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creatingblackcharacters · 22 days ago

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“The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth” - Violence, Violent Imagery & Black Horror

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of death, violence, blood, hate crimes, antiblackness, police violence, rape

Note! I am going to be speaking from a Black American point of view, as my identity informs my experience. That said, antiblackness itself is international. The idea of my Blackness as a threat, as a source of fear and violence to repress and to destroy, is something every Black person in the world that has ever dealt with white supremacy has experienced.

There are two things, I think, that are important to note as we start this conversation.

One: there is a long history of violence towards Black bodies that is due to our dehumanization. People do not care for the killing of a mouse in the way they care about a human. But if you think the people you are dealing with are not people, but animals- more particularly, pests, something distasteful- then you will be able to rationalize treating them as such.

Two: even though we live in a time period where that overt belief of Blackness as inhuman is less likely, we must recognize that there are centuries of belief behind this concept; centuries of arguments and actions that cement in our minds that a certain amount of violence towards Blackness is normal. That subconscious belief you may hold is steeped in centuries of effort to convince you of it without even questioning it. And because of this very real re-enforcement of desensitization, naturally another place this will manifest itself is in how we tell and comprehend stories.

There are also three points I'm about to make first- not the only three that can ever be made, but the ones that stand out the most to me when we talk about violence with Black characters:

One: Your Black readers may experience that scene you wrote differently than you meant anyone to, just because our history may change our perspective on what’s happening.

Two: The idea that Black characters and people deserve the pain they are experiencing.

Three: The disbelief or dismissal of the pain of Black characters and people.

You Better Start Believing In Ghost Stories- You’re In One

I don’t need to tell Black viewers scary fairytales of sadists, body snatchers and noncoincidental disappearances, cannibals, monsters appearing in the night, and dystopian, unjust systems that bury people alive- real life suffices! We recognize the symbolism because we’ve seen real demons.

Some real examples of familiar, terrifying stories that feel like drama, but are real experiences:

12 Years a Slave: “This is no fiction, no exaggeration. If I have failed in anything, it has been in presenting to the reader too prominently the bright side of the picture. I doubt not hundreds have been as unfortunate as myself; that hundreds of free citizens have been kidnapped and sold into slavery, and are at this moment wearing out their lives on plantations in Texas and Louisiana.” – Solomon Northup

When They See Us: I can’t get myself to watch When They See Us, because I learned about the actual trial of the Central Park Five- now the Exonerated Five- in my undergrad program. Five teen Black and brown boys, subjected to racist and cruel policing and vilification in the media- from Donald Trump calling for their deaths in the newspaper, to being imprisoned under what the Clintons deemed a generation of “superpredators” during a “tough on crime” administration. And as audacious as it is to say, as Solomon Northup explained, they were fortunate. The average Black person funneled into the prison system doesn’t get the opportunity to make it back out redeemed or exonerated, because the system is designed to capture and keep them there regardless of their innocence or guilt. Their lives are irreparably changed; they are forever trapped.

Jasper, Texas: Learning about the vicious, gruesome murder of James Byrd Jr, was horrific- and that was just the movie. No matter how “community comes together” everyone tells that story, the reality is that there are people who will beat you, drag you chained down a gravel road for three miles as your body shreds away until you are decapitated, and leave your mangled body in front of a Black church to send a message… Because you’re Black and they hate you. To date I am scared when I’m walking and I see trucks passing me, and don’t let them have the American or the Confederate flag on them. Even Ahmaud Arbery, all he was doing was jogging in his hometown, and white men from out of town decided he should be murdered for that.

Do you want to know what all of these men and boys, from 1841 to 2020, had in common? What they did to warrant what happened to them? Being outside while Black. Some might call it “wrong place wrong time”, but the reality is that there is no “right place”. Sonya Massey, Breonna Taylor- murdered inside their home. Where else can you be, if the danger has every right to barge inside? There is no “safe”.

It is already Frightening to live while Black- not because being Black is inherently frightening, but because our society has made it horrific to do so. But that leads into my next point:

“They Shouldn’t Have Resisted”

Think of all the videos of assaulted and murdered Black people from police violence. If you can stomach going into the comments- which I don’t, anymore- you’ll see this classic comment of hate in the thousands, twisting your stomach into knots:

“if they obeyed the officer, if they didn’t resist, this wouldn’t have happened”

Another way our punitive society normalizes itself is via the idea of respectability politics; the idea that “if you are Good, if you do what you are Supposed to do, you will not be hurt- I will not have to hurt you”. Therefore, if my people are always suffering violence, it must be because we are Bad. And in a society that is already less gracious to Black people, that is more likely to think we are less human, that we are innately bad and must earn the right to be exceptional… the use of excessive violence towards me must be the natural outcome. “If your people weren’t more likely to be criminals, there wouldn’t be the need to be suspicious of you”- that is the way our society has taught us to frame these interactions, placing the blame for our own victimization on us.

Sidebar: I would highly suggest reading The New Jim Crow, written in 2010 by Michelle Alexander, to see how this mentality helps tie into large scale criminalization and mass incarceration, and how the cycle is purposely perpetuated.

You have to constantly be aware of how you look, walk and talk- and even then, that won’t be enough to save you if the time comes. The turning point for me, personally, was the murder of Sandra Bland. If she could be educated, beautiful, a beacon of her community, be everything a “Good” Black person is supposed to be… and still be murdered via police violence, they can kill any of us. And that’s a very terrifying thought- that anything at any point can be the reason for your death, and it will be validated because someone thinks you shouldn’t have “been that way”. And that way has far less to do with what you did, than it does who you are. Being “that way” is Black.

My point is, if this belief is so normalized in real life about violence on Black bodies- that somehow, we must have done something to deserve this- what makes you think that this belief does not affect how you comprehend Black people suffering in stories?

Hippocratic Oath

Human experimentation? Vivisection? Organ stealing? Begging for medicine? Dramatically bleeding out? Not trusting just anyone to see that you are hurt, because they might take advantage? All very real fears. The idea that pain is normal for Black people is especially rampant in the healthcare field, where ideas like our melanin making our skin thick enough to feel less pain (no), an overblown fear of ‘drug misuse’, and believing we are overexaggerating our pain makes many Black people being unwilling to trust the healthcare system. And it comes down to this thought:

If you think that I feel less pain, you will allow me to suffer long before you believe that I am in pain.

I was psychologically spiraling I was in so much pain after my wisdom teeth removal, and my surgeon was more concerned about “addiction to the medication”. Only because Hot Chocolate’s mom is a nurse, did I get an effective medicine schedule. My mother ended up with jaw rot because her surgeon outright claimed that she didn’t believe that she was in more than the ‘healing’ pain after her wisdom teeth were removed. She also has a gigantic, macabre (and awesome fr) scar on her stomach from a c-section she received after four days of labor attempting to have me… all because she was too poor and too Black to afford better doctors who wouldn’t have dismissed her struggles to push.

As a major example of dismissed Black pain: let’s discuss the mortality rate of Black women during childbirth, as well as the likelihood of our children to die. When we say “they will let you bleed to death”, we mean it.

“Black women have the highest maternal mortality rate in the United States — 69.9 per 100,000 live births for 2021, almost three times the rate for white women, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Black babies are more likely to die, and also far more likely to be born prematurely, setting the stage for health issues that could follow them through their lives.”

Even gynecology roots in dismissal (and taking brutal advantage of) Black women's pain:

“The history of this particular medical branch … it begins on a slave farm in Alabama,” Owens said. “The advancement of obstetrics and gynecology had such an intimate relationship with slavery, and was literally built on the wounds of Black women.” Reproductive surgeries that were experimental at the time, like cesarean sections, were commonly performed on enslaved Black women. Physicians like the once-heralded J. Marion Sims, an Alabama doctor many call the “father of gynecology,” performed torturous surgical experiments on enslaved Black women in the 1840s without anesthesia. And well after the abolition of slavery, hospitals performed unnecessary hysterectomies on Black women, and eugenics programs sterilized them.”

If you think Black characters are not in pain, or that they’re overexaggerating, you’re more likely to be okay with them suffering more in comparison to those whose pain you take more seriously- to those you believe.

What’s My Point?

My point is that whatever terrifying scene you think you’re writing, whatever violent whump scenario you think you’re about to put your Black characters through, there’s a chance it has probably happened and was treated as nonimportant (damn shame, right?) And when those terrifying scenes are both written and read, the way their suffering will be felt depends on how much you as a reader care, how much you believe they are suffering.

There’s a joke amongst readers of color that many dystopian tales are tales of “what happened if white people experienced things that the rest of us have already been put through?” Think concepts like alien invasion and mass eradication of the existing population- you may think of that as an action flick, meanwhile peoples globally have suffered colonization for centuries. The Handmaid’s Tale- forced birthing and raising of “someone else’s” children, always subject to sexual harassment by the Master while subject to hate from the Mistress- that’s just being a Mammy.

There’s nothing wrong with having Black characters be violent or deal with violence, especially in a story where every character is going through shit. That is not the problem! What I am trying to tell you, though, is to be aware that certain violent imagery is going to evoke familiarity in Black viewers. And if I as a Black viewer see my very real traumas treated as entertainment fodder- or worse, dismissed- by the narrative and other viewers, I will probably not want to consume that piece of media anymore. I will also question the intentions and the beliefs of the people who treat said traumas so callously. Now, if that’s not something you care about, that’s on you! But for people who do care, it is something we need to make sure we are catching before we do it.

“So I just can’t write anything?!”

Stop that. There are plenty of examples of stories containing horror and violence with Black characters. There’s an entire genre of us telling our own stories, using the same violence as symbolism. I’m not telling you “no” (least not always). I’m telling you to take some consideration when you write the things that you do. There’s nothing wrong about writing your Black characters being violent or experiencing violence. But there is a difference between making it narratively relevant, and thoughtlessly using them as a “spook”, a stereotypical scary Black person, or a punching bag, especially in a way that may invoke certain trauma.

The Black Guy Dies First

The joke is that we never survive these horror movies because we either wouldn’t be there to begin with, or because we would make better decisions and the narrative can’t have that. But the reality is just that a lot of writers find Black characters- Black people- expendable in comparison to their white counterparts, and it shows. More of a “here, damn” sort of character, not worth investment and easy to shrug off. The book itself I haven’t read, just because it’s pretty new, but I’m looking forward to doing so. But from the summaries, it goes into horror media history and how Black characters have fared in these stories, as well as how that connects to the society those characters were written in. I.e., a thorough version of this lesson.

Instead, I wrote an entire list of questions you could possibly ask yourself involving violence or villainy involving a Black character. Feel free to print it and put it on your wall where you write if you have to! I cannot stress enough that asking yourself questions like these are good both for your creation and just… being less antiblack in general when you consume media.

Black Horror/Black Thriller

We, too, have turned our violent experiences into stories. I continue to highly suggest watching our films and reading our stories to see how we convey our fear, our terror, our violence and our pain. There are plenty of stories that work- Get Out, The Angry Black Girl and her Monster, Candyman, Lovecraft Country (the show) and Nanny are some examples. There’s even a blog by the co-writer of The Black Guy Dies First who runs BlackHorrorMovies where he reviews horror movies from throughout the decades.

Desiree Evans has a great essay, We Need Black Horror More Than Ever, that gets into why this genre is so creative and effective, that I think says what I have to say better than I could.

“Even before Peele, Black horror had a rich literary lineage going back to the folklore of Africa and its Diaspora. Stories of haints, witches, curses, and magic of all kinds can be found in the folktales collected by author and anthropologist Zora Neale Hurston and in the folktales retold by acclaimed children’s book author Virginia Hamilton. One of my earliest childhood literary memories is being entranced by Hamilton’s The House of Dies Drear and Patricia McKissack’s children’s book classic The Dark-Thirty: Southern Tales of the Supernatural, both examples of the ways Black authors have tapped into Black history along with our rich ghostlore.” “Black horror can be clever and subversive, allowing Black writers to move against racist tropes, to reconfigure who stands at the center of a story, and to shift the focus from the dominant narrative to that which is hidden, submerged. To ask: what happens when the group that was Othered, gets to tell their side of the story?”

For on the nose simplicity, I’m going to use hood classic Tales From The Hood (1994) as an example of how violence can be integrated into Black horror tales. Tales From The Hood is like… The Twilight Zone by Black people. Messages discussing issues in our community, done through a mystical twist. Free on Tubi! If you want to stop here before some spoilers, it’s an hour and a half. A great time!

In the first story, a Black political activist is murdered by the cops. The scene is reflective of the real-world efforts to discredit and even murder activists speaking out against police violence, as well as the types of things done to criminalize Black citizens for capture. The song Strange Fruit plays in the background, to drive the point home that this is a lynching.

The second story deals with a Black little boy experiencing abuse in the home, drawing a green monster to show his teacher why he’s covered in wounds and is lashing out at school.

The fourth story is about a gangbanger who undergoes “behavioral modification” to be released from prison early. Think of the classic scene from A Clockwork Orange. He must watch as imagery of the Klan and of happy whites lynching Black bodies (real-life pictures and video, mind you!) play into his mind alongside gang violence.

Isn’t Violence Stereotypical or antiblack?

That last story from Tales From The Hood leads into a good point. It can be! But it does not have to be! Violence is a human experience. By suggesting we don’t experience it or commit it, you would be denying everything I’ve just spoken about. We don’t have to be racist to write our Black characters in violent situations. We also don’t have to comprehend those situations through a racist lens.

Even experiences that seem “stereotypical” do not have to be comprehended that way. I get a LOT of questions about if something is stereotypical, and my response is always that it depends on the writing!!! You could give me a harmless prompt and it becomes the most racist story ever once you leave my inbox. But you could give me a “stereotypical” prompt and it be genuine writing.

Let’s take the movie Juice for example. Juice in my honest to God opinion becomes a thriller about halfway in. On its surface, Juice looks like bad Black boys shooting and cursing and doing things they aren’t supposed to be doing! Incredibly stereotypical- violent young thugs. You might think, “you shouldn’t write something like this- you’re telling everyone this is what your community is like”. First- there’s that respectability politics again! Just because something is not a “respectable” story does not mean it doesn’t need to be told!

But if we’re actually paying attention, what we’re looking at is four young boys dealing with their environment in different ways. All four of them originally stick together to feel power amongst their brotherhood as they all act tough and discover their own identities. They are not perfect, but they are still kids. In this environment, to be tough, to be strong, you do the things that they are doing. You run from cops, you steal from stores, you mess with all the girls and talk shit and wave weapons. That’s what makes you “big”. That’s what gives you the “juice”- and the “juice” can make you untouchable.

I want to focus particularly on Bishop, yes, played by Tupac. Bishop, the antagonist of Juice, is particularly powerless, angry, and scared of the world around him. He puts on a big front of bravado, yelling, cursing, and talking big because he’s tired of being afraid, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it otherwise. So when he gets access to a gun- to power- he quickly spirals out of control. His response to his fear is to wave around a tool that makes him feel stronger, that stops the things that scare him from scaring him.

Now, that is not a unique tale! That is a tale that any race could write about, particularly young white men with gun violence! If you ever cared for Fairuza Balk’s character in The Craft, it is a similar fall from grace. But because it is on a young, Black man in the hood, audiences are less likely to empathize with Bishop. And granted, Bishop is unhinged! But many a white character has been, and is not shoved into a stereotype that white people cannot escape from!

Now would I be comfortable if a nonblack person attempted to write a narrative like Juice? Yes, because I’d worry about the tendency to lose the messaging and just fall into stereotype outright. But it can be done! The story can be told!

“But if Black violence bad, why rap?”

The short answer:

“In order for me to write poetry that isn’t political, I must listen to the birds, and in order to hear the birds, the warplanes must be silent.”

Marwhan Makhoul, Palestinian Poet

First, rap is not “only violence and misogyny”. Step your understanding of the genre up; there are plenty of options outside of the mainstream that don’t discuss those things. Second, every genre of music has mainstream popular songs about vice and sin. The idea that Black rappers have to be held to a higher standard is yet another example of how we are seen as inherently bad and must prove ourselves good. We could speak about nothing but drugs and alcohol and 1) there would still be white artists who do the very same and 2) we would still deserve to be treated like humans.

That said, many- not all- rappers rap about violence for the same reason Billy Joel wrote We Didn’t Start the Fire, the same reason Homer first spoke The Iliad- because they have something to say about it! They stand in a long tradition of people using poetry and rhythm to tell stories. Rap is an art of storytelling!

Rap is often used as an expression of frustration and righteous anger against a system built to keep us trapped within it. I’m not allowed to be angry? Why wouldn’t I be angry? Anger is a protective emotion, often when one feels helpless. Young Black people also began to reclaim and glorify the violence they lived in within their music, to take pride in their survival and in their success in a world that otherwise wanted them to fail. If I think the world fights against me no matter what I do, I’d rather live in pride than in shame with a bent head. Is it right? Maybe, maybe not. But if you don’t want them to rap about violence, why not alleviate the things leading to the violence in their environment?

Whether you choose to listen to their words, because the delivery scares you- and trust, angry Black men scared the music industry and society- doesn’t make the story any less valid!

Conclusion

I am going to drop a classic by Slick Rick called Children’s Story. I think listening to it- and I mean genuinely listening- summarizes what I’ve said here about how Black creators can tell stories, even violent ones, and how even the delivery through Blackness can change how you perceive them. Please take the time to listen before continuing.

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I’ve been alive for 28 years and have known this song my whole life, and it just hit me tonight: not once is the kid in this story identified as Black! My perception of this story was completely altered by my own experiences, who told the story, and how it was told.

That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You can tell stories of violence that involve Black characters. I love and adore a good hurt/comfort myself! But you need to be cognizant of your audience and how they’ll perceive the story you’re telling, and that includes the types of imagery you include. It’s not effective catharsis via hurt/comfort for the audience if your Black readers are being completely left out of the comfort. “I wrote this for myself” that’s cool, but… if you wrote racism for yourself, and you’re willing to admit that to yourself, that’s on you. I’d like to think that’s not your intention! You can write these stories of woe and pain without mistreating your Black characters- but that requires knowing and acknowledging when and how you’re doing that!

@afropiscesism makes a solid point in this post: our horror stories are not just fairytales full of amorphous boogiemen meant to teach lessons. Racial violence is very real, very alive, and we cannot act like the things we write can be dismissed outright as “oh well it’s not real”. Sure, those characters aren’t real. But the way you feel about Black bodies and violence is, and often it can slip into your writing as a pattern without you even realizing it. Be willing to get uncomfortable and check yourself on this as you write, as well as noticing it in other works!

If you’re constantly thinking “I would never do this”, you’ll never stop yourself when you inevitably do! If you know what violent imagery can be evoked, you can utilize it or avoid it altogether- but only if you’re willing to get honest about it. You might not intend to do any of this, but it doesn’t matter if you don’t change the pattern, because as always, it’s the thought that counts, but the action that delivers!

#creatingblackcharacters #long post #writing #writing black characters #black character design #black history #media history

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mostlysignssomeportents · 6 months ago

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Even if you think AI search could be good, it won’t be good

TONIGHT (May 15), I'm in NORTH HOLLYWOOD for a screening of STEPHANIE KELTON'S FINDING THE MONEY; FRIDAY (May 17), I'm at the INTERNET ARCHIVE in SAN FRANCISCO to keynote the 10th anniversary of the AUTHORS ALLIANCE.

The big news in search this week is that Google is continuing its transition to "AI search" – instead of typing in search terms and getting links to websites, you'll ask Google a question and an AI will compose an answer based on things it finds on the web:

https://blog.google/products/search/generative-ai-google-search-may-2024/

Google bills this as "let Google do the googling for you." Rather than searching the web yourself, you'll delegate this task to Google. Hidden in this pitch is a tacit admission that Google is no longer a convenient or reliable way to retrieve information, drowning as it is in AI-generated spam, poorly labeled ads, and SEO garbage:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/03/keyword-swarming/#site-reputation-abuse

Googling used to be easy: type in a query, get back a screen of highly relevant results. Today, clicking the top links will take you to sites that paid for placement at the top of the screen (rather than the sites that best match your query). Clicking further down will get you scams, AI slop, or bulk-produced SEO nonsense.

AI-powered search promises to fix this, not by making Google search results better, but by having a bot sort through the search results and discard the nonsense that Google will continue to serve up, and summarize the high quality results.

Now, there are plenty of obvious objections to this plan. For starters, why wouldn't Google just make its search results better? Rather than building a LLM for the sole purpose of sorting through the garbage Google is either paid or tricked into serving up, why not just stop serving up garbage? We know that's possible, because other search engines serve really good results by paying for access to Google's back-end and then filtering the results:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/04/teach-me-how-to-shruggie/#kagi

Another obvious objection: why would anyone write the web if the only purpose for doing so is to feed a bot that will summarize what you've written without sending anyone to your webpage? Whether you're a commercial publisher hoping to make money from advertising or subscriptions, or – like me – an open access publisher hoping to change people's minds, why would you invite Google to summarize your work without ever showing it to internet users? Nevermind how unfair that is, think about how implausible it is: if this is the way Google will work in the future, why wouldn't every publisher just block Google's crawler?

A third obvious objection: AI is bad. Not morally bad (though maybe morally bad, too!), but technically bad. It "hallucinates" nonsense answers, including dangerous nonsense. It's a supremely confident liar that can get you killed:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2023/sep/01/mushroom-pickers-urged-to-avoid-foraging-books-on-amazon-that-appear-to-be-written-by-ai

The promises of AI are grossly oversold, including the promises Google makes, like its claim that its AI had discovered millions of useful new materials. In reality, the number of useful new materials Deepmind had discovered was zero:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/23/maximal-plausibility/#reverse-centaurs

This is true of all of AI's most impressive demos. Often, "AI" turns out to be low-waged human workers in a distant call-center pretending to be robots:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/31/neural-interface-beta-tester/#tailfins

Sometimes, the AI robot dancing on stage turns out to literally be just a person in a robot suit pretending to be a robot:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/29/pay-no-attention/#to-the-little-man-behind-the-curtain

The AI video demos that represent "an existential threat to Hollywood filmmaking" turn out to be so cumbersome as to be practically useless (and vastly inferior to existing production techniques):

https://www.wheresyoured.at/expectations-versus-reality/

But let's take Google at its word. Let's stipulate that:

a) It can't fix search, only add a slop-filtering AI layer on top of it; and

b) The rest of the world will continue to let Google index its pages even if they derive no benefit from doing so; and

c) Google will shortly fix its AI, and all the lies about AI capabilities will be revealed to be premature truths that are finally realized.

AI search is still a bad idea. Because beyond all the obvious reasons that AI search is a terrible idea, there's a subtle – and incurable – defect in this plan: AI search – even excellent AI search – makes it far too easy for Google to cheat us, and Google can't stop cheating us.

Remember: enshittification isn't the result of worse people running tech companies today than in the years when tech services were good and useful. Rather, enshittification is rooted in the collapse of constraints that used to prevent those same people from making their services worse in service to increasing their profit margins:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/26/glitchbread/#electronic-shelf-tags

These companies always had the capacity to siphon value away from business customers (like publishers) and end-users (like searchers). That comes with the territory: digital businesses can alter their "business logic" from instant to instant, and for each user, allowing them to change payouts, prices and ranking. I call this "twiddling": turning the knobs on the system's back-end to make sure the house always wins:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

What changed wasn't the character of the leaders of these businesses, nor their capacity to cheat us. What changed was the consequences for cheating. When the tech companies merged to monopoly, they ceased to fear losing your business to a competitor.

Google's 90% search market share was attained by bribing everyone who operates a service or platform where you might encounter a search box to connect that box to Google. Spending tens of billions of dollars every year to make sure no one ever encounters a non-Google search is a cheaper way to retain your business than making sure Google is the very best search engine:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/21/im-feeling-unlucky/#not-up-to-the-task

Competition was once a threat to Google; for years, its mantra was "competition is a click away." Today, competition is all but nonexistent.

Then the surveillance business consolidated into a small number of firms. Two companies dominate the commercial surveillance industry: Google and Meta, and they collude to rig the market:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jedi_Blue

That consolidation inevitably leads to regulatory capture: shorn of competitive pressure, the companies that dominate the sector can converge on a single message to policymakers and use their monopoly profits to turn that message into policy:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/05/regulatory-capture/

This is why Google doesn't have to worry about privacy laws. They've successfully prevented the passage of a US federal consumer privacy law. The last time the US passed a federal consumer privacy law was in 1988. It's a law that bans video store clerks from telling the newspapers which VHS cassettes you rented:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Video_Privacy_Protection_Act

In Europe, Google's vast profits lets it fly an Irish flag of convenience, thus taking advantage of Ireland's tolerance for tax evasion and violations of European privacy law:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/15/finnegans-snooze/#dirty-old-town

Google doesn't fear competition, it doesn't fear regulation, and it also doesn't fear rival technologies. Google and its fellow Big Tech cartel members have expanded IP law to allow it to prevent third parties from reverse-engineer, hacking, or scraping its services. Google doesn't have to worry about ad-blocking, tracker blocking, or scrapers that filter out Google's lucrative, low-quality results:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

Google doesn't fear competition, it doesn't fear regulation, it doesn't fear rival technology and it doesn't fear its workers. Google's workforce once enjoyed enormous sway over the company's direction, thanks to their scarcity and market power. But Google has outgrown its dependence on its workers, and lays them off in vast numbers, even as it increases its profits and pisses away tens of billions on stock buybacks:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/25/moral-injury/#enshittification

Google is fearless. It doesn't fear losing your business, or being punished by regulators, or being mired in guerrilla warfare with rival engineers. It certainly doesn't fear its workers.

Making search worse is good for Google. Reducing search quality increases the number of queries, and thus ads, that each user must make to find their answers:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/24/naming-names/#prabhakar-raghavan

If Google can make things worse for searchers without losing their business, it can make more money for itself. Without the discipline of markets, regulators, tech or workers, it has no impediment to transferring value from searchers and publishers to itself.

Which brings me back to AI search. When Google substitutes its own summaries for links to pages, it creates innumerable opportunities to charge publishers for preferential placement in those summaries.

This is true of any algorithmic feed: while such feeds are important – even vital – for making sense of huge amounts of information, they can also be used to play a high-speed shell-game that makes suckers out of the rest of us:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/11/for-you/#the-algorithm-tm

When you trust someone to summarize the truth for you, you become terribly vulnerable to their self-serving lies. In an ideal world, these intermediaries would be "fiduciaries," with a solemn (and legally binding) duty to put your interests ahead of their own:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/07/treacherous-computing/#rewilding-the-internet

But Google is clear that its first duty is to its shareholders: not to publishers, not to searchers, not to "partners" or employees.

AI search makes cheating so easy, and Google cheats so much. Indeed, the defects in AI give Google a readymade excuse for any apparent self-dealing: "we didn't tell you a lie because someone paid us to (for example, to recommend a product, or a hotel room, or a political point of view). Sure, they did pay us, but that was just an AI 'hallucination.'"

The existence of well-known AI hallucinations creates a zone of plausible deniability for even more enshittification of Google search. As Madeleine Clare Elish writes, AI serves as a "moral crumple zone":

https://estsjournal.org/index.php/ests/article/view/260

That's why, even if you're willing to believe that Google could make a great AI-based search, we can nevertheless be certain that they won't.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/15/they-trust-me-dumb-fucks/#ai-search

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

djhughman https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Modular_synthesizer_-_%22Control_Voltage%22_electronic_music_shop_in_Portland_OR_-_School_Photos_PCC_%282015-05-23_12.43.01_by_djhughman%29.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #twiddling #ai #ai search #enshittification #discipline #google #search #monopolies #moral crumple zones #plausible deniability #algorithmic feeds

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dark-konohagakure2 · 4 months ago

Note

Since your writing for black butler now how about sebastian x younger naïve reader maybe like ciels older sister

tw: dub/noncon, age difference, corruption, abuse of power, size difference, risky sex, virginity loss, blackmail, period typical misogyny

All characters depicted are 18+

Sebastian, despite not being human, isn't immune to sexual desire entirety. While demons don't experience attraction in the same way that humans do, they still feel it, and Sebastian's primary sexual attraction is towards those whom he can take advantage of.

While the terms of his Faustian contract prevents him from doing anything to harm his young master Ciel, there is a loophole, he technically wouldn't be harming or betraying the Earl by taking advantage of his elder sister, so that is exactly what Sebastian plans to do.

It isn't too hard, Sebastian has nearly unlimited access to his young lady given how busy Ciel is and how dimwitted the other servants are, and she's a naive and trusting young woman who's oblivious to Sebastian's true nature, so he can take advantage of her as easily as he can breathe.

He's tasked with assisting her in getting dressed every morning, so Sebastian is very accustomed to seeing her naked body, and he very much likes what he sees. It's a morning like any other when the demon butler finally decides to strike. He'll be helping her get undressed, but then he'll 'accidently' forget to give her a dress, but she has nothing to fear, because Sebastian has a solution to this mundane little problem.

"Ah, my apologies My Lady, but it seems I've forgotten to bring you your clothes for the day. Well, no matter, you can simply assist me with finding you the correct one in the closet..."

As soon as the closet door is shut behind them, Sebastian makes his move. He'll firmly force his gloved hand over her mouth, gently shushing her as she spreads her now trembling legs apart, testing her wetness with his skilled fingers. The naive young lady doesn't fully understand what he's doing, but Sebastian insists that she can trust her dutiful butler.

Despite his appearance as a tall and lean man, Sebastian is a very well endowed demon, so his thick cock will stretch her poor untouched hole to its limits as he bullies it inside of her, but he's an attentive butler, so he'll soothe and shush his young mistress if she's struggling and crying too much, reminding her that denying a man's needs is very unladylike.

Sebastian can just barely keep up his gentlemanly persona when he's balls deep inside of the object of his dark desires, the red color in his eyes glowing and becoming more pronounced as he pounds away at the poor girl, his hand still clamped over the young woman's mouth as he moves in and out of her, hardly able to hold back his primal demonic urge to bite down all the way into her throat.

Sebastian doesn't bother to pull out when he finally climaxes, he's almost certain that a demon can't impregnate a human, and even if he's wrong, she's at childbearing age anyway, so he'd be doing her a favor. When he's finished with her he'll almost instantly assume his butler persona again, but not before giving her some friendly advice.

"Th-There... I must say that felt great, my little lady... Do run along now, and don't speak of this to anyone. We don't want the Young Master to think his dear sister is a strumpet now do we?"

Sebastian's implicit threat seemed to work, as the young Phantomhive keeps her mouth shut about what happened between the two of them in the closet, this pleases the demon greatly, and now he gets to have a new human plaything to use as he sees fit.

#black butler #black butler x reader #black butler smut #sebastian michaelis #sebastian michaelis x reader #sebastian michaelis smut #kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji x reader #kuroshitsuji smut #headcanon #x reader

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starry-bi-sky · 9 months ago

Text

Danielle and Danyal's meeting... very, very quickly goes very sour from, basically, the moment Danny steps into his room and finds Ellie sitting on his bed (strike one) and reading the comic books Tucker introduced him to (strike two). By the time she's looked up to address him, Danny has the door locked, and a hand hovering near the knife hidden under his shirt.

She gets her third strike when Danny, in a voice that could make the mountains tremble, demands to know how she got into his room, and she lies (with uncertainty of her decision growing in her chest) that Jazz let her in. Danny's hand shifts closer to his weapon, and he turns towards her fully, and says that Jazz would never let someone he didn’t know into his room, and who was she.

(Vlad Masters had underprepared Danielle for her meeting with Danny -- not out of any completely direct malicious intent, but he failed to mention just how... 'touchy' Daniel could be -- he failed to mention the scars littering up his arms, unhidden by the hoodie tee he meets Ellie in. He failed to mention that along with those scars, that Danny was visibly lean, capable of doing very real damage without the use of his powers.)

(He tells Ellie that he’s adopted, and that he is observant and clever, but ungrateful and has a bad attitude.)

Her final strike occurs when Ellie, trying to keep her facade of cheeriness, tells him that she’s his third cousin once removed. Immediately, Danny has his dagger pulled out, and Ellie finds herself with the cold metal of a blade pressing against her throat.

Danyal 'A.G' Fenton hasn’t killed since he arrived in Amity Park. At first it was because mother told him to keep a low profile, and killing would do the opposite of that. But, he's been slowly learning from his sister and friends over the years the value of human life. So it's become a combination of keeping his head down, and also that life has value to it.

But. That doesn’t mean he can’t kill, nor is he opposed to doing it if the situation calls for it. It just means that he doesn't do it. And ‘Danielle’ is an unknown in his room, claiming to be family to him, and appearing uncannily similar to him and his family. Either someone hired her and she was trying to pass herself off as a relative to him because that someone realized Danny was the biggest threat, or, his false death has been compromised, his mother was unable to tell him, and the league was aware he was alive.

No matter how he looks at it, this Danielle was a threat to him, his sister, his friends, to Damian, and to the Drs. Fenton. Danyal Fenton doesn't kill, but he has no problems doing so.

(Ellie, pinned under Danny’s knee and the blade to her neck, is too terrified to think of phasing out of his hold. Not that it would help, he would just chase after her.)

“You have broken into my home, dared to lie to my face, and when I demanded to know the truth, you dared lie to me again." Danny's scowl could cower even Skulker, his glacier blue eyes burning. "Your continual breath has been a favor from me, that I have graciously allowed, from the moment you entered my room, dahkil."

"So I will ask one more time," he hisses, "who. are. you."

Danielle, only a few months old, unprepared for the ice storm that is "Daniel" Fenton, and his clone in only flesh and blood, and not memories, immediately breaks. And tells him that she was his clone, that Vlad sent her to come capture him, and to please not kill her.

Danny's face twists with anger, Ellie thinks he's going to kill her anyways. Instead, he withdraws his knife and gets off her, stringing out curses in Arabic as he sheathes his weapon back into its hiding place faster than Ellie can blink.

He switches to English as she is collecting her bearings (and contemplating fleeing), and Danny paces the room like a tiger in a cage. "--of course that wretched, arrogant, peacocking little ingrate would do something so infuriating. I should have driven my sword into the shrivel of his heart when I had the chance--"

Ellie, for a moment, thinks of leaving while he is distracted. And starts to slowly creep away. But Danny notices instantly, and whirls on her. His too-bright eyes bore into her head: "Where do you think you're going."

"...I'm leaving."

And Danny scoffs at her, "Why? So you can fly back to Masters and tell him that you failed to capture me, and that I know that he cloned me?" He says, and Ellie remains silent -- that's exactly what she was going to do. "He will destroy you within seconds."

Of course, Ellie rears back in offense, and she finds the footing to glare at him. "He would not! He's my dad, he loves me!"

Danny gets in her face, glowering back with an equal intensity. "He does not." He snaps, "Vlad Masters has not a soul in his body nor a heart in his chest. He would sooner cut off the hand that helps him stand, than to take it along with him."

"If you're really made of my blood, then I will teach you only this: we bow not our heads nor our hearts to anyone." Danny's too-blue eyes narrow, and his voice dips into a hiss, "Especially not to a conniving snake like Masters. Your heart: cut it off, or cut it out. He will sooner leave you to bleed."

Then, he unlocks the door and drags her out before she has much time to act. And as he drags her down the hall he shoots Sam and Tucker a text, and they meet up at Nasty Burger. Ellie is a spitfire, but Danny has her too intimidated to leave.

"This is Danielle," he tells them bluntly as he corners her into the booth, "she's my clone. Masters created her."

Ellie is with them for a week, and somehow throughout that time, Danny manages to actually get her to like him throughout that time. He's callous, blunt, and full of sharp edges that you can cut yourself on. But when he's not spitting venom, he's fretting.

When he drags her back to the house after being with Sam and Tucker, he pulls her to Jazz's room and opens the door to tell her the same thing. "This is Danielle." He says upon abruptly opening the door, interrupting Jazz's studying as he pulls Ellie inside. "She is my clone, Masters created her. She needs clothes."

Then he turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him. Ellie, in that moment, thinks that now's her chance to flee. But Jazz then squeals, and she is trapped in new arms, shaken around by Jazz Fenton, excited for a sister.

(Ellie finds herself complaining to Jazz that night, shoved into old pajamas. She's in utter disbelief that Jazz could care about a jerk like Danny.)

("He's rough around the edges, but Danny does care." Jazz tells her, combing through her hair with her fingers. "We've been working on it ever since he joined the family, but Danny warms up slowly. He's usually less stoney; I think your arrival spooked him.")

("Spooked him?" Ellie repeats, she doesn't believe it at all. "He has a funny way of showing it, he threatened to kill me!" And she turns around just in time to see Jazz's press her lips into a line.)

("He's... very protective. He'll deny if you ask him, but he worries a lot." Jazz's fingers find her hair again. "What I do know for certain though, is that he wouldn't have kept you here if he wasn't worried about you at least a little bit.")

(Ellie doubts it.)

But Ellie is indeed there for a week, and the day after her initially rocky introduction with Danny, he is a little bit kinder to her. Still kinda a bitch, but he's less harsh to her, if... almost uncomfortable around her. Flighty, kinda.

Whenever she gets mouthy at him though, he looks oddly smug about it and, infuriatingly enough, praises her attitude. He is very, very annoying. And still kinda terrifying. But hearing him shout insults via puns at someone during a ghost fight that happens that week lessens the intimidating factor,,, a little bit.

Things go about,,,, relatively,,,, similar to canon. In the sense that it ends with Ellie defecting from Vlad because she finds out that Danny was right and that Vlad didn't actually care about her. (And that Jazz had been right too; Danny, in his weird, mean way, had been worried about her as well)

Danny looks out of his depth as she talks about how he was right, and he cuts her off with a vaguely uncomfortable clearing of his throat. And gives her the most awkward, but genuine apology he can muster.

"I should've used more tact when telling you about Masters, and I... apologize for threatening you when we met. I was..." he makes a face like he's sucked on a particularly sour lemon, "worried. First about my family, and then later about you."

(Ellie will be damned: Jazz was right)

Before Ellie leaves, Danny puts a hand on her shoulder and tells her: "I wasn't kidding about what I said to you when we first met: you are of my blood, and as such, you do not bow your head nor your heart to anyone."

Ellie looks at him, thinks about the last week, and smiles like she's caught him in a trap. "What about Sam and Tucker then? And Jazz?"

Danny smiles, it's awkward and tilted, like his face isn't used to the gesture. "We bow not our hearts, but that doesn't mean we can't share."

#danny speaks in formal english when he's pissed. he goes full on 'i shall eat his heart in the marketplace' levels of formal #not quite a ficlet not quite a post talking about the idea but a secret third option: its both of these at the same time #dp x dc #dpxdc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc crossover #dpdc #danyal al ghul au #dc x dp crossover #dc x dp au #dpxdc au #dcdp #dpdc au #dp dc crossover #older brother danny #danny is an asshole with a heart of gold #the writing feels all over the place but since its not a fic i dont feel that self conscious about it lol. very much spitballing here #morally gray danny fenton #poc danny fenton #look ellie MIGHt - and thats a big if - have gotten away with the cousin lie if it weren't for the fact that she's danny's clone #danny who is not white nor remotely white-passing in this au. she might have gotten away if he had been and she claimed she was #from jack's side of the family. but alas. danny is adopted. the fentons are whiter than sunscreen. and danny is not.#dani and danny's meeting in danyal al ghul aus have the potenial of being IMMEDIATE dumpster fires which is very funny to me #on the basis of if danny knows he's adopted or not and if dani claims to be related directly to him or to jack.#dani: im your third cousin once removed :)#danny. is adopted: i kNOW YOU LYING. CUZ YO LIPS ARE MOVING #i got fanart for this au on haunting heroes discord and it kickstarted my thoughts about danyal again. they gave him the BATWING EYEBROWS #ellie has the batwing eyebrows too that was the mind killer thats what fucked her over /j. those are UNIQUELY BRUCE WAYNE BROWS FOLKS #fuck i wish tumblr told us on laptop when we run out of tags because i just lost like 4 of them. good thing i got screenies those were FUNN

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purple-plum-petals · 8 days ago

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⊱ What It’s Like Cuddling with Him ⊰ || Mr. Gap Headcanons

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Character(s): Mr. Gap (Homicipher/文字化化) Reader Type: Human (Gender-Neutral Pronouns) Warning(s): None! Genre: Headcanons, Fluff, Romantic or Platonic Relationship (It’s Complicated, honestly). Word Count: ~590 words. Request: “Please I've been dying for content 😔 can I get uhhhh mr.gap content plz ?? I can't stop thinking about him popping up between ur blankets on you. Love ur homicipher stuff so far btw 🩷” Author’s Note: Thank you so much for the kind words! I’ve been enjoying writing for the fandom, too. Everyone has been so incredibly supportive, and that just means the world to me as a writer who never thinks their work is good enough. I love you, Homicipher fandom. 😭🫶 I went ahead and did headcanons about how Mr. Gap would be as a cuddle buddy since you mentioned the scene of him popping up between the blankets (and because they’re a lot easier to crank out than full-on drabbles haha). I hope you enjoy!

→ If you enjoyed my work, please reblog it if you can! Exposure on Tumblr is based on reblogging content rather than liking it, so your support would be much appreciated! ♡

╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

🕳️: The first time Mr. Gap surprised you by suddenly appearing under the covers, you nearly died of a heart attack right then in there before scolding him to never do that again. He simply rolled his eyes at you, calling you boring before disappearing into the void once again. He never did stop like you had asked him to which, honestly, wasn’t surprising in the slightest. Eventually, you got used to his sudden presence to the point where it didn’t startle you as horribly as it used to (much to his disappointment).

🕳️: Even if you don’t get startled by his appearance as often as you used to, that doesn’t mean you never get scared when he suddenly pops up. He enjoys spooking you, smiling widely whenever you gasp or let out a shriek when he lunges at your face from under the sheets like an alligator shooting out of the water to grab unsuspecting prey in its maws. He leaves with a chuckle if you smack or try to hit him, vanishing before you can do any damage. Your reactions are funny to him, and he enjoys being able to get a rise out of you.

🕳️: You eventually become fed up with him and ask him with a huff if he wants to cuddle after lifting your covers and seeing his face in the darkness underneath, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. He grimaces and asks you what that even means, not familiar with the term. After explaining it to him as best as you could considering the language barrier, his semi-disgusted expression doesn’t change, and he leaves faster than it took you to blink. This continues for a while, you ask him with a smirk if he wants to cuddle with you which successfully manages to chase the trickster away (you just have to threaten him with physical affection... good information to know).

🕳️: However, one day, Mr. Gap doesn’t leave after your half-hearted threat. He stays and stares up at you with a blank look on his face before, to your shock, agrees to cuddle with you. It’s strange laying in bed with a ghost that doesn’t have a body in the conventional sense, his head resting on your chest while his arms rest limply at your sides (he usually doesn’t hold you back, instead laying on you like a dead fish). While you can feel the presence of a form on top of you, whenever you try to catch a glimpse, you cannot see anything resembling a body underneath the covers. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, though, and he reminds you of a weighted blanket.

🕳️: Mr. Gap doesn’t move or make much noise whenever you two are cuddling, an occurrence that has become more frequent as time goes on. He isn’t the biggest fan of physical touch, but he finds himself not minding the way your hands feel threading through his hair or the sound of your beating heart while his ear is pressed against your chest. The noise is strangely comforting...

🕳️: If you inquire about his lack of commentary, he looks up at you and smirks, asking if you would give him your heart. You just tell him no with a smile since you were used to his questions at this point and close your eyes, your hands returning to combing out in knots in his black locks without another word… He kind of hates how he doesn’t find himself disgusted by your touch, and he can’t help but wonder why that is.

#🌸 . plum writes #💌 . anon #homicipher #文字化化 #homicipher x reader #homicipher x you #mr gap #mr gap x reader #mr gap x you #homicipher imagines #homicipher headcanons #imagines #headcanons #fluff #x reader #reader insert

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evilminji · 10 months ago

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You Know How There Are Those AU? Where SUPER Injured Ghosts Need To Retreat To Their Core?

No one seems to be USING that to its fullest potential! For SHENANIGANS! Because! Who?? Could POSSIBLY carry a Halfa's Core safely... but another Halfa?! A FULL ghost would KILL them. A human would be killed! What terribly precarious peril we find ourselves in! Oh nooooooo!

Well, no worry!

As much as Dani fuckin HATES this. That there is her brother. Her Template. Her Clone Daddy and Bestest of Bros. Like HECK she's gonna let him suffer for centuries and possibly DIE. She can take it, Doc! Pop him in! We'll go road tripping and-

What do you MEAN "No"?

Unstable??! Of course she's unstable! But the-.... Oh.

Turns OUT? Dani? Can hitch a ride in DANNY for Emergency Medical Aid... but NOT the other way around. Her body is too loosely held together. He would parasiticly consume her from within. Instead of feeding off her Ecto System like injured ghosts are supposed too, because she's a CLONE? AND an unstable one at that? His Core would just... see her body as free ectoplasm. All of it.

He'd eat her.

Which mean Frostbite can not and WILL NOT allow that.

But he's HURT! That big, off screen, cataclysmic Fight To Save Everybody From *cough cough mumbles* and settle us all in the DC universe, REALLY messed him up! What are we supposed to DO!? He can't STAY like this!!!

Enter-> My FAVORITE DCxDP Trash Ship! Vlad&Lex!!! *horrified screaming from the crowds, someone shouts "oh god, no! Please!"* Ha! There are no gods here, silly billys! Only two terrible, terrible HIGHLY Dramatic, self serving, incredibly damaged, gay peacocks. In Business Suits that cost more then your house is worth.

They're AWFUL~♡

And! Vlad was sent ahead to lay the ground work. Insure there would be no GIWs. Also because no one could stand him and his EXTENSIVE criminal record. But that's besides the point.

But!

You know what he found? A Business Nemesis. Who he routinely dates and/or Dramatically Hate Fu-*coughs* I mean, attempts a Corporate Take Over(tm) off. You know how it is. Business. He ALSO gets to make it no secret he's a "Meta", thanks to the INCOMPETENCE of one Jack Fenton, because that- *seething rant*

Yet? Dispite his STILL burning hatred for Jack? And his finally letting go of Maddie? You know what he STILL wants?

For Danny to be his Son.

*Gets a call from Frostbite*

...............soooooo........ what you're SAYING is..... I can be pregnant with Daniel.

You, Frostbite, need ME, Vladimir Masters, THE ONLY OTHER HALFA, to carry Daniel around inside my body, in what to all appearances resembles a pregnancy, in order to heal him. Because I am an Older And Stronger Halfa Upon Which He Relies.

*instantly begins plotting*

Just? Imagine. Vlad is a FUCKIN LIAR. No one but him would even KNOW what was going on! He just? Rocks up one day, like? *falsely demure* "oh I couldn't POSSIBLY has any scotch, Lex! >:) I'm eating for Two~☆" and just? Deals the MAXIMUM amount of psychic damage he can.

Probably says it at their weekly, public, Veiled Threats Brunch.

It makes front page news. Luthor choked on his eggs. The paparazzi lost their SHIT. Vlad is doing the FULL Celebrity Mom Thing. The classes. The photo shoots. The Gucci sunglasses as he peruses high end strollers. All while HEAVILY suggesting that not only is "The Baby" Lex's.... but that he's going to withhold the child and deny Lex any access.

Danny isn't even aware. He's in a lovely lil medical coma. Dani is trying to find a good spot to plop down Amity. She just know Vlad is being... Vlad. Meh. He can handle it. Dan? He's not even IN the human realm and is not sure he wants to be.

But over in the LEAGUE? Everything's on fuckin FIRE.

Kon is losing his SHIT and Clark is thousand yard staring into the void. Kon's half brother is in the hands of a... Less Then Ideal... Meta that Batman is PRETTY sure is highly suspect. Might be a deliberate weapons experiment. Certainly is a hostage. And the DRAMA.

Lex has never been worse.

He might actually stab his...partner? Vlad. At the hospital. The SECOND the child is born. There are already long term kidnapping plans in the making. He's hiring lawyers. Getting VICIOUS. There have been talks with DEATHSTROKE. By BOTH OF THEM.

Clark wants to cry.

@hypewinter @ailithnight @nerdpoe @hdgnj @the-witchhunter @mutable-manifestation @babbling-babull

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dc x dp prompt #Vlad With A Baby AU #Peacock War AU

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dollgxtz · 2 months ago

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His Watchful Eye Pt. 7

Word Count: 19.4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were certainly selling more than just shoes.

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

Looks really could be deceiving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His Evol.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three days.

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

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

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

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

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

Reese. East side of town.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reese.

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

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

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

This had been another person.

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

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

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

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

"Who are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Xavier’s patience snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. It cant be?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sylus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It exploded in a quick burst of hissing gas.

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

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

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

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

A camera.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We'll continue this another time."

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

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

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

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

Just like that, the little game was over.

He had won.

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

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

He always did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You got it, boss man!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You woke to the sound of the door unlocking.

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

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

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

Is he drunk?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Punishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Strip. You know how this goes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tell me you'll miss me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You assh-"

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

"Sylus!"

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

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

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

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

You sink your teeth into his shoulder, moaning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again. He had won again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skipped a beat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Going somewhere without me?"

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

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

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

This was...a test?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

538 notes · View notes

jaythes1mp · 2 months ago

Text

Shallow

Yandere Batfam x Merfolk Reader ♧romantic♣︎

Aquaman, Aqualad, Mera, and any other underwater hero’s and creatures don’t exist in this.

||-→ I tried to make each pov a different style of writing ||

There was something so captivatingly beautiful about observing the humans from below the surface, as they went about their daily lives, traversing the Metro-Narrows Bridge. The elders had always warned you to keep your distance from the world above, but you couldn't resist sneaking glances at the peculiar, moving metal boxes zooming across the streets, or the striking figures donning vibrant spandex who soared through the skies at night.

The bridge, illuminated by the soft glow of the moon, cast an ethereal light across the water of the river. This sight, enhanced by the night, would always catch your attention, especially when they appeared. Moving in and out of the shadows, darting around or simply standing on the railing, lost in their own worlds.

You had grown fond of observing them as they soared through the night sky, reminiscent of the graceful movements of swans. Their elegance was effortless, seemingly defying gravity as they traversed the air. It was in those moments, watching the sky people glide past, that you were struck by the rawness of their beauty.

You never dared to come too close to the surface during the day, the haunting tales from your pod serving as a constant reminder of the horrors that existed above the water. But the night was a different story; it’s when you were more willing to take risks. The darkness provided the perfect cover, shrouding you in obscurity as the humans slept.

Though you supposed that the real reason you continued to venture up to the surface was because it was the time that they emerged, gliding through the air and gracefully traversing the buildings. Their shadows, illuminated by the silvery light of the moon, seemed to dance in perfect harmony with the night. Always seeming to captivate your attention in a way that no underwater creatures could.

However, on this particular night, you noticed something out of the ordinary. One of the usually lively land creatures was sluggish and listless, moving with none of the fluid grace that you had come to admire. A deep crimson liquid seeped through the fabric of his suit, spattering across the spandex and staining it a dark, ominous hue.

You cautiously approached the surface, swimming closer than you had ever dared to before. Slowly, you emerged, peering just above the water's edge.

You couldn’t see the human clearly, obscured as he was by the sizable drop between the bridge and the water below, but the scent he carried was undeniable. There was something utterly alluring about his aroma. It was a stark contrast to the familiar scents of salt and oil you were used to underwater. You haven't come across anything even remotely similar to it before.

The land dweller was undeniably beautiful.

A loud crash shattered the silence, jolting your attention back to reality. Your gills flared out in alarm, and in your surprise, the soft bioluminescent glow of your tail dimmed down, a natural response to the potential threat.

You backed away, submerging yourself down into the safety that the depths of the water provided. Your gaze fixating on the figure in the distance, decorated in his familiarly vibrant red and yellow attire. This one hastily making his way to the blue-clad human's side, concern decorated across his face, his actions imbued with urgency. Mask torn from his face.

With a heavy sigh, you turned your back from the scene unfolding above, releasing a flurry of bubbles that rose to the surface. Your pods stern warnings echoing in your mind, a constant reminder of the dangers that lay in the world above.

You make it no more than fifteen feet before a thunderous splash shatters the silence, the seawaters ripples rolling across your skin and triggering an involuntary shiver, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your tail instinctively sprung into action, propelling you back with a rapid, powerful flick.

With a sudden movement, your arms encircled the man's sinking frame, securing a firm grip on his sides. Your eyes widening in shock at the contact, your webbed fingers digging into his flesh, anchoring him in place.

For a moment, you paused, studying him. Your eyes absorbing every little detail. From the man's soft, almost spongy flesh under your touch, how soft and almost squishy his land dwelling arms were, how they seemed to just give way to the touch of your webbed fingers. Then to the way the baby blue suit of his that clung to him, was torn and tattered, ripping away underwater. Your gaze lingering on the deep red liquid seeping out of his torso, staining his skin and leaving a trail of ominous scarlet. And then, your gaze travelled to the two bizarre, elongated limbs extending from his waist. A stark contrast to the streamlined grace of your own tail.

His lips parted, releasing a stream of bubbles, each one ascending to the surface before vanishing from sight. You watched as his body suddenly went limp in your arms, reminding you of the dire situation you had inadvertently involved yourself in. With a powerful flick of your tail, you swiftly propelled yourself to the surface, bringing him up so that he could breathe. Your gills flared out, working overtime to filter oxygen from the water while you waited, your hearts hammering in your chest.

When the human made no attempt to improve, limp and unresponsive, you couldn't suppress the deep hiss that escaped from the back of your throat. Your grip tightening around his frame, your tail coiled tighter around his legs, an attempt to stabilise and bring some form of response from him. Your eyes grew large in desperation as you shook him back and forth, each movement growing more frantic with the passing seconds.

You directed your attention to the deep red liquid that was oozing out of his abdomen, its thick, almost oily consistency spreading out in little waves around you in the water. Coming out in shallow pulses. You tilted your head slightly, noting that the fluid's flow didn't seem natural. It felt wrong, a gut feeling of sorts. You hastily reached for the pouch tethered to your hip, pulling out a woven bundle of seaweed and a salve prepared by the elders of your pod.

You delicately began to layer the salve over the gaping wound, taking care to press the woven seaweed into the lesion. The salve, a rich green and purple, had a cooling effect as it made contact with the human's skin. A crucial aspect due to its high iodine content, which helps to close the large gash. As the ointment came into contact with the blood, it began to congeal and bind the tissue together, halting the bleeding.

However, you were acutely aware of the human, who remained unresponsive. His chest, which should've been rising and falling with each inhale, lay still. A sudden panic clutched at your hearts, threatening to overwhelm you. You weren't sure what the proper human anatomy was, but it was abundantly clear that he needed to breathe.

You placed a webbed hand on his chest, the flesh there surprisingly firm. You pushed down, then up again, attempting to mimic the breathing motions you had seen him and others do. Your heart pounded in your chest as you pleaded for him to respond, a silent mantra running through your head. With urgency, you placed a firm grip on the back of his neck, tilting his head back, the gills on your neck flaring out to pull in as much oxygen as they could. Your tail coiling tightly around his waist to keep him afloat.

Despite the pressure you exerted, there was no response from him. His chest remained still, no signs of life. Your breath hitched at the sight, a sense of desperate desperation washing over you. You were frantically trying to keep his head tilted back while the water was washing over his face, the cool liquid creating small ripples that mirrored the urgency of the moment. His body remained motionless, unresponsive to your frantic attempts. You could feel the pressure building in your own chest, your gills working overtime to extract oxygen.

In a final, desperate attempt, you lean in closer, positioning yourself to allow your webbed fingers to forcibly pry open his parted lips. You took in a deep breath and expelled it through the opening, pushing every ounce of air you could manage into his unresponsive lungs.

You repeated the action multiple times, exerting every ounce of effort to force air into his trachea. Each breath, heavy and laboured. You finally pulled back, allowing yourself a moment of respite. Your breaths came out ragged and sharp, a stark contrast to the steady, undisturbed water around you.

As he remains unresponsive, his body frighteningly limp, your body goes slack, a wave of disappointment washing over you. Reluctantly, you release your grip on him and let him go, his body now floating eerily close to yours. You close your eyes tight, trying to swallow the lump in your throat that was rapidly forming.

You flinch at the sudden and unexpected contact, your eyes fluttering open. An alarmed hiss escaped once again through your lips, more out of surprise than anything else. Just as you were about to submerge yourself underwater, a firm hand grasped your shoulder, its grip strong and unwavering.

"Y-you're...alive.", you stuttered out, a mixture of disbelief and awe laced in your raspy voice. The hand on your shoulder felt firm and real, a stark contrast to the nightmarish scenario you had just been a part of.

“Nightwing?” Red Robin's voice cuts through the quiet night, bouncing off the empty alleyways. Frustrated, he takes off his comms, readjusting them to try again for the sixth time in the last ten minutes.

"Dick, come in," he practically growls out, tapping on his device with a little more force than necessary.

“Where the hell are you?” he mutters, staring up at the tall buildings. Dick’s always late, but this was getting ridiculous. With a sigh, he leans back against the wall, crossing his arms as he waits.

A low, familiar voice crackles on the other end of the comms. “Stalker.”

Tim rolls his eyes, recognising the voice immediately. It was too late in the night to put up with him. “Jason.” he sighs, “What do you want. Have you heard from Dick?”

“Not a word.” The response is curt, and the annoyance in Jason’s voice is obvious. He rarely joined in their patrols, preferring to stick to his own methods of dealing with things.

Tim lets out a frustrated huff, tapping his fingers impatiently against his arm. Of course Dick would pick now to go radio silent.

He ran his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes for a moment to let out a frustrated groan. He was stressed enough as it is, none of this was helping.

“You’re patrolling the Narrows?” Jason’s voice breaks through Tim’s thoughts, pulling him back to reality. He looks around, taking in the surroundings with a frown. The Narrows was never a good place to be alone.

“Yeah.” he responds, not taking his eyes off of the shadows. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to know, Dick’s nowhere to be seen. In or out of uniform.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and Tim can practically hear the smirk in Jason’s voice.

“Need backup?” he offers, amusement clear in his tone. The elder boy mocking him.

Tim scowls, shaking his head even if he knew Jason couldn’t see him. “No.” he replies curtly. “I’m not a child, I can handle this myself.”

“Sure, kid.” Jason’s response is just as dismissive. “I’ll come check on you in a bit anyway. Make sure you haven’t gotten your ass kicked.”

Tim’s scowl deepens at Jason’s reply, not appreciating the offer of help — or the nickname. “I don’t need a babysitter.” he grumbles. “I’m going to find Dick, and I don’t need your help.”

There’s a pause, and Tim can practically hear the eye roll from Jason. “Whatever you say, Replacement. I’ll be there soon.”

“No—” Before Tim can protest, the comms go silent. Damn it, Jason.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, biting at the inside of his cheek. The last person he needed to see right now was Jason. The last time he’d come face to face with the man, things didn’t go so well.

Tim grits his teeth and pushes himself off of the wall. He had better things to do than get into a fight with his older brother. Like finding his other older brother.

With a huff, Tim starts walking, making his way through the narrow alleys of the Narrows. It’s quiet, eerily so, and his instincts are on high alert.

Everything feels off. The air is still, and he can’t shake the feeling of being watched. His breath stutters in his chest, but he pushes the feeling down. He had work to do.

“Dick?” he calls out, his headset’s blinking green light signalling the message going through. He glances around cautiously as he moves. “Nightwing, come in. Can you hear me?”

There’s no response, and Tim tries again. Nothing but static. His shoulders tense, the unease growing in the pit of his stomach. This wasn’t like Dick. The man was always on top of communication.

Tim continues forward, his footsteps quick and light. He keeps his eyes scanning the shadows around him, but the silence is deafening. Where the hell is he?

A muffled crunch breaks the silence, and the boy freezes, his breath hitching. It was faint, coming from somewhere off the alley in front of him. His heart rate quickens, and he carefully shifts on his feet, trying to pinpoint the source.

There was something across the street. Someone.

Tim squints, his eyes trying to make out what it was. It was too dark to tell. Damn it, why can’t Dick be here to deal with this..

He’s too used to working in a team, having the security of someone else there to watch his back. The someone’s in question usually being Batman or Nightwing.

He steels himself, slipping into a fighting stance and taking slow steps forward. He can’t let his guard down, not now.

As he moves, the shape across the street shifts. It’s still far away, but from the size and height, he could tell it was definitely a figure.

His comms device beeps, startling the boy and nearly causing him to stumble. He quickly scrabbles to check it, hoping for some sort of answer or communication.

“Red.” Jason’s voice comes through, static breaking up some of the message. The device was clearly reaching a limit. “Can you hear me? Dick’s in trouble.” The voice, as crackling as it was over the broken comms, sounded dishevelled and panted. Jason rarely called for help.

With a final glance at the figure across the street, Tim’s eyes flicker back down to the comms in his hand. Jason found him.

“Where are you?” he asks, not wasting a second as he sets off at a sprint. He didn’t care what kind of trouble Nightwing had gotten into, he just needed to get there.

“Don’t worry about me. Get to Metro-Narrows Bridge.”

The urgency in Jason’s voice has Tim’s heartbeat racing. He doesn’t question it, just continues sprinting. He knew the bridge, and knew it was far.

“...” he grits his teeth. “I’m on my way.”

Tim hits the wall with a pained gasp, eyes squeezed shut as he doubles over coughing at the impact. His vision swims. Shit.

He lets out a sharp gasp, the breath knocked out of him as he’s smashed against the hard bricks. The pain doesn’t have time to register, as his mind is sent into a panicked frenzy.

He sucks in a low breath, trying to clear his head and figure out what the hell just happened. There’s a shuffle of feet, and the distinct sound of metal being unsheathed.

The attack was too precise, too sudden. He grunts, trying to push himself back away from the wall, but a large hand keeps him pinned.

His head finally stops swirling, and he can focus on the large figure in front of him. Not good.

He’s a towering wall of a man, arms bigger than Tim’s head. He’s muscular, clearly built like a brawler. The metal that had unsheathed was a knife, the sharp, gleaming blade being held firmly in the man’s large hand.

“No more running.” the man growls, his other hand still keeping Tim pinned against the wall.

Tim glared up at him.

He’s been in situations similar to this before. He’s fought and won against opponents bigger than him, more experienced than him. He needed to stay calm, and assess the situation.

With a pained grunt, he pushes against the man’s arm, struggling to break free. The man just leans closer, his breath hot in Tim’s face.

The smell of smoke and old alcohol fills Tim’s nose, making him want to retch as the man sneers at him. “Struggle all you want, kid.” he drawls. “You’re coming with me one way or another..” Tim clenches his jaw.

He analyses the situation quickly. His equipment was in his belt, but pinned tight against the wall left him with very little mobility. He had to find a way to get away swiftly, before the man could do him any serious harm.

Tim’s mind races, trying to work out a way to get himself out of this. He’s too close quarters to the man, and any attempt to get away would lead to him getting a knife in his gut.

The man’s grip tightens, making him gasp as the knife is held closer to his skin. His eyes darted around, searching for anything useful. He would have to time this right. “Stop squirmin.’” The man’s gruff voice rang out.

Tim ignores him, grunting as he struggles against the hand pinning him. There had to be something he could use to—

A gleam of something metal catches his eye, and he glances down, spotting a metal pipe sticking out of an open garbage bin. It wasn’t much, but it might be enough.

Tim takes in a shallow breath, his mind racing for a second. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, trying to keep the man talking and distracted.

“Don’t try any shit, sidekick.” He tightened his hold on the boy, using his other hand to get out a walkie-talkie from the pouch on his chest.

Sidekick? Tim’s teeth gritted, a spark of anger flaring up in the back of his mind. He wasn’t just a sidekick.

Tim’s eyes glance down again at the pipe, trying to calculate his next move. He watched as the man brought the walkie-talkie up to his mouth, his heart rate increasing as he prepared to act.

“I got a bird out here,” the man grunted into the device, keeping his eyes fixed on Tim. “Found him in the-“

He barely had time to react before Tim acted. With a sudden burst of strength, he jerks forward, wrenching himself free from the man’s grip. He immediately drops down, grabbing the metal pipe and brandishing it like a weapon. Flinging it into the man’s hand that held the radio. The impact caused him to drop it, as he let out a cry of pain, stumbling back.

Tim didn’t hesitate. He quickly used the momentary opening of shock and pain to his advantage, striking the man hard in the stomach with the pipe. The man grunted, his hand instinctively going to where he’d been hit.

He wasn’t about to give the thug any time to recover. He brought up a leg and kicked out fast, nailing him hard in the knee. The man yelled out again, staggering back.

He raged, stumbling forward and landing one hard punch against Tim’s face.

The younger boy’s head snapped to the side from the hit, the force of it knocking his mask askew, cracking and splitting as he reeled back. His vision swims from the impact, but he can taste the distinct taste of blood in his mouth.

He stumbled back, bringing a hand up to his face and cursing, blood seeping down his face.

His head hurt. A lot. That one hit had left him dizzy, and his cheek stung like hell.

The pain is enough to clear his mind though, and he refocuses on the man in front of him. His lip is split, and his cheek feels like it’s on fire. His mask hangs half off of his face.

Tim grits his teeth, glaring at the man with a new found fire in his eyes. He wasn’t going to let some random thug take him out.

The perpetrator lets out a huff, spitting out a glob of blood onto the floor next to him. An ugly sneer plastered his face, and he stepped forward, reaching down for the knife that had been discarded on the ground. “You little shit.” he spat. “I’ll make you pay for that.”

His eyes flickered down to the knife held flimsily in his hand. He needed to get out of this. The man was bigger and definitely stronger, but obviously nowhere near as experienced as Tim was. He’s surprised that the thug had even managed to get in a decent hit to his face.

His mind is too preoccupied, caught up in the whirlwind of thoughts, and he fails to notice the man’s approach until the moment he's already upon him. The thug's fury makes him careless and ill-prepared, the sound of his stumbling footsteps betraying his presence due to the injury on his knee.

Tim quickly raises his arm instinctively, attempting to shield himself as the man’s towering frame comes charging at him. He’s tackled to the ground in a single swift move, the impact crushing his ribs against the concrete floor.

His back hits the ground, the air getting knocked out of him for the second time that night. The man’s weight pinned him to the ground, the air leaving his lungs in a loud gasp as he struggled.

The man had the knife clutched in his hand, the gleam of the blade reflecting the lights of the city as it was raised up, aimed to strike.

Drake nearly sneered at the sight. He’s an amateur. Over confident in himself and relying solely on force.

Tim’s eyes darkened, his glare locked on the man above him. He was not going to be defeated by some two-bit mugger.

He kicked out at the man, aiming for his still injured knee. The man grunted as he took the kick, shifting off balance for just a second.

It was enough of an opening for Tim to react. He pushed up on the man, using the momentum to roll them both over, switching their positions and taking the top. He wasted no time in smashing the man’s head against the ground, knocking him out stone cold. Blood pooling down against the pavement.

He paused, breathing heavily as he stared down at the man. His lip stung as blood still trickled down his face, the adrenaline in his system beginning to wear off.

Tim sat there for a moment, letting out a hiss of pain as he lifted a hand and gently touched his split lip. He gingerly moved his fingers through his hair, grimacing as he felt the beginnings of a bruise on the side of his face.

Dick was still in trouble. That was the thought at the front of his mind, the reason he was out here and why he had to get to that bridge.

With a wince, Tim pushed himself up, staggering for a moment as a wave of nausea passed over him. He was pretty sure he’d developed a minor concussion from being thrown into the wall.

Everything ached, and his body was screaming at him to just stay down. He ignored it. Nightwing was his priority.

He swayed for a moment, his vision going white around the edges as his head spun, before he managed to stay standing and start moving again.

He didn’t think, he just ran.

He’s still panting as his feet hit the concrete, his body protesting the movement. The nausea from his concussion was becoming very real, and he had to stop to take a deep breath to steady himself.

Fuck, he was going to throw up, wasn’t he?

Tim bit his tongue and started running again, forcing himself to push on and ignore the pain. He had to keep moving.

The cold, night air hurt his lungs, but he didn’t stop. Not even as the pain from the beating began to make itself known with each hard footstep against the concrete. He had to get to the bridge.

He kept going at a brutal pace, ignoring how his vision swam and how every breath he took just made him feel like he needed to puke.

He’s not sure how long he had ran, his mind focused entirely on just moving. One foot in front of the other, he just kept going.

As he rounded the corner, he noticed the bridge in the distance. His eyes widening, watching Dick stagger back against the railings edge.

Tim stumbled for a moment, but pushed himself back up, keeping himself moving forward. He could barely see straight, but nothing else mattered. Nightwing’s tall and dark silhouette was leant against the night light of the bridge. Even from a distance, he could see the blood on Dicks skin, staining the side of his face, his suit’s front ripped open, a large gash in his abdomen pooling out onto the ground.

Tim’s speed quickens, every muscle in his body crying in protest but he continues on. All he could focus on was the sight of Nightwing. In the low light, he could see Dick’s shoulders moving with each heavy breath, looking seconds away from collapsing.

In a desperate attempt to save his mentor, Tim lunges forward and grabs onto Dick's arm. However, the fabric of the torn and damaged suit simply tears further under the force, causing Dick to slip free from Tim's grasp and fall into the dark, ominous water below.

"NO—!" The cry escapes Tim's mouth in a choked rush, the sound filled with anguish and fear. With a desperate burst of energy, he lunges forward, his hand reaching out in a desperate attempt to cling to Dick's suit, to anything that would keep him from falling.

But it was too late. He was too late.

His heart hammers frantically against his chest as he gazes down into the dark depths below, his eyes wide and searching desperately for even a glimpse of Dick in the river's deep murky water.

His breath hitches, a silent sob wracking his frame as he slumps over the edge of the bridge, his hands shaking as he brings them up to his face. His blood-slick fingers thread through his hair, his eyes wide as they stay fixed on the dark water where Dick had fallen.

The sound of a vehicle approaching in the distance catches his ears, but he doesn't acknowledge it. He doesn't turn to see who it is or check to see if it's a threat. He just keeps staring down into the water, the sound of the river below the only thing he can hear over his panicked breathing.

Jason came to a crashing halt at the side of the bridge, the panicked urgency in his voice clear. He stumbled off his bike, nearly falling as he yelled out.

"Where is he--” His hollow eyes darted around at their surroundings. "WHERE IS HE?!"

Dick.

Tim's eyes widened as Nightwing's head broke the surface of the water, his body floating limp against the current. He's alive.

His shoulders tense as he quickly scrambles to his feet, his body protesting in pain with each movement.

The relief he feels is quickly drowned out, however, as he notices the large bioluminescent tail wrapped around his older brother's lower half, keeping him from crashing with the harsh currents.

Jason quickly approached the bridges railing, his heavy boots thudding loudly against the concrete, his heart racing thunderously against his chest, deep sapphire eyes following Tim's wide gaze down into the water. As he saw the sight in front of him, his eyes widened in disbelief.

He gripped the rough stone ledge, leaning over to get a better look at his brother. "What the fuck is that?" The older boys voice cuts through the ringing in Drake's ears.

Tim couldn't respond, his eyes glued on the large tail, his jaw slack. He took in the sight of the long powerful appendage wrapped around his brother's waist. It was beautiful. The long black scales seemed to glow a soft purple even in the dim moon’s light, as if the creature attached was glowing itself. The bioluminescence was something that one could only describe as ethereal.

Tim's heart raced as he took a step closer to the edge of the bridge, his eyes darting around, trying to catch a glimpse of the creature. He couldn't believe his eyes. Neither of them could.

Tim's mind reeled, trying to comprehend what they were seeing. His heart was pounding, his breath coming in short gasps as he tried to process the situation. He knew that he should be scared. His mouth was dry, his tongue felt heavy and thick as he finally managed to speak, his voice low and shaky. "I..I don't know." He croaked.

A ragged breath escaped his lips as the sea creature met his gaze.

He was frozen as he locked eyes with the creature. His mouth went dry, everything around him seemed to disappear into the background. The only thing he could focus on was the deep piercing eyes peering up from the darkness of the river.

Everything about the creature was attractive – its long shimmering scales, bioluminescent glow, and even the large dorsal fin along its spine.

The flutter of the creature's gills when its eyes met theirs didn’t go unnoticed by the brothers. Jason's lips parted into as much of a smirk as it could given the situation.

The Mer's features slowly disappeared under the surface, as it made a sudden exit. Both of the boys' eyes flicked towards the water, but the sudden gasping from their elder brother drew their attention away once more.

Dick was struggling, coughing up water as he attempted to pull himself up and out of the water. His large hand was grasping desperately to the creature's shoulder, as he pulled himself up.

Tim's heart leapt into his throat as he watched Dick gasping for air, his body shivering as he struggled to grapple himself out of the water. He was so focused on his older brother's struggles that he almost missed the flicker of glowing purple as the creature’s tail disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

Tim moved forward to help Dick, but a hand on his arm stopped him. He turned to see Jason with a grimace on his face.

"What are we going to do?" Tim asked, his voice filled with worry.

Their conversation was cut short, however, as Dick's coughing subsided, replaced by a strangled gasp for air, his eyes wide and frantic.

"I'm fine," he rasped, his hands trembling as he tried to pull himself up onto the bridge, his body shaking violently. His sharp ocean eyes focused on the crushed seaweed-looking salve used to treat his wounds.

Tim was about to respond when they heard a shuffling from the water, the faint sound of something scratching against the concrete. Tim's gaze snapped down to the water, his heart starting to pound against his chest.

Jason had already stepped back and drawn his weapon, his eyes fixed on a spot in the water a few feet below them. The sound of sloshing water echoed around them again, the dim light from the moon making it difficult to see anything except the faint bioluminescence.

And then, you were gone.

This is the result of the poll -> link.

Don’t judge my random fighting scene with Tim I was trying something out🦖🦖

All likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated and encouraged!

I rewrote everything, so I apologise that this took so long to come out💚

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justagalwhowrites · 2 months ago

Text

Can't Stay Away - A QZ!Joel Miller Fic

Years after you turned to Joel for help getting out of a bad relationship, he can't seem to stop coming back to you.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

CW: Angst (duh), Joel is a bit of an asshole (that's the point and it makes him even hotter, I fear), mention of past domestic violence (not described), injury from past domestic violence, threat of continued domestic violence. unprotected P in V sex, breeding kink, fantasizing about pregnancy (doesn't actually happen.) Minors DNI 18+ only, no use of Y/N.

Length: 4.1k

A/N: Shared for the Joel Miller Birthday Celebration found on Tumblr here. This is QZ!Joel with Secret Relationship and Breeding Kink. I hope you enjoy!

Masterlist | AO3

“Where the fuck else is there to go?” Tommy asked, shucking his mud-covered boots and leaving them in a pile by the door.

“Just got business to take care of,” Joel said, voice rough.

“It’s pourin’ rain, man,” his brother said, dropping his drenched pack to the table as if to make a point. “We didn’t even know we were makin’ it back tonight until fuckin’ tonight. Just stay home.”

“Wanna get this done,” Joel said, taking his portion of their haul from his pack and piling it on the table. He left just one thing inside the pack. “Probably won’t be back ’til morning.”

Tommy just pursed his lips, shaking his head a little.

“Just don’t do anything stupid, Joel.”

Joel didn’t say anything back. What did he have to say?

Tommy had every reason to worry about him being stupid. Every reason to believe that Joel was going to do something that would hurt their smuggling operation. Every reason to believe that Joel was going to do something that would hurt himself.

Which, he supposed, wasn’t particularly far off.

You were, indeed, something stupid and something that would hurt him.

You were his biggest indulgence and his biggest risk, the thing that was the largest threat to him here in the Boston QZ.

Ex-wife of a FEDRA guard, Joel should avoid you.

His work was dangerous enough as it was, he shouldn’t make it more dangerous by messing around that close to the people who could execute him if they really wanted, especially not with someone they seemed to take pleasure in tormenting.

But he couldn’t seem to stay away from you.

He couldn’t put his finger on what it was. It wasn’t that he loved you. Not that he’d ever really loved a woman - he’d tried with Sarah’s mom and was sure he’d come up short - but he knew he didn’t have it in him to love anything now. The aching wound of loss took up too much of him, there wasn’t space for anything else.

But he did care. Whether that was because he was attached to you as a person or because you made him come so hard he forgot the world ended for a moment, he didn’t know.

He supposed the why didn’t matter. He cared. He cared enough that he couldn’t lose you without it adding to that wound, one that had damn near killed him and had seemed to have only grown worse with time.

That should be enough of a reason to stay away from you. Hadn’t he learned his lesson by now? That giving a shit only led to pain? That if he was going to keep surviving any of this, he had to be far, far away from something like you?

Still, he made his way through the QZ, the pouring, cold rain fitting the grim environs. Everything here was slightly wrong. It looked something like a city from before but not. It appeared as though things could be normal, somewhere, except they weren’t. It seemed as though Joel had been tailor made for this place, this time. Living some kind of half life where everything was shades of gray, nothing left to live for but - apparently - not able to die. The last gasp of humanity left in him clinging to this world.

That made you a shade of gray, too, one he wasn’t sure what to do with.

It had started years earlier, when you were desperate and willing to trade sex for a gun.

Joel hadn’t taken you up on the offer then, frowning as you watched him with wide, desperate eyes.

“The hell do you need a gun for?” He’d asked. “If you don’t already got one, hard pressed to see someone like you startin’ in on a business that needed one.”

“Does it matter?” You asked. “I’ll give you what ever you want, please.”

“Matters to me,” Joel said. “Not about to arm someone looking to move in on my business.”

“It’s not for that.”

“Then you shouldn’t have a problem tellin’ me what it is for,” he replied.

You looked around, cagey, before lowering your voice further. As though talking about an illegal weapons trade wasn’t enough of a reason to keep quiet.

“I’m leaving my husband,” you said, those wide, soft eyes watching him so closely. “He’s FEDRA and he’s made it clear that he won’t let me go without a fight. I need to be able to protect myself, please, I can give you ration cards as I earn them, I can… I’ll do anything else you might want, I…”

“Stop,” Joel cut you off, tears starting at the edges of your eyes. He took his hand gun from its place tucked in the small of his back and passed it to you as discreetly as he could. “There, now you got somethin’. Meet me here tomorrow, same time, I’ll get you more ammo. Know how to use it?”

“Don’t I just point it and pull the trigger?” You asked, brows raised.

He just sighed.

“Think you can keep from usin’ it until tomorrow?” He asked. You nodded quickly. “Good. I’ll show you.”

“Thank you,” you said, stashing the weapon quickly. “What… what do I owe you?”

The fear in your voice made his stomach turn.

“Nothin’,” Joel said. “Fine on ration cards at the moment. Don’t trade in the other shit. Tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

You just nodded quickly, thanking him with too much earnest hope in your voice for something being spoken to him.

Joel spent the afternoon the next day teaching you how to shoot as best he could inside the QZ. Turns out, the reason you didn’t already know how is that you’d been in Boston during the outbreak. You’d just moved there with your shitbag of a husband a few weeks before it all came crashing down. You’d never really needed to fight, let alone shoot or kill. You never needed a gun.

Until your husband started hitting you.

Joel learned quickly exactly why you felt like you needed to be armed. He’d put a hand on your ribs to adjust your stance and you hissed in pain. Joel pulled away quickly, frowning as you tried to hide your pained expression but it didn’t work.

“You gonna tell me what that was?” He asked, brows raised. You clenched your jaw and stared at the ground.

“It’s not your business.”

“I’m helpin’ you, your husband is a fucking FEDRA officer, if you’re about to haul off and kill him I should know why,” he said, voice heated. “So tell me, he do that?”

Your eyes finally met his and he didn’t need to ask again.

“Lemme see.”

“Joel…”

“Show me,” he said, voice sharp.

You sighed and lifted your sweatshirt, revealing discolored and swollen skin along one side.

Joel clenched his jaw.

“It’s gotten worse,” you said quietly. “I can’t keep pretending it’ll be OK if we just get through this, I can’t pretend like he hasn’t been building toward this for years. I need to get out before he kills me.”

Joel stepped back and you lowered your shirt, your eyes on his.

“He bigger than you?” He asked. You nodded. “Alright, gonna teach you a few more things, too…”

He showed you how to protect yourself without a gun and how to end a conflict with one. He hoped you wouldn’t need to use either. After a few days of showing you how to do the things he’d assumed just came with the territory of surviving the end of the world, you went your separate ways.

But Joel still thought of you, an odd twinge in his chest when he did, something like concern. He wanted you to be OK. He couldn’t put his finger on why that would matter to him but he wanted that, he wanted you to be safe and happy.

So when he ran into you on the street a few months later, he couldn’t help but ask. And you smiled at him, brighter than he’d ever seen you look, when you told him that you had your own place now, that the gun he’d given you had never been fired. It was hard, but you’d survived.

The two of you went to the speakeasy and you bought Joel a drink, saying you owed him for helping you get out of your situation. He let you buy the first round. He bought the second. Before too long, he was in your apartment, pulling off your clothes and touching your body without you flinching away from him.

You became like a drug to him then. Every few nights he found himself outside your door, desperate for the reprieve you and your sex gave him. Some sense of normalcy, the ability to feel something beyond the crushing weight of loss, that brief moment when he was buried inside you and reaching his peak that the rest of the world fell away and he existed on a plane where nothing bad had ever happened to him and he’d never done anything to deserve it.

He tried to pretend like that release is all it was. But then there were moments where he couldn’t deny that it was more. The time where he passed you on the street and your eyes met his and he wanted to go talk to you, to see why your eyes seemed dark and sad, but there was a FEDRA guard watching you from the corner and he couldn’t risk it, not for either of you. The time he showed up at your door and heard yelling and he pretended to be a neighbor to intervene. All the times he held you as you fell asleep nestled against his skin, soft and beautiful and trusting, all things that should have been driven out of you in the QZ. All things you should never have been with him in the first place.

He swallowed those moments, tried to not let the fear and panic they sparked inside of him take over. The last time he loved someone, they died. The last time he loved someone, it almost killed him. He couldn’t love you. He couldn’t risk it.

But here he was, at your door again, anyway.

He tried to stop himself from knocking but all it did was make his hand stutter before he did what he always did: wait for you to let him in.

“Joel?” You opened the door in an oversized t-shirt and boxers, looking groggy. “You’re back.”

You threw your arms around his neck and pulled him inside, pressing your body against his, burying your face in the hollow of his throat and he let himself breathe you in, remind himself that you were safe.

“I was so worried about you,” your voice was muffled in the wet fabric of his shirt. “I heard some things from people at the gate and…”

“The gate?” He frowned, pulling back from you. “The hell were you doin’ down there?”

You looked at him, your lower lip going between your teeth, fingers twisting on themselves.

“What. Were you doin’. At the gate.”

“I heard something at work,” you said quietly. “About a patrol getting overrun by infected and… I wanted to see if there were signs of other people getting hurt, I’m sorry, I couldn’t just sit here and wait for you and not know…”

“You can’t do shit like that,” he said roughly. “It ain’t safe, your fuckin’ husband is always looking for a reason to make your life hell, he would have me and Tommy killed if he knew about us, you can’t just…”

“I know.”

“Then why’d you do it?” He smacked his hand against the tabletop, making you flinch, hating himself for scaring you even for a moment. “I know you fuckin’ know better!”

“Because I care about you!” You yelled, your voice thick. “Is that such a crime?”

Joel crumpled at that, shoulders slouching.

“That’s…” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That ain’t what this is, honey, you know that.”

“I know,” you said again, voice soft. “I’m not expecting anything from you, Joel, I know better than that. I just… I’m not just going to pretend that you’re nothing to me. Life is too short for that.”

His heart thudded against his ribs, so hard it felt like a bruise.

“I can’t…”

“I know,” you whispered, reaching up and cupping his cheek. “It’s OK. I know.”

He should have turned to leave then, he was smart enough to know that. But your hand was soft on his skin, your body was warm next to his, your eyes were welcoming and understanding in a way that nothing else had been since he’d lost the only thing that mattered.

So he kissed you.

It wasn’t something that was soft and romantic, nothing like what you deserved, nothing like how he would have kissed you if he’d known you before. Instead it was fierce, devouring, harsh enough that he knew his stubble must be scratching your skin and he didn’t care. All he cared about was getting more of you.

You tugged him back toward your bedroom, Joel stepping out of his boots as he went. He dropped his pack on the floor and tugged your shirt up and over your head, casting it aside. He ran his hands over your bared skin, your flesh pebbled where the cold, wet of his shirt touched you. He pulled that off, too, before he could do anything that hurt you, even for a moment. Christ knew you had enough of that behind you, the look on your face when he’d lost control just a minute before already a scar in his mind, adding to the scars on your skin from your marriage he wished he could go back and stop.

You undressed each other quickly, desperately, and he all but threw you on the bed once you were naked. He followed you there, shedding the last of his clothes before crawling up your body, his finger tracing your slit to spread you open just enough that he could get his thick, hard cock inside.

He should be more careful with you, he knew that. But he didn’t have the patience and you’d never, even once, asked him to slow down or be gentle. So he pushed himself inside with one sharp, hard stroke, making you gasp and arch beneath him as he groaned at the feeling of your tight cunt. You whimpered as he stilled deep inside, adjusting to how you held him, fighting to keep from coming too quick because you felt too goddamn good but he couldn’t waste it, not this fast.

“You’re OK,” he panted, his mouth against your shoulder. “You can take it, baby, know you can, take it so well.”

He felt you nod against him, your hands trembling as they went to his back, holding him close.

“Just take it,” he said as he started to fuck into you, caving to his baser instincts and letting himself have you the way you seemed so willing to give yourself to him. “Just take it, honey, just let me… let me…”

Your hips rolled to meet his, your nails digging into his skin.

“Feels so good, Joel,” you whined against him. “Fuck, I missed you, you feel, you feel, I…”

He kissed you, swallowing your babbling before you had a chance to complete your thought. He couldn’t hear what he was afraid was coming, a line he couldn’t bring himself to cross. There was so much he couldn’t give to you, so much that he knew you deserved but was too selfish to give you up so you could find it.

But fuck, did he wish he could give you that. In another time, another place, another reality entirely, he could. He knew that. In some other world, one where humanity wasn’t gone and his daughter was still breathing, he would give you everything. In that world, he would love you. He would open your car door and share inside jokes and care for you in a way no one else could. In that impossible world, you and him lived in a little house with a garden out front and a spare bedroom where Sarah stayed when she came for a visit because she would be an adult now, with a life of her own instead of forever frozen at 14. In that reality, you were his in every way. His ring was on your finger, his roof over your head, his baby in your womb. He wouldn’t need to hide it then, wouldn’t need to tiptoe around FEDRA, wouldn’t need to be afraid of what loving you might mean. He could fuck you until you were full of him, so full that you carried part of him inside of you for months, your body growing and changing with it and then no one would ever question that you were his, fucking his.

Your pussy drew tight around him as your fingers wound tight in his hair. Your nipples were hard against his chest, the plush of your breasts pressed to his front as your thighs tightened around his hips.

He pulled his mouth from yours to kiss and suck his way down your neck to your chest, pressing himself deep inside you and letting himself pretend - just for a moment - that the reality he occupied was one where he could have you, really have you. That the two of you were in a cozy bedroom with furniture he built for you with a room a few doors down that you’d already started looking at cribs and changing tables to fill it with.

“Gonna come,” you panted, your hips stuttering against him as he pressed inside, forcing the head of his cock against the soft, tender place deep within you. “Fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop, I’m gonna… I… I…”

He was so close to his peak that he almost wanted you to say it. He wanted you to say it while he came deep inside you, leaving himself there so it could take, so he could watch you grow his child and take care of you through it, so he could take care of both of you after. Claim you so thoroughly that when you were in the QZ there was no question that you were his, not with his baby inside you and his arm around your shoulders.

He wanted it. He wanted it so bad that, in that moment with his cock buried inside you as you keened below him, he didn’t care if it fucking killed him.

Joel came apart when you did, the fluttering of your tight little hole sending him over the edge, the high of nothing else in the world mattering outside of you and the hot clutch of your body swallowing him whole for one glorious moment.

But, as always happened, he came back down to earth, still held in the cradle of your hips, still breathing the scent of your skin, still lost in the wasteland that was once the world.

He didn’t kiss you as he pulled out of you, collapsing on the bed next to you, closing his eyes for a moment to keep from looking at you too long.

“You gotta be more careful,” he said after a moment.

You were silent long enough that he looked over at you, finding you on your side facing him but staring down at the mattress.

“I know,” you said eventually.

“I’m not trying to be an asshole,” he said, his voice gentle. Or as gentle as he seemed to be able to make it now, anyway. “But you know what happened the last time he thought you were seein’ someone. If killing him would fix it, I would, but I can’t kill every fucking FEDRA guard who’d take it out on you and I’m not gonna be the reason you get hurt.”

“I know,” you said again, looking at him this time. “But I… I just…”

“I know,” he said it this time, his stomach twisting.

You just nodded.

“You deserve better,” he said eventually. “Shouldn’t let me treat you the way I do.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You should,” he snapped and then sighed, staring at the ceiling again. “Sorry for scarin’ you before. When I hit the table. I… I would never…”

“I know,” you said, more confidently then. He looked back to you, frowning. “I’m not afraid of you, Joel. I know better about that, too.”

He was silent again, going back to staring at your water-stained ceiling.

“Should probably take a break,” he said eventually. “Not see each other for a bit.”

“It wouldn’t change anything,” you said quietly. He frowned, watching you again. “I know myself. I know how I feel. It’s OK. I don’t expect anything from you. Not even this.”

His eyes searched yours and he let himself try to reach some other version of him on some other plane, one where things were safe and he was in the bed you shared with him in the home you made together. A version where he could be honest with you and it wouldn’t destroy him.

“I’d give you more if I could,” he said instead.

You smiled ever so slightly, a gentle curve to your lips.

“I know,” you said softly. “Believe it or not, I know you, too, Joel.”

He let himself look at you for a moment, let that terrifying wound at the center of him hurt where he could really feel it, to feel the horror of what letting himself love you would be.

“It’s OK,” you whispered as you reached out and brushed his curls back, your fingertip grazing the scar at his temple. “I’ll just love you, anyway.”

He stayed in your bed that night, lying awake as you slept against him, ignoring the scream of panic at the core of him to run while he still could. He knew it couldn’t last. He knew he couldn’t rest like this, not with you this close, not in this awful place with that awful hurt. But he couldn’t leave you either. Not like this.

“Oh,” he said the next morning when it was still dark so he could slip back to his own apartment before some FEDRA prick was awake to see him leaving your place. “Almost forgot.”

He pulled a scarf from his pack, the one thing he hadn’t left at home after this run. It was thick, the knit heavy, a color that made your eyes shine. Not that he had pictured you wearing it with those eyes of yours when he’d picked it up. He held it out to you and you frowned, confused, as you took it.

“Winter is around the corner and you were cold all the time last year,” he said gruffly. “Don’t want you freezin’ to death.”

You smiled a little, running your fingers over the pattern knit into the yarn.

“Thank you,” you said, holding it to your chest and looking back to him. “I really needed this, Joel.”

He just grunted, pulling his pack on and heading for the door.

“I’m gonna stay away from you for a while,” he said, trying to ignore the pain in his chest at that. “Don’t want anyone catching on.”

“OK,” you said, eyes searching his before you stepped close to him and slowly, cautiously, pressed your soft, warm lips to his own. “Take care of yourself for me, OK?”

You said it like you would say I love you.

“You, too,” he said. He wondered if it sounded the same to you, too.

Staying away from you took work. He wanted to see you, be next to you, get lost in you. But he knew where that would lead and he couldn’t let it, not now, not like this.

So he stayed away for weeks. He stayed away until the first snowfall of the season in Boston and he made an excuse to go stand outside your job. He couldn’t help it. He needed to make sure you were warm and safe so he stood there and watched you leave, his scarf around your neck, You caught his eye with a small smile as you passed a FEDRA guard and he knew, with sinking certainty, he’d be back at your door that night.

He just couldn’t seem to stay away from you.

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x oc #qz!joel #Joel Miller has a Breeding Kink #breeding kink fic #joel miller birthday celebration

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