear (Name), his child, moving out? At sixteen? Blasphemous. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply once more, ignoring the pointed look from his youngest son standing before him.

“Father, I believe it’s time to start training. I surmise you haven’t forgotten your promise?” Damian asks, taking in his father’s disgruntled appearance. Strange. It’s certainly not unheard of for Bruce to be in a disheveled state, what with him protecting Gotham every night. But last night was quiet, there wasn’t anything big going on so they were able to take it easy. He should be relaxed, or at least put together.

“Damian, I haven’t the time, Dick is staying in the Manor today, ask him.” Bruce says, standing up from his chair as he walks towards the door – ignoring Damian’s rattled expression, his young son following his footsteps with a huff.

“If I had wanted to train with Richard, I would’ve asked him.” Damian retorts, following his father around with his arms crossed around his chest – miffed by the turn of events. What on earth was keeping his father from training with him? He had been looking forward to this! He continued to protest as they ascended down the stairs, past the living room where Dick was lounging all the way to the kitchen where Alfred was already preparing a feast, the butler diligently working with practised ease.

“Master Bruce, Master Damian.” Alfred greeted, the smell of his cooking wafting through the air as he took in the sight of Bruce’s frown and Damian’s pout, they looked alike, it was almost comical, not that the butler would voice that out loud.

While the old man may seem relaxed, his hands were clenched a little too tightly to pass off as natural. He was waiting with baited breath to see if his plan had borne fruit, if Bruce had managed to find out the reason for your odd behaviour. Of course, Alfred could’ve asked you himself, but you had never been one to open up.

No matter how much the old butler tried, he wasn’t able to break through the walls of defence you had built around yourself during your stay in the Manor, hopefully the man you craved affection from would be enough to crack that impenetrable shield.

“Did you know that (Name) is planning to move out?” Bruce asks suddenly, his blunt words cutting through the mouth-watering aroma of the carefully seasoned chicken in the oven. Bruce’s eyes remain trained on Alfred, watching as his mouth drops slightly. So he didn’t know. He ignores Damian’s aghast expression and Dick who had sauntered in moments ago.

“No.. I wasn’t aware.” That was unexpected, of all the things Bruce could’ve said, Alfred wasn’t prepared for that. You? Move out? You were merely sixteen, a child! You weren’t even the age to earn a livable wage and you wanted to move out? Unbelievable! “What– What did you just say?” Dick stammers, his eyes flickering from Bruce to Alfred as the tension in the room silently grows, weighing on the room like a guillotine, an unspoken threat looming above each of their heads. Dick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. You wanted to move out? His precious baby sibling? The sweet child who would follow him around shyly, who would light up at the smallest hint of affection, the child who couldn’t ride a bike or do their times tables or–.. No, that was years ago, right? Or, at least he thinks so.

To be honest, when Bruce had said your name, he was initially confused. (Name) was unfamiliar to him – but that feeling went away when he pictured the small child hiding behind the corners of the Manor. His precious sibling! So, it doesn’t matter, right? He forgot about you but he remembered you just as quickly. He’s your older brother, he couldn’t have forgotten you. No, not when he’s everyone’s reliable older brother, that’s impossible! Disgraceful! Deplorable!

How old are you now? He wonders bitterly, a heavy, unsettling feeling forcing it’s claws in his throat as he feels a dull ache stretch through his body, his heart pounding through his ears. You? Move out? That’s insane, you can’t move out. He still needs to take you out to that restaurant he promised you (all those years ago), he needs to help with your math homework, he–..

He feels like he might throw up, he takes a tentative step back, ignoring the expression on Damian’s face. He needs to see you, to grab you and demand answers, he can’t believe such a thing to be true. Sure, maybe he hasn’t interacted with you at all, and maybe he can’t picture your face, or your personality in his mind aside from the small, lingering child who would follow him around – but you can’t leave! Not before he takes you out to that restaurant, like he promised. What kind of big brother doesn’t follow up on his promises?

“This is a ploy for attention.” Damian huffs, glowering at the mention of you. So, you’re what’s driven his father away from training with him. Figures. You’re jealous and weak, it’s natural you’d make empty threats to scavenge for attention like the filthy leech you are. Pathetic.

So why? Why was father making such an expression? Why was Dick so pale, as though he’s about to hurl? Even Alfred looks caught off-guard. What’s going on with these buffoons? Can they not see the foolishness in the idea of you moving out?

But, there’s a feeling in the air, masking Alfred’s cooking that tells him you’re serious. You’re planning on moving out. What a stupid notion – he should go to your room and smack you for even suggesting it, that you would survive outside of the Manor, in Gotham no less.

“What will you do, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks after a beat of thoughtful silence, the air in the room crackling with the weight of everyone’s ideals, his eyes narrowed at Bruce’s tightened expression.

“They’re.. too young to live alone.” Bruce’s tone is even, the same voice he uses when going over a mission plan and such, but the message in it is clear. You can’t go, and they all understand it, they understand it well.

Alfred watches the three part ways, each of them with a newfound goal in mind, and he can’t help the relief that washes over him. This is great, he had been worried that they would let you go – that they wouldn’t care to keep you, Alfred would have to do all the work himself then, and he’s much too old for that.

Yes, this is much easier. The cogs of fate are turning, the strings on your limbs tightening with each passing second. You’ve inadvertently set your role in an inescapable performance – maybe next time, go downstairs for dinner – no matter how shaken up you are.

yall i was gonna post this later.. but everyone is so nice omg. i feel so scared to post PLEASEUHH constructive critisicm is appreciated <3 :3 also thank u for being so kind on the prologue :p

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iwaasfairy · 1 year ago

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┌─ “ ! „ FEARLESS, STUPID

tw. a/b/o, military au, dystopian au, noncon, threesome, heat, dumbification, double penetration, patronization/ degradation, praise kink, daddy kink, dom/sub themes, choking, anal play, a lot of spit and cum, size kink, tummy bulging, mentions of human captives, kinda forced prostitution wordcount. 9.8k

a/n. I had a lot of fun writing this one bc it’s just extremely fairycore and indulgent. heavily inspired by rhi and her incredible brain for writing the hand that feeds!!! I love that fic and have always wanted to write smt set in vaguely the same world. thank you to everyone who beta read as well I appreciate it soooo much ♡♡

geto suguru, kong shiu, fushiguro toji x fem!reader

The air is dry and cold, enough to hurt on the way in. It’s cold enough for your warm air to come back out and form droplets on your nose that drip into the snow.

Your head down, crouched in the smallest shape you can make yourself, is how you find yourself drifting in and out of focus. Not only are you cold and hungry, but it’s been long enough for the scent of smoke and ash and foul, sour fear to have started losing it’s smell. You can’t even expend the energy to move your head to the side and look, without getting tired. The crunching of the heavy boots in the snow is the only thing that’s pulling you back into it. That and the occasional clang of the line of cuffs shaking around someone’s wrists.

It’s gone quiet now.

You wonder if others have fallen asleep. You’re not far off yourself. When some commotion happens over by the gates, some of the uniformed figures rush to go look, feet kicking up snow as they go — It’s a blur of shouts and orders, before the loud hum of an armored vehicle stops not too far away. That’s all it takes to wake you up again, and despite yourself, your arms start shaking in their place behind your back. The cold of the metal radiates all through your bones.

You realize you’re scared. That’s the thumping between your ears.

“Lieutenant. Good evening, Sir.”

A soft, almost warm voice stands in stark contrast against the cold of the surroundings when the feet stop a few steps short of the kneeling row of people. “At ease, soldier.” He sounds older than some of the youthful faces you’ve seen here, dragging people around by their ankles to stuff them into loaded trucks. But not old. Not nearly old enough to carry the weight he does. “What’s all this?” the voice pivots, aimed now towards your group. A few of the women beside you uneasily shuffle in their places.

“Captives from a raid by the fifth division this morning. They interfered with the commission’s supply line when they tried to escape.”

You smell smoke with each breath. The man makes a soft humming noise, before he scans the row of kneeling people again. “So why are they still here? We have plenty of mouths to feed already.” You have seen what they do with prisoners here. Just this one, long day has shown you all you need to know. Your life will be short and unnoticed, and if you’re lucky, you won’t go through hell before you’re shot between your eyes. The cold air makes clouds in front of your face, as the steam rises above the snow into the black night. “Beta's?”

“Yes, Sir.”

You strain your neck to tilt your head up. You’re not sure why you do it. Maybe it’s the wrongful association of that voice, smooth and lithe and easy- with the pain you’ve witnessed. You don’t have much hope of making it out, and though you could beg, you’re not even sure if they see you as human enough to consider a plea a plea. Your eyes glide up the perfectly fitted suits, dark gray and gold until you find the face of the leader— and startle. Long, black hair is tied into a sloppy bun in his neck, and long bangs almost hide one eye from view.

But the eyes are striking and sharp and long lashes frame them against pale skin, and you can’t look away when his lips form the words. “So, kill them.” His cigarette burns bright orange when he takes another pull.

The younger of the two only lets out the briefest breath. “...Yes, Sir.”

The fear makes the pitched whimper get stuck in your throat, and more puffy clouds drift out of your lips when you start to shuffle in a panic. Not fight, you don’t ever fight. The man turns on his heel. And you’re not the only one, as soon cries and sniffles and the petrified glances only set you off more. Your eyes drop to the muddied, dirty patches of snow that the cars drove through, the people around the camp; as your stomach turns and your bottom lip starts to wobble. You knew this is how you’d turn out.

As soon as they put the cuffs on and tossed you onto the ground to wait… your own whimpering just melts into that of the others, but peaks when a hand grabs you by the hair and yanks you up, then lifts you by your arm. “No, no, stop!” The girls around you start screaming too, one grabbing at your arms to pull you back down. But the soldier doesn’t hesitate to kick her in the nose, as you cry, trembling like a kitten picked up by her neck.

Everyone’s scared for themselves, but they’re scared for you too, and you for them. “Stop, please! Please!” They cry. The blood thumping between your ears makes it hard to focus on anything but the painful grip on you, and the disgusted face of the man before you. When you don’t make any effort to fight, he drops you back down into the cold snow, and instead aims the long barrel of his gun straight at you.

You can’t even look away, as your heart rate slows. As you watch the small snowflakes come from the sky to meet you.

“Wait.” The voice returns when he stops halfway to the car, and makes your eyes shoot up to find his face, as shivers roll down your back. You know you’re stinking up the place, as the placating hands of the girls around you reach to brush fingers. It’s not much, but allows you to take a sniveling breath. “This one’s an Omega… Settle down, soldier. We’re not trying to hurt, are we?” The buzzcut’s eyes widen slightly, maybe as he takes a first good look at you and notices the smaller frame, big doe-like eyes, the softer set of your face and demeanor. Just as quickly as he gives you another up and down, he steps aside and lowers his heavy-duty gun back to the ground.

The older one takes a step back towards you. Your face must be windbitten, lips cracked and cold and stained with tears where you sit, but the noiret doesn’t falter as he drops into a squat before you. His face breaks out into a soft smile, and his hand rises to brush along your cheek, avoiding the black eye as he goes. “You’re a rare find. You on blockers?” Not enough recent ones to keep out all of the scent, clearly.

It’s not a question that needs answering, but as his thumb brushes over your lip, you find yourself giving the smallest nod. Gently, careful not to make any harsh movements. He does the same when he helps you right yourself back onto your knees, and then gives you a slow, calculated trace with his ocean-dark, silvery eyes. “Smart. We almost missed out on you with all the Beta stench.” A small furrow worms between his brows. “Are there others?” He asks, and then gives a swift continuation. “Don’t lie. If you lie I’ll know.”

Your voice cracks when you start. “I- If I tell you- what will happen to them?”

With only the slightest bit of hesitation, he seems to mull it over. Sharp, angular features soften just a bit as he draws his hand back from your face to run it under his nose instead. And whatever he smells must soothe the urge to get angry at being questioned, because his cheeks push up genially until his eyes are practically just moons. “How’s this? I’ll be fair, after hearing whatever information you have.” The anxiety ebbs and flows as you look to the faces at your side, then swallow.

Your heart hammers wildly in your chest. You have no reason to lie. There’s no one left that didn’t get shot as they ran… You clear your strained voice with a tight cough. “I- this is all that’s left. There’s no one else. We had people who escaped before you even closed in. B-but there weren’t any Omega’s left, the last raid already took them all. That’s all I know.” You try to keep your bottom lip from wobbling as you talk, ignoring the cold of the tears that are now freezing on your lashes.

Those dark, unrelenting eyes don’t waver as you speak, and you can’t help but wonder what it is he sees. Surely he knows, you wouldn’t need to lie. Just as you start getting anxious at the silence, he gets up from the floor, before dusting impatient hands over his pristine jacket— and a saccharine smile slips back onto his lips as he waves a hand. “Bring the Omega.” You jump when the soldier from earlier immediately starts yanking at your chains, but that’s it. It’s not in your nature to fight back. Then the Lieutenant walks back to the car as another opens it for him, and casts a final glance your way.

The smile doesn’t fall when he shifts that gaze to the side, and sucks his teeth. “Kill the monkeys.”

There’s nothing more embarrassing than having to fight your nature at every turn. You’re confronted with it more than you’ve ever been before, when they drag you across the cold tiles with your legs kicking, tears rolling in thick beads down your face and neck. You’re not a fighter. You’re not made for it. At every chance, your body chooses the easiest way out, oblige now, suffer later. Even when your mind screams at you to run, bite and kick and escape — you stay down. Cold metal slices into the tender and sore skin of your wrists when they yank you up another few feet, before dropping you onto the floor next to the makeshift desk.

You’re sniveling like a child. The man behind the desk looks at the several soldiers who stay put, before lifting an eyebrow.

“Lieutenant Geto says you’re to clean her up for processing.” One of the men sighs, before glaring down at you with a tight-lipped frown. It sets the hairs on your neck on end to feel such blatant displeasure from an Alpha.

The lighter haired young man stands from the chair at that, and gives you a quick once over. “For the barracks or to be sent to the commission?” He smiles when you look up at him, gentler, then places a warm hand on the top of your head to start soothing you. It’s enough to make your lip wobbly. The little bit of warmth isn’t enough… but it feels so nice. So good, to have a caring touch.

One of the other soldiers takes the heavy strap off his shoulder to put the gun down, and grunts. “Neither.” His top lip lifts into a scowl as he glares at the corner of the room, before turning to look down at you too. “Personal pick, I heard.”

The other soldier remains at the door, but clicks his tongue. “And we’re supposed to keep our mouths shut about it.”

“You ever had an Omega?” The one asks the other, nervously grinding his gun in circles. “I haven’t. Yet we’re going to war for ‘em… Only for pompous pricks to get first pick of the litter because they’re bold enough not to report to the commission.” The soldier grins without any amusement from across you, and you can’t help but hide more into the leg of the man who’s still touching you kindly. “Goin’ to war for pussies like yours… must make you something real special, right? But you’re unreported. What’s keeping me from just… taking you for myself?” Then he looks between the two other men. “I’m even willing to share between the three of us if you’d help out. Keep some things quiet.”

“You said the Lieutenant picked her out because he liked her, right?” The lighter haired man runs his free hand through his undercut, then leans down to lift you under your arms and get you onto tired legs against him. “Means you got something in return for keeping a secret already.” He’s all wired muscle under the uniform he wears, and wraps his arm around the small of your back before picking you up entirely. “Don’t do something stupid. There’s no place to keep her where some officer wouldn’t smell her anyway. Can’t keep her under your mattress like a pack of cards, can you?” He starts walking you towards the doors of a presumed bathroom without complaining, even though the other guy clicks his tongue.

“Itadori. You think you’re helping out just being another dog for the commission?”

“Instead of a thief?” He pushes the door open with one hand, already walking through. “Go get your free drinks or cigarettes or whatever he promised you, and do your job. I’m doing mine.”

The door falls shut with a loud noise behind you both, and you suck your bottom lip into your mouth. Your arms wrap a little tighter around his neck. “T-Thank you.”

His grey eyes find yours, before he smiles again. Softer. He’s an Alpha too, but must come into contact with your kind more frequently. He feels gentler to the touch when he speaks. “Don’t thank me yet.” Then he deposits you in a stained, old bathtub, and sighs before grabbing the showerhead. “Let’s get you cleaned up first. Ranking officers like their girls extra clean.” When you don’t move, he goes to take off your dirty shirt, and you only shiver in place as it happens.

After a few seconds of silence where he brushes fingers over the unmarked stretch of your neck, you swallow tightly. “You can’t let me go, can you?”

Itadori turns up the water until it’s warm, and his brows flatten. “…No. I’m here to do a job. I’m sorry.” You believe him. Doesn’t make you feel any better, though.

The cot is barely big enough for you, and the cold from the floor radiates up through the ratty, old mattress into you. But it’s still better than sleeping in the bed where Geto sleeps, where he can get his hands all over you, hold you, cling to you. You’re glad that the Lieutenant doesn’t particularly care whether or not you shy back away from him for the night, as long as you don’t act up when he wants you close. It’s an unwritten contract he likes to pretend you have. As if you weren’t forced into it. As if you had any choice.

The starchy sheets are cold too, they leave you shivering more than sleeping. When you walk through the halls you’re cold and barefoot and uncomfortable, but when you’re here you’re colder, naked and more uncomfortable.

You don’t know that much about the army. You don’t know that much about other things either, but you know that Omega’s are few and far in between. You know they go for lots of money, money that even Geto doesn’t have. You know that he’s using you to your full potential before his higher-ups find out, and that too much commotion would draw attention of the commission. Attention you don’t want. When your teeth start chattering, the man in the large bed, with the soft pillows and body heat calls.

Says your name like he means it. Like he likes to whisper to get under your skin- holding your life between slim fingers. He sighs. “Come. Get into bed. I can’t sleep when you’re not sleeping. And you’re not going to sleep when you’re shivering to death.”

“I’ll sleep,” you softly assure, pull your thin blanket closer. Your feet are cold and the room isn’t dark enough for it to actually happen. But you can pretend.

“I’m not asking.” You know he’s not. Maybe it’s because the alarm clock is showing an ungodly hour— and he’s tired. It wouldn’t be the first time his boot meets your cheek when you whine too much, displease him in ways Geto doesn’t like. “Come.”

He yawns when opening the blankets, waves you closer. An Alpha demands, and your lungs ache to follow the order. It physically hurts to resist. Your thin layer of tears sit on your waterline for a while before you shift. Slip across the room naked, and crawl into the bed under his arm. “That’s a good pet…” The panes of his chest are warm enough to have you melting like ice into his shape and mold yourself to him. It’s in the weight of his arm over your waist as he pulls you in close. Tethers you. You want to be and stay mad. Frightened.

It’s just… Geto’s scent’s become one you can bury yourself into. Your hands ball against his chest, and the fingers he presses into your hips stray down.

Your breathing hitches at the touch, and your stomach seems to want to crawl up into your mouth when he spreads your legs apart. “I’m hardly the worst one here. Get used to it already. People here are frustrated. Many of them haven’t had an Omega in years.” His rough fingertips slide between your legs and trace over the raw, achy mess he made of you not hours before. It’s sticky and uncomfortable, and you jerk when he rather impatiently starts thumbing your clit. It hurts- enough to make your face scrunch as you hide it into his pecks. “You don’t even know how lucky you are that I’ve kept you to myself.”

You do know that, though. You’ve passed by some of the barracks further away from the officer buildings. You’ve smelled the Omega fear, the blood and sweat and ruts; or what it’s like for a person to beg for a moment of reprieve. You have not a scratch on you, and you should be more grateful than you are. That you’re not taking a whole division’s sexual frustration to keep them from killing each other. When his fingers slide the wetness, remnants of slick and cum back into you and force your pussy to stretch again- you start sniffling against him. “I know I am,” you whimper, biting your lip. It’s not enough to just be this. You can’t just lay and wish for it all to go away. You have to be a participant, or Geto might switch you out.

As you whimper, swallowing back the tears- he presses his lips against your forehead. “Can’t help but cry? Poor baby.” He grinds the fleshy part of his palm against your pussy, breathing against you. “Tell me what it feels like.”

“I- Feels- b-big,” you choke out, twitching when his fingers curl into you and fuck deeper until they stroke much deeper than your own. The coldness fades a little when he rolls you over onto your back and gets on top, pinning you with his thigh. “Geto-sama- Please stop, I’m still- sore. It- it hurts really bad.”

With a slight frown, he pulls his fingers out of you and wipes them on your thigh, before sighing. Your eyes crack open at the lack of touch. His long black hair falls down over his shoulders, as he holds himself above you— and stares at you for a moment too long. One where he seems to consider your feelings at least a little, for once, brushing his clean thumb along your neck and shoulder. “I’m going back to the front soon. Do you know what that means?”

You’re not sure if it’s meant to be patronizing… but you don’t know. The wet, cold numbness that returns to your cunt is an unexpected unease. You wanted to stop. You did. But when he sits back on his heels and looks at you for a few seconds in abject silence, the distance feels too far. Geto comes back to you with a furrowed brow, before a line of kisses is pressed along your jaw and neck, where he takes a deep breath and makes your entire body purr. “Means you’ll be passed on to some other scum.” He almost growls when he says it, urges your one leg over his thigh to make room.

“I put in a good word that if I come back you’ll come back to me- but…” His sharp eyes find yours blown out and dark, as he pulls you closer to his hips and rolls himself against you. His hard cock- he’s always hard when you’re in his bed, bops as he grabs himself and pumps a few achingly slow strokes. A translucent drop of precum drops to your pussy, and he spits on his hand and your pussy for good measure. “I’ll be two months without this soft Omega cunt squeezing me to sleep.” As he groans and slides the flushed head of his cock against you, he presses his weight into you again. “Let me use you. Or see what fucking happens.”

The hearth burns at the far end of the pristine, wooden room. Enough to make your hands clammy, shifting yourself back and forth between both legs- before glancing up to Geto once more. He looks more pampered today. Standing straight with only his fingers looped loosely around your arm. For a split second you wonder if you’d be able to make it down the marble set of stairs and across the courtyard into the shallow bushes— but it’s only a moment. Not more than a brief hope that instantly gets snuffed out when the heavy doors slide open, and a deep grunt passes by you both.

Geto salutes, the man does not. He only clears his voice with a mix of impatience and -tobacco, probably, before motioning his head towards the desk. “Lieutenant, what can I do for you?” His voice is frighteningly low, more rumble and bass than anything else, and sets the hairs on your arms on end.

His half-lidded eyes flick from the man beside you, ever so swiftly to you, then back. Face blank, uncaring. You stumble when Geto takes a few steps forward, basically dragging you behind him towards the chairs. When he lets you go, he gives you a look, and so you sit. Hands folding in your lap to keep them from picking at the edges of your clothing.

Or lack thereof. There’s a clean gold plate with the name Shiu Kong engraved at the very front of the desk, staring back at you. Your Alpha doesn’t hesitate to sit down too. “Major General Kong, Sir. A pleasure as always. You’ve lost some weight?”

“Hardly,” the man shoots right back, unfazed. “You can lay off the flattering.”

Geto and the stranger seem to converse with their eyes for a moment, before your owner gets comfortable in the velvet chair beside you, and hangs his arms over the back with a slight smile. The other man doesn’t bother to sit in his own chair across from you, instead just bending to get out one of the no-doubt expensive cigarettes, and lighting it. The smoke travels in slow, winding circles up to the ceiling as he hums. “So, the Omega. Y’ want to buy her?”

“I’d like her returned to my possession with the least amount of scratches when I get back, Sir.”

“We’re in a war, Suguru.” The man takes a short puff of his cigarette again, before putting his foot onto the chair and leaning in just barely. Dark, grayish eyes narrow. “You can’t pick out playthings at your whim. We have rules about these sorts of things.” The ash goes into the overfull ashtray, before those irises find you where you’re still slumped in the too-big chair. Almost amused, he lets out a bit of air through his nose, before punctuating his words with another drag. “Higher ranks get first picks, but if you’re gone, you’ll have to share. She looks healthy, young. Girls like that go for a lot of money these days.”

“I understand, Sir.” Geto’s smile doesn’t slip though, not even when he takes one of your hands and pulls until you get up. With his prompting, you instead sit back down on his lap instead, and the noiret hooks his chin over your shoulder when he strokes your thigh. You duck your head in shame. “It’s just that- she’s more of an indoor pet. I’d like to keep it that way, if possible.” His other hand winds under your chin to nudge it back up into view, as you shiver. Watch the attention of the superior officer linger just a second on the way your shirt falls around your hips.

Geto’s. “You have a mansion not too far from the front, as I understand it? And due to surely unfortunate consequences, your last Omega… broke.” His voice gleams as he says the words, and they seem to wind like a coiled spring around your neck. “I’m more than willing to part with mine for a while, if I could have a guarantee she’d be close by. Used sparingly.” You don’t know enough about the army to know if Shiu Kong has the kind of strings that Geto’s presuming he has— but you don’t really dare complain. The silence drags; before it crumbles into pieces when a slight relaxation pulls at the older man’s lips, cocking his head.

“Have her stand.”

You do, spurred on by the quick pat to your thigh and a winning smile, eyes fluttering as you trace the patterns on the floor. As the presence of the older Alpha fills your senses and he circles around you too close, he smells of smoke and a deep, woody musk that could bring you to your knees if you weren’t so used to it by now. After a round where his finger patiently brushes past your most valued features, he takes your face into his palm and forces your eyes up. Until you can no longer ignore the handsome face ducking down to meet your gaze.

You whimper. Let your face get turned here and there before he takes the end of the cig from between his lips, and addresses you directly. “You got a name?”

“Y-yes.” You stumble out, basically whispering it when he stares like that. He doesn’t have a kind face like Geto does, you notice, more angular, stubbled, at least a decade older too. You find yourself reaching for Geto’s hand despite knowing better, if only to have something to cling to as you blink away nervous jitters, and excess tears that are always ready to spill. Your bare feet shuffle against the carpet below.

Whatever he sees staring back at him is enough for his fingers to drop to your collar, dragging it either side with a grunt. “It’s some skill to find an unmated, pretty, little Omega hidden from the commission, Lieutenant… One would almost call it suspicious.” There’s a hint of amusement, one he pushes out alongside the butt of the cig. As if he knows he’s in, Suguru stands from the chair to put a comforting hand on your back and rubs circles through the flimsy fabric of his oversized shirt, tucking his thumb into the loose boxers you’re wearing below.

“I just get lucky, Sir. Omega’s delivered to the commission lose their charm too quickly, s’all.”

Shiu’s eyes give you another slow up and down, then he clicks his tongue. “So, what do you want in return for this present?”

“Nothing at all, really.” The hand pulls you into his side to nuzzle along your neck for some extra show, where he nibbles at the sensitive spot— makes you whimper like a bitch in heat. It’s loud enough for the other man to eat you up whole with his eyes, puffing out his chest a little to push off the desk. The swift hand wrapped around you gives you an adoring squeeze, before Suguru pouts into your temple like he’s parting with a prized possession. “Just that I get her back once I’m done with my service at the front in a few months.”

“Done.” Shiu busies himself with the bottle of expensive looking liquor, before casting you another glance. “Dress her in some actual clothes though, will ya? She already attracts enough attention as is.”

You stare at the fogged-up window with your duvet tucked to your chest, and breathe a few shallow breaths. There’s soldiers running up and down the camp, tucking their caps low against the biting wind. You only bother to follow one of them with your eyes, light hair peeking out from under the hat as he runs his laps. Instead of lingering on the thought, you shiver when a heavy, muscular arm pulls you around your waist and down into the bed. Shiu’s quick to let out a grunt, before opening his eyes and hooking his chin over your shoulder to nose at your neck. “You’re goin’ into heat soon?”

You barely dare shift when his stubble tickles your throat, and a few rough kisses get placed right over your pulse. “Probably. I-I’ll- ah-” His hand wraps around the base of your neck as he starts sucking on the sore skin, where bruises still sit from yesterday. You’re not sure if it’s his hands wrapped around your neck that caused it, or the way he bullied his cock way too deep into your throat— but you’re so sore. “I’ll need heat blockers for a while.”

“Mh,” he smells like tobacco. And a heavy, manly musk that’s so overwhelmingly Alpha. It’s distracting. It melts your tongue to the bottom of your teeth. “No need. We’re far enough away here that they won’t smell you. Or if they do, they can’t do anything about it anyway.” You blank, only to mewl and curl away when his lips and tongue rakes over a particularly sore spot, making your toes curl.

“But- b-but I,” you stutter, and one hand comes up to protect your scent gland from him as he gets up onto one arm to get on top of you. You haven’t gone through a proper heat in forever. It wasn’t ever safe even with just Beta’s around— you barely even remember what it feels like. Only that it hurts so bad it could make you sick. “But I don’t want to go into heat. It hurts.”

Shiu stops his barrage on your neck to frown at you, as he nudges your legs aside for his own thick thighs. One eyebrow raises at you like you’re dumb. “It doesn’t hurt when I’m here to breed you full, little girl.” He scans your face as he keeps pushing your one knee to your chest, before his mouth flattens out. “You don’t know that? You’ve never had an Alpha cock in here during heat?” It’s embarrassing. It’s so embarrassing— the way he eyes you like you’re some sort of idiot. It’s not like you had the privilege of trying it out before all this, hiding like a mouse. “Aw, baby girl. You’re so sweet.”

It doesn’t sound like a compliment.

“Daddy’ll have to teach you.” His large hand forces it’s way between your legs to squeeze your cunt and make you squirm under him, before he finally sits back and pushes the covers off, revealing the battle-worn body. “But not right now. Get up and go wash. We’re having company over.”

Your mouth’s dry, so you swallow tightly. “Who?” Your legs still tingle even when he gets out of bed, a little numb, a little achy.

“A… friend, I guess.” He picks out one of the cigarettes on the side table after putting on a shirt, and plops it between his lips. “You won’t like him.”

With sweat rolling down your neck, you stumble across the steam-coated tiles and grab onto the sink. Shaking like you’re ill. You definitely feel that way. It makes your entire skin feel statically charged, and sore, and so painfully needy. As soon as you take another step, you almost immediately topple over, legs trembling despite yourself. There’s no better sign than the dry feeling in your throat, and the way a whimper threatens to escape you with every move.

So you do all you can, and start tearing up as you wrap a towel around yourself. Even your own innocent touch feels too much, and you hurry through the process to barely manage pulling on a top and some panties, before your body refuses to oblige. You want to cry. Why did this have to happen now? Why here? Shiu hasn’t been bad to you, but he also isn’t particularly gentle. You didn’t want to go through heat at all. “Mh-mn, need- agh.” You whine thoughtlessly, as you wobble to the door.

There’s a swell of voices from down the hall— talking that doesn’t last long before falling quiet as you make your way to the bed. You’re so hot that it’s hard to keep your eyes open, your thighs rubbing uncomfortably as you walk. Thick, almost sticky tears wobble on your waterline, and the heat in your stomach sinks right into your center the more of the room you take in. It’s not your fault - everywhere you look it stinks of Alpha musk. Thick and overpowering to your flighty brain, it makes you want to keel over onto fours. You really are just a bitch in heat, and that is embarrassing too.

Makes you want to curl up onto a solid chest and let yourself get bounced onto his cock like a ragdoll.

It takes so much of your effort to drag yourself to the pillowed surface that you fail to hear the steps coming closer, let alone control that you’re scenting up the entire top floor when you crawl in and your pussy starts clenching around nothing. You’re mewling faint nothings as you stuff your face into the blankets— and smell only him. Heavy on your wet tongue.

“Agh, I- Al-pha, I need- it hurts. It hurts, I want you~” With your chest to the bed and your legs raised up, you just feel like you need to— to get filled up to the brim to make this aching stop. “Mhmm-ugh, please, pleas- need you, Shiu~” Slick’s already coating your pussy enough to slip right in, wet like the spit in your mouth that gathers under your tongue. Your head’s so light. It’s spinning.

Then, a heavy palm strokes over your crown, and your noises explode.

“Ah, ah, agh, daddy, daddy.” The weight of the touch travels down your neck to grip you, and your body curls to raise your ass even further up in need of friction. “Daddy, please. I don’t want to~ T-told you I- need-ed blockers. Ah, ahh.” The low chuckle you get isn’t the one you expect, but you can’t open your eyes enough to see what’s going on.

“Bit friendly for a hello, isn’t it?” There’s a huge body that surrounds you when leaning over you, as lips travel down behind your ear. “S’cute though. That’s a pretty girl. Daddy’s here.” Rough hands push your hips down with one swift move, slipping two fingers under your panties to pull the fabric taut. The slick grinds the fabric uncomfortably to your cunt, but you can’t be still. “Already drenched through your clothes, pet.” You don’t mean to. You don’t, you’re so sorry. “Whining like a little baby, need to get filled up?”

“Only thinking with this pussy, right? This is why Omega’s don’t run anything…” The lips ghost over your scent glands, making you squirm with dripping anticipation, when he lets his tongue run over his teeth and then along your throat. The juncture where your neck meets your shoulder, untouched and open and soft. He groans. “Ugh, fuckin’ hell, you’re so sweet. Your scent is almost making me sick.” One hand digs sharp nails into the meat of your ass, as the other reaches around to start pulling your camisole down over your sensitive tits. “Want some love from daddy, baby?”

A slightly raspier voice comes from somewhere behind you and drowns out your own whining and mewling. “I thought I told you to wait, Fushiguro.”

“Your pet was crying, Kong.” He rakes his teeth over that one spot again until you can’t stand it anymore, and your tears start dripping into the blankets. You push your chest out until his warm palm reaches around and squeezes, rubbing a thumb over your nipples. “Plus, just smell her. She’s scenting up the whole house. I wanted to come help.” After a long pause where you’re fighting the need to rub yourself on anything cock shaped like an animal— you’re turned over by a sturdy yank on your shoulder, and long fingers slide into your messy, drool filled mouth to press on your tongue.

Its Shiu, whose normally stern brow now is arched in amusement. The man on the bed with you moves away just enough to let you take a look, and take in the messy dark hair and almost metallic blue eyes, scarred face and dog tags hanging from his neck as he rolls onto his side. Shiu pinches your tongue to make you squeak, then leans in. “See you’ve already made introductions.” You mumble a pathetic ‘daddy’ under his sharp gaze, before he takes a deep breath.

“Poor girl, already going into heat? You didn’t last long. Needy, little pussy’s throbbing, isn’t it?” He pulls the top fully down until it’s hooked under your tits, then hums. “Look so cute when you’re begging to get fucked.”

“Gonna let me have a turn too?” Fushiguro rights himself onto one forearm, then pushes a finger down on your forehead until it's tilted all the way back and you’re looking up at him again. He’s got a mean sort of look in his eyes, right before his lips twitch when you groan softly at the touch. You literally can’t help yourself. It hurts so good— good enough to make you want to wrap your legs around either of their hips and stay there. Aches.

Shiu’s voice resonates through your body when he moves to kneel down to your body and starts kissing from your belly up, making you twitch. His gravelly hum reverberates in your clit, as your legs get spread over each shoulder when he comes up. “She’s not mine to give away Toji, so- ugh- restrain yourself a little.” His big hands smooth over your tits instead of squeezing you like you want, until you really start worming around under their touches.

“Mh~ hurry up!”

It’s out before you know it, and the backlash rushes straight to your cheeks in heat, burning up on your face. Fushiguro groans though, long and deep- before he pushes off the bed to get onto his knees, and grabs himself through the awfully casual clothing. His hand wraps around the large, large cock pressing against the fabric— and when you open your mouth and basically salivate at the sight- he lets out a lightly pinched chuckle. “Oh, you don’t wanna be doing all that, pet. You’ve got days of heat ahead of you— and you’re getting me hard as a motherfucker.”

All it’s doing is making you so horny you can barely see straight, and each inch of your body surges with electricity. You need something inside you. Now. Now, now, now. He runs a distracted hand through his messy fringe, and rolls his hips into his hand with a groan. “What’s it gonna be, Kong? If you take her underwear off I’m not leaving. Sweet, little thing like that…” Your legs are up by his ears when the familiar giant sits up onto the bed too, and your hand reaches for his to pull him closer by his thumb. “Haven’t had a greedy, fertile little Omega pussy in a while- the Commission always bitches I have too much fun.”

A hesitant furrow worms itself between Shiu’s brows for a bit, before he sighs. “Can’t bite ‘er, she’s not mine. I’m just keeping her.” His eyes are more blown out than normal, dark ring of black taking over the longer he touches you. You’re sure you’re similarly spent when you moan his name and he groans. “Fuck, baby. Want this Alpha cock in here?” His large hand smoothed over the supple skin of your lower belly, when you wiggle yourself against him, basically grinding onto his leg. “Needy, huh.” He licks his lips. “Fine, join. Can count us even after that.”

At that the other noiret grins, and pulls his shirt over his head in one swift move of agreement. Shiu’s hands already roam back over every bit of exposed skin. “And I get first turns.” The large fingers mindlessly playing with your nipple pinches you, when grayish eyes find you beneath him. “Get up.” With just a quick motion, you force your sluggish body up and onto fours— and fight the urge to force your head down yet again. That’s what would feel right.

“That-” Shiu’s hard too, you notice quite happily, when you grind back against him to find another thick, heavy bulge in his pants that heats your cunt. “That’s it.” You mewl, have no choice to. As you look back over your shoulder, he takes a moment to study you where you’re so much smaller beneath him. Omega’s always are, but these two are big even among other Alpha’s— more slick sticks your panties to the shape of your cunny. Your body’s entirely sticky with sweat, neck and throat aching and radiating heat all over you.

Your tongue melts in your mouth, when you look back and Fushiguro’s stripped down entirely— shredded body towering over you as well. He squeezes a rough ring around the flushed, pulsing head of his cock. “Uh, ugh-ah, daddy, daddy, daddy- Please? Please.”

“Who are you calling daddy?” The general asks sternly, but there’s no malice there. He’s amused as he peels the panties over the curve of your ass and down ever so slowly, letting your wet folds drip all over his fingers as he plays around in them. The touch makes you stagger forward, arms almost giving in— and you whine something unintelligible into the covers. “Fu~ck, you smell so sweet. Little Omega bitch in heat- ugh.”

A heavy hand lands on the swell of your ass, and stings so bad. With another spank your pussy clenches around nothing, and by the third you’re basically begging and your cunny’s sucking his fingers in. “A-daddy, please. Hurts. Uh-pu-lease. Need Alpha inside. Quickly, please. I-it hurts.” Another hand pets your crown for a few seconds, before he grabs a fistful of hair and pulls your head up. Your mouth hangs open, and your tongue drops out at the sight of the hard, veiny cock before you.

It’s flushed a sweet sort of pink, nothing like you can already tell Fushiguro is— but drool still gathers in globs, looking at the precum glistening on him. “Gonna open your pretty, little mouth wide for me, pet?” As he strokes himself, the man behind you starts toying his fingers around your holes, and smears your slick all over until you’re entirely sloppy. Then chuckles, throwing his head back with a grunt.

“Fuck, forgot how hard I get- with Omega’s.” The slick sounds of your pussy, and both men's hands stroking their swollen cocks makes everything so loud. Wet and needy and animalistic— your own whining drowning out your thoughts. You just want more. More touch, please. Shiu spits onto your holes without hesitation and slaps his thick, hot cockhead against you a few times, before placing one hand on the middle of your back to force you in place. “Don’t run away from me- jus-t take it.”

“O-oh-fu-ugh.” He pushes inside with more of his weight, thick thighs pressing up against the inside of yours when you spread wider, and almost get pushed over. If not for Toji holding you up and rubbing himself along your cheek and lips too, impatiently stroking himself.

The head’s already big, stings on the way in. Enough to hurt, enough to make you tear up. He’s just so thick and glowing hot to the touch— basically pulsing inside you. You can feel his heartbeat through the skin as the head pops in with a lot of pressure. Your throat starts making noises despite you. “A-agh, ugh agh, da-I- ca— um-hnggg.”

“My turn,” Toji grunts after a bit, hooking a finger in your cheek to open your mouth more and coach your tongue out. “That’s- a good cockslut— open wide.” You do, letting spit drip as you relax your jaw and wrap your lips around him, filling up your mouth too much. You’ve never been so needy. The choking and the taste only make your eyes want to roll back in your skull, giving yourself over to them. You don’t want to do anything except give yourself over, struggling to make enough space between your legs to allow Shiu closer.

“You’re so fucking tight, baby, uhh-fuck.”

He’s still going slow, necessity, as each inch of his fat cock gets stuffed inside you, using his fingers to push more into your comparatively tiny cunt— and each bit deeper he goes, the more you feel like melting. It hurts, hurts and aches and bulges your stomach; and Fushiguro pushes deeper and bulges your throat- and it hurts- It does. But you can’t stop. You reach your arms out to wrap around the man’s glutes and pull him closer into your face, drool dripping down your chin. “Mh-mhm mhhuh.”

With his tongue trapped between his teeth, he grins. “Hah, you’re talking a lot for someone with their mouth stuffed— Does that feel good? You like choking on Alpha cock?” Your teary eyes try to focus on him, but you can’t, just cling on harder as the cock inside you kisses your cervix and he’s still not done. It aches so much, stretching you much wider than you’re meant to go. But it does, it does, it does. You don’t want to stop. “A little longer, that’s it, a little more~”

Instead you try to hollow your cheeks around him as he sits too deep in your throat, and fight the urge to squirm when your breath starts to pinch. Your body worms, you cry around them, and slick drips down your thighs like syrup. When Shiu bottoms out, it actually makes you gag, feeling so full and spent— and you squirm as Fushiguro keeps you. “Mh-hh- hck.” Your mouth aches as your lungs start to scream, and vision goes blurry.

Shiu pulls back before the other man does, groaning at the sight of sloppy, milky slick coating his cock, then slides back into your warmth just as fast, forcing your body to stretch again to make room. T-too big. “Let her- hh- up, she’s turning blue.” As you’re basically about to pass out, you get pulled off of him and gag violently, before taking sniveling, painful breaths again. You barely get the chance to breathe before your chin is lifted again, and he tilts your face left and right.

Your mouth drops open again, and tongue squirms around nothing. “More? You want more, greedy slut?” He smiles again, but more genuinely impressed this time— and hums. “Such a good, little Omega.” You can’t help it, you shiver and moan when he lets you back at his cock. And Shiu pulls back again only to fuck back into you, forcing you open as he builds a rhythm.

“She liked that one. She’s trying to clench my dick off.” He moans, and his unoccupied hand swipes some wetness dripping down your leg to circle it around your puckered hole instead. “You think she can take two?”

The cock gets stuffed back into your throat, but he pulls back faster now, instead using your head to fuck himself into you as he groans. “‘Nuh uh, she can’t. She’s too tiny— L-ook, you’re already -fuck- bulgin’ er.” He watches your lips struggle to wrap around him as he fucks your throat— only stopping for a moment to wipe some of the spit off your face. “She likes it so much though, look at that. You’re just a dumb, cocksleeve bitch, right? Want Alpha cocks to fill you?”

You can’t answer. Your brain’s all scrambled from the heat, a cloudy, pillowy feeling sitting over everything else. It feels so, so good. Being stretched to your limit, getting used. Your pussy clenches uselessly around the too-big invasion, getting bounced against Shiu’s thighs with a noisy ‘pap, pap, pap’. If you could think, you’d agree though. The pressure of his cock grinding into your sensitive insides, basically lifting you off your knees as he grabs your hips to jackhammer into you deeper, it’s all too much.

“Close?”

You’re drowning in your own arousal. After a few more seconds of getting used for all your worth, the expanding, pulsing pressure in your stomach grows too tight— and your toes curl uselessly as you cum without warning. It shatters inside you as you fail to clench around the thick length in you, instead dropping though your arms as you pull off of the cock in your throat to tremble through your orgasm. “Ah-hgh- ugh ah da-Alpha, Alpha, ahh ah agh! St-hngh~” You cry. Thick tears, spit and snot get wiped into the covers as you try to catch your breath, while still being fucked into.

You can’t stop shaking. Even then, Shiu’s cock keeps forcing the head against your cervix and making your eyes bulge. “Oh fuck, fuck- too tight— shit, I was this close, hah.” When he slips out for a second, you collapse entirely, aching immediately at the emptiness inside you. Your tits are sores, but everything else is burning so hot you feel like you might go up in flames.

It’s Fushiguro who picks you up by your arms and pulls you into his chest after a while, holding your pathetic, naked body like a ragdoll. “So cute now that you’re all flushed, cumming like that. But you’re not done, are you?” His fingers squeeze either side of your cheeks to bring your mouth to his, kissing on you until you respond and let his tongue melt against yours.

Your head’s still spinning, but a different kind of heat grows now in the base of your neck, desperate and needy. Your hand reaches to get more, more skin, pulling at the short hair at the back of his head- you moan into the kiss. Tongues and spit mixing as it slides down your throat and he towers over you, cock bouncing against your stomach. When he pulls back, long lashes brush yours, and you whimper when the touch goes.

Shiu’s staring. You can’t tell what expression he has, but it’s enough to make Fushiguro frown and lift his lip. “Fuck off. I get protective when they whine like that, s’all. She’s sweet when she’s cryin’ all baby like.” He instead focuses on pinching and toying with your puffy nipples, rubbing each side with rough fingertips, then hooks his chin over your head to look past you. “Wanna try the two of us at once?”

Instinct gets the better of you, and you’re already nodding against his pecs before you can think. “Two, two- w-want, please. Mhm, want Alphas.” It makes both men laugh, hands sliding all over you as you stick your ass out and Shiu spits on his hand. His cock’s still coated with wet, a white, creamy layer around the base of his cock as he strokes the head a few times. You’re seeing double, and your tongue feels like molten candy. But still you keep drooling and nodding. “Want, want you, wanna have- m-more, please.”

He then grabs your hips to yank you back against his hips, letting his cock push on your ass as his wet fingers curl inside your puckered hole, and stretch it out with two fingers. “She’s already fucked out of her mind, poor thing.”

“Mhm, agh- Alp- daddy, daddy— s’ sensitive- please, please, please~”

Fushiguro’s face blanks, before he takes a deep breath and groans low and gravelly, and grabs you by the neck. “Ugh, she’s- her scent is everywhere. Little bitch in heat moaning like it’s her job.” He buries his nose right where the most sensitive, burning part of your neck is, making you crumple, and kissing along the shell of his ear where you can reach. The fingers inside you, the pressure and heat of the two cocks against you— everything’s making you crazy. You’re losing your mind, trying to hang on to him as he licks over the glands. “Want daddy, baby?”

Your head bobs like it’s disconnected from your longing, arching body. And you almost cum again on the spot when sharp canines drag over that spot. You just might.

A low growling sound makes you open your eyes. Shiu’s hand is between the face and your neck, much to the other man’s dismay. “I told you not to bite ‘er. Don’t care how much she begs- she’s not ours to bite.” There’s a moment of silence between them, before Fushiguro sucks his teeth in annoyance, before grabbing his cock instead.

“She is mine.” His large hand wraps around your arm, and pulls— but your other shoulder is still clamped in Shiu’s palm. Almost painfully tight, as a muscle twitches in his jaw. And the tension between them is making you clam up, but your body’s still aching too hard.

“Share, please,” you sweeten your voice as you press your lips to Shiu’s knuckles, then present yourself a little more and shake your ass against him. “Please, daddy? Want to be full.” It doesn’t take long for that same flush to travel back up his chest and cheeks, and his irises to get wider and darker again. “Full of Alpha cum, t-take all of you.” It’s with that that he wraps an arm around you entirely and pulls you up against his chest, placing his cock between your legs as he lifts your knees. “Ack- agh.” You mewl, and Fushiguro leans in for another kiss.

Briefer, but no less messy.

Shiu’s quick to press his own kisses to your throat, letting his stubble rub over your scent glands— with your pussy clenching in response. He rolls his hips against you a few times, then lines up with your ass as he groans. “Hold her legs.” You take a deep breath, and close your eyes as the cock presses to your ass, slick enough to push in with minimal effort. “Uhuh, there’s a good Omega.” As he does though, the space in your body is so full, you’re struggling to breathe. It aches enough to make you wilt and bloom all at once.

And then Fushiguro takes over on your pussy, and you cry out. Your hot cheeks are coated with tears, and your clit thumps with all the blood. It’s too much. You can feel both of them slide into you with painful precision, wetness spilling all over as you break out in cold sweats. But it- it feels so good. Fushiguro slips in a few inches at once, making your legs shake— before you dig your nails into his shoulder and your vision goes black. “Oh- fuck-f-fuck, cu-mming~ Agh- uhh nghn, oh god.”

The two men slide you down until you’re so full it feels like your insides are moved aside to make room. Like you’re about to tear in two, squished between two hot, solid bodies. Before Shiu groans into your hair, and lifts you up to slide you back down. And again, and again. Bounced on the two of them while slick drips out of you, and you’re creaming around them both. “That’s a- ugh- pretty girl.” Your orgasm barely pitters out before you’re cumming again, and you’re getting kissed on as you’re crying.

Not a single thought makes it though you. You’re clinging on for dear life. Only the heat between the three of you as you melt into a puddle.

You’re fucked until you can’t even feel your legs, let alone hear how you’re mewling and crying— like you might dissolve. But you do feel it when a tongue laves over your neck, and the cock pulsing inside you starts jack-hammering into you harder than before. Everything feels so- good- that you’re probably drawing blood into his shoulders, and the tongue becomes teeth. One second you’re floating, and the next the pressure grows too much— teeth break skin, and your pleasure becomes mind-numbing.

Fushiguro’s teeth sink into your shoulder deeper as he breathes you in, fucks his cock into your guts with the intent to stay. And the other man grunts, squeezing you tighter. But without thinking, he follows suit to bite down on the other side of your neck, letting you shake through yet another orgasm when the hot blood runs down your collar. You’re entirely spent, so there’s not one part of you that still feels the way Shiu speeds up inside your ass, before groaning out your name as he licks along the wound.

“Fuck, gonna- knot my girl. Fuck- ugh, ughuh— my baby, mine. Mine.”

It feels like you’re stuffed further than you ever thought possible, face dropping into Fushiguro’s chest when they slow down, and ropes of hot cum drip out of you despite the knots. Wasting it in a way that you’d savor, if you had any energy left. Instead you can only barely breathe, and rub your nose into your Alpha’s chest. It feels good. You wanna go again.

“Uh— my bad. I got carried away.” One of them sighs after a while, the rumbling of his voice rocking you to sleep.

“Yea…” The other responds, only the slightest bit guilty. “…Guess Suguru will have to learn how to share.” His large hand smoothes over your cheek, before stubble and soft lips kiss over the mark he’s made.

“But I don’t think I wanna share.”

#geto x reader #toji x reader #shiu kong x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #geto smut #toji smut #shiu smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #tw.dark content #tw.a/b/o #tw.noncon #tw.size kink #tw.double penetration #🍯honey.pot

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snail-day · 5 months ago

Text

With All My Heart, Will You Be Mine?

Sum: Happy Valentine's Day!

Yan! Yakuza Gojo x Reader

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Stalking, Kidnapping, Medical Horror, Graphic violence/torture, Terminal Illness (Reader), Blood, Gore, Dubcon kisses, Masturbation (Gojo), Manipulation, Forced Surgery, mentions of murder. MDNI

WC: 5.8k

A/n: Thank you 💖 anon for feeding me yummy ideas, lots of smoochies for you. You will receive my kidney for Valentine's day, keep it safe, use it for school! MWAH!

Really, truly - Gojo Satoru didn’t believe in love at first sight.

Lust at first sight? Absolutely. Intrigue at first sight? Happens all the time. But love? The heart-pounding, palm-sweating, head-spinning kind that made fools of otherwise rational men? No.

He was a romantic, sure, but not delusional.

And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of a dingy little house in Tokyo, meant to be handling business like the good little Yakuza heir he was, only to be hit with something so absurd, so world-altering, so utterly ridiculous that it left him breathless.

And on Valentine’s Day, no less.

It was almost poetic, if not for the fact that he should have been spending his evening hunting for buy-one-get-one-free desserts, maybe stuffing his face with something obscenely sweet, letting powdered sugar melt on his tongue instead of dealing with this nonsense.

Instead, he was here, wasting time on a pathetic excuse of a man who had made one too many promises and delivered on exactly none.

The debtor knelt before him, flanked by two of his men, the poor bastard's shoulders hunched, his body shaking so violently that the faint sound of his teeth chattering filled the otherwise silent room.

Satoru sighed, rolling his shoulders, letting his hands flex, testing the weight of his own strength. A simple knockout, maybe - if the guy was lucky. If he wasn’t, well, there were other ways to collect.

If you can’t pay up, surely your organs can.

His fingers curled into a loose fist, knuckles shifting beneath his skin, ready to land a single, decisive blow. His arm swung back, muscles tensing, the force behind it measured yet lethal.

He missed.

His knuckles cut through empty space.

The Gojo Satoru, who never missed, whose strikes always found their target with effortless precision, had missed.

Something lurched inside him. Something sharp, something foreign, something completely uninvited. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, his chest seizing up with a feeling that sent his pulse stammering, erratic.

The air in the room shifted, charged, like static clinging to his skin, humming beneath his fingertips, curling tight around his throat like an invisible wire. His breath hitched, a sharp, unexpected inhale that felt too much, too rapid, too overwhelming.

His body, his very existence, felt like it had been shoved off balance.

And all because of a picture frame.

A broken one, at that. Glass shards, littered the floor, glinting under the dim overhead light. His gaze flickered downward, catching the jagged fragments scattered like slivers of ice against the worn wooden planks.

And nestled between them, half-buried beneath the wreckage, was you.

His fingers twitched.

His chest ached.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, forcing himself to move slowly, as if rushing might break the spell of this moment. His gaze briefly flickered toward Ijichi, who stood stiffly near the door, face pale, fingers twitching at his sleeves.

Satoru ignored him, poor Ijichi's silent pleas to please get this over with. Instead, he bent down, his long, gloved fingers ghosting over the broken glass before carefully lifting the frame from the mess. His movements were strangely reverent, cautious in a way that had nothing to do with avoiding injury and everything to do with the image trapped behind the cracked glass.

You.

Oh.

His throat tightened.

A snapshot of softness. A moment of warmth and light and everything gentle in a world that had only ever been sharp edges and raw violence to him. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the frame over, gloved knuckles brushing against the broken glass, the sting of tiny cuts breaking through the protective barrier. Satoru barely noticed. The world had already tilted.

His breath came faster, shallower, something hot and unfamiliar crawling up his spine. His face felt warm. Too warm. Heat bloomed beneath his skin, creeping up from his chest, spilling up the curve of his throat, flushing the tips of his ears. His pulse—normally steady, untouchable—stammered, then slammed against his ribs, hammering like a war drum inside him.

His brain wasn’t working, actually Satoru's entire body was doing things it shouldn’t be doing. The way his fingers curled tighter around the frame, pressing it against his chest like something precious, something irreplaceable, something already his.

And then—before he could stop himself—

He giggled.

A soft, breathless little sound, slipped past his soft pink lips without his permission, without his control. The feeling was utterly foreign to him, so completely out of place in this bloodstained room, that even the lackeys flinched.

The debtor—poor bastard, still kneeling, still hoping for mercy—dared to look up. His breath stuttered, a trembling, desperate sound escaping his lips when he caught the sight of Satoru, hunched over the picture frame, grinning like he had just discovered the meaning of life.

And then, in a panic-stricken voice, hoarse and broken, he begged.

“T-That’s my daughter,” he gasped, voice cracking, his entire body lurching forward before the men at his sides yanked him back into place. “P-Please! Please, don’t - d-don’t hurt her, please!”

Satoru stilled for a few beats. His long fingers twitched against the frame, his grip tightening just slightly. Slowly, he raised his gaze, sharp blue eyes gleaming, amusement flickering beneath something far, far more dangerous., a fool in love.

A moment of silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Then, Satoru let out another breathless, giddy laugh.

“Oh,” he murmured, his voice a shade too light, a whisper too smooth. “Your daughter?” tilting his head, lips parting slightly, like he was tasting the words, rolling them around on his tongue just to see how they felt. Satoru's pulse was still racing, breathing still felt too fast, face still burned.

What a beautiful feeling. Love was truly a beautiful thing, he was a fool for thinking overwise. His lips curved into a lazy, lovesick smile. A slow exhale left him as he traced his thumb over the crack in the glass.

“What a lucky man you are,” Satoru mused, voice warm, teasing, almost affectionate. “To have someone so precious.”

Satoru's fingers curled tighter around the frame, pressing it against his chest like he could sink it into himself, steal you away, make you his. Careless to the shards of glass pressing themselves into his shirt, sodden with blood.

And then, with a soft, almost dreamy sigh, he whispered into the room -

“Oh, I think I’m in love.”

The debtor was still babbling, breath coming in ragged little gasps, his face pale and sweat-slicked, as if he expected Gojo to snap him in half at any second.

Poor guy.

Satoru’s expression shifted the sharp gleam in his eyes melting into something lighter, dreamier. His lips curled into a soft, almost fond smile, the heat still high on his cheeks as he turned his attention back to the trembling man kneeling before him.

A soft chuckle left him - light, airy, amused.

"I think we got the wrong guy, Ijichi-san," he mused, voice kept casual, lilting as if discussing the weather. Ijichi stiffened from his place near the door, blinking rapidly behind his fogged-up glasses, clearly unsure whether to be relieved or terrified. Still kneeling, leaned in just slightly, one gloved hand reaching out to cup the debtor’s jaw.

The man flinched hard.

His entire body shuddered, a choked sound spilling from his lips, but Satoru’s touch was shockingly gentle - a stark contrast to the raw strength curled beneath his fingers. His thumb stroked slowly along the man’s cheek, a featherlight touch, almost affectionate as if comforting a dear old friend.

Then - he patted his cheek. Soft. Reassuring. And yet, something far, far worse than a punch.

Because Gojo Satoru was smiling.

Not his usual cocky smirk, not the smug little grin of a man who enjoyed toying with his prey - but something softer.

Something warm.

Something that didn’t belong in a bloodstained room.

His head tilted slightly, bright blue eyes twinkling, the blush still lingering across his pale skin as he murmured, voice dipped in unsettling fondness -

"My apologies, father-in-law."

The debtor let out a broken sob.

The room was silent, tense, like everyone was waiting to see if their boss had finally snapped. He swallowed hard, forcing down the giddy little laugh bubbling up his throat. He needed to—no, he had to—figure this out. He had to figure you out.

Satoru was still thinking about you, even during his long day of hard work. Ah, he should be charging your rent for invading his mind like this!

The poor businessman in front of him wailed, body jerking violently against the restraints, but Satoru barely acknowledged it. He twirled the bloodied pliers between his fingers, splattering droplets of red onto the floor, his mind elsewhere.

“You guys ever been in love?”

The lackeys standing near the wall exchanged uneasy glances.

“U-uh… boss?”

Satoru hummed softly, affectionately as if he hadn’t just ripped a nail from the man’s hand a second ago. He turned to one of the lackeys, holding up the pliers like a microphone.

“Be honest with me. What’s the best way to impress a girl?”

Silence.

Even the poor bastard tied to the chair stopped whimpering. The loan sharks shifted uncomfortably, like they weren’t sure if this was a trick question.

Gojo sighed, tapping the pliers against his chin. Careless to the blood staining his pale skin.

“See, I’m thinking flowers - girls like flowers, right? But that feels so… normal.” Voice coming out light, thoughtful, as if he were discussing dessert options instead of dating strategies while actively torturing someone.

A lackey gulped. “Uh… I-I guess girls like grand gestures?”

Satoru’s head snapped up. Oh. Ohhh. That was good. That was so good. Satoru's grin stretched wider, his body practically vibrating with excitement.

“That’s what I was thinking too! Maybe I could make a little event out of it.” He flexed his fingers around the pliers before suddenly plunging them back into the man’s hand, gripping tight around another nail. The man wailed, body convulsing, but Satoru just clicked his tongue.

“Stay still, I’m having a moment here.”

He wrenched the pliers back with an almost theatrical flourish, watching as the nail came free, dripping red. He turned it between his fingers, examining it as he continued, “Like, I could just show up and say, ‘Hi, I’m your new boyfriend,’ but I dunno… that lacks finesse, don’t you think?”

Another lackey hesitated. “Uh… maybe you should… get to know her first?”

Satoru gasped. Ohhh. His fingers twitched, his pulse spiking, excitement crawling up his spine. “That’s a great idea! I should do some research. Find out what she likes, where she goes, who she spends time with - ”

He sighed dreamily, resting his chin on his gloved palm, pliers still in his grasp. “Ahh, this is so exciting. Who knew I’d find love on Valentine’s Day?”

The lackeys exchanged horrified glances.

The man in the chair sobbed.

Gojo barely noticed.

He was too busy imagining what kind of flowers you’d like.

Like any devoted future husband, he did his research.

By the time he finally stepped out of the shower after his long, excruciatingly confusing day—one he would rather you never know about—he had already started planning.

Steam curled in lazy ribbons around the dimly lit bathroom, clinging to the warm air like a ghost of the heat that had soaked into his skin. Water dripped from his snow-white damp hair, collecting in cool rivulets as they rolled down the sculpted lines of his collarbone, tracing the dip of his spine before vanishing into the plush towel slung around his waist. The overhead light flickered faintly against the condensation beading along the mirror, his reflection hazy and unfocused.

Satoru dragged a hand through his messy, damp white locks, pushing them back from his forehead, his fingers catching briefly on stubborn strands. He let out a slow breath, watching as the fogged-up mirror distorted his image, his usually sharp features blurred at the edges. For a moment, he simply stared, tilting his head slightly, his glowing blue eyes piercing through the humidity with an intensity that felt foreign, even to him.

His face felt… different.

He knew himself, had spent years looking at this very reflection - at the striking symmetry of his features, the lazy curve of his mouth, the effortless charm that had always drawn people in. But now? Now there was something wrong.

Or maybe something right.

His cheeks were warm, a soft flush spreading across his pale skin, settling stubbornly beneath his eyes, along the bridge of his nose. His lips—usually curled in an easy smirk, something smug and sharp-edged—felt softer, stretched into a stupid, giddy smile that he couldn’t seem to wipe off.

His fingers twitched at his sides, a restless, barely contained energy coiling under his skin. He could feel the uneven rhythm of his own pulse, the unsteady way it hammered against his ribs - too fast, too eager, like something wild and untamed.

A shaky laugh slipped from his lips, barely above a whisper, and immediately pressed his knuckles against his mouth, trying to stifle the ridiculous giggle that threatened to bubble up again.

Oh, what the fuck was this?

His stomach clenched - not in discomfort, not in anger, not in anything he could name. The feeling felt like being electrocuted. It felt like a freefall, plummeting into something dark and bottomless, with no hope of stopping. His chest ached, a tight pull between his ribs, something raw and desperate.

This wasn’t normal.

Nothing about this was normal.

Satoru’s fingers curled into the edge of the sink, gripping the cold marble, but it did nothing to steady him. He let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the haze filling his head, thick and suffocating. He needed to focus.

His smirk twitched, wavering for just a second before solidifying again, as he forced himself to breathe, to remember why he was here in the first place.

He had a plan.

Of course, he already knew he’d have to privatize a lot of your information. It wasn’t safe for someone as delicate, as beautiful as you to be left unprotected.

A beauty like you? Out in the open?

Far too dangerous.

You were just waiting to be taken, waiting for someone less deserving to snatch you up before he had the chance to make you his. The very thought sent an ugly, seething heat curling low in his stomach, his jaw tightening at the idea of someone else even thinking they had the right to look at you.

And then there was your father. Reckless. Stupid. Careless. Gambling away money, selling away your future with every thoughtless bet. If someone had to pay for his mistakes, it wouldn’t be you. It wouldn’t ever be you.

Satoru sighed, wiping the condensation from the mirror with the heel of his palm, only for it to fog up again seconds later. The humidity clung to him, soaking into his flushed skin as his gaze flickered toward the glow of his phone screen.

His research was proving… interesting.

His body froze.

The warmth in his chest twisted, coiling tighter, tighter, tighter, something sharp lodging itself behind his ribs. His breath caught, his fingers tightening around the cold marble of the sink.

He blinked once.

Twice.

The words didn’t change.

Waitlisted for a heart transplant.

His stomach dropped.

For a moment, he could do nothing but stare, his vision blurring, as if the letters themselves were somehow wrong, as if seeing them enough times could make them disappear, could make them not real.

His throat was dry, the earlier lightheaded giddiness evaporating, replaced by something heavy and unfamiliar.

A slow breath, shaky and uneven, pushed past his lips.

Then another.

His heart stuttered.

Then picked up again, pounding, throbbing, screaming against his ribs with a force that almost hurt.

His lungs felt tight.

This—this wasn’t—

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

His stomach twisted violently, sickening nausea curling through him as he forced himself to swallow, his fingers digging into the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white.

He could fix this.

Of course, he could.

It was so simple.

Well.

He could just give you his.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. His own ridiculous, hopelessly lovesick heart—wasn’t it already yours?

Wasn’t it already beating for you, racing every time he thought about you?

He wanted you to have it.

Wouldn’t that be perfect? Wouldn’t that be romantic?

A tremor ran through his shoulders, something between a laugh and a shaky exhale, his body shuddering under the weight of the thought. He grinned, wide and almost delirious, his fingers drumming absently against the counter, a restless, frantic energy buzzing under his skin.

Oh.

Different blood types.

The air seized in his lungs.

An awful thing, really. A tragedy. A fucking crime.

It would have been the greatest honor - to have his very own heart inside your body, keeping you alive, keeping you safe, ensuring that he was always with you, always the one keeping you beating.

His grip on the counter tightened, his fingers trembling slightly as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool mirror. His stupid, desperate, lovesick heart was still hammering, pounding so hard it hurt, and—

And he just knew.

No one else could have you.

You were his.

And if fate wasn’t going to let him keep you safe the way he wanted, then— - He’d just find another way.

A soft, breathless giggle slipped from his lips.

It was almost sweet.

Oh.

Oh, he loved this.

You were going to love him too.

Satoru wasn’t sure how he ended up here, standing in the soft glow of your hospital room, arms full of entirely too many roses, pretending he didn’t just spend weeks memorizing everything about you.

This was supposed to be casual. A natural, effortless, totally normal meeting where he charmed his way into your life like it was meant to be. And it was meant to be, of course - he already decided that long before you even knew his name.

But none of his meticulous planning, none of the hours of preparation, none of it prepared him for this.

Because now that he was actually standing in front of you, he could feel his carefully constructed mask cracking at the edges.

And it was all your fault.

You blinked up at him, your wide, curious gaze unraveling him completely. Even in your frailty—IV drips, hospital gown, the telltale exhaustion clinging to your frame—you still managed to look like the single most perfect thing he had ever seen.

Then, it happened.

A smile.

A soft, hesitant little thing, warm enough to make his knees feel weak.

And then - the monitor.

The steady beep, beep, beep of your heart rate suddenly spiked, an unmistakable, rapid rhythm filling the otherwise quiet room.

Satoru’s breath hitched.

Oh.

The realization crashed into him like a freight train.

Your heart was racing.

Because of him.

Oh, fuck.

His grip on the roses tightened, fingers pressing into the delicate stems, the thorns pricking at his skin, he barely noticed. His own heartbeat had gone completely wild, hammering so loudly against his ribs that he was sure the entire hospital could hear it.

Heat rushed to his face, a creeping blush crawling from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, his entire body betraying him. He could feel it, the warmth spreading under his skin, the dizzying, giddy sensation that made him want to scream into the nearest pillow.

You were flustered over him.

Him.

Gojo Satoru.

A helpless, breathless giggle bubbled up in his throat before he could stop it, and he barely managed to cover it with a light cough, turning his head slightly as if that would somehow hide the absolute mess he was becoming.

He had to pull it together.

His entire existence led up to this moment, and he would not be the reason he messed it up.

Clearing his throat, schooled his expression into something softer, gentler, the perfect image of a man who had no idea what was happening.

"Ah," he started, voice almost too smooth, though there was an undeniable waver at the edges. He made a show of looking down at the roses, adjusting his grip as if suddenly realizing he was still holding them. "I… didn’t expect anyone to be here."

Your lips parted, the faintest hint of surprise flitting across your features. He wanted to frame the moment, keep it forever.

He forced himself to keep talking, keep lying, before his knees actually gave out, even if they did, he'd crawl to you, rest his head on your lap - He'd be your dog if you'd just ask.

“It seems the room has already been cleared a while ago,” he continued, his voice soft, almost apologetic. “I used to leave roses here for my mother.”

The words left his mouth too easily, even as his pulse refused to slow down. Satoru's fingers twitched, gripping the flowers just a little too tight because you were still looking at him like that.

Like you wanted him to stay.

And that damn monitor -

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Each sharp little sound sent heat straight to his face. He could feel it, the way his blush deepened, the way it spread down his neck, his body completely betraying him in real time.

You liked him.

You were crushing on him.

You were falling for him.

Satoru had to physically stop himself from grinning like a lunatic. He had to bite the inside of his cheek, had to tighten his grip on the bouquet, had to plant his feet firmly on the ground because he swore to god if he let go of his restraint for even a second, he would throw himself at you and never let go.

This was dangerous.

You were dangerous.

Because he had barely even spoken yet, and you were already his.

And oh, you had no idea what that meant for you.

His stomach did another awful, fluttery thing, his entire world tilting as he dared to meet your gaze again.

“Would it be alright… if I left these here?” he asked, voice lower, smoother, betraying absolutely none of the chaos screaming inside him.

You nodded, still watching him with soft, wide eyes, and Satoru had to bite back a whimper. His stomach twisted, something fluttering, tightening - something unbearable and all-consuming. He had barely spoken to you, and yet, here you were, already accepting him, already letting him into your space. It was almost too much. Almost devastating.

He placed the roses carefully on the side table, arranging them with precision, as if they were an offering, as if their placement mattered more than anything else in the world. His fingers lingered on the petals, smoothing them down, before he finally, reluctantly, stepped back.

Your gaze was still on him. Soft. Trusting. Beautiful.

Operation: True Love had been enacted.

And it didn’t stop there.

It had become routine. Every morning, without fail, he made sure you had your favorite coffee in your hands before the sun had fully risen. Even on the nights when sleep barely kissed his eyes, when exhaustion tugged at his limbs, when his body ached from handling the scum that threatened the delicate world he was building for you, he always stopped by that little café.

It was such a simple thing, really - just a cup of coffee. But for Satoru, it was a symbol of devotion. Every single action, no matter how small, was done with you in mind. He memorized your schedule, your favorite flavors, the way you liked it just a little sweeter when you were feeling under the weather. He took a sip of it each time before handing it to you, just to be certain that it was decaffeinated, that your already delicate heart wouldn’t be forced to work harder than it needed to.

He had memorized everything about your condition, studied every prescription bottle by your bedside, traced his fingers over the labels when you weren’t looking, committing them all to memory. He knew your dosages, your restrictions, the way your hands trembled ever so slightly when the medication began to wear off.

That was why, when the first drop of coffee hit his tongue that morning, he knew instantly that something was wrong.

The perfect order wasn’t right.

The bitterness was too strong, the warmth that settled in his stomach too telling. He pulled the cup away from his lips and stared at it, Satoru's mind running over the implications. The barista had switched it - either through incompetence or indifference, but in the end, it didn’t matter.

If he had been careless if he had handed it to you without checking if your poor little heart had struggled against the caffeine -

His hands began to shake, a slow, curling fury unfurling in his gut. The weight of what could have happened, of what he almost allowed to happen, pressed against his ribs, suffocating him. His fingers curled around the coffee cup, the lid creaking under the pressure as he slowly exhaled, trying to steady himself.

This wasn’t just a mistake.

This was a threat.

Satoru's grip on the cup remained eerily calm as he turned and walked back to the counter, each step measured, deliberate. His head tilted slightly, a soft, almost playful smile curving at his lips as he met the eyes of the barista who had handed him the drink. The poor fool didn’t even realize what they had done.

“Hey,” Satoru murmured, voice light, almost teasing, like he was about to share a secret. “Quick question.”

The barista looked up, confused, but obliging. “Uh, yeah?”

Satoru took another slow step forward, resting his arms against the counter as he leaned in slightly. Bright blue eyes studied the poor barista, carefully, searching for a flicker of remorse, of understanding, but all he saw was ignorance.

That wouldn’t do.

A wider smile traced his lips, tilting his head as if in thought. “Tell me,” he said, voice still honey-smooth, still light as air, as if he wasn’t seething beneath the surface. “Do you know what happens when a heart stops beating?”

There was a pause.

A hesitation.

The barista blinked, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. “Uh - ”

Satoru didn’t wait for an answer.

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the barista’s wrist before they even had a chance to flinch. He pulled them forward with terrifying ease, dragging them halfway over the counter, ignoring the startled gasps of the people around him. His grip tightened, just enough to feel the fragile bones beneath his fingers shift under the pressure, just enough to send a message.

He could hear the barista's pulse, feel the steady rhythm beneath their skin.

Pathetic excuse of a life.

“You see,” he murmured, his breath a ghost against their skin, “a little thing like caffeine doesn’t seem like much, does it? Just a tiny mistake.”

The barista let out a whimper, their free hand scrambling against the countertop, desperate to pull away.

Satoru grinned.

“But when the person drinking it has a heart that’s already struggling?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Well… then it’s a problem.”

He pressed down, just a little.

Just enough for something to pop.

The barista screamed.

Satoru sighed, shaking his head. “You almost killed someone very, very special to me,” he mused, watching the way their face twisted in agony. “And that makes me so sad.”

His fingers flexed.

The wrist in his hand gave way with a sickening crack.

The barista’s shriek pierced the air, loud and raw, but the café remained still.

No one moved.

No one ever did.

Satoru leaned in, crystalline eyes manic, lips just inches away from their ear, and whispered, soft as silk, “Do you know what that means?”

Their sobs were answer enough.

The next morning, Satoru entered your hospital room as if nothing had happened. The coffee was warm in his hands, a perfect balance of sweetness and warmth, exactly the way you liked it. You were just beginning to stir, your soft hands rubbing at your sleepy eyes, body curled up under the thick blankets.

You looked so sweet, so untouched by the world, that for a moment, he felt like he was burning alive. The moment your eyes landed on him, you smiled, slow and shy, and Satoru swore he felt his heart explode.

“Good morning, dumpling,” he greeted, sick with love, drowning in it, choking on it. You blinked up at him, looking so grateful, so happy, as you took the coffee from his hands.

He watched as you took a sip, watched as you sighed contentedly, watched as your heart monitor picked up just a little.

Oh.

Oh, that was dangerous.

The world around him faded, the memory of bloodied hands, broken screams, the useless little stumps where the barista’s fingers used to be all vanishing in the wake of your soft, wide eyes.

Nothing else mattered.

Not when you were safe.

Not when he was the one keeping you that way.

You still didn’t know.

But soon, you would.

He was waiting for the perfect moment - something grand, something special. Something that would tie you to him forever.

He loved watching over you.

He loved the way your eyelids would flutter, lashes casting delicate shadows against your cheeks as the medication coaxed you into sleep. He loved the way you’d sigh - soft, breathy little noises, so unaware, so vulnerable, your fingers curling instinctively against his sleeve as if you knew you belonged there.

And maybe you did.

Because this was exactly where you were meant to be.

Pressed into him, into his warmth, trusting and unguarded. His perfect little angel, unknowingly tucking yourself into the arms of the only man in the world who could love you properly.

You didn’t know what he had done to make sure you were safe.

Didn’t know how many hands he had taken, how many screams he had silenced, how many unworthy bastards had been erased for so much as looking at you too long.

Didn’t know how many times he had sat here, in this exact position, staring at the fragile line of your throat, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, watching the way your lips parted slightly as you exhaled.

Didn’t know how much it hurt to love you like this.

Because it did hurt.

It ached.

It burned, it devoured, it twisted inside him like something feral, something unsatisfied.

You were so small in his arms. So delicate.

And yet, his love for you was so enormous, so all-consuming, that sometimes he felt like he would crush you under the weight of it.

Every time your fingers twitched against him, every time your body relaxed, every time you made those tiny, sleepy noises, something inside him curled tight, so tight, too tight.

It was adoration.

It was devotion.

It was worship.

And yet, beneath that softness, beneath the aching love, there was something else.

Something darker.

Something needy.

Something filthy.

Because sometimes, when your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, when your lips parted just slightly when your warm, sleepy body curled into his, something unbearable coiled in his stomach, something starved and desperate, something that made him grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

The heat would pool low in his abdomen, coiling hot, tight, a restless hunger, a pressure that made his breath come faster, shallower.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that you were so sweet, so trusting, so untouchable - and yet, your body fit against his so perfectly.

It wasn’t fair that you were right here, so warm, so soft, so completely his—but he couldn’t touch.

Couldn’t have.

Not yet.

Not the way he wanted to.

Not the way he needed to.

And God—God, what an awful man he was.

What a disgusting, depraved, vile creature he had become.

He shouldn't be thinking about you like this.

You were pure, delicate, untouched.

You needed protection.

You needed his care.

And yet, his traitorous body was already reacting, already stiffening, already pressing painfully against the fabric of his slacks, already begging for relief.

The feel was humiliating, sickening.

And yet, no matter how many times he told himself to stop - Satoru couldn’t.

Couldn’t because you were so fucking beautiful. Because you were so fucking his. Because even long after he had gently laid you back against your pillows, even after he had stroked the soft strands of your hair away from your face, even after he had kissed your forehead so gently, so reverently, he still felt that sickening vile feeling, the pressure of his hardened cock against his slacks. That unbearable heat, that sickening desire, the overwhelming need to relieve the pressure before it drove him insane.

So he would excuse himself.

With the calmest smile, with the gentlest voice, he would whisper, "Sleep well, sugar."

Then Satoru would slip out of the room and head straight to the hospital restroom.

Lock the door.

Pull out his phone.

And scroll through the hundreds of photos he had taken of you.

Some were from your walks in the park, when you were strong enough to leave the hospital, your face turned toward the sunlight, your soft laughter trapped in still frames, preserved just for him.

Others were taken without your knowledge, stolen moments when you were distracted when your lips were pursed in thought, when your fingers played with the frayed edge of your hospital bracelet, when you gazed out the window with that distant, dreamy look.

And God, his angel, his girl, his everything -

With shaking hands, he would unbuckle his belt, slide his hand into his pants, stroking himself to the images of you, barely able to breathe, biting his own lip to silence the pathetic little noises threatening to escape.

It felt so wrong.

So dirty.

So perfect.

And when he was finished, hot and sticky, Satoru would take a moment to look at your photo, his release streaked across your delicate face, your soft smile, your innocent little eyes. Then, with trembling fingers, he would draw tiny hearts in the filth, circling your cheeks, tracing the outline of your lips.

Soon he will be able to be a bit more selfish, to feel those pretty lips of yours wrapped around his cock, be able to coo at you to take more into your mouth, to feel the swirl of your tongue around his hardened length.

Oh, Satoru couldn't help but feel his heart pound against his chest at the idea of your sweet warm cunt wrapped around him, he'd be so gentle. Take his sweet time, he knew he had to be gentle, you were a sick little thing. Should he cockwarm you first? Get you used to him? Get you used to feeling so full, to the stretch, to the feeling of having him deep inside you.

Fuck looks like he has to give it another go, you little minx. Raiding his thoughts as always - a slight giggle escaped his throat before he began to stroke himself once again.

Satoru had made sure you both were exclusive, ensured your father understood that no other man would come near you. Because when he finally was able to confess his undying love, when he finally gave you everything, the action would be in a way that you would never forget.

A grand gesture.

A symbol of his devotion.

And as Valentine’s Day approached, everything was falling into place.

Because love wasn’t just words. The notion wasn’t fleeting, wasn’t something to be given halfheartedly. Love, real love, demanded sacrifice. And he - he was willing to give you everything. Even if it meant murdering an innocent individual, claiming the poor saint had wronged the clan. Because he had found the perfect match for your heart transplant, a saint of a person, someone who had never smoked, never drank, never told a single lie. Someone pure, untouched by vice, someone worthy of becoming a part of you. Someone perfect, just for you, so you both could live your lives together.

Because a love like this? It was eternal.

And you would love him.

And you would be his, forever.

No one would take you away from him.

Not even death.

Not even fate.

Satoru had never known love like this how it had seeped into his veins like poison, sweet and consuming, twisting around his heart until he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began. You had become his everything, the reason for his existence, the reason he woke up each morning, the reason he killed, the reason he breathed.

And now—now, you were here.

Laid out on the pristine white sheets of the underground medical table he had so carefully prepared, your delicate wrists bound with silk restraints, not to hurt you, but to keep you from thrashing, from making mistakes, from delaying the inevitable.

Because you were scared.

And that was killing him.

His sweet girl, his delicate little princess, his angel, was crying because of him.

Satoru's breath hitched, vision blurring with tears, and before he could stop himself, a choked sob tore from his throat. His fingers trembled as he cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing frantically over your damp skin, trying to wipe away the pain.

"No, no, no, my love - please, please don’t cry." His voice cracked, wavering between soft pleas and manic devotion, his lips quivering as he leaned down, pressing frantic kisses against your damp cheeks. He licked away your tears, swallowed your little whimpers, inhaled your soft, hiccuped breaths as if he could consume your fear and turn it into love.

His fingers stroked your hair, tracing the curve of your face, his touch tender, adoring, desperate.

“I can’t take this, sunshine. You’re breaking my heart.”

A shaky giggle slipped through his sobs, his fingers still trailing down the curve of your jaw, tapping gently against your chin like he was teasing you like this was just another one of his games.

His hands slid behind him, reaching for the small, heart-shaped box he had placed so carefully beside your bed. Satoru's breath hitched, fingers trembling not with nerves, but with sheer, dizzying excitement as he held it between you both. His tear-streaked face lit up, his lips parting into an eager, breathless grin despite the shattered, desperate look in his eyes.

This was it.

The ultimate proof of his love.

His grand gesture.

His devotion, laid bare before you.

The soft velvet of the box rubbed against your trembling fingertips as he guided it into your hands. Your breath was shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, too uneven. You didn’t want to open it.

You didn’t want to see what was inside.

But Satoru - was watching you so closely, his radiant, unearthly blue eyes brimming with an intensity that demanded you obey. So, with numb fingers, you lifted the lid.

Your stomach lurched.

The room spun. The sharp, metallic scent of blood curled into your nostrils, thick and suffocating, coating the back of your throat, making your body convulse in disgust.

A heart.

A real, human heart. The flesh was still fresh, still glistening, nestled inside the plush velvet like a grotesque, bloody jewel. Thin, severed arteries dangled from the muscle, the tissue dark, rich, and far too real.

Your breath hitched in a choked, wet gasp.

The air rushed out of your lungs, your vision narrowing as cold, paralyzing horror wrapped around you. Your fingers trembled violently, nearly dropping the box, your hands refusing to function, refusing to believe what they were holding.

No.

No, no, no -

You could feel your heartbeat slamming against your ribs, erratic, uneven, weak. You could feel the sting of tears welling up, blurring your vision, pooling in your lashes as you tried—desperately tried—to make sense of the unthinkable.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to wrench yourself away, shove the box back into his hands, throw it, crush it, anything—

But you couldn’t move.

Your body refused.

Terror had turned your limbs to dead weight, keeping you frozen as if one wrong move might make this nightmare even worse.

Satoru tilted his head, watching you. That flicker in your eyes.

Horror.

Fear.

Rejection.

His grin faltered. Just a little. Just enough.

That look shattered something inside him. Satoru's breath caught, his smile wavering at the edges as his fingers twitched, his entire body stilling. For the first time in his entire, untouchable life, Gojo Satoru felt small. Like a child who had spent days, weeks, months crafting the perfect gift, only for it to be thrown away before his eyes.

A slow, breathy laugh fell from his lips - unsteady, cracked at the edges, but still so devoted.

“Aww, baby,” he whispered, tilting his head, his fingers tracing the side of your wrist, thumb dragging over your rapid, panicked pulse.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

His voice was soft, teasing - but his grip on you was tight. The air grew heavier and thicker, the scent of blood still hanging between you like perfume.

You wanted to move.

You wanted to run.

But his fingers curled tighter around your wrist, and those crystal-clear, feverishly bright blue eyes locked onto yours, swimming with something too deep, too raw, too unhinged for you to break away.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

His voice was gentle, cooing, like he was humoring you, like you were simply being shy, overwhelmed, unsure of how to accept such an important gift. His free hand reached out, brushing your trembling hair away from your face, tucking a stray strand behind your ear.

“I mean, I did all this for you,” he murmured, voice feigning innocence, his lips curving into something softer, something that might have been mistaken for genuine hurt if it weren’t for the twisted madness shimmering beneath it.

His fingers slid down, grazing your cheek before resting against your collarbone, pressing - just slightly. Feeling the erratic flutter of your weak little heart, the heart he was so desperate to protect.

The heart that could have failed you at any moment.

The heart that was soon to be replaced.

"I went through so much trouble," he continued, his voice quieter, sadder, fraying at the edges. "Just to make sure you’d be okay, sped up the process even, to make sure we can be together."

A tremor ran through his shoulders, his lips parting like he was about to say something more, but instead, he only let out a soft, shuddering exhale. His princess was rejecting his love.

But he had to be strong.

He had to be brave.

For you.

And so, he forced himself to smile, to press another kiss to your forehead, to whisper sweet nothings into your skin, even as his heart shattered.

"I promise, my love, it won’t hurt. You won’t feel a thing."

Satoru's soft lips hovered over your ear, his voice a trembling whisper, thick with the kind of love that could ruin a man.

"And when you wake up, you’ll be all better." His fingers trailed over the silk restraints, his touch lingering against your pulse, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath your skin.

Everything was going to be okay.

You were just scared.

You loved him too.

Major heart surgery is a scary thing. You’re just scared.

And if the doctor made a mistake - if you so much as whimpered in pain, if there was a single second where you suffered, where the operation was anything less than perfect -

Well.

There was a reason he had a backup doctor waiting in the next room.

A little extra insurance.

Because nothing could go wrong.

Everything had to be perfect for you. His fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your face toward him, pressing a lingering, feverish kiss to your trembling lips - a kiss full of devotion, of desperation, of a love so strong it had become a sickness.

His heart raced, his breath shaky, uneven, manic.

And then, in a voice so soft, so full of adoring madness, he whispered against your lips -

"Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart."

As the medication in the IV lulled your eyes to sleep, all you could feel were soft kisses - featherlight, desperate, pressed against your cheeks, your forehead, the corner of your lips.

A lover’s touch.

A farewell.

#Valentine's day #yandere jujutsu kaisen #Yandere JJk #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere gojo #yandere gojo satoru #yandere gojo x reader #yandere gojo satoru x reader #male yandere #yandere satoru #yandere satoru x reader

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dollgxtz · 6 months ago

Text

His Watchful Eye Pt. 17

Word Count: 32.3k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, tw if u have tokophobia, some mentions of blood and other fluids from birth, pet names like kitten, sweetie, honey, threats with a gun, extortion, xavier appears

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh @eliasxchocolate @nozomiaj @xmiisuki @sylus-kitten @its-regretti @ve1vet-cake @starkeysslvt @yarafic @prince-nikko @iluvmewwwww75 @someone-somewheres-stuff @zaynesjasmine1 @honnylemontea @altariasu @sorryimakira @pearlymel @emidpsandia @angel-jupiter @hwangintakswifey @webmvie @housesortinghat @shoruio @gojos1ut @solomonlover @mysssticc @elegantnightblaze @mavphorias @babylavendersblog @burntoutfrogacademic @sinstae @certainduckanchor @ladyackermanisdead @sh4nn @lilyadora @nyumin @kiwookse @anisha24-blog1 @weepingluminarytale @riamir @definitionistato @xxhayashixx @adraxsteia @hargun-s @cayraeley @xxfaithlynxx @palomanh @spaceace111 @euridan @malleus-draconias-rose @athoieee

AN: This is on A03! Hi guys!! I missed yall! I've been soooo busy with uni and getting a crap ton of assignments and projects thrown at me that I haven't had much time for tumblr!! Then once I finally had free time I caught Covid LOL. Thankfully I'm starting to feel better now. Btw the dividers are made by me!! Ive started messing around with photoshop and want to make my own dividers. Hopefully they look ok! Ok enough yapping, enjoy! I lowkey cried making this chapter ngl...

“You can’t ever leave me,” he continued, his tone as smooth as velvet but laced with an unshakable finality. “Even if it means I have to keep you pumped full with my children forever. Can’t run with all eight of them, can you?” The words hit you like a blow to the chest, stealing what little air you had left. Your entire body trembled beneath him, a rush of panic and revulsion coursing through your veins. Tears welled in your eyes, hot and blinding, spilling over as your voice cracked under the weight of your fear and fury. “I hate you!” you screamed, your voice raw and desperate. “I’ll never let you take me! Or her! Never!” But Sylus didn’t flinch. He didn’t recoil or lash out. He didn’t even blink. Instead, he smiled—a slow, chilling smile that spread across his face like poison. There was no anger in his expression, no cruelty. Just calm, calculated possession.

Check my masterlist for the previous parts!

The air in the room was suffocating, heavy with tension and the faint scent of whiskey. Luke and Kieran stood at rigid attention near the door, their usually cocky demeanor replaced by something more cautious—fear, even. The quiet ticking of a wall clock amplified every passing second, each one feeling more precarious than the last. They shifted slightly on their feet, trying not to attract too much attention.

Sylus sat in an armchair in the middle of the dimly lit room, his long frame sprawled casually, but his posture was deceiving. He exuded calm, yes, but it was the kind of calm that hinted at a predator lying in wait. The room itself was nondescript, just another hotel suite, but it had been transformed into a nerve center of activity. Maps of Brunswick lined the walls, papers were scattered across the desk, and a laptop hummed softly nearby, displaying live surveillance feeds from the area. Yet none of it had yielded what he wanted.

You.

He swirled the glass of whiskey in his hand absentmindedly, his crimson eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The alcohol burned his throat with each sip, though the familiar sting did little to dull the simmering anger coursing through him. He had been drinking more in the past few days than he had in months, each glass a silent concession to the mounting frustration. The pawn shop had been his last real lead. After that, the tracker on your ring was useless now, and even Mephisto, with his aerial surveillance, had failed to catch so much as a glimpse of you.

The crow was efficient, but he wasn’t infallible. He couldn’t enter buildings, couldn’t see through walls. And Sylus was beginning to realize that you were smarter than he had given you credit for initially. You’d chosen a place to hide where technology and brute force could only get him so far. He hated to admit it, but you’d done well. For now.

The faintest sound of glass cracking broke his reverie. He glanced down and realized his grip on the whiskey glass had tightened to the point of nearly shattering it. Amber liquid seeped through the faint fracture, dripping onto his fingers and pooling on the table. Luke, ever the more talkative of the two, audibly gulped as the sound of cracked glass seemed to echo in the room.

“Boss…” Luke began, his voice shaking slightly. “We’re so sorry. She must’ve—”

“Silence, Luke,” Sylus said coldly, cutting him off without even looking up. He set the cracked glass down on the table, the faint clink echoing in the oppressive quiet. His eyes finally lifted to look at Luke, and the intensity in his gaze was enough to make the younger man take an instinctive step back.

Kieran, standing slightly behind his brother, remained silent but no less tense. Sylus’s calm demeanor was always more terrifying than his outright anger. They had seen him lash out before, seen the destruction he could unleash when he was truly enraged. But this cold, measured version of him—the version that stared at them now—was infinitely worse.

“Don’t expect any breaks until she’s found,” Sylus said evenly, his tone devoid of emotion. “And I’m docking both of your pays until then.”

The words landed like a guillotine, and Kieran stiffened visibly. Luke shifted a bit as if he wanted to protest, but one sharp look from Sylus silenced him. The twins exchanged a glance, their masks hiding the expressions etched with a mixture of fear and shame. Still, this was much better than the alternative punishments they could've endured...

Sylus leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together as he studied them. “Get me another glass,” he said after a moment, his voice low but commanding.

Luke jumped into action, practically tripping over his own feet as he made his way to the minibar in the corner of the room. His movements were quick, almost frantic, as he fumbled with the bottles. Kieran stayed rooted in place, his eyes darting nervously between Sylus and the table littered with maps and photographs beneath his mask.

Sylus tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair, the rhythmic sound filling the silence like a ticking time bomb. His gaze drifted to the map pinned to the wall, the last known location of your tracker staring mockingly at him. Brunswick. You had managed to slip through his fingers there, and the thought of you wandering the streets, clutching your belly, filled him with a mix of frustration and something dangerously close to anguish.

Did you honestly think you could outrun him? Did you think he wouldn’t find you? Sylus exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening as he forced the thought aside. It didn’t matter. He would find you. It was only a matter of time. He had found you before, and you hadn't even had the extra weight of pregnancy slowing you down back then.

Luke returned with a fresh glass of whiskey, setting it down on the table with a trembling hand. Sylus reached for it without a word, swirling the liquid as his eyes remained fixed on the map.

“You’re dismissed,” he said finally, his voice clipped.

The twins wasted no time leaving the room, their footsteps echoing down the hallway. The moment the door clicked shut, Sylus took a slow sip of his whiskey, the burn doing little to ease the tension coiled in his chest.

“Time is ticking, kitten,” he murmured, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Let’s see how far you can run.”

A few more days had dragged by, each one testing the limits of Sylus’s patience and resolve. Nothing had come to fruition despite his tireless efforts, and it was beginning to wear on him. He had spent countless hours combing through the sparse security footage available in Brunswick—a town so technologically outdated it barely had enough cameras to cover its streets. Still, it was better than nothing, and his team had managed to hack into what little surveillance was there.

It was during one of these marathon sessions of reviewing footage that he finally caught a glimpse of you. His eyes locked onto the screen as his heart gave a faint jolt. There you were, walking into the town’s small library. You were bundled in Luke’s coat, its oversized frame swallowing your smaller figure. Despite the layers, you were still shivering slightly, and the way you rubbed your belly with one hand only made Sylus’s chest tighten.

“There you are,” he murmured under his breath, the words slipping out without thought. You looked so lost, so fragile, and the sight ignited a strange mix of emotions in him. Anger at your stubbornness for running, guilt for the circumstances that had driven you to this point, and something softer—an aching need to pull you back into his arms where you belonged.

Hours later, the footage showed you exiting the library. The streetlights bathed you in a faint, golden glow as you paused just outside the doors, your movements slow and deliberate. You glanced around nervously before walking over to a nearby bench. Sylus watched as you sat down, your hands resting protectively on your belly. He could practically see the gears turning in your head, the way your eyes darted around as if trying to calculate your next move.

And then, just as quickly as you had appeared, you stood up and walked out of the camera’s range, disappearing once again. Sylus exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest tightening further. It was almost like losing you all over again, and it stung more than he cared to admit.

“Fine,” he muttered to himself, closing the footage window on his laptop. He had the geo-location of the camera and the exact street. It was enough. He would simply send his men to comb through every building and possible location in that area. If it meant finding you, he didn’t care how long it took.

Reaching for a folder on the desk, his phone suddenly buzzed, the shrill sound cutting through the quiet of the hotel room. He glanced at the screen, and his brows furrowed slightly when he saw the name: Dr. Merill. The doctor wasn’t someone who called often, but given the situation, Sylus had been expecting this eventually.

For a brief moment, he hesitated. He didn’t want to speak to anyone who might remind him of the gravity of your situation. But then, with a sigh, he picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear.

“Sylus speaking,” he said curtly, flipping the folder shut with one hand as he leaned back in his chair.

“Just calling to check in,” Dr. Merill’s voice came through, calm and professional. “I was wondering if you’d planned an at-home birth or if you intended to use a facility? I know the circumstances of your… relationship are tricky, but I’d like to be prepared. The birth can be extremely hush hush either way.”

Sylus’s jaw tightened slightly. The reminder of your absence, of how precarious everything was, set his teeth on edge. He decided to get straight to the point.

“There’s no need for that right now,” he said sharply. “She’s missing.”

There was a brief pause on the other end, and when Dr. Merill spoke again, there was an edge of concern in his voice. “Oh my. I’m sorry to hear that. I’m assuming she’s still pregnant?”

“As far as I know, yes,” Sylus replied, his tone clipped. He turned to stare out the window of his hotel room, his eyes scanning the streets below. His reflection in the glass stared back at him, eyes filled with something he refused to name. “But no doubt the added stress of running away could result in pre-term labor, correct?”

The words tasted bitter on his tongue, and he hated the image they conjured in his mind. He pictured you somewhere cold and alone, screaming and crying in pain as you gave birth without anyone to help you. His brows furrowed deeply, and he rubbed his temple with his fingers as if he could erase the thought entirely.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Dr. Merill admitted, his tone cautious. “And given her current weakened state, I’d say I’m even more concerned that something medically significant could go wrong and she’d be alone. I don’t mean to worry you, of course, but—”

“You don’t need to sugarcoat it,” Sylus interrupted, his voice dropping lower. “Tell me how long I have.”

The doctor hesitated again before answering, “Give or take… a week or two, at most. It’s difficult to say for certain when exactly itll happen, but she’s close.”

Sylus exhaled slowly, his hand tightening into a fist on the armrest of his chair. A week or two. Maybe less. The clock was ticking, and the thought of you enduring labor without him—or worse, something going wrong—made his stomach twist.

“Thank you, Dr. Merill,” he said, his voice colder than he intended. “I’ll handle it.”

“Of course,” Merill replied carefully. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to assist.”

Sylus hung up without another word, tossing the phone onto the desk. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the blinking dot on the map. You were close. He knew you were close. But time wasn’t on his side, and neither was luck. If he didn’t act decisively, he risked losing everything.

“Kitten,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. “You're a lot more stubborn than I thought”

His crimson eyes burned with determination as he reached for his glass of whiskey. The hunt was far from over. It was only just beginning.

Sylus spent the next few hours scouring the streets, stopping at every possible lead you might have left behind. His footsteps finally brought him to the library—the one place he’d seen you on the surveillance footage before you disappeared again. The building was unassuming, small compared to the libraries he was accustomed to in the cities. Its brick façade was weathered by time, and the glass doors bore smudges from countless hands. The faded sign above the entrance read, Brunswick Public Library. It seemed like the kind of place where people came to escape reality for a while—quiet, simple, unremarkable. But to Sylus, it was a potential goldmine of information.

He entered with several of his men trailing behind him, their sharp gazes scanning the surroundings. The air inside smelled faintly of old paper and dust, mingling with the sterile scent of cleaning products. Rows of mismatched bookshelves lined the space, interspersed with outdated computers and worn-out armchairs. A few patrons lingered near the shelves, their heads snapping up at the sight of Sylus and his entourage. Whispers began to ripple through the room.

"Who’s that guy?" "FBI, maybe? He looks important…" "Or dangerous…Look at the size of him!"

Sylus ignored the murmurs, his long strides taking him straight to the front desk. His polished shoes clicked against the scuffed linoleum floor, and the whispers faded into a tense silence as he reached the counter. Behind it sat a middle-aged woman, typing away at a computer with the kind of practiced disinterest that came from years of routine. She didn’t even glance up when he approached.

"Returns aren’t done at the front anymore," she said flatly, her fingers continuing to clack against the keyboard. "There’s a new system for book returns near the door."

Sylus leaned down slightly, his presence towering and unignorable. He tapped a single finger on the desk, the sound sharp and deliberate. "If I happened to be returning a book from ten years ago," he said smoothly, his voice carrying an edge of menace, "how much would my fine be?"

The woman’s fingers froze mid-typing, and her eyes darted up at Sylus with a mix of confusion and mild irritation. Her annoyance quickly melted away, however, as her gaze traveled upward—up and up until it landed on his face. She blinked, her expression shifting to one of surprise, her brow furrowing slightly as though trying to place him.

“My goodness,” she finally said, clutching her chest in a dramatic fashion. “You’re…tall! What are you, a basketball player?”

Sylus resisted the urge to roll his eyes, his patience already razor-thin. Instead, he straightened his back, exuding a cold, unshakable authority that made the air around him feel heavier. "I’ll cut to the chase," he said, his tone sharp enough to make the woman flinch slightly. "There was a pregnant woman in here a some time ago. Shes very far along, wearing a long coat, about this tall." He gestured vaguely with his hand. "I need to know if she mentioned where she was headed next."

The woman’s brows knitted together, and she folded her arms across her chest, clearly not intimidated enough to abandon her sense of defiance. "Pregnant woman?" she repeated, her tone skeptical. "Look, mister, I don’t keep tabs on every person who walks in here. And unless you’re police, I don’t see why I should help you."

Sylus’s jaw tightened, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. The faint tension in his posture was enough to send a ripple of unease through the room. He leaned closer, his hand gripping the edge of the counter as he spoke in a low, measured tone. "She’s my fiancé," he said, feigning a hint of desperation in his voice. "She’s missing, and I’m worried about her. If you have any information, now would be a very good time to share it."

The woman hesitated, her defiance wavering slightly under the weight of his gaze. Before she could respond, a younger male assistant rolled his chair over from a nearby workstation. His nervous energy was palpable, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as he cleared his throat.

"Uh, sir?" the assistant stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I…I think I know who you’re talking about."

Sylus’s attention snapped to the young man, his sharp gaze pinning him in place. "Go on," he said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable undertone of command.

The assistant swallowed hard, glancing nervously at his coworker before continuing. "She came in a few days ago," he said, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Asked me for recommendations on pregnancy and birthing books. I showed her to the maternity and health section over there." He gestured toward a cozy nook in the corner, where a cluster of beanbag chairs surrounded a small shelf of health-related books. "She stayed there for hours…until closing."

Sylus’s gaze followed the assistant’s gesture, landing on the corner of the library. The beanbag chairs looked deflated and worn, the small bookshelf stuffed with outdated titles on health and wellness. He could almost picture you there—curled up awkwardly in one of those chairs, one hand resting on your belly while the other turned the fragile pages of a pregnancy manual. His jaw clenched at the thought.

Were you really that desperate? The notion hit him like a punch to the gut. You had come here, to this tiny, rundown library, to prepare yourself for one of the most terrifying and vulnerable moments of your life—all alone. No doctor, no midwife, no one to reassure you or guide you. You had been reading birthing books, scouring for answers, planning to face labor and delivery on your own. Did you feel like you had no choice? Were you scared? Of course, you had to be. The thought of you, terrified and struggling, filled him with a cold, simmering rage—not at you, but at the situation that had driven you to this point.

His hands curled into fists at his sides as his imagination ran wild. Had you rubbed your belly in that corner, whispering soft reassurances to your unborn daughter while fighting back tears? Had you been overwhelmed by the medical jargon, scanning page after page, trying to decipher what to expect? Sylus couldn’t bear the image. You were supposed to be cared for, supported, protected. You shouldn’t have had to step foot in this shabby little library to learn about childbirth on your own. You shouldn’t have been alone, period.

The assistant’s voice broke through his thoughts, hesitant and nervous. "She…seemed really focused. Sat over there for hours. I, uh, offered to bring her water or tea, but she declined. She just kept reading until we had to close up."

Sylus exhaled sharply, the sound low and barely audible. Of course, you would refuse help. Stubborn as ever. You had always been strong, determined, fiercely independent—but this wasn’t strength. This was desperation, and it pained him more than he cared to admit. He could imagine you sitting there, putting on a brave face, forcing yourself to learn everything you could because you had no one else to rely on. And that thought? That hurt worse than anything else.

And honestly? The thought of this man offering you anything, much less talking to you at all made him want to break his neck right here. Of course, he refrained.

The ghost of a sigh escaped his lips as he turned back to the assistant. "And after closing?" he asked, his voice steady but colder now, barely masking the emotions bubbling beneath the surface.

The assistant shook his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I didn’t see where she went after that, sir. She just…left. No mention of where she was going."

Sylus stood there for a moment, his sharp eyes staring into the distance, the image of you leaving this library alone burned into his mind. Wrapping Luke’s oversized coat tighter around yourself, shivering in the cold. His kitten, scared and alone, carrying his child, walking into the night as though the weight of the world rested on your shoulders. Did you think no one cared? Did you think he didn’t care?

Sylus’s fingers curled slightly against the counter, his frustration mounting. He was so close—close enough to feel the ghost of your presence lingering in the room—and yet, once again, you had slipped through his grasp. His eyes bore into the young man, searching for any sign of deceit, but the assistant’s trembling form seemed genuine enough.

Straightening, Sylus nodded curtly to his men, signaling for them to begin leaving. He turned back to the assistant, his expression softening ever so slightly as he spoke. "If you remember anything else," he said, his voice quieter but no less commanding, "anything at all, you’ll call this number." He handed the young man a card, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.

Without waiting for a response, Sylus turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, his men following close behind. The whispers resumed as soon as he was out of earshot, but he paid them no mind. His thoughts were consumed by one thing and one thing only: you. You were close—he could feel it. And no matter how far you ran, no matter how well you hid, he would find you. It was only a matter of time.

As Sylus closed in on the exit, the air around him felt heavier. The assistant, and the older woman at the desk visibly relaxed as he moved toward it. His men followed in his shadow, their presence casting a long, foreboding aura across the quiet library. The room seemed to exhale a collective sigh of relief the moment Sylus reached the door. The faint chime of the bell above it announced his departure, but even as he stepped outside into the brisk evening air, his sharp hearing caught the hushed whispers behind him.

“Thank you, Matthew…” the older woman murmured in a voice so low it was nearly inaudible. "I thought he was about to hit me. Did you call the police? He’s very…shady."

There was a soft shuffle, as though the assistant was fidgeting nervously. "I don’t know, Miss,” Matthew replied, his voice trembling slightly. “But something tells me the police won’t stop him. He’s not… normal. We shouldn’t get involved.”

Sylus paused just outside the door, his hand resting on the cool metal frame. Their words didn’t anger him—they intrigued him. The woman’s fear, the assistant’s unease—it wasn’t just his appearance or the tension in the room that unnerved them. They’d felt it, that instinctual warning that came from being in the presence of a predator.

People always did.

A slight smirk tugged at the corner of Sylus’s lips as he straightened his coat and pushed the library door shut behind him. He’d spent years honing that effect, the ability to radiate quiet menace without needing to raise his voice or make an explicit threat. But he also knew it had its limits—fear alone wouldn’t lead him to you.

The whispers continued, faint but audible through the glass. “What if he comes back?” the older woman asked, her voice quivering. “We should…we should tell someone, just in case.”

Sylus’s smirk disappeared, replaced by a sharp, calculating expression. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he mulled over their words. If they called the police, it would only complicate things—not because he feared them, but because unnecessary attention could spook you if you were still nearby. He couldn’t risk you catching wind of his presence and disappearing again.

Adjusting the cufflinks on his shirt, Sylus turned to his men. “We move now,” he said, his voice clipped and commanding. “Search the streets near here. Every café, every motel, every alley. If she’s nearby, I want her found. Unharmed. Not a single scratch.”

His men nodded, splitting off into the shadows like hounds released from a leash. Sylus stood still for a moment longer, glancing down the street. The lights from the shop windows glowed faintly against the dimming sky, the town settling into an almost eerie quiet. His thoughts flickered back to the image of you in the library, flipping through pages of birthing books, your shoulders tense with worry. The vision made his chest ache with a feeling he couldn’t quite name.

You were here. You had been here. And if you’d left, you wouldn’t have gone far.

“Sweetie…” Sylus murmured under his breath, his voice low and edged with determination. “Where are you hiding?”

Straightening his spine, he strode down the street, the whispers in the library fading behind him. They were right about one thing—getting involved wouldn’t stop him. Nothing would.

Sylus returned to his hotel room as the rain began to drum steadily against the windowpane. The muted glow of the city’s lights barely pierced the stormy night, and the low rumble of thunder in the distance mirrored the storm brewing in his chest. His search for you had yielded nothing concrete—only fleeting traces of your presence, tantalizingly close yet agonizingly out of reach. Frustration clung to him like a second skin, and he sought solace in routine.

He strode over to the record player nestled on a small table by the corner of the room. Sliding a vinyl disc from its sleeve, he placed it carefully on the turntable and set the needle down. The soft, melancholic strains of a classical piano piece filled the room, its delicate notes a temporary balm for his fraying nerves.

Never in his life had he struggled so much to find simple traces of someone. You were being extra careful this time, clearly.

Just as he sank into his chair, savoring the faint relief the music brought, an insistent rapping broke the atmosphere. His eyes flicked to the window, narrowing at the sight of Mephisto perched on the sill, his metallic feathers glinting in the dim light. Rain dripped from the bird’s beak, and its glowing red eyes stared at Sylus with what could almost be described as irritation.

Sylus chuckled softly, the sound low and devoid of humor. “Eager to escape the rain, are we?” he murmured, standing to unlatch the window. With a swift motion, he opened it, and Mephisto hopped inside, shaking off the rain like an indignant dog. Droplets scattered across the room, and the crow let out an exasperated series of caws, as if voicing his displeasure with the weather.

“It’s a good thing you showed up,” Sylus said, closing the window behind him and shutting out the storm. He turned back to the bird, his tone shifting to something more matter-of-fact. “It’s time for a little maintenance. Not like I have much else to do at the moment.”

Mephisto’s caws grew sharper, almost as if protesting. The bird flapped its wings briefly, hopping away from Sylus’s reach with a mechanical whir. “Don’t be like that,” Sylus chided, crossing his arms and watching the bird’s antics with mild amusement. “You knew this was coming.”

The crow’s protests dwindled into begrudging silence, its head tilting as if to say, Fine. Have it your way. Sylus smirked, scooping up the bird with practiced ease and carrying him over to the desk. He reached for a toolkit tucked into the drawer, setting out an array of small wrenches, screwdrivers, and oil canisters.

He adjusted his chair slightly, his long fingers deftly unscrewing a tiny bolt from Mephisto’s outer shell. The mechanical crow had been his most loyal companion for years, serving him well in countless missions. But tonight, his intentions were different. This wasn’t just routine maintenance—this was preparation, a personal touch for the life he was about to welcome into the world.

Carefully, he lifted Mephisto’s casing and set it aside, revealing the intricate network of gears, wires, and circuits that powered the bird. The scent of machine oil and metal filled the air as he reached for a small bottle of lubricant, meticulously applying it to the crow’s joints. The familiar motions brought him a strange sense of calm, though his mind was far from at ease.

As he tightened a loose screw near Mephisto’s left wing joint, his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the future. Soon, very soon, his daughter would be here. His daughter. The words still felt foreign in his mind, though they filled him with a rare warmth. He could almost see her in his mind’s eye—a tiny, delicate figure wrapped in soft blankets, her little hand gripping his finger with surprising strength.

Would she have your eyes? Your smile? The thought sent a pang through his chest, a mix of longing and regret. He should’ve been there with you now, protecting you, ensuring you were safe and cared for as you neared the end of your pregnancy. Instead, he was here, chasing shadows and trying to bring you back.

His hand hesitated briefly over a small compartment in Mephisto’s chest. With a soft click, it popped open, revealing a slot for the protocore. He removed the old one and replaced it with a newer, more advanced one, ensuring the bird would be more efficient in its flying abilities. But that wasn’t all. From the corner of his toolkit, Sylus picked up a tiny, specially designed module—a music player he’d built weeks ago.

The idea had come to him one night as he lay awake, envisioning the life he wanted to build for his daughter. He’d thought of the quiet moments—rocking her to sleep, her soft breathing against his chest, the world reduced to just the two of them. Mephisto, with his tireless loyalty, could play a part in those moments. The bird, a tool of surveillance and strategy, would now also be something softer, something comforting. He carefully slotted the module into place, ensuring it was securely connected to the crow’s internal systems.

As he tightened the last screw to secure the music feature, Sylus allowed himself a small, fleeting smile. The lullaby function was a simple addition, but it felt deeply significant. It was a way to bridge the gap between his harsh, pragmatic world and the innocence of the life he was about to meet. He could almost hear the gentle strains of a music box melody filling a quiet room, soothing his daughter to sleep. Perhaps you’d be there, too, watching with that skeptical but affectionate gaze of yours.

He shook his head slightly, snapping himself out of the daydream. There was no point in indulging in such fantasies—not until he had you both back where you belonged. Yet, the thought lingered, stubborn and unshakable.

Hours passed as Sylus continued his work, his focus unwavering. He adjusted Mephisto’s wings, ensuring their mobility was flawless, and fine-tuned the sensors in his eyes for better visual clarity. Every movement was precise, deliberate, as if the act of repairing the bird was a reflection of his desire to piece his own fractured world back together. Sylus leaned back in his chair, wiping his hands with a cloth as he watched Mephisto blink to life.

The bird’s eyes glowed brightly, its head twitching as it recalibrated his systems. He let out a triumphant “Caw! Caw!” and flapped his newly oiled wings, testing his restored mobility.

“Welcome back,” Sylus said dryly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Mephisto preened, seemingly pleased with his upgrades. “Now, let’s see if the new feature works.” Sylus leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying a soft command. “Mephisto, play a lullaby.”

The bird tilted its head, his glowing eyes flickering faintly as if processing the request. There was a brief pause, the sound of faint whirring emanating from his body, and then the first gentle notes of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star began to play. The tune was soft and delicate, like a music box, its simplicity filling the room with a bittersweet warmth.

Sylus closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him. In his mind, he pictured holding his daughter for the first time, her small body cradled against his chest. He imagined the way she might yawn or squirm, the way her tiny hand might reach out to him. The thought brought a tightness to his throat, an unfamiliar ache that he didn’t quite know how to name. And then there was you—your face, your voice, your presence that haunted him even now. He wanted to hold you both, to keep two of you safe, to rewrite the chaos of the past months into something that resembled a future.

When the song ended, Mephisto let out a soft, inquisitive caw, as though asking for approval. Sylus opened his eyes, his expression unreadable as he stared at the bird. “Not bad,” he said quietly, leaning back in his chair. His fingers picked up the glass of whiskey on the table, but he didn’t take a sip. Instead, he stared out the window at the rain-soaked streets below, the faint echo of the lullaby lingering in his mind.

“You’ll play that for her one day.” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the storm outside.

The town seemed endless, a maze of possibilities where you could be hiding. But no matter how far you ran, no matter how well you thought you’d covered your tracks, Sylus was certain of one thing.

He would find you. And when he did, he would never let you go again.

Mephisto perched on the desk, his glowing eyes watching Sylus intently, as though he understood the weight of those words.

The knock at the door was sharp and insistent, pulling Sylus from his thoughts. He set his glass of whiskey down and glanced toward the door, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Enter," he called, his voice calm yet commanding.

The door creaked open to reveal Kieran, his bird-like mask slightly askew as he stepped inside. His chest heaved, and his breathing was uneven, as though he’d just run a great distance. Even in the dim light of the room, the excitement radiating off him was palpable.

“Boss!” Kieran said, his voice breathless yet eager. “We have a lead.”

Sylus straightened in his chair, his fingers idly brushing against the edge of the desk. “Go on,” he said, his tone smooth but tinged with a subtle urgency.

Kieran stepped further into the room, practically vibrating with excitement. “There’s a diner nearby,” he began, barely able to contain himself. “One of the women who worked there mentioned something about a pregnant girl staying at a farmhouse to her brother. She let it slip during a conversation, but when we tried to press her for more information, she clammed up. Seemed…very hush-hush about it all of a sudden. Too suspicious to ignore.”

Sylus’s eyes sharpened, and for the first time in days, a genuine smile curved across his lips. Relief flooded his chest, spreading through him like a long-awaited balm to his fraying patience. Finally. There was no way this was a coincidence. A pregnant girl hiding in a farmhouse? It had to be you.

His fingers tightened slightly on the desk, the faintest tremor of anticipation running through him. “You’re certain?” he asked, though the answer was already evident in Kieran’s confident posture.

Kieran nodded vigorously. “I am, boss. It lines up. The woman wouldn’t give up anything else, but it’s clear she’s hiding something. We’ve got her cornered, and I can lead you there.”

Sylus leaned back in his chair, his mind already racing. He’d known it was only a matter of time before things went his way, and now the opportunity was finally within reach. His earlier frustrations melted away, replaced by a razor-sharp focus.

“Good work,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of approval. “Make sure the car is ready. I’ll be down shortly.”

Kieran gave a quick nod, his eagerness evident in the way he all but dashed out of the room to carry out the order.

Sylus stood, rolling his shoulders as he glanced toward the desk where Mephisto perched, watching him with his glowing red eyes. “Looks like the waiting game is over,” he murmured, straightening his jacket as he moved toward the door. His steps were deliberate, every movement exuding purpose.

As he left the room, the storm outside seemed to intensify, the rain lashing against the windows as if mirroring his growing anticipation. Soon, he would have you back. And this time, there would be no escape.

Sylus pushed open the diner’s door, the small bell overhead jingling softly as he stepped inside. The warm scent of frying bacon and stale coffee wafted through the air, but his focus was immediately drawn to the scene at the counter. One of his men was interrogating a middle-aged woman, her face flushed with irritation as she gestured emphatically.

“I’m telling you, it was just a slip of the tongue! She’s my niece, not some random!” the woman barked, crossing her arms defiantly. Her voice carried a sharp edge, and her posture screamed exasperation. Her tirade paused momentarily as she heard the door chime, her sharp eyes narrowing as Sylus stepped inside.

“Oh, great! There’s more of ya! Your buddy’s already bothering my customers—now you’ve brought reinforcements?” she snapped, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Just leave! For crying out loud.”

Sylus adjusted his jacket and calmly made his way to a nearby booth, his movements measured and unbothered by her hostility. Sliding into the vinyl seat, he clasped his hands together and leaned forward slightly, his crimson eyes fixed on her. The intensity in his gaze was softened only by the faint smile curling his lips, though it was far from reassuring.

“We don’t wish to interrupt your business, ma’am,” he said smoothly, his tone polite but carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of authority. “But you see, the woman we’re looking for is of great importance to me. Your cooperation would be…appreciated.”

Sylus gave a brief description of your features and what you were last wearing, but she simply rolled her eyes.

The woman, who seemed unfazed by his imposing presence, raised an eyebrow and snorted. “First of all, my name’s not ‘ma’am.’ It’s Clara. Get it right. And second, I don’t gotta tell you or your goons a damn thing,” she said, taking a deliberate drag of her cigarette. Her defiance was palpable, her demeanor unshaken despite the clear tension in the room.

Sylus studied her for a moment, his expression unchanging. Her stubbornness was mildly amusing, and he allowed a soft chuckle to escape his lips. She was a tough one, that much was clear. Still, he doubted she’d been much trouble if you truly were under her care. He leaned back in the booth, his gaze cool and calculating.

“I understand,” he said evenly. “This must be stressful for you. However, I’d like to propose a deal. Fifty thousand in cash for any information on the woman we’re seeking.” His voice remained calm, almost casual, as though he were suggesting an innocuous business arrangement rather than attempting to buy her out.

"Given immediately of course."

Clara’s eyes narrowed, and she planted her hands firmly on the counter, leaning toward him. “Who do you take me for?” she snapped, her voice rising. “That’s my niece! I’m not about to sell her out to some weirdo with a fancy suit and a gang of lackeys. God knows what you’re planning!”

“Go ahead. Try to wave your money around somewhere else. Ain’t gonna work here, buddy!”

Before Sylus could respond, Clara punctuated her anger by spitting at his feet. The wad of saliva landed just inches from the polished leather of his shoes, a wet splatter against the worn linoleum floor. The sound seemed louder than it should have been in the now-silent diner. Every eye in the room shifted between Clara and Sylus, waiting, tense with anticipation, for what would happen next.

Sylus’s gaze lowered, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the spot where her spit had landed. The movement was slow, deliberate, the kind of motion that made it clear he wasn’t ignoring the insult—he was acknowledging it. Time seemed to stretch unbearably as he remained still, staring at the ground as if weighing his response. The air felt charged, oppressive, like the moment before a storm.

When he finally looked up, his expression was unreadable, his sharp features calm yet dangerous. Clara met his gaze head-on, her chin raised defiantly, her body language radiating a kind of reckless bravery. She’d made her point, and she wasn’t backing down, but even so, the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her nerves.

Sylus tilted his head ever so slightly, a faint, unsettling smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The contrast between his calm demeanor and the oppressive weight of his presence was enough to make a few customers shift uncomfortably in their seats.

“This is…” he began, his voice smooth as velvet, yet laced with something sharp and dangerous, “rather disappointing.”

The simplicity of the statement carried an unsettling finality, as though he were speaking to a child who had failed to meet his expectations rather than a woman who had just spit at him. He straightened to his full height, towering over Clara and everyone else in the room, and began brushing off his jacket with slow, deliberate movements. The gesture was almost casual, but there was a precision to it, a hint of control that was impossible to ignore.

“But I understand,” he continued, his tone calm, measured, and far too composed given the circumstances. His eyes flicked over Clara, taking in every detail of her stance, her expression, the subtle quiver in her jaw that she likely thought she’d hidden well. “Loyalty is…admirable.”

He let the words linger in the air, his voice softening slightly as if offering her a compliment. But the underlying menace in his tone was unmistakable, and everyone in the room felt it. Clara’s expression didn’t waver, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed her eyes for the briefest of moments.

Sylus stepped back, his hands sliding into his pockets with a grace that belied the simmering tension beneath the surface. “It’s a rare quality these days,” he added, his gaze never leaving Clara’s. “But rare qualities often come at a cost, don’t they?”

The room was suffocatingly quiet as Sylus turned on his heel, his movements fluid and unhurried. He strode toward the door, the sound of his polished shoes against the linoleum floor echoing in the silence. His men followed closely, their sharp eyes flicking between Clara and their boss, but none of them spoke.

Clara stood rooted to the spot, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her jaw clenched. She didn’t say another word as Sylus reached the door, but her eyes burned with a mixture of defiance and unease. The other diners and customers watched the scene unfold with bated breath, their gazes darting between Clara and the imposing man who had just been so casually insulted.

As Sylus reached the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder with a faint smirk. “Enjoy your evening, Clara. It’s a nice little diner you have here.” His tone was polite, almost conversational, but there was an unmistakable edge to his words—a quiet promise that this wasn’t over.

He motioned for his men to follow, and they did so without hesitation, their heavy boots echoing against the diner’s tiled floor. The room remained silent as the group exited, the bell on the door jingling faintly as it swung shut behind them.

Clara remained where she was, her arms still crossed, her jaw tight as her brother approached her cautiously.

“You think that was smart?” he muttered, his voice low but tinged with worry. “Spittin at a guy like that?”

“He needed to know I don’t scare easy,” Clara snapped, though her voice wasn’t as steady as she would’ve liked. She reached for another cigarette, her fingers trembling slightly as she lit it. “And I don’t regret it.”

Her brother glanced toward the door, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t know, Clara… Something about him. He’s not like the usual riffraff that comes around here.”

“Let him try something,” she said stubbornly, exhaling a puff of smoke. “I’m not scared of men like him. I dealt with those kind of men before".

Outside, the rain poured steadily, drenching the streets and forming shallow puddles on the cracked asphalt. Sylus stopped just short of the car, his gaze fixed on the neon lights of the diner sign reflected in the water. His calm demeanor had not wavered, but there was a simmering intensity in his eyes that his men knew better than to question.

“Keep an eye on her,” Sylus said, his voice low but commanding. “I'll have Mephisto tracking her every move. And you two…” He turned his gaze to Luke and Kieran, who stood at attention despite the rain soaking their suits. “Do a deep dive on everything you can find about this…Clara. Where she lives, who she associates with, what her connections are. Be prepared for anything.”

“Yes, boss!” they replied in unison, nodding behind their bird masks.

Sylus finally slid into the car, his fingers drumming against his knee as he stared out at the rain-slicked streets. They were closing in, he could feel it. You weren’t far now, and Clara’s defiance wouldn’t change the inevitable.

Sylus sat in the plush armchair of his hotel suite, his gaze fixed on the rain streaking down the window. His fingers traced the edge of his glass absently, the remnants of whiskey untouched. The room was dimly lit, quiet except for the soft crackle of the record spinning in the corner—a slow, haunting melody that only amplified the weight in his chest.

He had spent days combing through every scrap of evidence, piecing together your trail. Tailing Clara had proven to be lackluster so far, she hadn't even left town yet. Though the twins had dug up some very interesting information on her. Mephisto, despite scouring the skies once more, had failed to catch sight of you. You definitely weren't in town anymore.

His men were following faint whispers and dead ends. He had instructed them to monitor every hospital in a 100 mile radius for any recent recorded births of newborn girls. But every hour that passed without progress was like a tightening noose, and yet he refused to show it. Composure was his weapon, his armor. But even he couldn’t ignore the ache growing in his chest.

You were out there, somewhere. Alone. Pregnant.

Sylus exhaled slowly, setting his glass down on the table with more force than he intended. A faint crack spread through the delicate crystal, but he ignored it. He had cracked a bunch of glasses so far out of pure frustration. His focus was on the desk before him—a small array of equipment spread out meticulously. Tapping into landlines in a radius as outdated as Brunswick hadn’t been difficult, but it had been tedious. He had been listening for hours, catching only irrelevant snippets of conversations. Most people had moved on to cell phones, but he had banked on the idea that you, in a remote farmhouse, might rely on older means of communication.

Then, he finally heard it.

“Ah, hello! Sorry to bother, but my chest really hurts. Do you think you could—”

His breath hitched, sharp and immediate, his entire body going still as the familiar sound of your voice filled the room. For a moment, he thought he had imagined it, that his mind had conjured your voice to taunt him in his desperation. But no, it was you. Your tone carried a trembling edge of discomfort, the exact cadence of your words unmistakable. Sylus’s hand tightened around the phone receiver, his knuckles whitening. A flicker of relief—raw and unguarded—shot through him, mingling with an almost overwhelming ache.

You were alive. You were speaking. And for the first time in days, you weren’t just a figure on a screen or a phantom in his thoughts.

He barely registered the next words coming out of his mouth, his voice soft yet urgent, as though afraid you might disappear if he spoke too loudly. “Your chest?” he interrupted, the sharp edge of his concern cutting through the air. “What’s wrong, kitten?”

He could imagine you now, frozen on the other end of the line, your shock palpable even through the silence. He closed his eyes for a fleeting second, relief washing over him again—but it wasn’t enough to soothe the simmering tension in his chest. You weren’t safe, you weren’t with him, and the sound of your voice only made the ache sharper.

The silence stretched, the faint static of the landline filling the gap, and his grip on the receiver tightened. “Cat got your tongue?” he asked again, his tone gentler now but tinged with an unmistakable vulnerability. Despite himself, a flicker of longing crept into his voice, betraying the iron-clad control he so carefully maintained.

And then your response came, sharp and venomous, cutting through the moment like a blade. “Leave me the fuck alone!” you snapped, your voice trembling with rage. “I swear to God, if you come near me—”

“Now, now,” he interjected smoothly, forcing his voice to remain calm even as your anger formed a greater ache in his heart. He leaned back in his chair, his free hand coming up to rub at the tightness forming at his temple. “Don’t yell. It’s not good for your heart.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his mind racing to piece together the fragile moment. “I’m just calling to see how you’re doing. It seems you’ve hidden in a place even I can’t find. You could make this easy and just tell me where you are, sweetie. I’m worried.”

Worried. The word hung in the air, heavy with meaning. He meant it more than he cared to admit, but he could already hear the scoff building in your chest.

“Ha!” you spat, disbelief and fury dripping from your tone. “As if…why would I willingly throw myself into another one of your punishments?”

The accusation hit harder than he expected, though he masked it well. His jaw tightened, his mind replaying every moment that had led to this. Did you truly believe that’s what he wanted? His fingers flexed against the phone, his voice softening as he leaned forward again.

“Honey,” he said, his tone a rare blend of tenderness and exasperation. “Do you honestly think I’m going to punish you? I just want you to be safe. You’re about to give birth, and you running away doesn’t anger me. I only care about you and our daughter.”

He paused, the weight of his own words settling over him. He could hear your unsteady breathing on the other end, could picture you clutching the phone with trembling hands. The thought made his chest tighten further. He wanted to reach through the line, to hold you, to convince you that you didn’t have to keep running. That you never had to run in the first place.

“No,” you said coldly, your voice sharp and unyielding. “If you really cared, you’d leave me alone.”

Sylus didn’t respond immediately. The line crackled faintly with static, but he could still hear the rhythm of your breathing on the other end, shallow and uneven. It was a sound that tightened something deep in his chest, an ache he couldn’t quite suppress. He exhaled slowly, his grip on the receiver firm but controlled. Even from miles away, he could feel your defiance—your fury. He admired it, in a way, even as it frustrated him.

“I can’t do that,” he said at last, his voice soft but resolute. “You’re mine, kitten. I’ll always come for you.”

The words hung in the air, their weight unmistakable, and Sylus knew they would provoke you. He braced himself, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips despite the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

“You fucking basta—”

“I just want to know if you’re taking care of yourself,” Sylus cut in smoothly, his tone gentle yet unshakable. He shifted in his chair, his crimson eyes fixed on the window as he spoke. “Landlines are a lot harder to track, y’know. If it makes you feel better, I don’t have your location, so don’t panic or get yourself worked up. I just know a few tricks…and happened to get lucky.”

Lucky. The word was carefully chosen, designed to downplay the extent of his efforts to reach you. It wasn’t entirely true—he had poured countless hours into chasing this faint lead—but he didn’t want you spiraling. Not yet. Not until he had you back where you belonged. He let the silence stretch, listening intently for your response, hoping for something—anything—that would tell him you weren’t hurting yourself out of stubborn pride.

Then he broke the silence again, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “Are you eating? How’s the baby?”

The question was simple, but the act of asking it stirred something raw within him. He pictured you, clutching your belly, maybe curled up on some cold floor without food or warmth. His chest tightened at the thought. The baby. His baby. He wanted to believe you were keeping yourself safe for her sake, but your defiance worried him. How far would you go to prove a point? Would you risk your own health just to spite him?

He leaned forward, his elbow resting on his knee, his free hand brushing through his hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this…powerless. Every fiber of his being was wired for control, but right now, the only thing he could do was keep you on the phone. Convince you to listen. Convince you to trust him, just enough to keep yourself alive until he could find you.

“Fuck you,” you spat, your voice breaking under the weight of your emotions. “I’m alive, aren’t I? That’s all you care about, right?”

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose. “That’s not true,” he said, his voice quieter now, carrying an uncharacteristic gentleness. “I care about more than that. I care about you.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating, your skepticism tangible even without words. He could feel the barrier you had put up, the walls he had driven you to build, and the thought clawed at him. Was this his fault? No, he told himself. He had done what was necessary. He had protected you, even if you didn’t see it that way.

“You don’t get to do this,” you said, quieter now but no less sharp. “You don’t get to act like you care after everything you’ve done. Just…leave me alone.”

“I already said I can’t do that, kitten,” Sylus replied, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. “You know I can’t. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Well, I am,” you snapped, the fire back in your voice. “Now stop calling me.”

There was a long pause. He considered his words carefully, knowing this might be the last time he heard your voice for a while. Finally, he spoke, his tone softer than before. “I won’t call again, if that’s what you want. But you should know…I’ll still be looking. And I will find you. Not to hurt you, but because I want to protect you. To be there for you. You and our daughter.”

Your bitter laugh rang through the line, sharp and cutting. “Protect me? From what? You’re the only threat I need protection from, Sylus.”

The words hit their mark, sharper than any blade, but Sylus didn’t let it show. “Believe what you want,” he said quietly. “But if something happens, call me. Please. You have this number.”

The line went dead. Sylus sat there for a long moment, the silence of the room enveloping him as he set the receiver down. The ache in his chest hadn’t lessened—in fact, it had only grown. You were alive, but you weren’t safe. And until you were back in his arms, he would never stop searching.

Sylus sat back in the dim light of his hotel room, the flicker of the city outside casting long shadows across his face. He tipped his glass back, the sharp burn of whiskey sliding down his throat, but it did little to dull the ache gnawing at his chest. His nerves were raw, his thoughts scattered. No one—no one—had ever driven him to the edge like this. On the outside, his expression was stone-cold, his eyes unyielding, but inside…inside he was a storm of chaos.

He reached for the bottle and poured another glass, his hand steady despite the fire raging in his veins. The memory of your voice on the phone echoed in his mind, a haunting melody he couldn’t shake. The anger in your words, the defiance—it clawed at him, driving him to drink more, to try and calm the madness building inside him.

This Clara woman. The name lingered bitterly on his tongue as he downed the next glass. She had to have you. There was no other explanation. It wasn’t coincidence. It was her meddling that had you hiding, keeping you and the baby away from him. The thought of you, pregnant with his child, under another’s roof—it ignited something feral in him. Clara wasn’t just keeping you from him. She was ruining everything.

But it wasn’t just her that left him seething. It was you. He told himself he wouldn't be angry with you, and he wasn't fully. But god it was frustrated him to his core.

His jaw tightened as he poured yet another glass, the amber liquid rippling under his gaze. How could you leave at a time like this? The thought rattled in his mind like a broken mantra. Throwing yourself into danger—for what? Did he not provide well enough for you? Did he not protect you, give you everything you could possibly need? His hand clenched around the glass so tightly that he was surprised it didn’t crack like the rest.

Was it the hormones? The thought crossed his mind briefly, though it felt like an excuse. He knew he wasn’t a perfect man—far from it—but he hadn’t been that bad, had he? No, there had to be more. Something deeper. Something he hadn’t seen coming.

And yet, even as frustration bubbled under his skin, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about you, about the time you stood before him, declaring your love in front of Xavier. He closed his eyes, and for a brief, fleeting moment, he could feel your lips on his again. Soft, warm, yielding. He had felt the fire in that kiss, the passion. He had felt you give yourself to him, even if just for a moment. And when he’d wrapped his arms around you, it had been more than just possession—it had been triumph.

You chose me, he thought bitterly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. In that moment, nothing else in the world had mattered. Not Xavier, not the lies, not even the inevitability of the situation. You had chosen him, and it had been the purest form of happiness he had ever felt.

But now? Now, you had ripped that happiness from him. You had shattered the illusion. You had run, throwing yourself into danger like some reckless fool. Did you even realize how precarious your situation was? Waving a gun at people in broad daylight, pregnant and vulnerable—it made his blood boil to think of it. You were lucky, so damn lucky, that he’d already paid someone to erase the footage from the bus. If he hadn’t, who knows what kind of situation you might be in right now.

I’m the one cleaning up all your messes. Because I care about you. Because I’m responsible for you.

Anyone else might have laughed at the absurdity of it, but Sylus didn’t find it amusing. He saw the danger in it, the recklessness that could’ve gotten you killed—or worse. He’d paid a small fortune to ensure the footage was erased, scrubbing away any trace of your actions.

Why? Because that’s what he did. He protected you, even from yourself.

No one else in the world would’ve done that for you, and yet, here he was, covering your tracks, cleaning up the fallout of your decisions. It wasn’t out of obligation, no. It was because you were pregnant with his child. Because you were his. And that meant something. It meant everything.

You might have been running, fighting to stay away from him, but Sylus knew the truth. He was the only one who could truly take care of you. Not Clara. Not Xavier. Him. And the fact that you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see that gnawed at him in a way nothing else could.

He rubbed his temples, letting out a low sigh as the thoughts churned in his mind. He had sacrificed so much already, bending his rules, softening his nature, all for you. And yet, here you were, throwing yourself into chaos, dragging his child along with you. Did you even realize what you were doing? How much he was trying for you? For her?

He rubbed his temples harder, his teeth grinding against each other as he tried to rein in his spiraling thoughts. Why did you leave? The question gnawed at him, refusing to let him rest. Did you really not trust him? Was he truly so unbearable in your eyes?

He slammed his glass down on the table, whiskey sloshing over the edges as a low growl escaped his throat. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were supposed to stay. To build a life with him and the baby. To be safe, protected, and adored.

He grabbed the whiskey bottle again, pausing briefly as his mind wandered back to the phone call. The way your voice trembled, the anger and fear laced through it—it wasn’t hatred he had heard. It was pain. Hurt. Exhaustion. And that realization, as much as he hated to admit it, carved a hole through his chest.

No matter how much he wanted to be angry at you for this, no matter how much your defiance infuriated him, Sylus couldn’t shake the truth. He didn’t just want you back because of control. He wanted you because, without you, nothing felt right.

It was himself that he was truly mad at.

You were his anchor in a world that otherwise felt too hollow.

He loved you. What had started as obsession had bloomed into an emotion he never thought was possible for a fiend like him.

And he would have you back, no matter what it took.

You had finally forced yourself to get up, your entire body feeling like it had been run over by a freight train. But you had no choice—your daughter needed you. The umbilical cord still connected the two of you, a fragile and grotesque reminder of the bond you shared, but one that couldn’t remain uncut for long. One of the books you had read, back at the library, had mentioned that leaving it uncut for too long could lead to complications. You clung to that fragment of knowledge like a lifeline, despite how much the words in those books had overwhelmed you at the time.

Careful not to tug on the cord, you steadied yourself as you walked through the bloodied chaos of the farmhouse, scanning frantically for scissors. Each step sent a fresh wave of ache through your legs and abdomen, but you gritted your teeth and pressed on. Your daughter’s cries echoed on your chest, high-pitched and relentless, making your chest tighten with every passing second. You cursed yourself under your breath for being so unprepared. How could you not have scissors? How could you be this careless?

Your search came up empty, and you were out of time. Panic clawed at your throat as you realized you’d have to improvise. You grabbed a knife from the kitchen, its blade duller than you’d have liked but better than nothing. Returning to the couch, you set down your baby, carefully unwrapped the bundle of blankets surrounding her, trying not to jostle her too much. She immediately let out an ear-splitting wail, her tiny face scrunching up as if she could sense your hesitation.

“I’m so sorry,” you murmured, your voice trembling as tears pricked the corners of your eyes. “Just hold on, okay? I’ll be fast, I promise.”

Your hands shook as you positioned the knife against the cord, working slowly and methodically to avoid cutting too close to her delicate belly button—or slicing yourself in the process. Her cries grew louder, piercing your ears, and you felt your stomach churn with guilt and terror. Finally, the knife finally cut through the cord, and the severed piece fell to the floor. You pulled the other end out of you. Relief washed over you like a wave, and you exhaled shakily, wiping the sweat from your brow.

But the relief was short-lived. Your daughter continued to scream on the couch, her tiny fists flailing as her cries filled the room. The sound was unbearable, each shrill wail slicing through your nerves and making your heart pound harder in your chest. You froze, staring at her with wide, panicked eyes.

What do I do next!?

Your mind was a foggy mess, every thought tripping over itself in a jumbled cacophony. The books didn’t prepare you for this. Nothing did.

The placenta! Right. The placenta was supposed to come too, wasn’t it? But…how to get it out? Had it detached already? Wasn’t that supposed to happen naturally? Or did you have to do something? Your daze deepened, and for a moment, all you could hear was the sound of her crying and the rush of your own panicked thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, your voice breaking as tears slipped down your cheeks. You bent down and scooped her up into your arms, cradling her against your chest. “I’m such an idiot. You’re cold. I’m so sorry.”

You rushed toward the bathroom, your feet slipping slightly on the blood-streaked floor. Your whole body was trembling, and you tried to push the thought of how much blood you were losing out of your mind. None of it mattered—not the mess, not the pain, not the dizziness threatening to topple you over. The only thing that mattered was keeping her safe, keeping her warm.

Reaching the bathroom, you stumbled toward the sink, fumbling to turn on the tap. Warm water poured out, and you carefully tested it with your fingers before holding your daughter closer. She was still wailing, her little face strained and scrunched, her tiny body trembling. You could see that she was smeared in fluids and blood, her delicate skin slick and sticky. You didn’t even have proper baby soap—just an old bar of mild hand soap sitting in a dish on the counter.

“I’ll make this quick,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Gingerly, you eased her into the sink, supporting her head and neck with one hand while your other hand gently rinsed her off. Her cries didn’t stop, but they softened slightly as the warm water cascaded over her tiny body. You worked as quickly and carefully as you could, washing away the mess and trying to keep her warm. Your movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, your exhaustion making it hard to focus. But somehow, you managed to clean her up, wrapping her tightly in a fresh towel as soon as you were done.

You sank to the bathroom floor, clutching her against your chest as your tears fell freely now. She had stopped crying, her little whimpers the only sound in the room. You held her close, rocking her gently as you tried to catch your breath. The enormity of what had just happened began to sink in, and for the first time since she was born, you let yourself feel the weight of it all.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whispered to her, your voice shaky and raw. “But I promise, I’ll try. I’ll keep you safe, no matter what.”

Your daughter let out a tiny, almost contented sigh, her head resting against your chest. It was enough to make you believe, if only for a moment, that maybe—just maybe—you could do this.

The feeling of calm was very short-lived.

As you scoured the bedroom for the baby clothes and diapers Clara had so thoughtfully left for you, your daughter began to whine. At first, it was just a small noise, barely a fuss, as she squirmed against your chest. You tried to ignore it, assuming she was just getting used to her new environment. But the whining didn’t stop. It quickly grew into a louder cry, her little face scrunching up as her mouth opened wide in protest.

“What now?” you muttered, panicked, as you gently laid her on the bed. Her tiny hands balled into fists, her little legs kicking in frustration. You saw her sucking on her hand—a cute gesture at first—but it did nothing to calm her cries.

“Okay, okay, let’s get you dressed first. You’ll be warm, and then…I’ll figure it out,” you said, your voice trembling as you rummaged through the small pile of baby clothes and diapers. They were plain and white diapers, free of patterns or labels to distinguish sizes, leaving you to just grab the first onesie and diaper your hands touched. You spread them out on the bed, eyeing them like they were some kind of puzzle.

“Front? Back?” You turned the diaper over twice, squinting at it before settling on a side and hoping for the best. “This has to be right.”

Your daughter’s cries grew louder, and you felt a pang of guilt twist in your chest. Were you taking too long? Were you already failing her? “I’m going as fast as I can,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to her, as you carefully picked up her wriggling form. “It’s okay, baby girl. This will be warm. You want to be warm, don’t you?”

You tried to keep your voice calm and soothing, but it wavered as tears pricked at the edges of your eyes. With shaky hands, you lifted her to get her diaper on, and guided her tiny arms into the sleeves of the onesie, wincing every time she let out a sharp wail. She wailed with every little movement, her face reddening as if the whole process was an unbearable ordeal. You paused, staring at her tear-streaked face, and wondered if you were hurting her. Were you being too rough? Did babies cry this much all the time, or were you already screwing up?

Tears began to spill down your cheeks as your shaking hands snapped the buttons of the onesie closed. “It’s okay, sweet girl. Mommy’s trying her best. I promise, I’m trying,” you whimpered, wiping your tears so you could see what you were doing. “You’re warm now, see? That’s better, right?”

But it wasn’t. The moment you lifted her back into your arms, she started screaming even louder, her tiny lungs producing a sound far bigger than her little body should have been capable of. You rocked her gently, pacing back and forth in the room, bouncing her as you’d seen mothers do in movies. “Shh, shh, it’s okay. Mommy’s here,” you whispered, though the tears in your voice made the words sound hollow. Her cries didn’t cease.

“Waaaah! Waaaaah!”

You felt helpless, completely lost. The weight of the moment pressed down on you like a crushing wave, and for the first time since you’d held your daughter, the overwhelming sense of failure hit you square in the chest. Tears streamed down your cheeks as her cries only grew louder, shriller, piercing through what little resolve you had left. You clutched her to your chest, rocking her frantically, trying to do something—anything—to soothe her.

“I don’t know what to do,” you sobbed, your voice trembling with desperation. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

She didn’t calm. Her tiny body wriggled in your arms, her face red and scrunched in frustration, and all you could do was hold her tighter. You whispered apologies into her soft hair, hoping somehow the sound of your voice would ease her, but it didn’t. Nothing did.

As you paced the room, your foot hit something on the floor, making you stumble slightly. You gasped, clutching your daughter tighter to your chest as your eyes darted downward. There, near your feet, was a bottle—small, clear, rolling slightly from the impact. It must’ve fallen out of the cabinet earlier, completely overlooked in your frantic search for supplies. You stared at it, realization dawning slowly.

“Oh my God…” you breathed, your voice hitching in relief. A small, tearful laugh escaped your lips as you looked down at your still-screaming daughter. “Mommy’s such an idiot, huh? You’re hungry. Of course. You’re hungry.”

Setting the bottle down on the bed for a moment, you sat on the edge, still clutching your daughter to your chest. She hadn’t stopped crying, her tiny fists still flailing, her legs kicking out against your arms. You stared down at her face—red and streaked with tears—and felt your chest tighten. She was so small, so delicate, so utterly dependent on you. And you…you didn’t know what you were doing.

“I’m sorry, baby. Let’s try this, okay? I’m new at this too,” you whispered, your voice shaky as you pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. You hesitated for a moment, your mind flashing back to the books you’d read. They’d said breastfeeding was natural, instinctual, something your body and your baby would know how to do without being taught. But as you looked at her, squirming and wailing in your arms, a wave of doubt washed over you. What if they were wrong? What if you couldn’t do this? What if she couldn’t? Was there even enough milk for her? Would you fail at this, too?

Your hands trembled as you adjusted your shirt, exposing your breast. The cool air against your skin made you shiver, but the feeling was quickly drowned out by the overwhelming pressure of the moment. You tried to guide her tiny mouth to latch, but her cries didn’t let up. If anything, she seemed even more frustrated, turning her head away and squirming against your hold. Her little fists pounded against your chest, her movements wild and uncoordinated.

“Waaaah! Waaaah!” Her cries pierced through you, sharp and unforgiving, like daggers to your already fragile nerves. You bit your lip, trying to keep from sobbing again. The last thing she needed was for you to completely fall apart.

“Shh, shh. Please, sweetheart, just try,” you murmured, your voice breaking as you stroked her soft cheek with your thumb. “I’m so sorry, I’m not good at this. I’ll get better, I promise. Just…just give me a chance.”

You adjusted her position, angling her tiny body the way the books had described, but every time you thought you were close, she turned her head or whimpered louder. Frustration bubbled up in your chest, not at her, but at yourself. How could you not know how to do this? You were her mother. This was supposed to come naturally, wasn’t it? Wasn’t this what your body was meant to do?

“I’m trying,” you whispered, your tears dripping onto her blanket as you rocked her gently. “Please, baby girl. Please just try for me.”

It felt like an eternity—an endless cycle of adjusting, soothing, repositioning—until finally, she latched. You froze, your breath catching as you felt the slight pull and the soft, rhythmic motions of her mouth. Relief flooded through you so quickly it made your head spin, and you gasped, a shaky laugh escaping your lips.

“There you go,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re doing so good, baby girl. That’s it.”

Her cries faded into quiet, contented gulps as she suckled, her little hands still curled into fists against your chest. You stared down at her, tears still slipping down your cheeks, but now they weren’t just from frustration. They were from relief, from awe, from the overwhelming realization that, somehow, you’d done it. She was feeding. She was okay.

The room fell into a fragile silence, broken only by her small, hungry gulps and the occasional hitch in your breath as you calmed yourself. You stared down at her, her tiny body curled against yours, and despite the overwhelming fear and exhaustion, you felt a small flicker of hope.

Your heart ached as you watched her, her tiny body nestled against yours. You’d never felt so raw, so vulnerable, so utterly exposed. You didn’t feel like a perfect mother—you didn’t even feel like a good one. But you were all she had at that moment, and you were never one to not give something your all.

You couldn’t believe how long she fed. Was this normal? Surely newborns didn’t eat this much, right? You tried to remember the books you’d read, flipping through the mental pages like a frantic librarian. They’d said to let her nurse for a minute or two, then burp her. Even though breastfed babies didn’t need to be burped as often, you wanted to be thorough, to make sure you were doing everything right. She deserved that much after your rocky start.

When you noticed the absence of pulling, you looked down. Her tiny mouth was still latched, but her eyes were closed, and her breaths were soft and even. She was fast asleep, her belly clearly full from milk. Relief washed over you, but it was accompanied by a crushing wave of guilt.

Her face was still slightly strained from crying, her little cheeks blotchy and swollen. The sight tugged at your heartstrings, and you felt shame creep into your chest. How had it taken you so long to realize she was hungry? Of course, a newborn would be starving after being born into the world. You sighed, feeling the weight of your failure settle into your shoulders. “I’m sorry,” you whispered softly.

Leaning down, you placed a small, awkward kiss on her tiny forehead. It felt...correct. Not overwhelming, not like the magical, joyful moment you’d read about in books or seen in movies. But correct. You were still in shock, your mind barely able to process everything that had happened in the last several hours, but this—holding her, caring for her—was something you could hold onto. Something to do. Something that made the chaos a little more bearable.

Carefully, you adjusted your shirt, covering your breast again, and slowly stood. Your legs still felt weak, trembling slightly as you shifted your weight. You held her close, making your way toward the crib Clara had set up for her. Each step felt like an exercise in precision, your body tense with the fear of waking her. When you reached the crib, you hesitated, your nerves making your hands tremble as you lowered her into the soft bedding.

She twitched a little, her tiny limbs flailing for a moment before settling again. Her breaths came out in soft, rhythmic sighs, and you found yourself standing there, just listening to the sound. It was oddly calming, like a reminder that for now, she was okay. You took a step back, then another, your eyes never leaving her tiny form until you were out of the room.

Once the door clicked shut behind you, the reality of everything came crashing back. You glanced around the house and felt a lump form in your throat. The place was a mess. Blood splattered across the floor, streaks dried and crusted in places where you’d stumbled earlier. The broken window from the Sawshredder let in a faint chill, and glass shards glittered under the pale moonlight streaming through the gap. You exhaled shakily. There was so much to do, and your body ached from head to toe.

You shuffled into the bathroom, your legs heavy and unsteady, and climbed into the tub. The warm water hit your skin, and you hissed at the sting as it washed over the raw, tender areas. You winced as you began to scrub away the layers of dried blood and fluids. It was everywhere—your thighs, your legs, and even had dripped to your ankles. The metallic smell lingered, even as the water ran pink and swirled down the drain.

As you cleaned yourself, your mind wandered. Had you torn? You weren’t sure. You weren’t about to check yourself, either. You found some pads and doubled them up, making a makeshift diaper of sorts along with some underwear. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. You grimaced as you moved, every slight motion sending a dull ache through your abdomen and lower back.

You even managed to get the placenta out. How you did so? You didn't want to think about it anymore. The whole process had been...uncomfortable. Thank god for those books though.

You stepped out of the tub, pulling on a loose shirt and Clara’s oversized sweatpants. They hung low on your hips, but at least they were clean. That was more than you could say for the rest of the house.

Dragging yourself back into the main room, you surveyed the carnage. The blood smears on the floor, the glass from the shattered window, the umbilical cord still lying forgotten in a corner. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to move. You couldn’t leave it like this—not with her here. Clara certainly shouldn't have to come back to this mess.

Grabbing an old towel and some cleaning supplies, you knelt down and began to scrub the bloodstains. The dried patches took more effort, and each swipe sent a sharp reminder of how sore your body was. You muttered under your breath as you worked, cursing yourself for not being more prepared, for not having someone here to help. “This is what I wanted, though, right?” you said bitterly to no one. “Freedom. To do this on my own.”

When the stains were finally gone, you turned your attention to the broken window. The jagged edges of glass glinted like teeth, and you carefully picked up the larger shards, tossing them into the trash. You’d have to board it up with something. You couldn’t risk her getting cold—or worse, another attack.

Finally, you grabbed the umbilical cord and placenta, wrapping them in an old plastic bag. It felt wrong, disrespectful somehow, to just throw them away like trash, but what else could you do? The thought made your stomach churn, but you forced yourself to move, tying the bag tightly before tossing it outside in the bin.

By the time you finished, you were utterly spent. Every muscle in your body screamed in protest as you collapsed onto your bed. You closed your eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. Your mind wouldn’t let you rest. You thought of her tiny cries, the feel of her soft skin, the weight of her in your arms. She was here. She was real. And she depended on you for everything.

No pressure, right?

You were jolted awake by the sharp, piercing cries that had become all too familiar. Every hour. Nonstop. Was this the seventh time? Eighth? You had lost count somewhere in the haze of sleeplessness, your body and mind running on fumes. The world felt like it was spinning as you staggered toward the crib, groggy and heavy-limbed, clutching onto the faint light of determination to keep moving.

The cries grew louder as you approached. “Waaah! Waaah!” she wailed, her tiny fists flailing as she suckled furiously on one of them. You had come to recognize this as her hunger cue—a useful tell, sure, but it didn’t make the constant crying and relentless lack of sleep any easier to bear.

“Please…” you whined softly, your voice barely audible over her cries. “Just sleep…a little longer…for mommy, okay?” But you already knew it was futile. She wasn’t going to stop. The second you picked her up, she quieted just a fraction, her little body curling into you instinctively.

Your head throbbed, and every muscle in your body protested as you shuffled back to the bed, sinking into the mattress like a dead weight. As much as you cared for her, you had never felt more unnerved in your life. Her cries sent a shot of adrenaline through you every single time, as if something inside your brain had rewired itself to panic at the sound. You felt like a marionette on strings, moving automatically, barely able to think beyond her immediate needs.

You adjusted your shirt and guided her to latch, wincing at the familiar sting as she began to feed. Her tiny mouth worked hungrily, her desperate noises quieting into soft, rhythmic gulps. “There… you’re okay now,” you whispered, trying to soothe her even as your voice trembled with exhaustion.

Your tired mind began to wander, the lull of the moment allowing intrusive thoughts to creep in. Despite yourself, you thought of Sylus. He should be doing this, not you. This was his idea, his plan, his twisted way of controlling your life. He should be the one awake every hour, running on no sleep, dealing with the endless cycle of feeding, crying, and cleaning.

The thought made your chest tighten, and you quickly shook your head, trying to push it away. Sylus was the last person who should be near her right now. He was dangerous, suffocating. She deserved better than that. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t fully banish the image of him from your mind. His voice still echoed there, his gentle words from the phone call playing on a loop.

“Are you eating? How’s the baby?”

You scowled, clenching your jaw as you rocked your daughter gently in your arms. You didn’t want to think about him, didn’t want him to have any more space in your head. But the exhaustion was wearing down your defenses, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you wondered what he was doing now. Was he still looking for you? Of course, he was. Sylus never gave up on anything, especially not you.

Your thoughts shifted to Clara. Maybe you should call her? She had said to reach out if you needed anything, and you knew you could use some help. But the memory of that last phone call with Sylus stopped you cold. What if he answered again? He had promised not to do it again, but Sylus and promises didn’t exactly go hand in hand. The risk felt too great, the possibility of hearing his voice again too unnerving.

You sighed, closing your eyes as your daughter’s feeding slowed. She began to doze off against your chest, her tiny body warm and soft in your arms. For a moment, you just sat there, holding her, feeling the weight of her tiny life against you. It was overwhelming. Terrifying. Beautiful. And utterly exhausting.

“We got this, don't we?” you whispered softly, brushing a finger over her delicate cheek. She didn’t stir, her little mouth slightly open now as she drifted into a deep sleep.

As much as you wanted to join her, you knew the moment you set her down in the crib, she’d start crying again. It was only a matter of time. You looked down at her peaceful face, your chest tightening with a mixture of adoration and guilt. You felt like you were drowning, and yet, she was the only thing keeping you afloat.

The hours stretched endlessly ahead, and you had no idea how you were going to make it through the night. But for now, in this fleeting moment of quiet, you just held her close, trying to push away the weight of the world. It was just you and her against everything. And you were going to do your best. Somehow.

The morning sun shined through the curtains, casting long, sleepy shadows across the room. You stood at the bedside, eyes heavy with exhaustion, reaching for a fresh diaper. Your body felt as though it had been wrung dry, every muscle aching from a night of no sleep and constant cries. It must have been the seventh time she’d woken up—was it the eighth? You didn’t know anymore. The hours had blurred into each other, leaving you in a daze.

Her whines started up again, soft but insistent, quickly climbing to a full-blown wail. “Waaah! Waaaah!” she cried, tiny fists waving angrily in the air. You let out a tired sigh as you opened the curtains, and then gently picked her up from the crib, her warmth a small comfort against your chilled arms.

The front of your shirt was damp with breastmilk—cold and sticky against your skin, making you shiver. You grimaced, setting her down on the bed and reaching for the diaper. “Okay, baby girl, let’s get this sorted,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. She kicked her little legs in protest as you worked quickly, removing the soaked diaper and replacing it with a fresh one.

You were shocked when she didn’t cry during the change—she wailed at the cold feel of the wipes all last night. But instead of protesting, she blinked sleepily, her tiny mouth forming an “O” as if she were just as exhausted as you were. "You're tired too, huh?" you mumbled, brushing a hand over her impossibly soft hair.

When you finally buttoned her onesie and tossed the old diaper into the trash, she was fast asleep again. Her face, still puffy from crying through the night, seemed impossibly peaceful now. A pang of guilt swelled in your chest. She deserved better.

You glanced at your daughter as she drifted back to sleep in her crib, her tiny body swaddled snugly. Her face was peaceful now, her soft breaths the only sound in the room. The sight should have filled you with warmth, but instead, it left you feeling…disconnected. It was like looking at someone you’d just met—someone you were supposed to love unconditionally but didn’t quite know yet. You cared about her, of course. But was it love? Or just the responsibility of knowing you were the only one she had?

Your shirt clung uncomfortably to your chest, damp and cold from the milk that had leaked during the night. You were freezing, and the stickiness against your skin only added to the discomfort. You needed to change. Quickly checking that your daughter was still asleep, you grabbed a fresh shirt from the bedroom and headed to the bathroom.

In the harsh bathroom light, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The person staring back didn’t feel like you. Dark circles framed your eyes, and your hair was a tangled mess. Your face was strained, drawn tight with exhaustion. You peeled off your soaked shirt, wincing as the cold air hit your skin, and replaced the pads you’d stuffed into your underwear. The ache in your lower body was still there, every step a painful reminder of what you’d gone through. Should you see a doctor? Maybe. But you weren’t bleeding heavily, and nothing felt wrong. At least, not yet. You decided to keep an eye on it, relying on the scraps of medical knowledge you’d picked up over the years.

"It’s fine," you whispered to yourself, your voice hollow. "It’s probably fine."

After changing into a clean shirt, you made your way to the kitchen, determined to eat something. The fridge greeted you with its dim light and meager contents: eggs, bacon, some chicken, a few frozen meals. You hesitated, your body screaming for something quick and easy, but you knew better. If you didn’t eat properly, you’d have no energy—and no milk for your daughter. Gotta eat to produce, right?

You pulled out some eggs and bacon, moving slowly and carefully. Every step felt like a marathon, every movement a test of endurance. Pain throbbed dully in your lower half, but you gritted your teeth and kept going. You’d been through worse. Or so you told yourself.

The sizzle of bacon hitting the pan filled the air, accompanied by the comforting smell of cooking meat. You stirred the eggs absentmindedly, your mind wandering.

How did it come to this? You thought about calling Clara, about asking her if this level of pain and exhaustion was normal. But then you thought about Sylus, about how easily he’d intercepted your last call. Could he do it again? The risk was too great.

You weren't ready to hear his voice again.

Once the food was ready, you sat at the small table, the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon steaming before you. You picked at the food slowly, your appetite dulled by fatigue. The thought of Sylus lingered in the back of your mind, gnawing at you. He should be the one doing this. He should be the one pacing back and forth at night, rocking a crying baby, trying to figure out how to soothe her. This was his idea, after all. His child. His responsibility.

But no. You shook the thought away, focusing on your meal. You reminded yourself that you could do this alone. You’d take it one day at a time. That’s all you could do.

As you scrubbed the last plate in the sink, the warm morning sun streamed through the window, casting soft golden light across the kitchen. The peaceful moment didn’t last long, though, as the sharp, familiar cry broke the stillness. You froze for a second, the sound sending an almost Pavlovian jolt of adrenaline through your body. Feeding time. Again. Of course.

You felt like your existence had been reduced to that of a milking machine.

You dried your hands on a nearby towel, walking toward the bedroom where your daughter’s wails were quickly escalating. It was like a bell tolling, one you couldn’t ignore no matter how drained you felt. Your heart pounded, the sheer exhaustion of it all threatening to consume you, but you pushed it down. She needed you. That was what mattered.

“Shhh, shhh. I know. You eat so much, huh?” you whispered softly as you picked her up. Her tiny hands flailed, her face red and scrunched in frustration. Settling on the edge of the bed, you adjusted your shirt and prepared to feed her. As soon as she latched, her cries quieted to soft whimpers, and the tension in your chest eased—slightly.

You leaned back, cradling her close, and allowed yourself a brief moment of stillness. As her little lips moved rhythmically, you found yourself studying her closely. Her delicate features were so much like your own, though Sylus’s traits were undeniable. It hit you again how much she looked like him, those tiny hints of him etched into her face like a cruel reminder.

But despite how much she resembled him, you couldn’t help but notice how healthy she appeared overall. Her skin was soft and smooth, her tiny fists full of energy as they flexed and curled. She seemed perfect on the outside. But what about the inside? Did she need a hospital? Could you even risk it?

Your mind spiraled. You couldn’t avoid it forever. If she got sick or needed something you couldn’t provide, you’d have to take her somewhere. Hospitals meant records, though. A birth certificate. Official acknowledgment of her existence. Wouldn’t that make it easier for Sylus to find her? To find you?

The thought of giving her up flickered briefly in your mind, guilt twisting your stomach into knots. It felt horrible, thinking about it. Unforgivable. But the rational part of you knew it wasn’t so simple. How could you protect her if you didn’t even know how to care for her properly? You sighed, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on your chest.

Your free hand moved almost automatically, tracing gentle circles on the top of her head to soothe both her and yourself. Her hair was baby soft, fine wisps that carried that distinct, sweet newborn scent. It calmed you a little, grounding you in the moment. But then your fingers froze.

There was something…hard under her hair. Confused, you pressed lightly, feeling again. Two small, firm spots, spaced apart but evenly placed. What the…?

Your stomach dropped, and you gently pushed her hair aside to get a better look. Nestled in the soft tufts of her hair were two tiny black dots. Hard, like little nubs. Your mind raced. Birth defect? Injury? Something Sylus passed down? You felt panic creeping in, your chest tightening as the possibilities swirled in your head.

Before you could think any further, she let out a piercing wail, yanking your attention back to her. “Oh, yeah, gotta burp you. Your tummy’s full” you cooed, forcing calm into your voice. You lifted her carefully onto your shoulder, patting her back with gentle but firm motions until a tiny burp escaped. But her crying didn’t stop.

“What’s wrong?” you murmured, holding her against your chest. “I fed you, your diaper shouldn’t be full…” But just to be sure, you set her down and checked. Dry as a desert.

Her cries only grew louder, her tiny face scrunching in distress. You felt like you were losing it. Nothing you did seemed to work. You rocked her, bounced her, even tried humming a soft lullaby, but she kept wailing, her little fists waving in the air as if to scold you for not understanding.

Her cries turned into screams, sharp and heart-wrenching. You noticed her tiny eyelids fluttering open, her milky crimson eyes squinting before she shut them tightly again, her face contorting in discomfort. A memory flashed in your mind—Sylus in the car, squinting his eyes from the sun as he had sat next to you.

“Are you…sensitive to light too?” you asked softly, staring down at her as if she’d answer. The thought made your heart ache. She had been in a bright room basically all morning, and you hadn’t even considered it. It made sense, given the rare color of her eyes.

You didn’t waste another second, rushing to the windows and yanking the curtains shut. The room plunged into darkness, the only light coming from faint slivers around the edges of the heavy fabric.

As the room dimmed, her cries began to taper off. Her tiny body relaxed slightly, her fists unclenching as she let out soft, hiccuping sobs. You stared at her in disbelief, the realization hitting you like a freight train.

“Of course…” you whispered, guilt crashing over you in waves. “Of course. I’m so sorry, baby girl.”

You held her close, rocking her gently in the dim light, her soft sniffles the only sound now. How had you not thought of this? You were so overwhelmed, so consumed by everything else, that you hadn’t even realized the most basic thing about her needs. You couldn't help but think of how Sylus would likely have teased you about this if he was here.

"I could've told you that, honey. Don't beat yourself up about it though."

The thought made you scowl.

It was a lot to process, but at least she was calm now. For the first time in what felt like hours, the house was silent except for the soft, steady sound of her breathing.

The baby’s soft, rhythmic breathing in your arms was oddly soothing, a rare calm in the storm of chaos that had defined the past few days. Her tiny weight against your chest anchored you, even as exhaustion gnawed at the edges of your mind. You hadn’t slept properly in what felt like a lifetime, but sitting still wasn’t an option. Maybe moving around would help with the ache in your body. Maybe it would distract you from the relentless thoughts circling your head.

The house was quiet, save for the creaks of the floorboards under your feet and the faint rustle of the wind outside. You passed by the kitchen and paused at the calendar Clara had pinned up on the wall. The dates blurred together in your sleep-deprived haze. How many days had it been? Two? Three?

Your eyes scanned the calendar until they landed on November 1st, the day your life had changed forever. That was when she’d been born. You glanced down at the tiny figure nestled in your arms, her little fist resting against her cheek, her face serene in slumber.

“Happy late birthday,” you whispered, a tired but genuine smile tugging at your lips. “Sorry I didn’t say it then. Y’know...I was going through a lot.”

The absurdity of your own words made you giggle softly, though the sound was tinged with weariness. You continued to sway on your feet, cradling her as the light streaming through the windows shifted. Clara would be visiting soon—tomorrow or the next day. That much you were sure of.

But how were you going to explain everything to her? The broken window, the deep gashes in the walls left behind by the Sawshredder’s claws, the bloodstains you hadn’t quite managed to scrub away entirely? Not to mention the fact that you had given birth to your daughter alone, in the middle of all that chaos. Clara would undoubtedly have questions, and you weren’t sure how many of them you could answer without spiraling into the tangled web of truth and lies you’d been navigating for months.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a sudden twist of pain in your chest, sharp and jarring enough to make you nearly lose your balance. You clutched at your shirt, the ache radiating outward, hot and insistent. It was the same pain as before—your Aethor Core.

Gritting your teeth, you stumbled back into the bedroom and gently laid your daughter in her crib. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her tiny lips parting in a soft sigh. Relieved that she remained asleep, you sank to the floor beside the crib, your knees drawing up to your chest as you pressed a hand over your heart.

Why was this happening again? Was it getting worse? You racked your brain, searching for something, anything, that might ease the pain. But nothing you’d tried so far had worked. Nothing except…

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as the memory of the phone call resurfaced. The pain had almost completely vanished when you heard his voice. The realization sent a chill down your spine. Why? Why did hearing him—the man responsible for so much of your suffering—have such an effect on you?

Your hand curled into a fist against your chest, nails biting into your palm as anger flared alongside the pain. You didn’t want to entertain the idea, didn’t want to even think about him like he was some kind of lifeline. Sylus was not a solution. He wasn’t your salvation. He was the problem.

You didn’t need him. You didn’t need anyone.

And yet, as the pain continued to throb, stubborn and unrelenting, the thought lingered in the back of your mind, unwelcome and insidious. Could it really be that simple? Would hearing his voice again dull the ache, even for a moment?

You shook your head violently, as if the action could physically dislodge the thought from your brain. No. Never. You couldn’t let yourself fall into that trap again. Sylus was not an answer, and he never would be.

Clenching your fists, you focused on your daughter’s steady breathing, the rise and fall of her tiny chest. She was the only thing that mattered now. You would endure the pain if it meant keeping her safe. You would endure anything.

The day passed by in an unremarkable haze, each hour bleeding into the next as you went through the motions of survival. You took naps when you could, brief moments of respite that never truly felt like rest. The cycle was endless: eat, feed the baby, change the baby, rock the baby, sleep. Or try to, at least. It wasn’t much of a life, but it was all you could manage right now.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon and the world outside was cloaked in darkness, you were already bracing yourself for the long night ahead. The endless cries, the frantic feedings, the sheer exhaustion that came with tending to a newborn—it was all expected now, but that didn’t make it any easier. The dread in your chest lingered, a quiet, constant weight that no amount of preparation could lift.

After gently placing her in her crib, you took a moment to change into a clean shirt and swap out the bloody pads that had become a constant reminder of your body’s fragile state. You were sore, raw, and utterly drained, but at least for now, she was asleep. You curled up in the bed, pulling the sheets tight around you, desperate for even a sliver of comfort.

But as soon as your head hit the pillow, your mind began to wander.

You hadn’t named her yet.

The thought gnawed at you, a subtle but persistent ache that had been bubbling beneath the surface since the moment she was born. You’d avoided it, skirting around the issue by calling her "baby girl" or simply "baby." It was easier that way. Safer.

Because naming her made it real, didn’t it? Naming her meant acknowledging the bond that was forming, however slowly. It meant accepting her as more than just a fragile little being you were obligated to care for. It meant letting yourself hope for a future together.

And that was terrifying.

Names had always been a touchy subject for you, and now was no different. What if the name you chose tied her to everything you wanted to leave behind? What if it made it harder to do what might need to be done? Because as much as it broke your heart to think about it, you’d already decided that if giving her up was what was best for her, you’d do it. You’d find her a family who could love her unconditionally, who could give her a life far removed from the chaos of your own.

Maybe then you’d both be free.

Free from the ghosts of the past. Free from the weight of your mistakes. Free from him.

Your chest tightened at the thought, and you squeezed your eyes shut, willing the tears to stay at bay. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. But fairness didn’t matter anymore. Survival did. And if giving her up meant she’d never have to know the horrors of her conception, never have to hear Sylus’s name or see his face…then maybe that was the right choice.

Maybe it was the only choice.

Your lips pressed into a hard line as you rolled onto your side, pulling the blankets tighter around you. The room was quiet now, save for the soft sounds of her breathing from the crib. You told yourself you’d do whatever it took to keep her safe, even if that meant letting her go.

And Sylus? He’d never win. Not this time.

You swallowed hard, your resolve solidifying like stone in your chest. You’d take it one day at a time, one moment at a time. You didn’t have all the answers yet, but you’d figure it out. For her. For both of you.

But as the minutes stretched into hours and the darkness deepened, the weight of everything pressed down on you once more, heavy and unrelenting. You closed your eyes, hoping for sleep but knowing it wouldn’t come easily.

You stirred awake to the faint sound of your daughter whining, her soft cries piercing the stillness of the room. The noise had become familiar by now, but it still sent an automatic jolt of adrenaline through your veins every time. Groaning, you reached for the side of the bed, fumbling for the diapers you had neatly stacked the night before. “I know…I know…Hold on…” you mumbled, your voice thick with exhaustion, the weight of sleepless nights dragging you down.

Just as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, prepared to face another round of late-night parenting, a voice cut through the darkness like a blade.

“There’s no need, kitten. She’s fine. You can lay back down.”

Your blood froze.

That voice. Smooth, low, and impossibly calm, it rooted you to the spot. Your head snapped up, and your breath hitched in your throat as your eyes locked onto a figure standing in the corner of the room. Sylus. He was there, leaning against the shadows like he belonged to them, his tall, commanding presence impossible to miss. His piercing crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, locking onto you with an intensity that made your stomach churn.

But what made your heart truly stop was what he held in his arms. Cradled close against his chest, her tiny form barely visible in the dim light, was your daughter.

“No…” you whispered, the word barely audible as it left your trembling lips. Your hands gripped the sheets so tightly your knuckles lost circulation. “Put her down,” you demanded, your voice growing louder as disbelief and fury collided inside you. “Where did you—how did you even find us?” Your words tumbled out in a frantic rush, your mind reeling.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, his expression calm but unreadable, as though he were studying you. “I said, put her down!” you screamed, the panic in your chest finally boiling over into action.

But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. Instead, he simply raised a finger to his lips, his voice maddeningly soft. “Shhh,” he said, glancing briefly down at the baby in his arms. “You’ll wake her. She’s fine, honey. Calm down.”

The casualness of his tone, the way he cradled your baby so carefully while acting as if he hadn’t just shattered your entire world, sent a wave of rage so intense through you that it burned away your fear. You lunged forward, ready to rip her away from him, to fight him with everything you had left. “Let her go, you fucking ba—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Mid-step, your body froze. A cold, red mist—dense and otherworldly—snaked around your limbs, locking them in place. It wrapped around your arms, your legs, even your chest, holding you aloft in the air like a puppet suspended on strings. You gasped, struggling against his powerful Evol, but the more you thrashed, the tighter he constricted you, squeezing the air from your lungs.

Your heart thundered as you stared down at Sylus, your panic rising to a fever pitch. His expression was still maddeningly calm, his crimson eyes watching you as if you were nothing more than a storm he had already weathered countless times before. “Stop struggling,” he said coolly, his tone almost bored. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Let me go!” you spat, your voice trembling with fury and fear. “Let her go! She’s not yours—she’s mine!”

Sylus exhaled softly, the faintest hint of amusement curling the corner of his lips. He moved closer to the bed, his every step measured, deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world. The mist holding you tightened slightly, forcing your back to arch against its cold grip.

“You’re wasting your energy,” he said, stepping closer, the mist tightening with every step he took. “I told you I would find you. And now I have. I wasn’t expecting our little one to be here as well, but…” His lips curved into a soft, almost genuine smile. “She looks well cared for. You’ve done a good job, sweetie.”

His words dripped with mockery, but it was the way his eyes gleamed—predatory and triumphant—that made your blood run cold. “No more running, kitten. This game of cat and mouse? It ends now.”

Before you could respond, the crimson mist tightened its grip, wrapping around you like unyielding chains. It lifted you effortlessly into the air, and you could do nothing but struggle against it, your limbs refusing to obey your commands. Panic seized your chest as the mist carried you backward, gently but deliberately laying you on the bed as though it had a mind of its own.

You hit the mattress with a soft thud, but the force of the moment knocked the air from your lungs. The mist pinned you in place, like weights pressing down on your wrists and ankles, rendering you completely immobile. No matter how hard you thrashed or tried to twist free, you couldn’t move. All you could do was watch in horror as Sylus turned toward the crib, cradling your baby with an eerie tenderness that sent chills down your spine.

He bent over the crib, his massive frame shadowing the small, delicate figure nestled in his arms. With unsettling care, he placed her down, tucking the blanket around her tiny form. It was the gentlest thing you’d ever seen him do, and that only made it worse—made the whole thing feel more surreal, more terrifying. His actions were too calculated, too rehearsed. You could feel the control emanating from him, sharp and suffocating.

And then his attention snapped back to you.

He moved toward you with the fluid, predatory grace of a panther stalking its prey, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light. The bed dipped under his weight as he climbed on, his powerful presence overwhelming. He hovered above you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of leather and whiskey lingering in the air.

Your breath came in sharp, panicked gasps, your chest heaving against the invisible restraints. You couldn’t look away from him, no matter how much you wanted to, his crimson gaze holding you captive as he leaned in closer. His nose almost brushed against yours, and the weight of him pressed just enough to remind you how utterly trapped you were.

“You’re never leaving my sight again,” Sylus murmured, his voice dangerously soft, almost affectionate. It wasn’t the comfort of a lover’s whisper, but the promise of an unyielding captor. His words slithered into your ears, wrapping around your mind like the mist around your body.

The words hit you like a blow to the chest, stealing what little air you had left. Your entire body trembled beneath him, a rush of panic and revulsion coursing through your veins. Tears welled in your eyes, hot and blinding, spilling over as your voice cracked under the weight of your fear and fury.

“I hate you!” you screamed, your voice raw and desperate. “I’ll never let you take me! Or her! Never!”

But Sylus didn’t flinch. He didn’t recoil or lash out. He didn’t even blink. Instead, he smiled—a slow, chilling smile that spread across his face like poison. There was no anger in his expression, no cruelty. Just calm, calculated possession.

“Thats cute,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch that was almost tender, almost loving. “But you lost your ability to make choices long ago."

Your breath hitched as his words cut through the room like a blade, slicing through whatever resolve you had left. The mist tightened again, and your body convulsed in response, your screams ripping through the silence like jagged shards of glass. You couldn’t stop. You screamed and screamed, raw and unrelenting, until your throat burned and your vision blurred.

But Sylus didn’t move. He didn’t even look fazed. He simply stayed there, watching you, his crimson eyes gleaming with an eerie calm, as though he were savoring your despair.

The mist constricted once more, and everything around you began to blur. The room faded into a haze, the edges of your vision darkening as the world spiraled out of focus. Your screams turned into gasps, then whispers, then nothing at all as the suffocating weight of fear and exhaustion finally pulled you under.

And then you woke up.

You shot upright in bed, your chest heaving with frantic gasps as you clawed for air. The room around you was a blur, shadowed in the dim gray light of dawn creeping through the curtains. Sweat clung to your skin in cold rivulets, and your heart thundered so violently it felt like it might burst. It took several long moments for the fog of the dream to lift, for reality to begin piecing itself back together. The crib. The farmhouse. The faint creak of the floorboards under your shifting weight. The absence of that horrible red mist.

Your head snapped toward the crib, your breath hitching in your chest. Relief swept over you like a tidal wave as your eyes landed on her. She was still there, peacefully sleeping, her tiny hand curled against her cheek, her breaths soft and steady. Nothing had changed. She was safe.

You exhaled shakily, but the release didn’t ease the trembling in your hands. Pressing your palms to your face, you tried to steady yourself, your fingers trembling against your damp skin. “Just a dream,” you whispered to yourself, the words catching in your dry throat. “It was just a dream…”

But it didn’t feel like one. Not entirely. You wrapped your arms around yourself, as though holding your body together could stop it from unraveling. His voice still echoed in your mind, low and smooth, the way he said kitten with that maddening calm. The way he had cradled her so gently, like she already belonged to him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the memories to dissolve, but they wouldn’t leave. The phantom weight of his presence lingered, the image of his towering figure, crimson eyes glinting with possessiveness, looming over you. The sickly-sweet gentleness in his tone, the mockery in his promises. The dream had felt so vivid, so real that it left you raw, as if it had happened just moments ago.

Your arms dropped limply to your sides, and your gaze wandered back to the crib. She was still there, still yours. For now. The thought made your stomach twist, your relief tainted by a darker undertone. Dreams didn’t come from nowhere. This one, you knew, was a manifestation of all your fears, all the truths you couldn’t bear to say out loud. That he would come for you. For her. That no matter how far you ran, how carefully you hid, he would find you.

And the worst part? You weren’t entirely sure it was a lie.

You inhaled deeply, trying to force your pulse to slow, but it was no use. The dread clung to you like a shadow, and no amount of logic could banish it. The way he had looked at her in the dream—the way he had spoken as though you were both his—made your skin crawl. You wrapped your arms around yourself again, biting your lip to keep from crying.

“It was just a dream,” you whispered again, more firmly this time, though the words felt hollow. You looked toward the crib once more, watching the gentle rise and fall of her tiny chest. “You’re safe,” you murmured, almost like you were trying to convince yourself. “We’re safe.”

But were you?

Two days later, you were startled awake by the sound of the door creaking open. Blinking groggily, you sat up just in time to see Clara stepping into the room, her arms full of grocery bags. She froze in the doorway, her eyes widening as she took in the scene—the crib, the faint whines of your baby, and the dark circles under your tired eyes. The bags slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Oh my goodness, hun! Are you alright? Oh! You had the ba—” she exclaimed, her voice rising with shock and excitement, but you immediately shushed her, your finger pressed to your lips.

“Shhh!” you hissed, your eyes darting toward the crib where your daughter was finally, miraculously, falling asleep again. Clara clapped her hand over her mouth, her cheeks flushing in apology.

“Oh! Right, right…quiet,” she whispered, her voice soft now as she smiled sheepishly at you. She stepped closer, peeking at the crib. “Well, would you look at that...she’s a doll. Congratulations, mama.”

You smiled weakly, exhaustion still weighing heavily on your body. “Thanks, Clara. Can I…can I ask you a huge favor?”

“Anything, honey,” Clara said immediately, her tone warm and reassuring.

“Can you watch her for just a little while? I need a nap—like a real nap,” you begged, your voice trembling with desperation. The mere thought of lying down without having to jump up every five minutes made you feel like crying.

Clara’s face lit up with joy. “Oh, you don’t have to ask me twice! Of course, I’ll watch her. You go get some rest, sweetie. I’ve got this,” she said, already moving toward the crib with a gentle, eager demeanor.

Relief flooded through you, and you mumbled a soft, heartfelt, “Thank you,” before dragging yourself to bed. The moment your head hit the pillow, sleep claimed you like a tidal wave, washing away the weight of the last few days.

When you finally woke up, the sun was streaming through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. You rubbed your eyes, feeling more rested than you had in days. It was almost disorienting—not waking up to the sound of crying or the weight of exhaustion crushing you. You stretched and got out of bed, your feet padding softly against the floor as you made your way to the living room.

The smell of garlic and tomatoes greeted you, and as you entered, you saw Clara standing at the stove, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce with one hand while cradling your baby in the other. She was humming softly, her movements natural and at ease.

“Oh, you’re awake!” Clara exclaimed when she noticed you, her face breaking into a warm smile. “Just in time for lunch! This hungry girl’s ready for her lunch too. You mind, honey?” She held out your daughter gently, and you nodded, stepping forward to take her into your arms.

You settled into a kitchen chair, cradling your baby as you prepared to breastfeed. The small, rhythmic sounds of her suckling filled the air, blending with the soft clink of plates and the bubbling sauce on the stove. You felt a little awkward breastfeeding in front of a stranger but figured yall were past the point of awkwardness. You had given birth in her home after all. Clara worked quickly, plating two generous servings of spaghetti before joining you at the table.

As she sat down, her cheerful expression shifted to one of mild exasperation. “Why didn’t you call me, hun? I told you to call for anything—anything! Especially emergencies!” she said, her tone scolding but not unkind. There was genuine concern in her voice.

You looked away, guilt prickling at the edges of your mind. You didn't want to tell her about Sylus calling so you decided to lie instead. “I didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted softly. “You’ve done so much already. And I didn’t think it’d…happen so fast.”

Clara sighed, shaking her head as she twirled spaghetti onto her fork. “Sweetie, you’re not a bother. Bringing a baby into the world is no small thing! You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.” She gestured toward the broken window with her fork. “And what in the world happened here? Did a tornado blow through while you were giving birth?”

You hesitated, your chest tightening. “It’s…a long story,” you said, brushing a hand over your daughter’s soft hair. “I’ll explain everything later. For now, I just want to focus on her.”

Clara’s sharp gaze softened, and she reached across the table to give your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Alright, hun. Later. But for now, you let me help, okay? No more going through this alone. Deal?”

You nodded, feeling a lump rise in your throat. “Deal.”

“Good,” Clara said firmly, taking another bite of her spaghetti. “Now eat up. You need your strength.”

You smiled faintly, adjusting your daughter in your arms as you picked at your food. For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel entirely alone.

You eventually worked up the courage to tell Clara about the Sawshredder. She listened with wide eyes as you recounted everything—how it had come crashing into the yard, its terrifying screeches, the way you had barely escaped, and how it had inexplicably stopped and walked away in the end.

“It just left?” Clara exclaimed, her hand flying to her chest. “Dear God…that’s terrifying. We don’t get Wanderers in these parts usually. Maybe the occasional stray up in the hills, but never this close to town. And for it to just…walk away? That’s strange, honey. Real strange.”

You nodded, a shiver running down your spine as the memory resurfaced. “I don’t know why it left,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I thought…I thought I was going to die.” You glanced down at your daughter, who was swaddled and resting peacefully in your arms. “If it had attacked just a second later…” You trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Clara reached over, resting a hand on your shoulder. Her touch was firm, grounding. “I’m just glad you and the baby are okay. That’s all that matters.”

You nodded again, but a pang of guilt twisted in your chest. “I couldn’t get all the blood off the couch,” you said, your voice tinged with apology. “And some of it got onto the wall. I covered the couch with a sheet. I’m sorry, Clara. I should’ve—”

Clara waved her hand dismissively, cutting you off with a soft chuckle. “Oh, hun, don’t you worry about that. It’s just a couch and a wall. That’s not important. What’s important is that you and your little one are safe. I’ll get my brother to fix that window for you, no problem.”

Her kindness nearly brought tears to your eyes, but you swallowed them back, focusing instead on her next question. “Has the rest of the cord fallen off yet?” she asked, peering curiously at your daughter.

You shook your head. “No, not yet. I read somewhere it can take up to two weeks.”

Clara nodded knowingly. “It does. Just make sure it stays clean and dry. That’s the most important thing.” She leaned closer, tilting her head to get a better look at your baby. A warm smile spread across her face. “Oh, isn’t she just precious? She looks like a little doll, hun. Her father must’ve been a supermodel.”

You froze, wincing at her words. The mention of Sylus sent a sharp pang through your chest, and your grip on your daughter tightened ever so slightly. You didn’t want to think about him right now—not when you were finally beginning to feel a shred of normalcy. Your silence must have given you away because Clara’s smile faltered. Her eyes widened slightly, and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry, hun,” she said, her voice laced with regret. “I didn't realize. Sometimes I just say shit without thinkin. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You forced a small, shaky smile, brushing your thumb over your daughter’s tiny hand. “It’s okay,” you murmured, though your heart felt heavy playing into the lie. “You didn’t know.”

Clara reached over again, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze. There was a bit of sadness and...anxiousness in her eyes. You couldn't exactly place why. “Well, whoever he was, he gave you a beautiful baby girl. And she’s got a strong mama to look after her now. That’s all that matters, alright?”

You nodded, taking comfort in her words even as your mind lingered on Sylus. You didn’t want him to cast a shadow over this moment, but the memories were hard to shake. Still, you looked down at your daughter’s peaceful face, her tiny chest rising and falling with each breath, and you resolved to keep moving forward—for her.

Just then, your daughter squirmed in your arms, letting out a soft whine. Her little fists curled and uncurled as her eyes briefly fluttered open. The milky red of her irises caught the light, and Clara gasped, her hand flying to her chest.

“My goodness! Is she somewhat…er…what do you call it? Albino?” Clara blurted, her voice tinged with genuine curiosity and a touch of embarrassment. “Dear Lord, that sounds rude, doesn’t it? I’m sorry, honey, I don’t mean anything by it,” she added quickly, looking sheepish.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at her openness, despite the tension creeping up your spine. “No, no. It’s fine,” you said, brushing a hand over your daughter’s soft hair. “I don’t think so? I haven't given it much thought” You paused, your thoughts flickering briefly to Sylus. His eyes were the same shade of crimson, and his hair was kinda white…was he albino? Or something else entirely? You shook the thought away. Sylus didn’t fit into any category you could explain.

Clara tilted her head, studying your daughter for a moment longer before her expression shifted, becoming more serious. “Hey…her father. Did he have red eyes?” she asked, her tone light but edged with curiosity.

Your heart skipped a beat. The question hit like a slap, and you clutched your daughter tighter, your body tensing instinctively. Clara’s expression didn’t seem threatening, but the implications of her question sent your mind racing. Why was she asking that? Did she meet him? Does she know something? Is this all a trap?

“Uh…um…” You stammered, trying to keep your voice even. “Why do you ask?” Your grip on your daughter tightened as if shielding her from some unseen threat.

Clara’s eyes widened slightly, and she quickly plastered on a nervous smile. She raised her hands in a gesture of reassurance. “Oh, no, no! I didn’t mean to freak you out, honey,” she said, her tone apologetic. “I was just asking. You know, fathers usually determine eye color, don’t they? Or at least that’s what I’ve always heard. Genetics and all that. She's got your hair color at least!”

Your body relaxed a fraction, though your heart was still pounding. You forced a small smile, trying to push away your lingering paranoia. “Oh…right. I guess so,” you murmured, your voice a little shaky.

Clara nodded, her demeanor lightening again. “She’s just so unique, that’s all,” she said, her gaze softening as she looked at your daughter. “She’s a real beauty, honey. Eyes like that? They’re special. People are going to remember her wherever she goes.”

That statement sent a cold chill down your spine. The last thing you wanted was for your daughter to stand out, to be remembered. You swallowed the lump in your throat and gave Clara a weak nod, mumbling a thank you.

As Clara turned back to the dishes, humming softly to herself, you looked down at your daughter, her eyes now closed again as she rested peacefully in your arms. Your thoughts swirled. Her eyes, Sylus’s eyes…the way Clara had asked the question. Was this all coincidence, or was your paranoia creeping in again? You couldn’t be sure. All you knew was that keeping your daughter safe meant staying hidden—and staying hidden meant trusting no one, not even someone as kind as Clara.

Over the next week or two, Clara became a constant presence in the farmhouse. To your surprise, she had refused to leave, despite mentioning work and her responsibilities in Brunswick. She brushed off your concerns with a wave of her hand, insisting that you needed the help more than she needed to be slinging coffee at the diner.

“You think I’m about to leave you here alone with a newborn? Not on my watch, honey,” she said with a grin one morning as she whisked a fresh batch of eggs in the kitchen. “Besides, the diner will survive without me for a bit. My brother’s got it covered.”

Her steady presence felt like a lifeline, even if you weren’t entirely used to it. She filled the quiet farmhouse with her voice, chatting about everything under the sun, but mostly babies. It seemed Clara had an endless wealth of knowledge, and she didn’t hesitate to share it.

“You gotta make sure to clean behind her ears,” she said one afternoon, her hands deep in a bowl of soapy water as she cleaned baby bottles for you. “Babies are sneaky little things—they’ll get all kinds of lint and gunk back there, and you won’t even notice until it’s crusted over. Happened to my daughter once, and I felt like the worst mom in the world.”

You nodded, filing the information away as you rocked your daughter, who was dozing peacefully in your arms. “Got it. Behind the ears,” you murmured, glancing down at your baby as if inspecting her right then and there.

“And the belly button!” Clara added, wagging a soapy finger in your direction. “You keep it dry, of course, but once the cord falls off, you still gotta clean it gently every so often. Otherwise, it starts to smell. My mother used to say, ‘A stinky belly button leads to a stinky baby!’” She laughed at the memory, her voice warm and hearty.

You couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “Clean the belly button, got it. Anything else I should know?”

“Oh, plenty,” Clara said, drying her hands on a dish towel before sitting down at the kitchen table. She crossed her arms and leaned forward like she was about to tell you a secret. “Now, listen here, because this one’s important: you gotta be ready for the blowouts.”

You blinked at her, unsure if you’d heard correctly. “Blowouts?”

“Yep, blowouts,” she said with a knowing nod. “You think you’ve seen messy diapers now? Just wait until she has her first real blowout. The kind that goes all up her back, gets in her hair, ruins her cute little onesies… It’s a nightmare.” She shuddered dramatically. “But don’t you worry, I’ll teach you my stain-removal tricks.”

You stared at her, equal parts horrified and grateful. “Thanks for the warning, I guess.”

Clara chuckled, reaching over to pat your arm. “Hey, it’s better to know what you’re in for than to get blindsided. Trust me, honey, I’ve been there. It ain’t pretty.”

Her advice didn’t stop there. She showed you how to swaddle your baby properly, how to tell the difference between different cries, and even how to soothe a gassy baby. “Gripe water is your best friend,” she said one evening as she rocked your fussy daughter in her arms. “And don’t be afraid to try a little bicycle motion with her legs. Works like a charm to get those toots out.”

She was patient, too, answering every question you had without making you feel stupid. When you worried about your daughter’s health or the two little black spots on her head, Clara reassured you with gentle words. “Babies are all different, honey. I’m sure she’s perfectly fine. But if it’ll give you peace of mind, we can figure out how to get her to a doctor.”

Despite your lingering paranoia, you couldn’t deny how much easier things were with Clara around. She had a way of lightening the mood, of making even the most overwhelming moments feel manageable. And as much as you wanted to keep her at arm’s length, a part of you was starting to trust her. Just a little.

Clara even left for an entire day just to pick up iced pads and painkillers for you, insisting that you shouldn’t have to suffer in silence. When she returned, she laughed at the visible relief on your face as you gingerly took the supplies. The iced pads felt like heaven, soothing the relentless pain you had been quietly enduring. The painkillers dulled the ache enough for you to finally move around without wincing at every step. For the first time since giving birth, you felt a little refreshed—almost like a real person again.

Your daughter was two weeks old now. You still couldn’t believe it. Every day felt like starting from scratch, like learning a new rhythm for both you and her. She was still very much a tiny, needy potato that did little else but cry and sleep, but slowly, you felt like you were getting in tune with her needs. It was all small victories—knowing her hunger cues, figuring out which lullabies seemed to calm her the most. You were adjusting, step by step.

You rarely ventured outside. The fear of Mephisto still hung over you like a dark cloud, an ever-present reminder that Sylus and his reach weren’t far enough away. Still, on cooler nights, you cracked the window open just a little to let your daughter breathe fresh air. You told yourself it was safe. The farmhouse was secluded, tucked far enough away from any major towns or cities. It was okay—for now.

Over time, you started to open up to Clara. Her kind nature and patience made it easy. You began to tell her about things you hadn’t spoken of in years—about your mom and grandma, your childhood, even your time as a hunter. Clara listened intently, her warm eyes encouraging you to continue. She asked thoughtful questions but never pressed too hard, always mindful of your boundaries.

One night, she brought out an old photo album and showed you pictures of her daughter as a baby. You couldn’t help but smile at the photos of the chubby-cheeked infant grinning toothlessly at the camera. “She’s so beautiful,” you had said, feeling a pang in your chest as you glanced down at your own baby, asleep in your arms. “She looks like you.”

Clara laughed, flipping the pages fondly. “She was a handful, let me tell you. But those were the best days of my life.”

Hearing her talk about her daughter brought both comfort and sadness. It reminded you of what you were trying to give your daughter—a chance to live without fear. A chance to be free. But as time passed, that gnawing feeling of impending doom grew stronger. You knew these peaceful moments wouldn’t last. They couldn’t.

One evening, after bathing your daughter, you found Clara in the living room, folding laundry and packing up some things to bring back to Brunswick. She had decided to head home for a few days to catch up on work and care for her father, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that this might be the last time you’d see her.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, clutching your daughter close as you worked up the courage to speak. “Clara?” you finally said, your voice soft and hesitant.

She glanced up from the laundry, her warm smile faltering slightly when she saw your expression. “Yes, honey?” she asked, setting the clothes down and giving you her full attention.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “I…I haven’t been completely honest with you,” you said, rushing to get the words out before you lost your nerve.

Clara froze, her brows furrowing in concern, but she didn’t seem angry. “Alright,” she said gently, her tone calm and reassuring. “What’s wrong?”

The words felt heavy in your throat, but you knew you couldn’t keep this from her any longer. You took a deep, trembling breath, clutching your daughter a little tighter as you prepared to tell her everything.

You settled on the couch, clutching your daughter tightly to your chest as Clara waited patiently. Her warm, kind eyes stayed on you, unflinching. The weight of the truth pressed down on you, but you couldn’t delay any longer. If there was any chance she’d be in danger because of you, Clara needed to know the truth.

“I…I don’t know where to start,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Wherever you’re comfortable, honey,” Clara replied softly, folding her hands in her lap. “Take your time.”

You took another shaky breath and looked down at your baby, who squirmed slightly in her sleep. Her tiny fingers curled around a fold in your shirt, and the sight of her innocence made the guilt in your chest tighten even more. You began to speak, your voice trembling as the words tumbled out.

“I lied about her father,” you started, glancing nervously at Clara. “He’s alive. Very much alive. And he’s looking for us.”

Clara’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt. She simply nodded for you to continue.

You told her everything—the truth about Sylus, the man who had turned your life into a nightmare. You spoke about how he had stolen you away, manipulated you, and taken control of your life. How he had removed your birth control with a piece of glass, how he had impregnated you, and how you had finally escaped for the second time. You hesitated, but you also told her about Reese, the horrors of the basement, and the lengths you had gone to get away from that life.

About Xavier.

As you spoke, letting the words tumble out one after another, a strange feeling bloomed in your chest. At first, it was tight and uncomfortable, like a knot that had been wound too tightly for too long. You hadn’t expected it to feel this…hard. Telling the truth wasn’t supposed to be easy, not with the weight of everything you had kept buried, but somehow you’d thought it would feel more cathartic. Instead, it felt like pulling barbed wire out of your skin—necessary, but painful, and every word scraped against old wounds you hadn’t realized were still raw.

Still, with every detail you revealed to Clara, you felt the smallest sliver of relief pushing through the pain. Like a wound being cleaned, the barbs slowly gave way, and a fragile sense of release crept in. As you spoke about Sylus—about the way he had stolen your life and your control, about how he had taken you apart piece by piece and left you feeling like a ghost of who you once were—it felt almost surreal to say it out loud again since you had told Xavier. You had kept this bottled up for so long, locked away in your mind, that it felt foreign to share it with another human being. And yet, the more you spoke, the easier it became.

Clara listened intently, her expression shifting between disbelief, horror, and sadness. She didn’t speak until you finished, tears streaming down your face as you clung to your daughter like a lifeline.

When you finally stopped, the silence was suffocating. Clara’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as she leaned forward, resting a hand gently on your knee. “Oh, honey,” she said softly. “I can’t imagine… I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through this.”

You bit your lip, the flood of emotions making it hard to respond. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” you whispered. “I just…I didn’t want to drag you into this. You’ve been so kind to me, and now I feel like I’ve put you in danger.”

Clara shook her head firmly. “You listen to me, sweetheart. None of this is your fault. You’ve been through hell, and all you’re trying to do is protect your baby. I understand why you kept this to yourself.”

Her understanding brought a fresh wave of tears to your eyes, and you wiped them away with the back of your hand. “I just… I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t keep running forever, but I can’t let him find us.”

Clara sighed, her gaze drifting to the sleeping baby in your arms. “You’re right—this can’t go on forever. But you’re not alone, you hear me? We’ll figure something out.”

You shook your head, your voice breaking as you spoke. “You don’t understand. He’s dangerous, Clara. He has resources, connections. If he finds out you’ve helped me, he won’t hesitate to come after you too.”

Clara leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Let him come,” she said, her tone firm. “I’m not afraid of some big-shot bastard. You’re basically family now, and I take care of my own.”

Her words left you stunned, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. She sounded so sure, so resolute, and it made you feel both grateful and terrified.

“I don’t want you to get hurt because of me,” you said finally, your voice trembling.

Clara reached out and squeezed your hand. “We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it. For now, you just focus on taking care of that little one, okay?”

You nodded weakly, the weight of her kindness settling in your chest. It wasn’t a solution, but for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel completely alone. Clara was here, and even though you still felt the shadow of Sylus looming over you, you had someone in your corner.

Clara's next words hit you like a brick to the chest. "I haven’t been completely honest with you either," she began, her voice quiet but steady. You froze, your heart skipping a beat as you braced yourself for whatever she was about to say.

She looked at you, her expression a mix of worry and determination. “A tall man came into the diner a while back. Greyish white hair, red eyes…He had other men with him too. Demanding answers about a pregnant lady.”

Your blood ran cold. Sylus. Of course. He had gotten closer than you thought.

Your grip tightened on your daughter instinctively, your mind racing. “What?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Clara nodded, her face softening with regret. “He asked about you. Described you down to the coat you were wearing, and…well, I told him you were my niece. Refused to tell him anything else.” She smirked, though it was tinged with unease. “He offered me a shitload of money, too. I spit at his shoes.”

Her little wink and defiance were so unexpected that you let out a laugh—high-pitched and incredulous, but a laugh nonetheless. “You spit at him?”

“Sure did,” Clara replied, giving a small shrug like it was no big deal. “The nerve of him, thinking I’d sell out someone in need. I don’t care if he’s the devil himself.”

Despite the humor in her tone, the reality of what she’d said crashed down on you like a wave. You felt your heart race, your mind whirling with panic. “Clara, you should’ve told me…” you said, shaking your head, the fear creeping into your voice. “He’s not stupid. If he was there, he probably already tracked you back here. Shit—”

Your chest tightened as the gravity of the situation hit you full force. Your time here was up.

Clara’s face fell, her hands twisting nervously. “But honey,” she said, her voice trembling, “you’re still freshly postpartum. You can’t possibly leave on foot with a newborn! You’re not healed yet, and the baby—”

“What choice do I have?” you cut her off, your voice breaking as you rocked your now-whining daughter. “If I stay here any longer, he will come. He’s probably already closing in…” You trailed off, trying to push down the rising panic.

Clara sat in silence for a long moment, her gaze flickering between you and the baby. Finally, she let out a heavy sigh, standing abruptly and moving to a nearby closet. “Alright,” she said, her voice firm. “How about this?”

You watched as she rummaged through the closet, pulling out a car seat. Confusion flickered across your face as she set it down and moved to a nearby drawer, pulling out a set of car keys. She turned to you, her expression serious.

“You know how to drive, right?” she asked.

Your mouth fell open. “Clara, what are you—”

“Take my father’s car,” she said simply, holding out the keys. “He won’t be using it anytime soon anyway.”

You stared at her, the weight of her offer hitting you like a truck. “You…you’d give me your dad’s car?” you stammered, utterly floored by her kindness.

She nodded firmly. “What good is it sitting here collecting dust? You need it more than he does. Now take it, honey.”

The tears came fast, spilling down your cheeks as you reached for her, pulling her into a tight hug. You buried your face in her shoulder, sobbing as the relief and gratitude washed over you in waves. “Thank you,” you choked out, your voice trembling. “Thank you so fucking much.”

Clara hugged you back just as tightly, patting your back reassuringly. “You don’t need to thank me, sweetheart. You and that baby need to be safe. That’s what matters.”

As the tears continued to fall, you felt the tiniest spark of hope flicker in your chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, you had a chance to escape. To start over. To keep your daughter safe. And it was all thanks to Clara.

The plan was set in motion as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the cabin and surrounding woods. The air was cool and still, almost unnervingly quiet as you and Clara worked in tandem, preparing for what could very well be the riskiest part of your escape.

Clara, despite her usually warm demeanor, had taken to the plan with an unwavering determination. She would head back to Brunswick, armed with a carefully swaddled bundle—a fake baby to lure Sylus and his men away from your path and waste their time. She’d even wrapped the bundle with some of the baby’s spare blankets, ensuring Mephisto would pick up the scent and follow her all the way back.

“It’ll work,” Clara had said with surprising confidence, holding up her father’s old shotgun. “Let them come. I’m not afraid of no man who thinks he can hurt a mother and her baby.”

You couldn’t help but admire her fiery spirit. It felt strange, almost wrong, to leave such a kind and fearless woman to face Sylus’s wrath, but she’d insisted. "I’ve been through worse, honey," she said with a wink. You weren’t sure if that was true, but you appreciated the reassurance nonetheless.

She spent the rest of the evening making sure you had everything you’d need for the journey ahead. Diapers, wipes, bottles, onesies—every essential item a baby on the road could need was packed into the car. When she brought out the box of formula, you hesitated. “I’ve been breastfeeding,” you admitted, “but…just in case.”

Clara gave you a knowing smile. “Smart thinking, hon. You’ll thank yourself later.”

She showed you how to start her father’s car—a rusted but reliable manual—and went over the basics of shifting gears. “It’s not as tricky as it looks,” she said, patting the hood. “Just don’t panic if you stall. You’ll get the hang of it.” Then she helped you strap your daughter safely into the car seat, her hands steady and patient as she guided you through every buckle and strap.

Finally, the moment you’d been dreading came. The time to leave.

“I guess this is goodbye then,” you said, feeling the sting of tears pricking at your eyes. You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked just enough to betray you. Was this really it? Would you ever experience such raw human kindness again?

Clara smiled and pulled you into a tight hug, her warmth anchoring you for just a moment longer. “I don’t believe in goodbyes,” she said softly. “More like, see you laters. Now chin up, sweetheart. The nearest city is a looong drive.”

You laughed, even as the tears spilled over. “Thank you for everything,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll never forget you.”

Clara pulled back, brushing a tear from your cheek. “You’ll do great, honey. Just stay safe.”

As you climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car, the rumble of the engine made your daughter stir slightly in her car seat. Clara leaned down, peering through the window, and her expression softened. “By the way,” she said, her voice gentle. “Did you decide on a name yet?”

You glanced back at your baby girl, her tiny eyes fluttering open just enough to meet yours. In that fleeting moment, you felt a pang deep in your chest. Ruby…Evia… Those names had lingered in your mind for days, tied to memories that stung too much to carry forward. Names burdened with loss, betrayal, heartbreak. But this? This was a fresh start. A new chapter. Something better was needed—something untarnished.

“Sylvia,” you whispered, the name tumbling out of your mouth as if it had been waiting there all along. It felt right—soft yet strong, simple yet meaningful. The name filled the silence like a balm, wrapping you and your daughter in something new. Something safe.

As if on cue, Sylvia blinked up at you, her lips parting slightly in what could almost pass for a tiny expression of acknowledgment. You smiled softly, your chest aching with a blend of pride, guilt, and exhaustion.

Clara’s face lit up, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile. “Well, she seems to like it,” she said, nodding toward the little bundle strapped snugly in the car seat. “Guess that’s her name, then. You know, it means ‘forest’ in Latin. Pretty fitting for where she was born, don’t ya think?”

You let out a laugh, shaky but genuine, wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks with the back of your hand. “Yeah…fitting,” you murmured. The forest had been both your refuge and your prison, the place where this journey had truly begun. Sylvia was as much a part of that story as you were.

Clara stepped back, her hand resting gently on the car door as her smile faded into something softer, more serious. “See you later, hon,” she said, her voice low and steady. “And stay safe, okay? For her.” She gestured toward Sylvia, whose tiny hand was curled against her cheek in sleep already.

“See you later,” you replied, your voice catching just slightly. You offered her a small, shaky smile, the weight of your gratitude pressing down on your chest. “Thank you again…for everything.”

Clara gave you one last nod, her lips pressing into a firm line as if she were trying to hold back her own emotions. “You’ll do just fine, hon. I’ll keep them busy for you. Now, go.”

With one final glance at Clara, you gripped the steering wheel tightly, shifted the car into gear, and began to pull out of the gravel driveway. The headlights illuminated the narrow dirt road ahead, cutting through the thick darkness of the woods. Behind you, the farmhouse grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, until it finally disappeared from sight.

The road stretched out ahead of you, dark and endless, but you forced yourself to focus. To move forward. Behind you, Sylvia stirred faintly in her car seat but didn’t wake. The rhythmic hum of the engine seemed to lull her, and for that, you were thankful.

“Alright, Sylvia,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the lump forming in your throat. “Let’s go.”

And with that, you drove into the night, the sound of the tires crunching against the dirt road the only thing accompanying your thoughts. The uncertainty of the road ahead loomed large, but as you glanced at your daughter—at Sylvia—you reminded yourself that every mile away from the farmhouse was a mile closer to safety. At least, that’s what you hoped.

Sylus sat in his hotel room, the dim light from the desk lamp casting sharp shadows across his angular features. A glass of Gin rested on the table beside him, untouched for once. His attention was glued to the screen of his laptop, where a live feed from Mephisto's cameras played. The mechanical bird had been trailing Clara since she left Brunswick, its sharp, red-lensed eyes capturing every move she made.

It had been almost two weeks since Mephisto began following her, and Sylus’s gut told him everything he needed to know. This Clara woman wasn’t just some harmless diner worker. She was hiding you. That much was clear. The way she drove, cautious but purposeful, heading out to a remote area far from prying eyes—it all screamed of secrecy. And Sylus’s instincts were rarely wrong.

On the screen, Mephisto’s feed showed a small farmhouse coming into view, nestled in a clearing surrounded by dense trees. The sight of it made Sylus’s pulse quicken. He couldn’t see you—yet—but he felt it in his bones. You were there. His kitten, hiding in the woods like a frightened prey. The thought almost made him smile, but there was no time for smugness. Not yet.

Sylus leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him as he continued to watch the feed. Clara parked her car near the farmhouse and began unloading groceries from the trunk seemingly for the third time that week. She moved with ease, not a trace of nervousness in her demeanor. Either she was an excellent liar, or she truly believed she had outwitted him. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to act hastily. Not this time.

Normally he wouldn't have waited so long but given your sensitive state, he wanted to be careful.

He needed to be certain. If he stormed in too soon, he risked spooking you—and that was the last thing he wanted. Sylus’s crimson eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. He had time. Patience was key. He would let you feel safe, let you think you had escaped him. And when the moment was right, he would strike.

But his stalking was unexpectedly interrupted the night he planned to move in.

The feed from Mephisto’s cameras cut out abruptly, replaced by a burst of static. Sylus’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. “What the hell…” he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. He tapped a few keys on the laptop, trying to reestablish the connection, but it was no use.

Moments later, a call came in from one of his men. “Boss,” the voice on the other end said nervously. “We’ve got a problem. Mephisto’s been shot.”

Sylus’s eyes narrowed. “Shot?” His voice was cold, lethal.

“Yes, sir. A hunter took a shot at him—thought he was a real bird, I guess. He’s damaged pretty badly. We’ve got him en route for repairs already.”

Sylus closed his eyes, taking a deep, measured breath. The interruption was irritating, but it wasn’t the end of the world. He would have Mephisto repaired quickly, and in the meantime, he could work out his next steps. “Fine,” he said curtly. “Make it quick. I want him operational as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

He ended the call and leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. The delay was frustrating, but it didn’t change his plan. Normally he'd take care of Mephistos repairs himself but his mind was racing far too much for that. He still had Clara. And wherever she went next, she would lead him straight to you.

Sylus reached for his Gin, taking a slow sip as he stared at the now-empty screen. The game wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. He would find you. It was only a matter of time. And when he did, there would be no more running. You were his. You had always been his.

“No weapons drawn unless I say so. It’s just a middle-aged woman and a pregnant one,” Sylus said firmly, his voice cold and calculating. “We won’t need much force.” He stood in front of a gathered group of his men, Luke and Kieran at his sides, their bird masks gleaming under the dim lights of the room. Sylus’s crimson eyes scanned each face, ensuring the weight of his command sank in. He wouldn’t tolerate recklessness. Not now.

Mephisto perched on his shoulder, his damaged wing twitching sporadically. The mechanical bird had seen better days, but it was still functional enough to serve as a watchful eye. Further repairs could wait. Time was of the essence, and Sylus wouldn’t waste another moment while you slipped further away.

On the monitor before him, the live feed from Mephisto’s remaining camera showed Clara entering Brunswick once more. Her movements were purposeful, but what truly caught Sylus’s attention was the bundle of blankets cradled in her arms. His pupils dilated instinctively, his chest tightening. Could it be? Was it possible that you had given birth already? His mind reeled at the thought. It wasn’t beyond reason—you were past your due date. The possibility sent a sharp thrill of anticipation coursing through him, though he masked it behind his usual stoicism.

Though, it could also be a trick. Not a very clever one, but a trick nonetheless.

Sylus then moved to the car, his crimson eyes glued to the live feed from Mephisto’s camera. Clara now strolled casually through the quiet, rain-slicked streets. She carried a bundle in her arms—soft blankets, cradled as if she were shielding a baby from the cold. His chest tightened as he observed her movements, his sharp gaze analyzing every detail.

“Boss…” Luke began from the front seat, his voice tentative. “Do you really think it’s…?”

Sylus didn’t answer right away. He leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest. His mind worked at a feverish pace, weighing the possibilities. Clara was clever, he’d give her that. The way she moved through the town was calculated, like she wanted to be seen but not stopped. She stopped briefly at a grocery store, stepping inside while the “baby” stayed securely tucked in her arms. Fifteen minutes later, she emerged with a bag of supplies and continued down the street.

Sylus’s lips curved into a faint smirk. If this was some elaborate trick, she was putting in a hell of an effort.

“She’s making a show of it,” he finally said, his voice calm but tinged with suspicion. “How peculiar to bring a fresh newborn outside this early in their first weeks of life.”

“Could it be hers?” Kieran asked cautiously, glancing at the feed over his shoulder. “Maybe she’s not hiding the miss at all.”

Sylus’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the edge of the seat tightening. “Not likely,” he said coldly. “She’s hiding something. And I’m going to find out what.”

For nearly an hour, they trailed Clara as she moved through Brunswick, making mundane stops and chatting briefly with shopkeepers. She never once let go of the bundle in her arms. Mephisto tracked her from above, his damaged wing hindering his flight but not enough to lose her in the sparse streets.

Finally, Clara climbed back into her car and began driving out of town. Sylus’s driver started the engine, following at a careful distance. The tension in the car was palpable as they left the lights of Brunswick behind, the road ahead growing darker and more secluded with every mile. Mephisto kept up, the feed from his camera showing the winding path Clara was taking.

“She’s heading back to the farmhouse,” Luke muttered, his voice barely audible.

Sylus didn’t respond. He already knew. His gaze stayed locked on the screen as Clara’s car pulled into the familiar driveway. She stepped out, clutching the bundle tightly as she walked briskly to the farmhouse door. The sight of the building—a small, unassuming structure nestled in the woods—made Sylus’s pulse quicken. If you were inside, then this charade was about to end.

“Stop here,” Sylus ordered, his voice low but firm. The car rolled to a halt about a mile away from the farmhouse, far enough to remain undetected but close enough to keep it in view. He watched intently as Clara disappeared inside with the bundle, her movements calm and purposeful.

“She’s got something,” Kieran said, breaking the silence. “But if it’s just blankets…”

“It can't be just blankets,” Luke snapped, cutting him off. “She wouldn’t be this careful over nothing. Prepare to move in.”

The men tensed, the air in the car thick with anticipation. Sylus reached into his coat, retrieving the lockpick kit he always carried. His movements were precise, almost methodical, as he checked his weapons and adjusted his gloves.

“No weapons,” he reminded suddenly, his tone sharp.

Luke and Kieran exchanged uneasy glances but nodded. They knew better than to question him when he was like this.

Sylus’s eyes flicked back to the farmhouse. He wasn’t foolish enough to think this would be simple. Clara had already proven herself clever, and you…you were a wildcard. But he’d planned for every possibility. He wasn’t leaving without you—and his daughter.

“Let’s go,” he said finally, stepping out of the car. The others followed, their footsteps muted on the damp earth. Mephisto perched nearby, his mechanical frame blending seamlessly into the shadows. The farmhouse loomed ahead, quiet and unassuming, but Sylus’s instincts told him otherwise.

Reaching the door, Sylus knelt, his fingers working expertly with the lockpick. It took mere seconds for the mechanism to click, and he pushed the door open with deliberate care. The sound of creaking hinges broke the silence, and the men filed in behind him, their eyes scanning every corner of the dimly lit space.

Sylus’s heart pounded in his chest as he stepped into the farmhouse. The game of cat and mouse was over. It was time to claim what was his.

Sylus’s patience had already worn thin as his men stormed the farmhouse, tearing through every corner, opening cupboards, flipping over furniture, and making a mess of the small space. He stood in the middle of the chaos, his eyes scanning the room with a calculating calm. It grated on his nerves how much noise they were making, and the lack of results only made it worse.

“No one here!” one of the men shouted from another room, frustration clear in his voice.

Sylus clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching at his sides. Minutes passed as his men continued their futile search, and with each moment, his irritation grew sharper. Finally, he raised his hand.

“Stop,” he commanded, his voice cold and clipped. The single word was enough to freeze everyone in place.

The farmhouse fell silent save for the distant sound of the wind outside. Sylus turned his gaze to a small closet in the living room—untouched, unsearched. His instincts prickled, a quiet certainty settling over him. He stepped forward, the air thick with tension as the other men watched him. The closer he got to the closet, the heavier the air felt.

With a steady hand, Sylus gripped the handle and swung the door open.

The sound of two gunshots shattered the silence, deafening and sudden. But the bullets never reached him. His crimson mist flared to life, wrapping around the projectiles and stopping them midair. The bullets hovered for a split second before clattering harmlessly to the floor.

Inside the closet, Clara stood trembling, her shotgun still aimed, her face pale but defiant. She fumbled to reload the weapon, her hands shaking as she tried to shove another shell into the chamber.

Sylus sighed, his crimson mist snaking out and wrapping around the shotgun. With a sharp yank, he pulled it from her hands and held it aloft. Clara froze, her breath coming in ragged gasps as Sylus examined the weapon with unnerving calm. He crouched, picking up the two discarded shells, and smoothly loaded them into the shotgun himself.

“You’ve got some fight in you, I’ll give you that,” he muttered, straightening up and aiming the weapon at her. Clara, now unarmed, still managed to glare at him with pure hatred.

“Get out of my fucking house,” she snarled, attempting to push herself up from the floor. Her body trembled, but her resolve didn’t waver.

Sylus’s expression didn’t change, his finger resting casually near the trigger. “Don’t think you’re in a position to be making demands.” He took a step closer, the barrel of the shotgun now pointed directly at her forehead. “Start talking. I’m not above putting new holes in women who stand in my way.”

Clara scoffed, her lips curling into a sneer even as her body sagged with exhaustion. “I got cancer anyway, bastard. Fucking do it,” she spat. “You think I don’t know all about what you did to that poor girl? Despicable. If anyone needs two new holes, it’s you, asshole.”

Sylus’s expression darkened, her words cutting through him like shards of glass. For a moment, his grip on the shotgun tightened, his crimson eyes narrowing dangerously. But instead of pulling the trigger, he reached down, his hand gripping Clara’s shoulder with bruising force. He yanked her up and tossed her onto the couch like a rag doll.

“Last chance,” he growled, his voice dripping with menace as he aimed the gun at her again. “And here I told my men no weapons. This is fair, though. You tried to kill me first.”

Clara struggled to sit up, clutching her side and breathing heavily. Despite her position, her fiery spirit hadn’t dimmed. She locked eyes with Sylus, her own gaze burning with hatred. “Go to fucking hell where you belong. You ain’t a man. Far from it. More like the devil himself!”

Her voice rang through the room, defiant and unwavering. Sylus grimaced, his teeth clenching as her words struck a nerve. He pressed the barrel of the shotgun against her head, his patience hanging by a thread.

But before he could respond, a voice cut through the tense moment.

“Boss…we found the nursery,” Luke called from down the hall.

Sylus froze, his heart skipping a beat at the words. Slowly, he straightened, his gaze snapping toward the hallway. For a moment, he didn’t move, his mind racing.

The nursery.

Without a word, Sylus turned on his heel, leaving Clara on the couch as he strode toward the hallway. The shotgun dangled at his side, forgotten in the flood of emotions rising within him. His men stepped aside as he passed, their eyes filled with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.

When Sylus entered the small room, his breath caught. The faint scent of baby powder lingered in the air, and soft, pastel colors adorned the walls. A crib sat against the far wall, and though it was empty, it was unmistakable—this room had been prepared for a child.

His child.

The nursery was a modest, humble space, but its purpose was unmistakable. The walls were painted in faded pastels, hints of yellow and green that had begun to peel slightly with age. A small wooden crib rested against one wall, its blankets slightly rumpled as though a tiny occupant had just been tucked away not long ago. The faint scent of baby powder lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of milk and something distinctly newborn.

Sylus’s gaze fell on the trash can tucked into a corner. It overflowed with used diapers and wipes, the evidence of sleepless nights and constant care. Scattered across the floor were tiny onesies in muted colors, some clean and folded, others clearly used and tossed aside in haste. A bottle sat forgotten on a nearby shelf, half-filled with what looked like breast milk.

You had been here. And not just for a moment—it was clear you had settled in, created a safe space for her. Sylus’s chest tightened as he scanned the room. His previous anger faded, replaced by something far heavier. He moved to the crib, his movements deliberate and slow. The mattress was slightly indented, a faint outline of where a newborn had rested.

His daughter. Was alive.

His hand hovered over the blankets, almost afraid to touch them, as if they would vanish under his fingers. What had her cries sounded like, he wondered? Soft and sweet like you? Or shrill and demanding, a force to be reckoned with? His jaw clenched, his breath uneven as his thoughts spiraled.

Had you given birth alone in this room? Without medical help? Without him? Were you hurt? Was she? The questions stormed through his mind, tightening a coil of frustration and fury in his chest. His eyes caught sight of a tiny onesie draped over the edge of the crib, pale pink with faded stripes. He reached for it, holding it delicately between his fingers before bringing it up to his nose.

Just as he thought. The faint, unmistakable scent of a baby clung to the fabric. His baby. He breathed in deeply, his nostrils flaring as he let the scent flood his senses. His hand shook slightly as he folded the onesie and slipped it into his pocket. A memento. A reminder of how close he had come—and how once again, you had slipped through his fingers.

His eyes darkened, and his calm exterior cracked as anger surged back to the forefront. You weren’t here. You had evaded him once more, just like before. His fists clenched, the thought of you out there alone with his newly born daughter sending a fresh wave of fury through him.

Straightening, Sylus turned on his heel and stalked back to the living room. His boots echoed heavily on the floorboards as he entered, and the tension in the air grew thick. Clara, restrained by two of his men, thrashed against their grip, yelling profanities at them.

“Assholes! Let me go!” she barked, her voice hoarse from shouting. Her defiance wavered for a moment as Sylus reentered, his imposing figure filling the room like a shadow.

He walked toward her slowly, the dark gleam in his eyes silencing the room. His steps were deliberate, calculated, and predatory. Clara froze as he crouched in front of her, his face mere inches from hers. His crimson eyes bore into her, and for the first time that night, the fiery woman shivered.

“Tell me where my fiancé and daughter went,” Sylus said, his voice low and venomous. “Or cancer will be the least of your worries.”

Clara stared back at him, her mouth opening and closing like she wanted to retort, but the words caught in her throat. His presence was suffocating, his aura predatory. Her confidence faltered, but then, with a shaky breath, she straightened herself as best she could, meeting his gaze with renewed defiance.

“I’ve dealt with men like you before,” she spat, though her voice lacked its earlier bravado. “You don’t deserve a fucking thing, much less a beautiful little family.”

Sylus’s jaw tightened at her words, his hand twitching at his side. He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over her face as his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Last chance, Clara. Talk,” he growled, his voice like a razor’s edge.

But Clara’s lips curled into a small, bitter smile, despite the beads of sweat forming on her brow. “Go to hell,” she said. “You’ll never find them. Never.”

The room fell deathly silent, and the tension crackled like a live wire. Sylus’s men exchanged nervous glances, waiting for his next move. For a moment, his face was unreadable, his crimson eyes locked on Clara as if weighing her words. Then, slowly, he stood to his full height, towering over her trembling form.

Sylus's jaw tightened again as Clara's defiant words echoed in his ears. How dare she? The audacity to look him in the eye, to challenge him, to stand in the way of the one thing he had longed for since he was a child—a family of his own. The only dream he had ever allowed himself to cherish in the twisted, brutal reality he had grown up in. And this woman, this nobody, thought she had the right to stand between him and what was his?

She wants to talk about deserving? His mind churned with indignation. The memories of sleepless nights, the endless search for you, and the growing knot of anger and longing to hold his daughter swirled together in a fiery storm. What did Clara know about what he had endured, about what he would sacrifice for you both? Nothing. And yet, she dared to judge him. She dared to throw his sins in his face as if hers weren’t just as vile.

A low, humorless chuckle escaped his lips, breaking the silence like a knife slicing through tension. His grin was sharp, predatory, as he leaned closer to Clara. Her defiance faltered for a split second, the shift in her expression subtle but satisfying. He had her attention.

“It’s funny,” he began, his voice calm but laced with venom, “you mention the prospect of deserving anything.” He paused, savoring the way her eyes narrowed, the way she stiffened against his men’s grip. “Haven’t you been stealing your father’s government checks while he rots away in a nursing home? Yet, you’re apparently ‘taking care of him.’”

Clara’s face faltered, her composure slipping like a mask cracking under pressure. Her mouth opened slightly as if to deny it, but no words came.

Sylus’s grin widened, his tone dripping with mockery. “Oh, don’t act so high and mighty, Clara. Don’t sit there on your soapbox and preach to me when your sins are clear as day, etched right onto that smug little face of yours. Didn't you dump your own daughter at her fathers cause you were tired of the financial burden she put on you?”

The color drained from Clara’s cheeks, her breathing quickening as his words struck true. She tried to pull her gaze away from his, but Sylus wasn’t letting her escape that easily. He leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. “You think you’re better than me? That you’ve got the moral high ground because you helped a pregnant woman on the run? Spare me. You’re no saint. You’re a liar, no different than the rest of humanity.”

For a moment, the room was suffocatingly quiet, the weight of his words pressing down like a crushing force. Clara’s lips pressed into a thin line, her trembling hands curling into fists at her sides as she tried to muster another bout of defiance. But the guilt in her eyes was unmistakable, and Sylus knew he had hit his mark.

His grin faded, replaced by a cold, calculating look. “So, Clara,” he said, his voice softer now, but no less dangerous. “Do you want to try again? Or are we going to keep playing this little game until I truly lose my patience?”

Clara's chest heaved with fury, her hands still pinned by his henchmen, but her voice came out sharp and steady. “I never claimed to be perfect,” she snapped, her eyes burning into Sylus. “And I sure as hell have my own sins. But it was me who looked after her and that baby, hiding her from you. You should be thanking me, asshole. If it weren’t for me, she’d probably be dead in a ditch somewhere. And you have the nerve to come into my house and threaten me? Fuck you.”

She paused, her defiance unwavering as her gaze darted to the crib in the other room. Her voice softened slightly, but the venom was still there. “That woman was scared out of her mind, crying every damn night, and I was the one who kept her alive. I gave her food. I gave her a safe place. So yeah, go ahead—hold that gun over my head. But just remember, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even have a daughter to hunt down. Much less a fiancé.”

Her voice broke slightly, but she kept her head high, glaring at him. “So like I said. You don’t deserve her. And you sure as hell don’t deserve that baby.”

Sylus stared at her, his breathing heavy, his crimson eyes narrowing. Her words cut deeper than he cared to admit, the weight of her defiance stirring something dark inside him. For the first time in years, someone had dared to tell him he wasn’t deserving—dared to spit the truth in his face.

Sylus’s jaw tightened further, the muscle flexing as Clara’s words struck him like a whip. Her breathing was ragged, and the fire in her eyes was unyielding despite the clear danger she was in. Her defiance burned bright, and though it grated on his every nerve, he couldn’t entirely dismiss the truth in her words.

She’s right, isn’t she?

He inhaled slowly, steadying himself. Her accusations hung heavy in the air. It was her who had hidden you, fed you, cared for the baby—all while he’d been storming around like a madman, desperate to bring you back. Dead in a ditch somewhere. The words echoed in his mind, and an unfamiliar pang struck his chest. Was that true? Could you have survived all this without Clara? He hated the thought, hated the idea that someone else had protected you better than he had.

But there it was. His mind churned as Clara’s words continued to linger, stoking the embers of his frustration. He wanted to tear her a new one, to tear her arguments apart, to prove that he was the one who should be thanked, not her. He had searched tirelessly, sacrificed sleep, combed every inch of this cursed region to find you.

He had cleaned up every mess you’d made, erased the trail you’d left behind so no one else could harm you. Killed most of the people who had harmed you. He had paid people off, hacked into systems, and even restrained himself from tearing apart everyone who so much as looked like they might know where you were. He was doing all of this for you.

And yet, here Clara stood, telling him he wasn’t worthy of you or his daughter. The audacity of it boiled his blood.

Sylus’s lips pressed into a thin line as he paced slowly in front of Clara, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His mind was a storm of conflicting emotions—rage, frustration, and something deeper, something he didn’t want to acknowledge. Guilt? No. He didn’t allow himself guilt. Not when everything he did was necessary to bring you back to where you belonged.

He stopped abruptly, turning to face Clara again, his crimson eyes burning into hers. "You think I don’t know what she’s been through?" His voice was low, almost a growl, but there was an edge of restraint to it. "You think I don’t care? Every second she’s been out of my sight has been hell. Hell, do you understand me?"

Clara’s glare didn’t waver, though her breathing hitched at the force behind his words. "Oh your the victim here? Then maybe you should ask yourself why she ran in the first place," she said bitterly, her voice quieter but no less cutting.

Sylus stiffened. The words landed like a blow to his gut, but he masked it with a cold smile. "She ran because she doesn’t know what’s best for her," he said sharply, though even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow. "She’s reckless, impulsive, and stubborn. And yet here I am, cleaning up her messes, making sure she’s safe. Because I care. Because she’s mine."

Clara scoffed, shaking her head. "You call that love? You’re delusional. Love isn’t ownership, you sick bastard. It’s trust. And you? You don’t even know what that word means. Probably can't even spell it."

Sylus’s jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth might crack. Her words cut deeper than any weapon ever could. He could feel the simmering rage bubbling beneath the surface, but he forced himself to take a step back, inhaling deeply to keep his composure.

"You’re bold, I’ll give you that," he said, his voice eerily calm now. "But don’t mistake my patience for weakness, Clara. I’ve killed people for saying less." He leaned down, bringing his face closer to hers, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed for her. What I’ve endured just to make sure she and our daughter survive. You don’t get to sit there and tell me I don’t deserve them."

Clara’s lips trembled for a moment, but then she lifted her chin defiantly. "And yet, here you are. Storming in like a tyrant instead of a father. Do you even know what she’s gone through? What it’s like to be afraid of the man who’s supposed to protect you?"

Sylus flinched inwardly at her words but didn’t let it show. Instead, he straightened, his expression hardening into a mask of indifference. "Enough," he said coldly, brushing past her as he gestured to his men. "Search the area again. Look for any clues as to where they’ve gone."

As his men scattered to follow his orders, Sylus turned his back to Clara, though her words continued to echo in his mind. Do you even know what she’s gone through?

He tightened his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wasn’t here to reflect on his actions or question his choices. He was here to bring you back. That was all that mattered.

And yet…her words lingered, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts as he made his way toward the nursery again.

Sylus lingered in the nursery, his gaze sweeping over every detail of the room. The small pile of used diapers in the trash, the onesies scattered across the crib, the faint smell of baby powder that clung to the air—all of it painted a vivid picture of the life you had carved out for yourself and your daughter in his absence. His chest tightened, a mix of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Anger, regret, longing. It was all there, bubbling beneath the surface.

He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw clenching as his thoughts spiraled. I missed it. The words echoed in his mind, heavy with anguish. He had missed her birth. The first cries. The moment she had entered the world. He had missed it all.

What had those first few days been like? Had you been in excruciating pain, left to deal with it all alone? The thought made his stomach churn. You probably hadn’t had medical attention, knowing how determined you were to stay off the radar. Were you okay? Was she okay? His mind raced with questions, each one more painful than the last.

What did she look like? Had you given her a name yet? The ache in his chest deepened. He wanted to know every detail, every moment he had missed, but instead, he was left with this hollow emptiness.

Sylus sighed heavily, forcing himself to focus. His eyes fell on a familiar object tucked beneath a blanket on the floor. He crouched down and pulled it out, his lips curling into a faint smile. Luke’s gun. The one you had stolen during your escape. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. He checked the bullet chamber.

Empty. What had you used the rest of the bullets for?

“So, you still had this with you,” he murmured to himself, his tone a mix of amusement and frustration. “At least you were somewhat armed. But now…” He sighed again, his brows furrowing. Now you’re out there with nothing to protect yourself or the baby. You’ve left yourself vulnerable.

He stood, pocketing the gun as his mind churned with possibilities. If you had left the gun behind, then you hadn’t gone far on foot. Traveling with a newborn, without proper protection, in your condition—it wasn’t feasible. A thought struck him, and his gaze snapped toward the front door.

He strode outside, ignoring the puzzled glances from his men. The dirt driveway stretched out before him, and he crouched low, inspecting the ground. Sure enough, fresh tire tracks were etched into the earth, leading away from the farmhouse. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Ah, so you’re driving now. Clever girl. But that also means…you haven’t gotten far.

Straightening, Sylus turned and re-entered the house, his expression calm and collected despite the storm raging inside him. He found Clara in the living room, still struggling against the grip of his men. He motioned for them to release her.

Clara fell to the floor with a grunt, clutching her chest and glaring up at him. “Assholes,” she spat, her voice hoarse but still full of defiance.

Sylus smirked, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket as he approached her. “I’d like to thank you for taking such great care of my family,” he said smoothly, his tone almost polite. “Truly, you have my gratitude. As a gift, you won’t get any new holes in your skull today.”

Clara scoffed, pushing herself into a sitting position. “Crazy bastard.”

He chuckled softly, his crimson eyes glinting. “Perhaps. But I will, however, be taking this.” He held up the shotgun, the metal gleaming under the dim light. “Thanks for your time.”

Clara glared at him, her jaw tightening. “Go to hell.”

Sylus leaned down slightly, meeting her gaze with an unsettling calm. “I’ve already been there, Clara. But don’t worry—I’ll make sure to send your regards if I ever go back.”

With that, he straightened and gestured for his men to follow him. They filed out of the farmhouse, leaving Clara sitting on the floor, her defiance still flickering but her exhaustion evident. Sylus stepped out into the night, the cool air biting against his skin as he approached the waiting car.

As Sylus exited the farmhouse, the cool night air filled his lungs. His steps were measured, his eyes fixed forward, but his mind was racing. He reached into his pocket, pulling out Luke's missing gun, its weight familiar in his hand. He turned it over once, a faint smirk tugging at his lips before he called out.

“Luke,” Sylus said, his voice sharp enough to cut through the noise of the other men shuffling about.

Luke turned quickly, his bird mask tilted in curiosity. “Yes, boss?”

With a flick of his wrist, Sylus tossed the gun toward him. Luke caught it midair, his eyes widening behind his mask. “No way! You found it!” he exclaimed, holding it up triumphantly.

Sylus’s smirk deepened. “Try not to lose it again to any more pregnant women,” he said dryly, turning away as Luke let out an enthusiastic cheer.

“Thanks, boss!” Luke said, almost bouncing in place as he inspected his beloved weapon. Kieran gave his brother a light shove, muttering something about priorities, but Luke didn’t seem to care. He twirled the gun theatrically, clearly overjoyed to have it back.

Sylus didn’t linger on the scene. He strode toward the car, his expression hardening once more as the reality of the situation set in. Tossing the gun back was a minor indulgence—one moment of levity in a sea of mounting frustration. He climbed into the car, settling into the backseat as the driver awaited his command.

He had managed to keep his cool surprisingly well so far. First with the twins, and with everyone else here in Brunswick. No one had died surprisingly. Perhaps you had more influence on him than he thought.

Still. There was only so much he could take before he snapped.

His eyes drifted back toward the farmhouse, the faint glow of its lights barely visible through the dark trees. Clara’s words still rang in his ears, her defiance leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. But it didn’t matter now. He had the trail. The tire tracks. A direction.

The game was far from over.

“Drive,” Sylus ordered, his voice cold and unyielding. The car hummed to life, rolling forward into the night. As it sped down the dirt road, he allowed himself a brief glance at the horizon. Somewhere out there, you and his daughter were waiting. He would hold you both soon, he could feel it.

And he was getting closer.

Xavier’s apartment was dark, the curtains drawn tightly to block out the sunlight that threatened to pierce through. The air was frigid, his breath visible in the dim light of the television that flickered across the room. Ice shards littered the floor, clinging to his arms and legs like cruel barbs. He lay there, writhing, his body trembling uncontrollably as pain radiated through every fiber of his being.

The shrill sound of his phone ringing cut through the silence, pulling him momentarily from the haze of agony. It buzzed relentlessly on the floor next to him, the screen illuminating missed calls and unread messages.

Missed Calls: Captain Jenna (5), Team Line (12) Messages: Captain Jenna – “Xavier, we’re worried. Please answer your phone.” Team Chat – “Anyone heard from Xavier?” “He’s been ghosting us for weeks.”

The phone buzzed again. Another call. He turned his head slightly, his blurred vision focusing just enough to make out the name on the screen. Captain Jenna.

The ringtone felt like nails in his ears, and with what little strength he had, he reached for the phone, his frostbitten fingers trembling. It slipped from his grasp, clattering back to the icy floor. The call went to voicemail.

Moments later, the voicemail notification played automatically, her voice soft but filled with concern:

"Xavier, everyone on the team is worried sick about you. Please get back to me when you can. I’d hate to forcibly resign you. Let’s work something out, okay? If you need more time, it’s fine. Call me back."

The message ended with a beep, and Xavier let out a strained breath, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. His fingers twitched, trying to reach for the phone again, but his body refused to cooperate. The ice shards seemed to dig deeper, the frost creeping up his arms like vines threatening to claim him.

He heaved, his teeth chattering uncontrollably as he tried to form coherent thoughts. The pain was unbearable, a relentless wave that drowned out everything else.

And then, everything went black.

The phone buzzed one last time, the screen lighting up the room as Xavier’s unconscious form lay sprawled on the floor, his breaths uneven as the frost slowly spread across his floor.

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