#yes keep feeding him attention LOL

[blazingstaro]

Hey, Magalor. Um, Is it ok if I can give you a hug? It's no pressure, just want a hug is all :3

"Feel free to give me a hug anytime you see me around! I love it!"

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt. 17

Word Count: 32.3k

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

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

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

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

Check my masterlist for the previous parts!

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

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

People always did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Given immediately of course."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were out there, somewhere. Alone. Pregnant.

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

Then, he finally heard it.

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

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

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

He barely registered the next words coming out of his mouth, his voice soft yet urgent, as though afraid you might disappear if he spoke too loudly. “Your chest?” he interrupted, the sharp edge of his concern cutting through the air. “What’s wrong, kitten?”

He could imagine you now, frozen on the other end of the line, your shock palpable even through the silence. He closed his eyes for a fleeting second, relief washing over him again—but it wasn’t enough to soothe the simmering tension in his chest. You weren’t safe, you weren’t with him, and the sound of your voice only made the ache sharper.

The silence stretched, the faint static of the landline filling the gap, and his grip on the receiver tightened. “Cat got your tongue?” he asked again, his tone gentler now but tinged with an unmistakable vulnerability. Despite himself, a flicker of longing crept into his voice, betraying the iron-clad control he so carefully maintained.

And then your response came, sharp and venomous, cutting through the moment like a blade. “Leave me the fuck alone!” you snapped, your voice trembling with rage. “I swear to God, if you come near me—”

“Now, now,” he interjected smoothly, forcing his voice to remain calm even as your anger formed a greater ache in his heart. He leaned back in his chair, his free hand coming up to rub at the tightness forming at his temple. “Don’t yell. It’s not good for your heart.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his mind racing to piece together the fragile moment. “I’m just calling to see how you’re doing. It seems you’ve hidden in a place even I can’t find. You could make this easy and just tell me where you are, sweetie. I’m worried.”

Worried. The word hung in the air, heavy with meaning. He meant it more than he cared to admit, but he could already hear the scoff building in your chest.

“Ha!” you spat, disbelief and fury dripping from your tone. “As if…why would I willingly throw myself into another one of your punishments?”

The accusation hit harder than he expected, though he masked it well. His jaw tightened, his mind replaying every moment that had led to this. Did you truly believe that’s what he wanted? His fingers flexed against the phone, his voice softening as he leaned forward again.

“Honey,” he said, his tone a rare blend of tenderness and exasperation. “Do you honestly think I’m going to punish you? I just want you to be safe. You’re about to give birth, and you running away doesn’t anger me. I only care about you and our daughter.”

He paused, the weight of his own words settling over him. He could hear your unsteady breathing on the other end, could picture you clutching the phone with trembling hands. The thought made his chest tighten further. He wanted to reach through the line, to hold you, to convince you that you didn’t have to keep running. That you never had to run in the first place.

“No,” you said coldly, your voice sharp and unyielding. “If you really cared, you’d leave me alone.”

Sylus didn’t respond immediately. The line crackled faintly with static, but he could still hear the rhythm of your breathing on the other end, shallow and uneven. It was a sound that tightened something deep in his chest, an ache he couldn’t quite suppress. He exhaled slowly, his grip on the receiver firm but controlled. Even from miles away, he could feel your defiance—your fury. He admired it, in a way, even as it frustrated him.

“I can’t do that,” he said at last, his voice soft but resolute. “You’re mine, kitten. I’ll always come for you.”

The words hung in the air, their weight unmistakable, and Sylus knew they would provoke you. He braced himself, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips despite the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

“You fucking basta—”

“I just want to know if you’re taking care of yourself,” Sylus cut in smoothly, his tone gentle yet unshakable. He shifted in his chair, his crimson eyes fixed on the window as he spoke. “Landlines are a lot harder to track, y’know. If it makes you feel better, I don’t have your location, so don’t panic or get yourself worked up. I just know a few tricks…and happened to get lucky.”

Lucky. The word was carefully chosen, designed to downplay the extent of his efforts to reach you. It wasn’t entirely true—he had poured countless hours into chasing this faint lead—but he didn’t want you spiraling. Not yet. Not until he had you back where you belonged. He let the silence stretch, listening intently for your response, hoping for something—anything—that would tell him you weren’t hurting yourself out of stubborn pride.

Then he broke the silence again, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “Are you eating? How’s the baby?”

The question was simple, but the act of asking it stirred something raw within him. He pictured you, clutching your belly, maybe curled up on some cold floor without food or warmth. His chest tightened at the thought. The baby. His baby. He wanted to believe you were keeping yourself safe for her sake, but your defiance worried him. How far would you go to prove a point? Would you risk your own health just to spite him?

He leaned forward, his elbow resting on his knee, his free hand brushing through his hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this…powerless. Every fiber of his being was wired for control, but right now, the only thing he could do was keep you on the phone. Convince you to listen. Convince you to trust him, just enough to keep yourself alive until he could find you.

“Fuck you,” you spat, your voice breaking under the weight of your emotions. “I’m alive, aren’t I? That’s all you care about, right?”

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose. “That’s not true,” he said, his voice quieter now, carrying an uncharacteristic gentleness. “I care about more than that. I care about you.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating, your skepticism tangible even without words. He could feel the barrier you had put up, the walls he had driven you to build, and the thought clawed at him. Was this his fault? No, he told himself. He had done what was necessary. He had protected you, even if you didn’t see it that way.

“You don’t get to do this,” you said, quieter now but no less sharp. “You don’t get to act like you care after everything you’ve done. Just…leave me alone.”

“I already said I can’t do that, kitten,” Sylus replied, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. “You know I can’t. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Well, I am,” you snapped, the fire back in your voice. “Now stop calling me.”

There was a long pause. He considered his words carefully, knowing this might be the last time he heard your voice for a while. Finally, he spoke, his tone softer than before. “I won’t call again, if that’s what you want. But you should know…I’ll still be looking. And I will find you. Not to hurt you, but because I want to protect you. To be there for you. You and our daughter.”

Your bitter laugh rang through the line, sharp and cutting. “Protect me? From what? You’re the only threat I need protection from, Sylus.”

The words hit their mark, sharper than any blade, but Sylus didn’t let it show. “Believe what you want,” he said quietly. “But if something happens, call me. Please. You have this number.”

The line went dead. Sylus sat there for a long moment, the silence of the room enveloping him as he set the receiver down. The ache in his chest hadn’t lessened—in fact, it had only grown. You were alive, but you weren’t safe. And until you were back in his arms, he would never stop searching.

Sylus sat back in the dim light of his hotel room, the flicker of the city outside casting long shadows across his face. He tipped his glass back, the sharp burn of whiskey sliding down his throat, but it did little to dull the ache gnawing at his chest. His nerves were raw, his thoughts scattered. No one—no one—had ever driven him to the edge like this. On the outside, his expression was stone-cold, his eyes unyielding, but inside…inside he was a storm of chaos.

He reached for the bottle and poured another glass, his hand steady despite the fire raging in his veins. The memory of your voice on the phone echoed in his mind, a haunting melody he couldn’t shake. The anger in your words, the defiance—it clawed at him, driving him to drink more, to try and calm the madness building inside him.

This Clara woman. The name lingered bitterly on his tongue as he downed the next glass. She had to have you. There was no other explanation. It wasn’t coincidence. It was her meddling that had you hiding, keeping you and the baby away from him. The thought of you, pregnant with his child, under another’s roof—it ignited something feral in him. Clara wasn’t just keeping you from him. She was ruining everything.

But it wasn’t just her that left him seething. It was you. He told himself he wouldn't be angry with you, and he wasn't fully. But god it was frustrated him to his core.

His jaw tightened as he poured yet another glass, the amber liquid rippling under his gaze. How could you leave at a time like this? The thought rattled in his mind like a broken mantra. Throwing yourself into danger—for what? Did he not provide well enough for you? Did he not protect you, give you everything you could possibly need? His hand clenched around the glass so tightly that he was surprised it didn’t crack like the rest.

Was it the hormones? The thought crossed his mind briefly, though it felt like an excuse. He knew he wasn’t a perfect man—far from it—but he hadn’t been that bad, had he? No, there had to be more. Something deeper. Something he hadn’t seen coming.

And yet, even as frustration bubbled under his skin, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about you, about the time you stood before him, declaring your love in front of Xavier. He closed his eyes, and for a brief, fleeting moment, he could feel your lips on his again. Soft, warm, yielding. He had felt the fire in that kiss, the passion. He had felt you give yourself to him, even if just for a moment. And when he’d wrapped his arms around you, it had been more than just possession—it had been triumph.

You chose me, he thought bitterly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. In that moment, nothing else in the world had mattered. Not Xavier, not the lies, not even the inevitability of the situation. You had chosen him, and it had been the purest form of happiness he had ever felt.

But now? Now, you had ripped that happiness from him. You had shattered the illusion. You had run, throwing yourself into danger like some reckless fool. Did you even realize how precarious your situation was? Waving a gun at people in broad daylight, pregnant and vulnerable—it made his blood boil to think of it. You were lucky, so damn lucky, that he’d already paid someone to erase the footage from the bus. If he hadn’t, who knows what kind of situation you might be in right now.

I’m the one cleaning up all your messes. Because I care about you. Because I’m responsible for you.

Anyone else might have laughed at the absurdity of it, but Sylus didn’t find it amusing. He saw the danger in it, the recklessness that could’ve gotten you killed—or worse. He’d paid a small fortune to ensure the footage was erased, scrubbing away any trace of your actions.

Why? Because that’s what he did. He protected you, even from yourself.

No one else in the world would’ve done that for you, and yet, here he was, covering your tracks, cleaning up the fallout of your decisions. It wasn’t out of obligation, no. It was because you were pregnant with his child. Because you were his. And that meant something. It meant everything.

You might have been running, fighting to stay away from him, but Sylus knew the truth. He was the only one who could truly take care of you. Not Clara. Not Xavier. Him. And the fact that you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see that gnawed at him in a way nothing else could.

He rubbed his temples, letting out a low sigh as the thoughts churned in his mind. He had sacrificed so much already, bending his rules, softening his nature, all for you. And yet, here you were, throwing yourself into chaos, dragging his child along with you. Did you even realize what you were doing? How much he was trying for you? For her?

He rubbed his temples harder, his teeth grinding against each other as he tried to rein in his spiraling thoughts. Why did you leave? The question gnawed at him, refusing to let him rest. Did you really not trust him? Was he truly so unbearable in your eyes?

He slammed his glass down on the table, whiskey sloshing over the edges as a low growl escaped his throat. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were supposed to stay. To build a life with him and the baby. To be safe, protected, and adored.

He grabbed the whiskey bottle again, pausing briefly as his mind wandered back to the phone call. The way your voice trembled, the anger and fear laced through it—it wasn’t hatred he had heard. It was pain. Hurt. Exhaustion. And that realization, as much as he hated to admit it, carved a hole through his chest.

No matter how much he wanted to be angry at you for this, no matter how much your defiance infuriated him, Sylus couldn’t shake the truth. He didn’t just want you back because of control. He wanted you because, without you, nothing felt right.

It was himself that he was truly mad at.

You were his anchor in a world that otherwise felt too hollow.

He loved you. What had started as obsession had bloomed into an emotion he never thought was possible for a fiend like him.

And he would have you back, no matter what it took.

You had finally forced yourself to get up, your entire body feeling like it had been run over by a freight train. But you had no choice—your daughter needed you. The umbilical cord still connected the two of you, a fragile and grotesque reminder of the bond you shared, but one that couldn’t remain uncut for long. One of the books you had read, back at the library, had mentioned that leaving it uncut for too long could lead to complications. You clung to that fragment of knowledge like a lifeline, despite how much the words in those books had overwhelmed you at the time.

Careful not to tug on the cord, you steadied yourself as you walked through the bloodied chaos of the farmhouse, scanning frantically for scissors. Each step sent a fresh wave of ache through your legs and abdomen, but you gritted your teeth and pressed on. Your daughter’s cries echoed on your chest, high-pitched and relentless, making your chest tighten with every passing second. You cursed yourself under your breath for being so unprepared. How could you not have scissors? How could you be this careless?

Your search came up empty, and you were out of time. Panic clawed at your throat as you realized you’d have to improvise. You grabbed a knife from the kitchen, its blade duller than you’d have liked but better than nothing. Returning to the couch, you set down your baby, carefully unwrapped the bundle of blankets surrounding her, trying not to jostle her too much. She immediately let out an ear-splitting wail, her tiny face scrunching up as if she could sense your hesitation.

“I’m so sorry,” you murmured, your voice trembling as tears pricked the corners of your eyes. “Just hold on, okay? I’ll be fast, I promise.”

Your hands shook as you positioned the knife against the cord, working slowly and methodically to avoid cutting too close to her delicate belly button—or slicing yourself in the process. Her cries grew louder, piercing your ears, and you felt your stomach churn with guilt and terror. Finally, the knife finally cut through the cord, and the severed piece fell to the floor. You pulled the other end out of you. Relief washed over you like a wave, and you exhaled shakily, wiping the sweat from your brow.

But the relief was short-lived. Your daughter continued to scream on the couch, her tiny fists flailing as her cries filled the room. The sound was unbearable, each shrill wail slicing through your nerves and making your heart pound harder in your chest. You froze, staring at her with wide, panicked eyes.

What do I do next!?

Your mind was a foggy mess, every thought tripping over itself in a jumbled cacophony. The books didn’t prepare you for this. Nothing did.

The placenta! Right. The placenta was supposed to come too, wasn’t it? But…how to get it out? Had it detached already? Wasn’t that supposed to happen naturally? Or did you have to do something? Your daze deepened, and for a moment, all you could hear was the sound of her crying and the rush of your own panicked thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, your voice breaking as tears slipped down your cheeks. You bent down and scooped her up into your arms, cradling her against your chest. “I’m such an idiot. You’re cold. I’m so sorry.”

You rushed toward the bathroom, your feet slipping slightly on the blood-streaked floor. Your whole body was trembling, and you tried to push the thought of how much blood you were losing out of your mind. None of it mattered—not the mess, not the pain, not the dizziness threatening to topple you over. The only thing that mattered was keeping her safe, keeping her warm.

Reaching the bathroom, you stumbled toward the sink, fumbling to turn on the tap. Warm water poured out, and you carefully tested it with your fingers before holding your daughter closer. She was still wailing, her little face strained and scrunched, her tiny body trembling. You could see that she was smeared in fluids and blood, her delicate skin slick and sticky. You didn’t even have proper baby soap—just an old bar of mild hand soap sitting in a dish on the counter.

“I’ll make this quick,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Gingerly, you eased her into the sink, supporting her head and neck with one hand while your other hand gently rinsed her off. Her cries didn’t stop, but they softened slightly as the warm water cascaded over her tiny body. You worked as quickly and carefully as you could, washing away the mess and trying to keep her warm. Your movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, your exhaustion making it hard to focus. But somehow, you managed to clean her up, wrapping her tightly in a fresh towel as soon as you were done.

You sank to the bathroom floor, clutching her against your chest as your tears fell freely now. She had stopped crying, her little whimpers the only sound in the room. You held her close, rocking her gently as you tried to catch your breath. The enormity of what had just happened began to sink in, and for the first time since she was born, you let yourself feel the weight of it all.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whispered to her, your voice shaky and raw. “But I promise, I’ll try. I’ll keep you safe, no matter what.”

Your daughter let out a tiny, almost contented sigh, her head resting against your chest. It was enough to make you believe, if only for a moment, that maybe—just maybe—you could do this.

The feeling of calm was very short-lived.

As you scoured the bedroom for the baby clothes and diapers Clara had so thoughtfully left for you, your daughter began to whine. At first, it was just a small noise, barely a fuss, as she squirmed against your chest. You tried to ignore it, assuming she was just getting used to her new environment. But the whining didn’t stop. It quickly grew into a louder cry, her little face scrunching up as her mouth opened wide in protest.

“What now?” you muttered, panicked, as you gently laid her on the bed. Her tiny hands balled into fists, her little legs kicking in frustration. You saw her sucking on her hand—a cute gesture at first—but it did nothing to calm her cries.

“Okay, okay, let’s get you dressed first. You’ll be warm, and then…I’ll figure it out,” you said, your voice trembling as you rummaged through the small pile of baby clothes and diapers. They were plain and white diapers, free of patterns or labels to distinguish sizes, leaving you to just grab the first onesie and diaper your hands touched. You spread them out on the bed, eyeing them like they were some kind of puzzle.

“Front? Back?” You turned the diaper over twice, squinting at it before settling on a side and hoping for the best. “This has to be right.”

Your daughter’s cries grew louder, and you felt a pang of guilt twist in your chest. Were you taking too long? Were you already failing her? “I’m going as fast as I can,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to her, as you carefully picked up her wriggling form. “It’s okay, baby girl. This will be warm. You want to be warm, don’t you?”

You tried to keep your voice calm and soothing, but it wavered as tears pricked at the edges of your eyes. With shaky hands, you lifted her to get her diaper on, and guided her tiny arms into the sleeves of the onesie, wincing every time she let out a sharp wail. She wailed with every little movement, her face reddening as if the whole process was an unbearable ordeal. You paused, staring at her tear-streaked face, and wondered if you were hurting her. Were you being too rough? Did babies cry this much all the time, or were you already screwing up?

Tears began to spill down your cheeks as your shaking hands snapped the buttons of the onesie closed. “It’s okay, sweet girl. Mommy’s trying her best. I promise, I’m trying,” you whimpered, wiping your tears so you could see what you were doing. “You’re warm now, see? That’s better, right?”

But it wasn’t. The moment you lifted her back into your arms, she started screaming even louder, her tiny lungs producing a sound far bigger than her little body should have been capable of. You rocked her gently, pacing back and forth in the room, bouncing her as you’d seen mothers do in movies. “Shh, shh, it’s okay. Mommy’s here,” you whispered, though the tears in your voice made the words sound hollow. Her cries didn’t cease.

“Waaaah! Waaaaah!”

You felt helpless, completely lost. The weight of the moment pressed down on you like a crushing wave, and for the first time since you’d held your daughter, the overwhelming sense of failure hit you square in the chest. Tears streamed down your cheeks as her cries only grew louder, shriller, piercing through what little resolve you had left. You clutched her to your chest, rocking her frantically, trying to do something—anything—to soothe her.

“I don’t know what to do,” you sobbed, your voice trembling with desperation. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

She didn’t calm. Her tiny body wriggled in your arms, her face red and scrunched in frustration, and all you could do was hold her tighter. You whispered apologies into her soft hair, hoping somehow the sound of your voice would ease her, but it didn’t. Nothing did.

As you paced the room, your foot hit something on the floor, making you stumble slightly. You gasped, clutching your daughter tighter to your chest as your eyes darted downward. There, near your feet, was a bottle—small, clear, rolling slightly from the impact. It must’ve fallen out of the cabinet earlier, completely overlooked in your frantic search for supplies. You stared at it, realization dawning slowly.

“Oh my God…” you breathed, your voice hitching in relief. A small, tearful laugh escaped your lips as you looked down at your still-screaming daughter. “Mommy’s such an idiot, huh? You’re hungry. Of course. You’re hungry.”

Setting the bottle down on the bed for a moment, you sat on the edge, still clutching your daughter to your chest. She hadn’t stopped crying, her tiny fists still flailing, her legs kicking out against your arms. You stared down at her face—red and streaked with tears—and felt your chest tighten. She was so small, so delicate, so utterly dependent on you. And you…you didn’t know what you were doing.

“I’m sorry, baby. Let’s try this, okay? I’m new at this too,” you whispered, your voice shaky as you pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. You hesitated for a moment, your mind flashing back to the books you’d read. They’d said breastfeeding was natural, instinctual, something your body and your baby would know how to do without being taught. But as you looked at her, squirming and wailing in your arms, a wave of doubt washed over you. What if they were wrong? What if you couldn’t do this? What if she couldn’t? Was there even enough milk for her? Would you fail at this, too?

Your hands trembled as you adjusted your shirt, exposing your breast. The cool air against your skin made you shiver, but the feeling was quickly drowned out by the overwhelming pressure of the moment. You tried to guide her tiny mouth to latch, but her cries didn’t let up. If anything, she seemed even more frustrated, turning her head away and squirming against your hold. Her little fists pounded against your chest, her movements wild and uncoordinated.

“Waaaah! Waaaah!” Her cries pierced through you, sharp and unforgiving, like daggers to your already fragile nerves. You bit your lip, trying to keep from sobbing again. The last thing she needed was for you to completely fall apart.

“Shh, shh. Please, sweetheart, just try,” you murmured, your voice breaking as you stroked her soft cheek with your thumb. “I’m so sorry, I’m not good at this. I’ll get better, I promise. Just…just give me a chance.”

You adjusted her position, angling her tiny body the way the books had described, but every time you thought you were close, she turned her head or whimpered louder. Frustration bubbled up in your chest, not at her, but at yourself. How could you not know how to do this? You were her mother. This was supposed to come naturally, wasn’t it? Wasn’t this what your body was meant to do?

“I’m trying,” you whispered, your tears dripping onto her blanket as you rocked her gently. “Please, baby girl. Please just try for me.”

It felt like an eternity—an endless cycle of adjusting, soothing, repositioning—until finally, she latched. You froze, your breath catching as you felt the slight pull and the soft, rhythmic motions of her mouth. Relief flooded through you so quickly it made your head spin, and you gasped, a shaky laugh escaping your lips.

“There you go,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re doing so good, baby girl. That’s it.”

Her cries faded into quiet, contented gulps as she suckled, her little hands still curled into fists against your chest. You stared down at her, tears still slipping down your cheeks, but now they weren’t just from frustration. They were from relief, from awe, from the overwhelming realization that, somehow, you’d done it. She was feeding. She was okay.

The room fell into a fragile silence, broken only by her small, hungry gulps and the occasional hitch in your breath as you calmed yourself. You stared down at her, her tiny body curled against yours, and despite the overwhelming fear and exhaustion, you felt a small flicker of hope.

Your heart ached as you watched her, her tiny body nestled against yours. You’d never felt so raw, so vulnerable, so utterly exposed. You didn’t feel like a perfect mother—you didn’t even feel like a good one. But you were all she had at that moment, and you were never one to not give something your all.

You couldn’t believe how long she fed. Was this normal? Surely newborns didn’t eat this much, right? You tried to remember the books you’d read, flipping through the mental pages like a frantic librarian. They’d said to let her nurse for a minute or two, then burp her. Even though breastfed babies didn’t need to be burped as often, you wanted to be thorough, to make sure you were doing everything right. She deserved that much after your rocky start.

When you noticed the absence of pulling, you looked down. Her tiny mouth was still latched, but her eyes were closed, and her breaths were soft and even. She was fast asleep, her belly clearly full from milk. Relief washed over you, but it was accompanied by a crushing wave of guilt.

Her face was still slightly strained from crying, her little cheeks blotchy and swollen. The sight tugged at your heartstrings, and you felt shame creep into your chest. How had it taken you so long to realize she was hungry? Of course, a newborn would be starving after being born into the world. You sighed, feeling the weight of your failure settle into your shoulders. “I’m sorry,” you whispered softly.

Leaning down, you placed a small, awkward kiss on her tiny forehead. It felt...correct. Not overwhelming, not like the magical, joyful moment you’d read about in books or seen in movies. But correct. You were still in shock, your mind barely able to process everything that had happened in the last several hours, but this—holding her, caring for her—was something you could hold onto. Something to do. Something that made the chaos a little more bearable.

Carefully, you adjusted your shirt, covering your breast again, and slowly stood. Your legs still felt weak, trembling slightly as you shifted your weight. You held her close, making your way toward the crib Clara had set up for her. Each step felt like an exercise in precision, your body tense with the fear of waking her. When you reached the crib, you hesitated, your nerves making your hands tremble as you lowered her into the soft bedding.

She twitched a little, her tiny limbs flailing for a moment before settling again. Her breaths came out in soft, rhythmic sighs, and you found yourself standing there, just listening to the sound. It was oddly calming, like a reminder that for now, she was okay. You took a step back, then another, your eyes never leaving her tiny form until you were out of the room.

Once the door clicked shut behind you, the reality of everything came crashing back. You glanced around the house and felt a lump form in your throat. The place was a mess. Blood splattered across the floor, streaks dried and crusted in places where you’d stumbled earlier. The broken window from the Sawshredder let in a faint chill, and glass shards glittered under the pale moonlight streaming through the gap. You exhaled shakily. There was so much to do, and your body ached from head to toe.

You shuffled into the bathroom, your legs heavy and unsteady, and climbed into the tub. The warm water hit your skin, and you hissed at the sting as it washed over the raw, tender areas. You winced as you began to scrub away the layers of dried blood and fluids. It was everywhere—your thighs, your legs, and even had dripped to your ankles. The metallic smell lingered, even as the water ran pink and swirled down the drain.

As you cleaned yourself, your mind wandered. Had you torn? You weren’t sure. You weren’t about to check yourself, either. You found some pads and doubled them up, making a makeshift diaper of sorts along with some underwear. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. You grimaced as you moved, every slight motion sending a dull ache through your abdomen and lower back.

You even managed to get the placenta out. How you did so? You didn't want to think about it anymore. The whole process had been...uncomfortable. Thank god for those books though.

You stepped out of the tub, pulling on a loose shirt and Clara’s oversized sweatpants. They hung low on your hips, but at least they were clean. That was more than you could say for the rest of the house.

Dragging yourself back into the main room, you surveyed the carnage. The blood smears on the floor, the glass from the shattered window, the umbilical cord still lying forgotten in a corner. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to move. You couldn’t leave it like this—not with her here. Clara certainly shouldn't have to come back to this mess.

Grabbing an old towel and some cleaning supplies, you knelt down and began to scrub the bloodstains. The dried patches took more effort, and each swipe sent a sharp reminder of how sore your body was. You muttered under your breath as you worked, cursing yourself for not being more prepared, for not having someone here to help. “This is what I wanted, though, right?” you said bitterly to no one. “Freedom. To do this on my own.”

When the stains were finally gone, you turned your attention to the broken window. The jagged edges of glass glinted like teeth, and you carefully picked up the larger shards, tossing them into the trash. You’d have to board it up with something. You couldn’t risk her getting cold—or worse, another attack.

Finally, you grabbed the umbilical cord and placenta, wrapping them in an old plastic bag. It felt wrong, disrespectful somehow, to just throw them away like trash, but what else could you do? The thought made your stomach churn, but you forced yourself to move, tying the bag tightly before tossing it outside in the bin.

By the time you finished, you were utterly spent. Every muscle in your body screamed in protest as you collapsed onto your bed. You closed your eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. Your mind wouldn’t let you rest. You thought of her tiny cries, the feel of her soft skin, the weight of her in your arms. She was here. She was real. And she depended on you for everything.

No pressure, right?

You were jolted awake by the sharp, piercing cries that had become all too familiar. Every hour. Nonstop. Was this the seventh time? Eighth? You had lost count somewhere in the haze of sleeplessness, your body and mind running on fumes. The world felt like it was spinning as you staggered toward the crib, groggy and heavy-limbed, clutching onto the faint light of determination to keep moving.

The cries grew louder as you approached. “Waaah! Waaah!” she wailed, her tiny fists flailing as she suckled furiously on one of them. You had come to recognize this as her hunger cue—a useful tell, sure, but it didn’t make the constant crying and relentless lack of sleep any easier to bear.

“Please…” you whined softly, your voice barely audible over her cries. “Just sleep…a little longer…for mommy, okay?” But you already knew it was futile. She wasn’t going to stop. The second you picked her up, she quieted just a fraction, her little body curling into you instinctively.

Your head throbbed, and every muscle in your body protested as you shuffled back to the bed, sinking into the mattress like a dead weight. As much as you cared for her, you had never felt more unnerved in your life. Her cries sent a shot of adrenaline through you every single time, as if something inside your brain had rewired itself to panic at the sound. You felt like a marionette on strings, moving automatically, barely able to think beyond her immediate needs.

You adjusted your shirt and guided her to latch, wincing at the familiar sting as she began to feed. Her tiny mouth worked hungrily, her desperate noises quieting into soft, rhythmic gulps. “There… you’re okay now,” you whispered, trying to soothe her even as your voice trembled with exhaustion.

Your tired mind began to wander, the lull of the moment allowing intrusive thoughts to creep in. Despite yourself, you thought of Sylus. He should be doing this, not you. This was his idea, his plan, his twisted way of controlling your life. He should be the one awake every hour, running on no sleep, dealing with the endless cycle of feeding, crying, and cleaning.

The thought made your chest tighten, and you quickly shook your head, trying to push it away. Sylus was the last person who should be near her right now. He was dangerous, suffocating. She deserved better than that. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t fully banish the image of him from your mind. His voice still echoed there, his gentle words from the phone call playing on a loop.

“Are you eating? How’s the baby?”

You scowled, clenching your jaw as you rocked your daughter gently in your arms. You didn’t want to think about him, didn’t want him to have any more space in your head. But the exhaustion was wearing down your defenses, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you wondered what he was doing now. Was he still looking for you? Of course, he was. Sylus never gave up on anything, especially not you.

Your thoughts shifted to Clara. Maybe you should call her? She had said to reach out if you needed anything, and you knew you could use some help. But the memory of that last phone call with Sylus stopped you cold. What if he answered again? He had promised not to do it again, but Sylus and promises didn’t exactly go hand in hand. The risk felt too great, the possibility of hearing his voice again too unnerving.

You sighed, closing your eyes as your daughter’s feeding slowed. She began to doze off against your chest, her tiny body warm and soft in your arms. For a moment, you just sat there, holding her, feeling the weight of her tiny life against you. It was overwhelming. Terrifying. Beautiful. And utterly exhausting.

“We got this, don't we?” you whispered softly, brushing a finger over her delicate cheek. She didn’t stir, her little mouth slightly open now as she drifted into a deep sleep.

As much as you wanted to join her, you knew the moment you set her down in the crib, she’d start crying again. It was only a matter of time. You looked down at her peaceful face, your chest tightening with a mixture of adoration and guilt. You felt like you were drowning, and yet, she was the only thing keeping you afloat.

The hours stretched endlessly ahead, and you had no idea how you were going to make it through the night. But for now, in this fleeting moment of quiet, you just held her close, trying to push away the weight of the world. It was just you and her against everything. And you were going to do your best. Somehow.

The morning sun shined through the curtains, casting long, sleepy shadows across the room. You stood at the bedside, eyes heavy with exhaustion, reaching for a fresh diaper. Your body felt as though it had been wrung dry, every muscle aching from a night of no sleep and constant cries. It must have been the seventh time she’d woken up—was it the eighth? You didn’t know anymore. The hours had blurred into each other, leaving you in a daze.

Her whines started up again, soft but insistent, quickly climbing to a full-blown wail. “Waaah! Waaaah!” she cried, tiny fists waving angrily in the air. You let out a tired sigh as you opened the curtains, and then gently picked her up from the crib, her warmth a small comfort against your chilled arms.

The front of your shirt was damp with breastmilk—cold and sticky against your skin, making you shiver. You grimaced, setting her down on the bed and reaching for the diaper. “Okay, baby girl, let’s get this sorted,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. She kicked her little legs in protest as you worked quickly, removing the soaked diaper and replacing it with a fresh one.

You were shocked when she didn’t cry during the change—she wailed at the cold feel of the wipes all last night. But instead of protesting, she blinked sleepily, her tiny mouth forming an “O” as if she were just as exhausted as you were. "You're tired too, huh?" you mumbled, brushing a hand over her impossibly soft hair.

When you finally buttoned her onesie and tossed the old diaper into the trash, she was fast asleep again. Her face, still puffy from crying through the night, seemed impossibly peaceful now. A pang of guilt swelled in your chest. She deserved better.

You glanced at your daughter as she drifted back to sleep in her crib, her tiny body swaddled snugly. Her face was peaceful now, her soft breaths the only sound in the room. The sight should have filled you with warmth, but instead, it left you feeling…disconnected. It was like looking at someone you’d just met—someone you were supposed to love unconditionally but didn’t quite know yet. You cared about her, of course. But was it love? Or just the responsibility of knowing you were the only one she had?

Your shirt clung uncomfortably to your chest, damp and cold from the milk that had leaked during the night. You were freezing, and the stickiness against your skin only added to the discomfort. You needed to change. Quickly checking that your daughter was still asleep, you grabbed a fresh shirt from the bedroom and headed to the bathroom.

In the harsh bathroom light, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The person staring back didn’t feel like you. Dark circles framed your eyes, and your hair was a tangled mess. Your face was strained, drawn tight with exhaustion. You peeled off your soaked shirt, wincing as the cold air hit your skin, and replaced the pads you’d stuffed into your underwear. The ache in your lower body was still there, every step a painful reminder of what you’d gone through. Should you see a doctor? Maybe. But you weren’t bleeding heavily, and nothing felt wrong. At least, not yet. You decided to keep an eye on it, relying on the scraps of medical knowledge you’d picked up over the years.

"It’s fine," you whispered to yourself, your voice hollow. "It’s probably fine."

After changing into a clean shirt, you made your way to the kitchen, determined to eat something. The fridge greeted you with its dim light and meager contents: eggs, bacon, some chicken, a few frozen meals. You hesitated, your body screaming for something quick and easy, but you knew better. If you didn’t eat properly, you’d have no energy—and no milk for your daughter. Gotta eat to produce, right?

You pulled out some eggs and bacon, moving slowly and carefully. Every step felt like a marathon, every movement a test of endurance. Pain throbbed dully in your lower half, but you gritted your teeth and kept going. You’d been through worse. Or so you told yourself.

The sizzle of bacon hitting the pan filled the air, accompanied by the comforting smell of cooking meat. You stirred the eggs absentmindedly, your mind wandering.

How did it come to this? You thought about calling Clara, about asking her if this level of pain and exhaustion was normal. But then you thought about Sylus, about how easily he’d intercepted your last call. Could he do it again? The risk was too great.

You weren't ready to hear his voice again.

Once the food was ready, you sat at the small table, the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon steaming before you. You picked at the food slowly, your appetite dulled by fatigue. The thought of Sylus lingered in the back of your mind, gnawing at you. He should be the one doing this. He should be the one pacing back and forth at night, rocking a crying baby, trying to figure out how to soothe her. This was his idea, after all. His child. His responsibility.

But no. You shook the thought away, focusing on your meal. You reminded yourself that you could do this alone. You’d take it one day at a time. That’s all you could do.

As you scrubbed the last plate in the sink, the warm morning sun streamed through the window, casting soft golden light across the kitchen. The peaceful moment didn’t last long, though, as the sharp, familiar cry broke the stillness. You froze for a second, the sound sending an almost Pavlovian jolt of adrenaline through your body. Feeding time. Again. Of course.

You felt like your existence had been reduced to that of a milking machine.

You dried your hands on a nearby towel, walking toward the bedroom where your daughter’s wails were quickly escalating. It was like a bell tolling, one you couldn’t ignore no matter how drained you felt. Your heart pounded, the sheer exhaustion of it all threatening to consume you, but you pushed it down. She needed you. That was what mattered.

“Shhh, shhh. I know. You eat so much, huh?” you whispered softly as you picked her up. Her tiny hands flailed, her face red and scrunched in frustration. Settling on the edge of the bed, you adjusted your shirt and prepared to feed her. As soon as she latched, her cries quieted to soft whimpers, and the tension in your chest eased—slightly.

You leaned back, cradling her close, and allowed yourself a brief moment of stillness. As her little lips moved rhythmically, you found yourself studying her closely. Her delicate features were so much like your own, though Sylus’s traits were undeniable. It hit you again how much she looked like him, those tiny hints of him etched into her face like a cruel reminder.

But despite how much she resembled him, you couldn’t help but notice how healthy she appeared overall. Her skin was soft and smooth, her tiny fists full of energy as they flexed and curled. She seemed perfect on the outside. But what about the inside? Did she need a hospital? Could you even risk it?

Your mind spiraled. You couldn’t avoid it forever. If she got sick or needed something you couldn’t provide, you’d have to take her somewhere. Hospitals meant records, though. A birth certificate. Official acknowledgment of her existence. Wouldn’t that make it easier for Sylus to find her? To find you?

The thought of giving her up flickered briefly in your mind, guilt twisting your stomach into knots. It felt horrible, thinking about it. Unforgivable. But the rational part of you knew it wasn’t so simple. How could you protect her if you didn’t even know how to care for her properly? You sighed, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on your chest.

Your free hand moved almost automatically, tracing gentle circles on the top of her head to soothe both her and yourself. Her hair was baby soft, fine wisps that carried that distinct, sweet newborn scent. It calmed you a little, grounding you in the moment. But then your fingers froze.

There was something…hard under her hair. Confused, you pressed lightly, feeling again. Two small, firm spots, spaced apart but evenly placed. What the…?

Your stomach dropped, and you gently pushed her hair aside to get a better look. Nestled in the soft tufts of her hair were two tiny black dots. Hard, like little nubs. Your mind raced. Birth defect? Injury? Something Sylus passed down? You felt panic creeping in, your chest tightening as the possibilities swirled in your head.

Before you could think any further, she let out a piercing wail, yanking your attention back to her. “Oh, yeah, gotta burp you. Your tummy’s full” you cooed, forcing calm into your voice. You lifted her carefully onto your shoulder, patting her back with gentle but firm motions until a tiny burp escaped. But her crying didn’t stop.

“What’s wrong?” you murmured, holding her against your chest. “I fed you, your diaper shouldn’t be full…” But just to be sure, you set her down and checked. Dry as a desert.

Her cries only grew louder, her tiny face scrunching in distress. You felt like you were losing it. Nothing you did seemed to work. You rocked her, bounced her, even tried humming a soft lullaby, but she kept wailing, her little fists waving in the air as if to scold you for not understanding.

Her cries turned into screams, sharp and heart-wrenching. You noticed her tiny eyelids fluttering open, her milky crimson eyes squinting before she shut them tightly again, her face contorting in discomfort. A memory flashed in your mind—Sylus in the car, squinting his eyes from the sun as he had sat next to you.

“Are you…sensitive to light too?” you asked softly, staring down at her as if she’d answer. The thought made your heart ache. She had been in a bright room basically all morning, and you hadn’t even considered it. It made sense, given the rare color of her eyes.

You didn’t waste another second, rushing to the windows and yanking the curtains shut. The room plunged into darkness, the only light coming from faint slivers around the edges of the heavy fabric.

As the room dimmed, her cries began to taper off. Her tiny body relaxed slightly, her fists unclenching as she let out soft, hiccuping sobs. You stared at her in disbelief, the realization hitting you like a freight train.

“Of course…” you whispered, guilt crashing over you in waves. “Of course. I’m so sorry, baby girl.”

You held her close, rocking her gently in the dim light, her soft sniffles the only sound now. How had you not thought of this? You were so overwhelmed, so consumed by everything else, that you hadn’t even realized the most basic thing about her needs. You couldn't help but think of how Sylus would likely have teased you about this if he was here.

"I could've told you that, honey. Don't beat yourself up about it though."

The thought made you scowl.

It was a lot to process, but at least she was calm now. For the first time in what felt like hours, the house was silent except for the soft, steady sound of her breathing.

The baby’s soft, rhythmic breathing in your arms was oddly soothing, a rare calm in the storm of chaos that had defined the past few days. Her tiny weight against your chest anchored you, even as exhaustion gnawed at the edges of your mind. You hadn’t slept properly in what felt like a lifetime, but sitting still wasn’t an option. Maybe moving around would help with the ache in your body. Maybe it would distract you from the relentless thoughts circling your head.

The house was quiet, save for the creaks of the floorboards under your feet and the faint rustle of the wind outside. You passed by the kitchen and paused at the calendar Clara had pinned up on the wall. The dates blurred together in your sleep-deprived haze. How many days had it been? Two? Three?

Your eyes scanned the calendar until they landed on November 1st, the day your life had changed forever. That was when she’d been born. You glanced down at the tiny figure nestled in your arms, her little fist resting against her cheek, her face serene in slumber.

“Happy late birthday,” you whispered, a tired but genuine smile tugging at your lips. “Sorry I didn’t say it then. Y’know...I was going through a lot.”

The absurdity of your own words made you giggle softly, though the sound was tinged with weariness. You continued to sway on your feet, cradling her as the light streaming through the windows shifted. Clara would be visiting soon—tomorrow or the next day. That much you were sure of.

But how were you going to explain everything to her? The broken window, the deep gashes in the walls left behind by the Sawshredder’s claws, the bloodstains you hadn’t quite managed to scrub away entirely? Not to mention the fact that you had given birth to your daughter alone, in the middle of all that chaos. Clara would undoubtedly have questions, and you weren’t sure how many of them you could answer without spiraling into the tangled web of truth and lies you’d been navigating for months.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a sudden twist of pain in your chest, sharp and jarring enough to make you nearly lose your balance. You clutched at your shirt, the ache radiating outward, hot and insistent. It was the same pain as before—your Aethor Core.

Gritting your teeth, you stumbled back into the bedroom and gently laid your daughter in her crib. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her tiny lips parting in a soft sigh. Relieved that she remained asleep, you sank to the floor beside the crib, your knees drawing up to your chest as you pressed a hand over your heart.

Why was this happening again? Was it getting worse? You racked your brain, searching for something, anything, that might ease the pain. But nothing you’d tried so far had worked. Nothing except…

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as the memory of the phone call resurfaced. The pain had almost completely vanished when you heard his voice. The realization sent a chill down your spine. Why? Why did hearing him—the man responsible for so much of your suffering—have such an effect on you?

Your hand curled into a fist against your chest, nails biting into your palm as anger flared alongside the pain. You didn’t want to entertain the idea, didn’t want to even think about him like he was some kind of lifeline. Sylus was not a solution. He wasn’t your salvation. He was the problem.

You didn’t need him. You didn’t need anyone.

And yet, as the pain continued to throb, stubborn and unrelenting, the thought lingered in the back of your mind, unwelcome and insidious. Could it really be that simple? Would hearing his voice again dull the ache, even for a moment?

You shook your head violently, as if the action could physically dislodge the thought from your brain. No. Never. You couldn’t let yourself fall into that trap again. Sylus was not an answer, and he never would be.

Clenching your fists, you focused on your daughter’s steady breathing, the rise and fall of her tiny chest. She was the only thing that mattered now. You would endure the pain if it meant keeping her safe. You would endure anything.

The day passed by in an unremarkable haze, each hour bleeding into the next as you went through the motions of survival. You took naps when you could, brief moments of respite that never truly felt like rest. The cycle was endless: eat, feed the baby, change the baby, rock the baby, sleep. Or try to, at least. It wasn’t much of a life, but it was all you could manage right now.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon and the world outside was cloaked in darkness, you were already bracing yourself for the long night ahead. The endless cries, the frantic feedings, the sheer exhaustion that came with tending to a newborn—it was all expected now, but that didn’t make it any easier. The dread in your chest lingered, a quiet, constant weight that no amount of preparation could lift.

After gently placing her in her crib, you took a moment to change into a clean shirt and swap out the bloody pads that had become a constant reminder of your body’s fragile state. You were sore, raw, and utterly drained, but at least for now, she was asleep. You curled up in the bed, pulling the sheets tight around you, desperate for even a sliver of comfort.

But as soon as your head hit the pillow, your mind began to wander.

You hadn’t named her yet.

The thought gnawed at you, a subtle but persistent ache that had been bubbling beneath the surface since the moment she was born. You’d avoided it, skirting around the issue by calling her "baby girl" or simply "baby." It was easier that way. Safer.

Because naming her made it real, didn’t it? Naming her meant acknowledging the bond that was forming, however slowly. It meant accepting her as more than just a fragile little being you were obligated to care for. It meant letting yourself hope for a future together.

And that was terrifying.

Names had always been a touchy subject for you, and now was no different. What if the name you chose tied her to everything you wanted to leave behind? What if it made it harder to do what might need to be done? Because as much as it broke your heart to think about it, you’d already decided that if giving her up was what was best for her, you’d do it. You’d find her a family who could love her unconditionally, who could give her a life far removed from the chaos of your own.

Maybe then you’d both be free.

Free from the ghosts of the past. Free from the weight of your mistakes. Free from him.

Your chest tightened at the thought, and you squeezed your eyes shut, willing the tears to stay at bay. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. But fairness didn’t matter anymore. Survival did. And if giving her up meant she’d never have to know the horrors of her conception, never have to hear Sylus’s name or see his face…then maybe that was the right choice.

Maybe it was the only choice.

Your lips pressed into a hard line as you rolled onto your side, pulling the blankets tighter around you. The room was quiet now, save for the soft sounds of her breathing from the crib. You told yourself you’d do whatever it took to keep her safe, even if that meant letting her go.

And Sylus? He’d never win. Not this time.

You swallowed hard, your resolve solidifying like stone in your chest. You’d take it one day at a time, one moment at a time. You didn’t have all the answers yet, but you’d figure it out. For her. For both of you.

But as the minutes stretched into hours and the darkness deepened, the weight of everything pressed down on you once more, heavy and unrelenting. You closed your eyes, hoping for sleep but knowing it wouldn’t come easily.

You stirred awake to the faint sound of your daughter whining, her soft cries piercing the stillness of the room. The noise had become familiar by now, but it still sent an automatic jolt of adrenaline through your veins every time. Groaning, you reached for the side of the bed, fumbling for the diapers you had neatly stacked the night before. “I know…I know…Hold on…” you mumbled, your voice thick with exhaustion, the weight of sleepless nights dragging you down.

Just as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, prepared to face another round of late-night parenting, a voice cut through the darkness like a blade.

“There’s no need, kitten. She’s fine. You can lay back down.”

Your blood froze.

That voice. Smooth, low, and impossibly calm, it rooted you to the spot. Your head snapped up, and your breath hitched in your throat as your eyes locked onto a figure standing in the corner of the room. Sylus. He was there, leaning against the shadows like he belonged to them, his tall, commanding presence impossible to miss. His piercing crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, locking onto you with an intensity that made your stomach churn.

But what made your heart truly stop was what he held in his arms. Cradled close against his chest, her tiny form barely visible in the dim light, was your daughter.

“No…” you whispered, the word barely audible as it left your trembling lips. Your hands gripped the sheets so tightly your knuckles lost circulation. “Put her down,” you demanded, your voice growing louder as disbelief and fury collided inside you. “Where did you—how did you even find us?” Your words tumbled out in a frantic rush, your mind reeling.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, his expression calm but unreadable, as though he were studying you. “I said, put her down!” you screamed, the panic in your chest finally boiling over into action.

But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. Instead, he simply raised a finger to his lips, his voice maddeningly soft. “Shhh,” he said, glancing briefly down at the baby in his arms. “You’ll wake her. She’s fine, honey. Calm down.”

The casualness of his tone, the way he cradled your baby so carefully while acting as if he hadn’t just shattered your entire world, sent a wave of rage so intense through you that it burned away your fear. You lunged forward, ready to rip her away from him, to fight him with everything you had left. “Let her go, you fucking ba—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Mid-step, your body froze. A cold, red mist—dense and otherworldly—snaked around your limbs, locking them in place. It wrapped around your arms, your legs, even your chest, holding you aloft in the air like a puppet suspended on strings. You gasped, struggling against his powerful Evol, but the more you thrashed, the tighter he constricted you, squeezing the air from your lungs.

Your heart thundered as you stared down at Sylus, your panic rising to a fever pitch. His expression was still maddeningly calm, his crimson eyes watching you as if you were nothing more than a storm he had already weathered countless times before. “Stop struggling,” he said coolly, his tone almost bored. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Let me go!” you spat, your voice trembling with fury and fear. “Let her go! She’s not yours—she’s mine!”

Sylus exhaled softly, the faintest hint of amusement curling the corner of his lips. He moved closer to the bed, his every step measured, deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world. The mist holding you tightened slightly, forcing your back to arch against its cold grip.

“You’re wasting your energy,” he said, stepping closer, the mist tightening with every step he took. “I told you I would find you. And now I have. I wasn’t expecting our little one to be here as well, but…” His lips curved into a soft, almost genuine smile. “She looks well cared for. You’ve done a good job, sweetie.”

His words dripped with mockery, but it was the way his eyes gleamed—predatory and triumphant—that made your blood run cold. “No more running, kitten. This game of cat and mouse? It ends now.”

Before you could respond, the crimson mist tightened its grip, wrapping around you like unyielding chains. It lifted you effortlessly into the air, and you could do nothing but struggle against it, your limbs refusing to obey your commands. Panic seized your chest as the mist carried you backward, gently but deliberately laying you on the bed as though it had a mind of its own.

You hit the mattress with a soft thud, but the force of the moment knocked the air from your lungs. The mist pinned you in place, like weights pressing down on your wrists and ankles, rendering you completely immobile. No matter how hard you thrashed or tried to twist free, you couldn’t move. All you could do was watch in horror as Sylus turned toward the crib, cradling your baby with an eerie tenderness that sent chills down your spine.

He bent over the crib, his massive frame shadowing the small, delicate figure nestled in his arms. With unsettling care, he placed her down, tucking the blanket around her tiny form. It was the gentlest thing you’d ever seen him do, and that only made it worse—made the whole thing feel more surreal, more terrifying. His actions were too calculated, too rehearsed. You could feel the control emanating from him, sharp and suffocating.

And then his attention snapped back to you.

He moved toward you with the fluid, predatory grace of a panther stalking its prey, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light. The bed dipped under his weight as he climbed on, his powerful presence overwhelming. He hovered above you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of leather and whiskey lingering in the air.

Your breath came in sharp, panicked gasps, your chest heaving against the invisible restraints. You couldn’t look away from him, no matter how much you wanted to, his crimson gaze holding you captive as he leaned in closer. His nose almost brushed against yours, and the weight of him pressed just enough to remind you how utterly trapped you were.

“You’re never leaving my sight again,” Sylus murmured, his voice dangerously soft, almost affectionate. It wasn’t the comfort of a lover’s whisper, but the promise of an unyielding captor. His words slithered into your ears, wrapping around your mind like the mist around your body.

“You can’t ever leave me,” he continued, his tone as smooth as velvet but laced with an unshakable finality. “Even if it means I have to keep you pumped full with my children forever. Can’t run with all eight of them, can you?”

The words hit you like a blow to the chest, stealing what little air you had left. Your entire body trembled beneath him, a rush of panic and revulsion coursing through your veins. Tears welled in your eyes, hot and blinding, spilling over as your voice cracked under the weight of your fear and fury.

“I hate you!” you screamed, your voice raw and desperate. “I’ll never let you take me! Or her! Never!”

But Sylus didn’t flinch. He didn’t recoil or lash out. He didn’t even blink. Instead, he smiled—a slow, chilling smile that spread across his face like poison. There was no anger in his expression, no cruelty. Just calm, calculated possession.

“Thats cute,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch that was almost tender, almost loving. “But you lost your ability to make choices long ago."

Your breath hitched as his words cut through the room like a blade, slicing through whatever resolve you had left. The mist tightened again, and your body convulsed in response, your screams ripping through the silence like jagged shards of glass. You couldn’t stop. You screamed and screamed, raw and unrelenting, until your throat burned and your vision blurred.

But Sylus didn’t move. He didn’t even look fazed. He simply stayed there, watching you, his crimson eyes gleaming with an eerie calm, as though he were savoring your despair.

The mist constricted once more, and everything around you began to blur. The room faded into a haze, the edges of your vision darkening as the world spiraled out of focus. Your screams turned into gasps, then whispers, then nothing at all as the suffocating weight of fear and exhaustion finally pulled you under.

And then you woke up.

You shot upright in bed, your chest heaving with frantic gasps as you clawed for air. The room around you was a blur, shadowed in the dim gray light of dawn creeping through the curtains. Sweat clung to your skin in cold rivulets, and your heart thundered so violently it felt like it might burst. It took several long moments for the fog of the dream to lift, for reality to begin piecing itself back together. The crib. The farmhouse. The faint creak of the floorboards under your shifting weight. The absence of that horrible red mist.

Your head snapped toward the crib, your breath hitching in your chest. Relief swept over you like a tidal wave as your eyes landed on her. She was still there, peacefully sleeping, her tiny hand curled against her cheek, her breaths soft and steady. Nothing had changed. She was safe.

You exhaled shakily, but the release didn’t ease the trembling in your hands. Pressing your palms to your face, you tried to steady yourself, your fingers trembling against your damp skin. “Just a dream,” you whispered to yourself, the words catching in your dry throat. “It was just a dream…”

But it didn’t feel like one. Not entirely. You wrapped your arms around yourself, as though holding your body together could stop it from unraveling. His voice still echoed in your mind, low and smooth, the way he said kitten with that maddening calm. The way he had cradled her so gently, like she already belonged to him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the memories to dissolve, but they wouldn’t leave. The phantom weight of his presence lingered, the image of his towering figure, crimson eyes glinting with possessiveness, looming over you. The sickly-sweet gentleness in his tone, the mockery in his promises. The dream had felt so vivid, so real that it left you raw, as if it had happened just moments ago.

Your arms dropped limply to your sides, and your gaze wandered back to the crib. She was still there, still yours. For now. The thought made your stomach twist, your relief tainted by a darker undertone. Dreams didn’t come from nowhere. This one, you knew, was a manifestation of all your fears, all the truths you couldn’t bear to say out loud. That he would come for you. For her. That no matter how far you ran, how carefully you hid, he would find you.

And the worst part? You weren’t entirely sure it was a lie.

You inhaled deeply, trying to force your pulse to slow, but it was no use. The dread clung to you like a shadow, and no amount of logic could banish it. The way he had looked at her in the dream—the way he had spoken as though you were both his—made your skin crawl. You wrapped your arms around yourself again, biting your lip to keep from crying.

“It was just a dream,” you whispered again, more firmly this time, though the words felt hollow. You looked toward the crib once more, watching the gentle rise and fall of her tiny chest. “You’re safe,” you murmured, almost like you were trying to convince yourself. “We’re safe.”

But were you?

Two days later, you were startled awake by the sound of the door creaking open. Blinking groggily, you sat up just in time to see Clara stepping into the room, her arms full of grocery bags. She froze in the doorway, her eyes widening as she took in the scene—the crib, the faint whines of your baby, and the dark circles under your tired eyes. The bags slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Oh my goodness, hun! Are you alright? Oh! You had the ba—” she exclaimed, her voice rising with shock and excitement, but you immediately shushed her, your finger pressed to your lips.

“Shhh!” you hissed, your eyes darting toward the crib where your daughter was finally, miraculously, falling asleep again. Clara clapped her hand over her mouth, her cheeks flushing in apology.

“Oh! Right, right…quiet,” she whispered, her voice soft now as she smiled sheepishly at you. She stepped closer, peeking at the crib. “Well, would you look at that...she’s a doll. Congratulations, mama.”

You smiled weakly, exhaustion still weighing heavily on your body. “Thanks, Clara. Can I…can I ask you a huge favor?”

“Anything, honey,” Clara said immediately, her tone warm and reassuring.

“Can you watch her for just a little while? I need a nap—like a real nap,” you begged, your voice trembling with desperation. The mere thought of lying down without having to jump up every five minutes made you feel like crying.

Clara’s face lit up with joy. “Oh, you don’t have to ask me twice! Of course, I’ll watch her. You go get some rest, sweetie. I’ve got this,” she said, already moving toward the crib with a gentle, eager demeanor.

Relief flooded through you, and you mumbled a soft, heartfelt, “Thank you,” before dragging yourself to bed. The moment your head hit the pillow, sleep claimed you like a tidal wave, washing away the weight of the last few days.

When you finally woke up, the sun was streaming through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. You rubbed your eyes, feeling more rested than you had in days. It was almost disorienting—not waking up to the sound of crying or the weight of exhaustion crushing you. You stretched and got out of bed, your feet padding softly against the floor as you made your way to the living room.

The smell of garlic and tomatoes greeted you, and as you entered, you saw Clara standing at the stove, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce with one hand while cradling your baby in the other. She was humming softly, her movements natural and at ease.

“Oh, you’re awake!” Clara exclaimed when she noticed you, her face breaking into a warm smile. “Just in time for lunch! This hungry girl’s ready for her lunch too. You mind, honey?” She held out your daughter gently, and you nodded, stepping forward to take her into your arms.

You settled into a kitchen chair, cradling your baby as you prepared to breastfeed. The small, rhythmic sounds of her suckling filled the air, blending with the soft clink of plates and the bubbling sauce on the stove. You felt a little awkward breastfeeding in front of a stranger but figured yall were past the point of awkwardness. You had given birth in her home after all. Clara worked quickly, plating two generous servings of spaghetti before joining you at the table.

As she sat down, her cheerful expression shifted to one of mild exasperation. “Why didn’t you call me, hun? I told you to call for anything—anything! Especially emergencies!” she said, her tone scolding but not unkind. There was genuine concern in her voice.

You looked away, guilt prickling at the edges of your mind. You didn't want to tell her about Sylus calling so you decided to lie instead. “I didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted softly. “You’ve done so much already. And I didn’t think it’d…happen so fast.”

Clara sighed, shaking her head as she twirled spaghetti onto her fork. “Sweetie, you’re not a bother. Bringing a baby into the world is no small thing! You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.” She gestured toward the broken window with her fork. “And what in the world happened here? Did a tornado blow through while you were giving birth?”

You hesitated, your chest tightening. “It’s…a long story,” you said, brushing a hand over your daughter’s soft hair. “I’ll explain everything later. For now, I just want to focus on her.”

Clara’s sharp gaze softened, and she reached across the table to give your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Alright, hun. Later. But for now, you let me help, okay? No more going through this alone. Deal?”

You nodded, feeling a lump rise in your throat. “Deal.”

“Good,” Clara said firmly, taking another bite of her spaghetti. “Now eat up. You need your strength.”

You smiled faintly, adjusting your daughter in your arms as you picked at your food. For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel entirely alone.

You eventually worked up the courage to tell Clara about the Sawshredder. She listened with wide eyes as you recounted everything—how it had come crashing into the yard, its terrifying screeches, the way you had barely escaped, and how it had inexplicably stopped and walked away in the end.

“It just left?” Clara exclaimed, her hand flying to her chest. “Dear God…that’s terrifying. We don’t get Wanderers in these parts usually. Maybe the occasional stray up in the hills, but never this close to town. And for it to just…walk away? That’s strange, honey. Real strange.”

You nodded, a shiver running down your spine as the memory resurfaced. “I don’t know why it left,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I thought…I thought I was going to die.” You glanced down at your daughter, who was swaddled and resting peacefully in your arms. “If it had attacked just a second later…” You trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Clara reached over, resting a hand on your shoulder. Her touch was firm, grounding. “I’m just glad you and the baby are okay. That’s all that matters.”

You nodded again, but a pang of guilt twisted in your chest. “I couldn’t get all the blood off the couch,” you said, your voice tinged with apology. “And some of it got onto the wall. I covered the couch with a sheet. I’m sorry, Clara. I should’ve—”

Clara waved her hand dismissively, cutting you off with a soft chuckle. “Oh, hun, don’t you worry about that. It’s just a couch and a wall. That’s not important. What’s important is that you and your little one are safe. I’ll get my brother to fix that window for you, no problem.”

Her kindness nearly brought tears to your eyes, but you swallowed them back, focusing instead on her next question. “Has the rest of the cord fallen off yet?” she asked, peering curiously at your daughter.

You shook your head. “No, not yet. I read somewhere it can take up to two weeks.”

Clara nodded knowingly. “It does. Just make sure it stays clean and dry. That’s the most important thing.” She leaned closer, tilting her head to get a better look at your baby. A warm smile spread across her face. “Oh, isn’t she just precious? She looks like a little doll, hun. Her father must’ve been a supermodel.”

You froze, wincing at her words. The mention of Sylus sent a sharp pang through your chest, and your grip on your daughter tightened ever so slightly. You didn’t want to think about him right now—not when you were finally beginning to feel a shred of normalcy. Your silence must have given you away because Clara’s smile faltered. Her eyes widened slightly, and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry, hun,” she said, her voice laced with regret. “I didn't realize. Sometimes I just say shit without thinkin. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You forced a small, shaky smile, brushing your thumb over your daughter’s tiny hand. “It’s okay,” you murmured, though your heart felt heavy playing into the lie. “You didn’t know.”

Clara reached over again, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze. There was a bit of sadness and...anxiousness in her eyes. You couldn't exactly place why. “Well, whoever he was, he gave you a beautiful baby girl. And she’s got a strong mama to look after her now. That’s all that matters, alright?”

You nodded, taking comfort in her words even as your mind lingered on Sylus. You didn’t want him to cast a shadow over this moment, but the memories were hard to shake. Still, you looked down at your daughter’s peaceful face, her tiny chest rising and falling with each breath, and you resolved to keep moving forward—for her.

Just then, your daughter squirmed in your arms, letting out a soft whine. Her little fists curled and uncurled as her eyes briefly fluttered open. The milky red of her irises caught the light, and Clara gasped, her hand flying to her chest.

“My goodness! Is she somewhat…er…what do you call it? Albino?” Clara blurted, her voice tinged with genuine curiosity and a touch of embarrassment. “Dear Lord, that sounds rude, doesn’t it? I’m sorry, honey, I don’t mean anything by it,” she added quickly, looking sheepish.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at her openness, despite the tension creeping up your spine. “No, no. It’s fine,” you said, brushing a hand over your daughter’s soft hair. “I don’t think so? I haven't given it much thought” You paused, your thoughts flickering briefly to Sylus. His eyes were the same shade of crimson, and his hair was kinda white…was he albino? Or something else entirely? You shook the thought away. Sylus didn’t fit into any category you could explain.

Clara tilted her head, studying your daughter for a moment longer before her expression shifted, becoming more serious. “Hey…her father. Did he have red eyes?” she asked, her tone light but edged with curiosity.

Your heart skipped a beat. The question hit like a slap, and you clutched your daughter tighter, your body tensing instinctively. Clara’s expression didn’t seem threatening, but the implications of her question sent your mind racing. Why was she asking that? Did she meet him? Does she know something? Is this all a trap?

“Uh…um…” You stammered, trying to keep your voice even. “Why do you ask?” Your grip on your daughter tightened as if shielding her from some unseen threat.

Clara’s eyes widened slightly, and she quickly plastered on a nervous smile. She raised her hands in a gesture of reassurance. “Oh, no, no! I didn’t mean to freak you out, honey,” she said, her tone apologetic. “I was just asking. You know, fathers usually determine eye color, don’t they? Or at least that’s what I’ve always heard. Genetics and all that. She's got your hair color at least!”

Your body relaxed a fraction, though your heart was still pounding. You forced a small smile, trying to push away your lingering paranoia. “Oh…right. I guess so,” you murmured, your voice a little shaky.

Clara nodded, her demeanor lightening again. “She’s just so unique, that’s all,” she said, her gaze softening as she looked at your daughter. “She’s a real beauty, honey. Eyes like that? They’re special. People are going to remember her wherever she goes.”

That statement sent a cold chill down your spine. The last thing you wanted was for your daughter to stand out, to be remembered. You swallowed the lump in your throat and gave Clara a weak nod, mumbling a thank you.

As Clara turned back to the dishes, humming softly to herself, you looked down at your daughter, her eyes now closed again as she rested peacefully in your arms. Your thoughts swirled. Her eyes, Sylus’s eyes…the way Clara had asked the question. Was this all coincidence, or was your paranoia creeping in again? You couldn’t be sure. All you knew was that keeping your daughter safe meant staying hidden—and staying hidden meant trusting no one, not even someone as kind as Clara.

Over the next week or two, Clara became a constant presence in the farmhouse. To your surprise, she had refused to leave, despite mentioning work and her responsibilities in Brunswick. She brushed off your concerns with a wave of her hand, insisting that you needed the help more than she needed to be slinging coffee at the diner.

“You think I’m about to leave you here alone with a newborn? Not on my watch, honey,” she said with a grin one morning as she whisked a fresh batch of eggs in the kitchen. “Besides, the diner will survive without me for a bit. My brother’s got it covered.”

Her steady presence felt like a lifeline, even if you weren’t entirely used to it. She filled the quiet farmhouse with her voice, chatting about everything under the sun, but mostly babies. It seemed Clara had an endless wealth of knowledge, and she didn’t hesitate to share it.

“You gotta make sure to clean behind her ears,” she said one afternoon, her hands deep in a bowl of soapy water as she cleaned baby bottles for you. “Babies are sneaky little things—they’ll get all kinds of lint and gunk back there, and you won’t even notice until it’s crusted over. Happened to my daughter once, and I felt like the worst mom in the world.”

You nodded, filing the information away as you rocked your daughter, who was dozing peacefully in your arms. “Got it. Behind the ears,” you murmured, glancing down at your baby as if inspecting her right then and there.

“And the belly button!” Clara added, wagging a soapy finger in your direction. “You keep it dry, of course, but once the cord falls off, you still gotta clean it gently every so often. Otherwise, it starts to smell. My mother used to say, ‘A stinky belly button leads to a stinky baby!’” She laughed at the memory, her voice warm and hearty.

You couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “Clean the belly button, got it. Anything else I should know?”

“Oh, plenty,” Clara said, drying her hands on a dish towel before sitting down at the kitchen table. She crossed her arms and leaned forward like she was about to tell you a secret. “Now, listen here, because this one’s important: you gotta be ready for the blowouts.”

You blinked at her, unsure if you’d heard correctly. “Blowouts?”

“Yep, blowouts,” she said with a knowing nod. “You think you’ve seen messy diapers now? Just wait until she has her first real blowout. The kind that goes all up her back, gets in her hair, ruins her cute little onesies… It’s a nightmare.” She shuddered dramatically. “But don’t you worry, I’ll teach you my stain-removal tricks.”

You stared at her, equal parts horrified and grateful. “Thanks for the warning, I guess.”

Clara chuckled, reaching over to pat your arm. “Hey, it’s better to know what you’re in for than to get blindsided. Trust me, honey, I’ve been there. It ain’t pretty.”

Her advice didn’t stop there. She showed you how to swaddle your baby properly, how to tell the difference between different cries, and even how to soothe a gassy baby. “Gripe water is your best friend,” she said one evening as she rocked your fussy daughter in her arms. “And don’t be afraid to try a little bicycle motion with her legs. Works like a charm to get those toots out.”

She was patient, too, answering every question you had without making you feel stupid. When you worried about your daughter’s health or the two little black spots on her head, Clara reassured you with gentle words. “Babies are all different, honey. I’m sure she’s perfectly fine. But if it’ll give you peace of mind, we can figure out how to get her to a doctor.”

Despite your lingering paranoia, you couldn’t deny how much easier things were with Clara around. She had a way of lightening the mood, of making even the most overwhelming moments feel manageable. And as much as you wanted to keep her at arm’s length, a part of you was starting to trust her. Just a little.

Clara even left for an entire day just to pick up iced pads and painkillers for you, insisting that you shouldn’t have to suffer in silence. When she returned, she laughed at the visible relief on your face as you gingerly took the supplies. The iced pads felt like heaven, soothing the relentless pain you had been quietly enduring. The painkillers dulled the ache enough for you to finally move around without wincing at every step. For the first time since giving birth, you felt a little refreshed—almost like a real person again.

Your daughter was two weeks old now. You still couldn’t believe it. Every day felt like starting from scratch, like learning a new rhythm for both you and her. She was still very much a tiny, needy potato that did little else but cry and sleep, but slowly, you felt like you were getting in tune with her needs. It was all small victories—knowing her hunger cues, figuring out which lullabies seemed to calm her the most. You were adjusting, step by step.

You rarely ventured outside. The fear of Mephisto still hung over you like a dark cloud, an ever-present reminder that Sylus and his reach weren’t far enough away. Still, on cooler nights, you cracked the window open just a little to let your daughter breathe fresh air. You told yourself it was safe. The farmhouse was secluded, tucked far enough away from any major towns or cities. It was okay—for now.

Over time, you started to open up to Clara. Her kind nature and patience made it easy. You began to tell her about things you hadn’t spoken of in years—about your mom and grandma, your childhood, even your time as a hunter. Clara listened intently, her warm eyes encouraging you to continue. She asked thoughtful questions but never pressed too hard, always mindful of your boundaries.

One night, she brought out an old photo album and showed you pictures of her daughter as a baby. You couldn’t help but smile at the photos of the chubby-cheeked infant grinning toothlessly at the camera. “She’s so beautiful,” you had said, feeling a pang in your chest as you glanced down at your own baby, asleep in your arms. “She looks like you.”

Clara laughed, flipping the pages fondly. “She was a handful, let me tell you. But those were the best days of my life.”

Hearing her talk about her daughter brought both comfort and sadness. It reminded you of what you were trying to give your daughter—a chance to live without fear. A chance to be free. But as time passed, that gnawing feeling of impending doom grew stronger. You knew these peaceful moments wouldn’t last. They couldn’t.

One evening, after bathing your daughter, you found Clara in the living room, folding laundry and packing up some things to bring back to Brunswick. She had decided to head home for a few days to catch up on work and care for her father, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that this might be the last time you’d see her.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, clutching your daughter close as you worked up the courage to speak. “Clara?” you finally said, your voice soft and hesitant.

She glanced up from the laundry, her warm smile faltering slightly when she saw your expression. “Yes, honey?” she asked, setting the clothes down and giving you her full attention.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “I…I haven’t been completely honest with you,” you said, rushing to get the words out before you lost your nerve.

Clara froze, her brows furrowing in concern, but she didn’t seem angry. “Alright,” she said gently, her tone calm and reassuring. “What’s wrong?”

The words felt heavy in your throat, but you knew you couldn’t keep this from her any longer. You took a deep, trembling breath, clutching your daughter a little tighter as you prepared to tell her everything.

You settled on the couch, clutching your daughter tightly to your chest as Clara waited patiently. Her warm, kind eyes stayed on you, unflinching. The weight of the truth pressed down on you, but you couldn’t delay any longer. If there was any chance she’d be in danger because of you, Clara needed to know the truth.

“I…I don’t know where to start,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Wherever you’re comfortable, honey,” Clara replied softly, folding her hands in her lap. “Take your time.”

You took another shaky breath and looked down at your baby, who squirmed slightly in her sleep. Her tiny fingers curled around a fold in your shirt, and the sight of her innocence made the guilt in your chest tighten even more. You began to speak, your voice trembling as the words tumbled out.

“I lied about her father,” you started, glancing nervously at Clara. “He’s alive. Very much alive. And he’s looking for us.”

Clara’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt. She simply nodded for you to continue.

You told her everything—the truth about Sylus, the man who had turned your life into a nightmare. You spoke about how he had stolen you away, manipulated you, and taken control of your life. How he had removed your birth control with a piece of glass, how he had impregnated you, and how you had finally escaped for the second time. You hesitated, but you also told her about Reese, the horrors of the basement, and the lengths you had gone to get away from that life.

About Xavier.

As you spoke, letting the words tumble out one after another, a strange feeling bloomed in your chest. At first, it was tight and uncomfortable, like a knot that had been wound too tightly for too long. You hadn’t expected it to feel this…hard. Telling the truth wasn’t supposed to be easy, not with the weight of everything you had kept buried, but somehow you’d thought it would feel more cathartic. Instead, it felt like pulling barbed wire out of your skin—necessary, but painful, and every word scraped against old wounds you hadn’t realized were still raw.

Still, with every detail you revealed to Clara, you felt the smallest sliver of relief pushing through the pain. Like a wound being cleaned, the barbs slowly gave way, and a fragile sense of release crept in. As you spoke about Sylus—about the way he had stolen your life and your control, about how he had taken you apart piece by piece and left you feeling like a ghost of who you once were—it felt almost surreal to say it out loud again since you had told Xavier. You had kept this bottled up for so long, locked away in your mind, that it felt foreign to share it with another human being. And yet, the more you spoke, the easier it became.

Clara listened intently, her expression shifting between disbelief, horror, and sadness. She didn’t speak until you finished, tears streaming down your face as you clung to your daughter like a lifeline.

When you finally stopped, the silence was suffocating. Clara’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as she leaned forward, resting a hand gently on your knee. “Oh, honey,” she said softly. “I can’t imagine… I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through this.”

You bit your lip, the flood of emotions making it hard to respond. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” you whispered. “I just…I didn’t want to drag you into this. You’ve been so kind to me, and now I feel like I’ve put you in danger.”

Clara shook her head firmly. “You listen to me, sweetheart. None of this is your fault. You’ve been through hell, and all you’re trying to do is protect your baby. I understand why you kept this to yourself.”

Her understanding brought a fresh wave of tears to your eyes, and you wiped them away with the back of your hand. “I just… I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t keep running forever, but I can’t let him find us.”

Clara sighed, her gaze drifting to the sleeping baby in your arms. “You’re right—this can’t go on forever. But you’re not alone, you hear me? We’ll figure something out.”

You shook your head, your voice breaking as you spoke. “You don’t understand. He’s dangerous, Clara. He has resources, connections. If he finds out you’ve helped me, he won’t hesitate to come after you too.”

Clara leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Let him come,” she said, her tone firm. “I’m not afraid of some big-shot bastard. You’re basically family now, and I take care of my own.”

Her words left you stunned, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. She sounded so sure, so resolute, and it made you feel both grateful and terrified.

“I don’t want you to get hurt because of me,” you said finally, your voice trembling.

Clara reached out and squeezed your hand. “We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it. For now, you just focus on taking care of that little one, okay?”

You nodded weakly, the weight of her kindness settling in your chest. It wasn’t a solution, but for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel completely alone. Clara was here, and even though you still felt the shadow of Sylus looming over you, you had someone in your corner.

Clara's next words hit you like a brick to the chest. "I haven’t been completely honest with you either," she began, her voice quiet but steady. You froze, your heart skipping a beat as you braced yourself for whatever she was about to say.

She looked at you, her expression a mix of worry and determination. “A tall man came into the diner a while back. Greyish white hair, red eyes…He had other men with him too. Demanding answers about a pregnant lady.”

Your blood ran cold. Sylus. Of course. He had gotten closer than you thought.

Your grip tightened on your daughter instinctively, your mind racing. “What?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Clara nodded, her face softening with regret. “He asked about you. Described you down to the coat you were wearing, and…well, I told him you were my niece. Refused to tell him anything else.” She smirked, though it was tinged with unease. “He offered me a shitload of money, too. I spit at his shoes.”

Her little wink and defiance were so unexpected that you let out a laugh—high-pitched and incredulous, but a laugh nonetheless. “You spit at him?”

“Sure did,” Clara replied, giving a small shrug like it was no big deal. “The nerve of him, thinking I’d sell out someone in need. I don’t care if he’s the devil himself.”

Despite the humor in her tone, the reality of what she’d said crashed down on you like a wave. You felt your heart race, your mind whirling with panic. “Clara, you should’ve told me…” you said, shaking your head, the fear creeping into your voice. “He’s not stupid. If he was there, he probably already tracked you back here. Shit—”

Your chest tightened as the gravity of the situation hit you full force. Your time here was up.

Clara’s face fell, her hands twisting nervously. “But honey,” she said, her voice trembling, “you’re still freshly postpartum. You can’t possibly leave on foot with a newborn! You’re not healed yet, and the baby—”

“What choice do I have?” you cut her off, your voice breaking as you rocked your now-whining daughter. “If I stay here any longer, he will come. He’s probably already closing in…” You trailed off, trying to push down the rising panic.

Clara sat in silence for a long moment, her gaze flickering between you and the baby. Finally, she let out a heavy sigh, standing abruptly and moving to a nearby closet. “Alright,” she said, her voice firm. “How about this?”

You watched as she rummaged through the closet, pulling out a car seat. Confusion flickered across your face as she set it down and moved to a nearby drawer, pulling out a set of car keys. She turned to you, her expression serious.

“You know how to drive, right?” she asked.

Your mouth fell open. “Clara, what are you—”

“Take my father’s car,” she said simply, holding out the keys. “He won’t be using it anytime soon anyway.”

You stared at her, the weight of her offer hitting you like a truck. “You…you’d give me your dad’s car?” you stammered, utterly floored by her kindness.

She nodded firmly. “What good is it sitting here collecting dust? You need it more than he does. Now take it, honey.”

The tears came fast, spilling down your cheeks as you reached for her, pulling her into a tight hug. You buried your face in her shoulder, sobbing as the relief and gratitude washed over you in waves. “Thank you,” you choked out, your voice trembling. “Thank you so fucking much.”

Clara hugged you back just as tightly, patting your back reassuringly. “You don’t need to thank me, sweetheart. You and that baby need to be safe. That’s what matters.”

As the tears continued to fall, you felt the tiniest spark of hope flicker in your chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, you had a chance to escape. To start over. To keep your daughter safe. And it was all thanks to Clara.

The plan was set in motion as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the cabin and surrounding woods. The air was cool and still, almost unnervingly quiet as you and Clara worked in tandem, preparing for what could very well be the riskiest part of your escape.

Clara, despite her usually warm demeanor, had taken to the plan with an unwavering determination. She would head back to Brunswick, armed with a carefully swaddled bundle—a fake baby to lure Sylus and his men away from your path and waste their time. She’d even wrapped the bundle with some of the baby’s spare blankets, ensuring Mephisto would pick up the scent and follow her all the way back.

“It’ll work,” Clara had said with surprising confidence, holding up her father’s old shotgun. “Let them come. I’m not afraid of no man who thinks he can hurt a mother and her baby.”

You couldn’t help but admire her fiery spirit. It felt strange, almost wrong, to leave such a kind and fearless woman to face Sylus’s wrath, but she’d insisted. "I’ve been through worse, honey," she said with a wink. You weren’t sure if that was true, but you appreciated the reassurance nonetheless.

She spent the rest of the evening making sure you had everything you’d need for the journey ahead. Diapers, wipes, bottles, onesies—every essential item a baby on the road could need was packed into the car. When she brought out the box of formula, you hesitated. “I’ve been breastfeeding,” you admitted, “but…just in case.”

Clara gave you a knowing smile. “Smart thinking, hon. You’ll thank yourself later.”

She showed you how to start her father’s car—a rusted but reliable manual—and went over the basics of shifting gears. “It’s not as tricky as it looks,” she said, patting the hood. “Just don’t panic if you stall. You’ll get the hang of it.” Then she helped you strap your daughter safely into the car seat, her hands steady and patient as she guided you through every buckle and strap.

Finally, the moment you’d been dreading came. The time to leave.

“I guess this is goodbye then,” you said, feeling the sting of tears pricking at your eyes. You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked just enough to betray you. Was this really it? Would you ever experience such raw human kindness again?

Clara smiled and pulled you into a tight hug, her warmth anchoring you for just a moment longer. “I don’t believe in goodbyes,” she said softly. “More like, see you laters. Now chin up, sweetheart. The nearest city is a looong drive.”

You laughed, even as the tears spilled over. “Thank you for everything,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll never forget you.”

Clara pulled back, brushing a tear from your cheek. “You’ll do great, honey. Just stay safe.”

As you climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car, the rumble of the engine made your daughter stir slightly in her car seat. Clara leaned down, peering through the window, and her expression softened. “By the way,” she said, her voice gentle. “Did you decide on a name yet?”

You glanced back at your baby girl, her tiny eyes fluttering open just enough to meet yours. In that fleeting moment, you felt a pang deep in your chest. Ruby…Evia… Those names had lingered in your mind for days, tied to memories that stung too much to carry forward. Names burdened with loss, betrayal, heartbreak. But this? This was a fresh start. A new chapter. Something better was needed—something untarnished.

“Sylvia,” you whispered, the name tumbling out of your mouth as if it had been waiting there all along. It felt right—soft yet strong, simple yet meaningful. The name filled the silence like a balm, wrapping you and your daughter in something new. Something safe.

As if on cue, Sylvia blinked up at you, her lips parting slightly in what could almost pass for a tiny expression of acknowledgment. You smiled softly, your chest aching with a blend of pride, guilt, and exhaustion.

Clara’s face lit up, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile. “Well, she seems to like it,” she said, nodding toward the little bundle strapped snugly in the car seat. “Guess that’s her name, then. You know, it means ‘forest’ in Latin. Pretty fitting for where she was born, don’t ya think?”

You let out a laugh, shaky but genuine, wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks with the back of your hand. “Yeah…fitting,” you murmured. The forest had been both your refuge and your prison, the place where this journey had truly begun. Sylvia was as much a part of that story as you were.

Clara stepped back, her hand resting gently on the car door as her smile faded into something softer, more serious. “See you later, hon,” she said, her voice low and steady. “And stay safe, okay? For her.” She gestured toward Sylvia, whose tiny hand was curled against her cheek in sleep already.

“See you later,” you replied, your voice catching just slightly. You offered her a small, shaky smile, the weight of your gratitude pressing down on your chest. “Thank you again…for everything.”

Clara gave you one last nod, her lips pressing into a firm line as if she were trying to hold back her own emotions. “You’ll do just fine, hon. I’ll keep them busy for you. Now, go.”

With one final glance at Clara, you gripped the steering wheel tightly, shifted the car into gear, and began to pull out of the gravel driveway. The headlights illuminated the narrow dirt road ahead, cutting through the thick darkness of the woods. Behind you, the farmhouse grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, until it finally disappeared from sight.

The road stretched out ahead of you, dark and endless, but you forced yourself to focus. To move forward. Behind you, Sylvia stirred faintly in her car seat but didn’t wake. The rhythmic hum of the engine seemed to lull her, and for that, you were thankful.

“Alright, Sylvia,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the lump forming in your throat. “Let’s go.”

And with that, you drove into the night, the sound of the tires crunching against the dirt road the only thing accompanying your thoughts. The uncertainty of the road ahead loomed large, but as you glanced at your daughter—at Sylvia—you reminded yourself that every mile away from the farmhouse was a mile closer to safety. At least, that’s what you hoped.

Sylus sat in his hotel room, the dim light from the desk lamp casting sharp shadows across his angular features. A glass of Gin rested on the table beside him, untouched for once. His attention was glued to the screen of his laptop, where a live feed from Mephisto's cameras played. The mechanical bird had been trailing Clara since she left Brunswick, its sharp, red-lensed eyes capturing every move she made.

It had been almost two weeks since Mephisto began following her, and Sylus’s gut told him everything he needed to know. This Clara woman wasn’t just some harmless diner worker. She was hiding you. That much was clear. The way she drove, cautious but purposeful, heading out to a remote area far from prying eyes—it all screamed of secrecy. And Sylus’s instincts were rarely wrong.

On the screen, Mephisto’s feed showed a small farmhouse coming into view, nestled in a clearing surrounded by dense trees. The sight of it made Sylus’s pulse quicken. He couldn’t see you—yet—but he felt it in his bones. You were there. His kitten, hiding in the woods like a frightened prey. The thought almost made him smile, but there was no time for smugness. Not yet.

Sylus leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him as he continued to watch the feed. Clara parked her car near the farmhouse and began unloading groceries from the trunk seemingly for the third time that week. She moved with ease, not a trace of nervousness in her demeanor. Either she was an excellent liar, or she truly believed she had outwitted him. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to act hastily. Not this time.

Normally he wouldn't have waited so long but given your sensitive state, he wanted to be careful.

He needed to be certain. If he stormed in too soon, he risked spooking you—and that was the last thing he wanted. Sylus’s crimson eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. He had time. Patience was key. He would let you feel safe, let you think you had escaped him. And when the moment was right, he would strike.

But his stalking was unexpectedly interrupted the night he planned to move in.

The feed from Mephisto’s cameras cut out abruptly, replaced by a burst of static. Sylus’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. “What the hell…” he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. He tapped a few keys on the laptop, trying to reestablish the connection, but it was no use.

Moments later, a call came in from one of his men. “Boss,” the voice on the other end said nervously. “We’ve got a problem. Mephisto’s been shot.”

Sylus’s eyes narrowed. “Shot?” His voice was cold, lethal.

“Yes, sir. A hunter took a shot at him—thought he was a real bird, I guess. He’s damaged pretty badly. We’ve got him en route for repairs already.”

Sylus closed his eyes, taking a deep, measured breath. The interruption was irritating, but it wasn’t the end of the world. He would have Mephisto repaired quickly, and in the meantime, he could work out his next steps. “Fine,” he said curtly. “Make it quick. I want him operational as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

He ended the call and leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. The delay was frustrating, but it didn’t change his plan. Normally he'd take care of Mephistos repairs himself but his mind was racing far too much for that. He still had Clara. And wherever she went next, she would lead him straight to you.

Sylus reached for his Gin, taking a slow sip as he stared at the now-empty screen. The game wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. He would find you. It was only a matter of time. And when he did, there would be no more running. You were his. You had always been his.

“No weapons drawn unless I say so. It’s just a middle-aged woman and a pregnant one,” Sylus said firmly, his voice cold and calculating. “We won’t need much force.” He stood in front of a gathered group of his men, Luke and Kieran at his sides, their bird masks gleaming under the dim lights of the room. Sylus’s crimson eyes scanned each face, ensuring the weight of his command sank in. He wouldn’t tolerate recklessness. Not now.

Mephisto perched on his shoulder, his damaged wing twitching sporadically. The mechanical bird had seen better days, but it was still functional enough to serve as a watchful eye. Further repairs could wait. Time was of the essence, and Sylus wouldn’t waste another moment while you slipped further away.

On the monitor before him, the live feed from Mephisto’s remaining camera showed Clara entering Brunswick once more. Her movements were purposeful, but what truly caught Sylus’s attention was the bundle of blankets cradled in her arms. His pupils dilated instinctively, his chest tightening. Could it be? Was it possible that you had given birth already? His mind reeled at the thought. It wasn’t beyond reason—you were past your due date. The possibility sent a sharp thrill of anticipation coursing through him, though he masked it behind his usual stoicism.

Though, it could also be a trick. Not a very clever one, but a trick nonetheless.

Sylus then moved to the car, his crimson eyes glued to the live feed from Mephisto’s camera. Clara now strolled casually through the quiet, rain-slicked streets. She carried a bundle in her arms—soft blankets, cradled as if she were shielding a baby from the cold. His chest tightened as he observed her movements, his sharp gaze analyzing every detail.

“Boss…” Luke began from the front seat, his voice tentative. “Do you really think it’s…?”

Sylus didn’t answer right away. He leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest. His mind worked at a feverish pace, weighing the possibilities. Clara was clever, he’d give her that. The way she moved through the town was calculated, like she wanted to be seen but not stopped. She stopped briefly at a grocery store, stepping inside while the “baby” stayed securely tucked in her arms. Fifteen minutes later, she emerged with a bag of supplies and continued down the street.

Sylus’s lips curved into a faint smirk. If this was some elaborate trick, she was putting in a hell of an effort.

“She’s making a show of it,” he finally said, his voice calm but tinged with suspicion. “How peculiar to bring a fresh newborn outside this early in their first weeks of life.”

“Could it be hers?” Kieran asked cautiously, glancing at the feed over his shoulder. “Maybe she’s not hiding the miss at all.”

Sylus’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the edge of the seat tightening. “Not likely,” he said coldly. “She’s hiding something. And I’m going to find out what.”

For nearly an hour, they trailed Clara as she moved through Brunswick, making mundane stops and chatting briefly with shopkeepers. She never once let go of the bundle in her arms. Mephisto tracked her from above, his damaged wing hindering his flight but not enough to lose her in the sparse streets.

Finally, Clara climbed back into her car and began driving out of town. Sylus’s driver started the engine, following at a careful distance. The tension in the car was palpable as they left the lights of Brunswick behind, the road ahead growing darker and more secluded with every mile. Mephisto kept up, the feed from his camera showing the winding path Clara was taking.

“She’s heading back to the farmhouse,” Luke muttered, his voice barely audible.

Sylus didn’t respond. He already knew. His gaze stayed locked on the screen as Clara’s car pulled into the familiar driveway. She stepped out, clutching the bundle tightly as she walked briskly to the farmhouse door. The sight of the building—a small, unassuming structure nestled in the woods—made Sylus’s pulse quicken. If you were inside, then this charade was about to end.

“Stop here,” Sylus ordered, his voice low but firm. The car rolled to a halt about a mile away from the farmhouse, far enough to remain undetected but close enough to keep it in view. He watched intently as Clara disappeared inside with the bundle, her movements calm and purposeful.

“She’s got something,” Kieran said, breaking the silence. “But if it’s just blankets…”

“It can't be just blankets,” Luke snapped, cutting him off. “She wouldn’t be this careful over nothing. Prepare to move in.”

The men tensed, the air in the car thick with anticipation. Sylus reached into his coat, retrieving the lockpick kit he always carried. His movements were precise, almost methodical, as he checked his weapons and adjusted his gloves.

“No weapons,” he reminded suddenly, his tone sharp.

Luke and Kieran exchanged uneasy glances but nodded. They knew better than to question him when he was like this.

Sylus’s eyes flicked back to the farmhouse. He wasn’t foolish enough to think this would be simple. Clara had already proven herself clever, and you…you were a wildcard. But he’d planned for every possibility. He wasn’t leaving without you—and his daughter.

“Let’s go,” he said finally, stepping out of the car. The others followed, their footsteps muted on the damp earth. Mephisto perched nearby, his mechanical frame blending seamlessly into the shadows. The farmhouse loomed ahead, quiet and unassuming, but Sylus’s instincts told him otherwise.

Reaching the door, Sylus knelt, his fingers working expertly with the lockpick. It took mere seconds for the mechanism to click, and he pushed the door open with deliberate care. The sound of creaking hinges broke the silence, and the men filed in behind him, their eyes scanning every corner of the dimly lit space.

Sylus’s heart pounded in his chest as he stepped into the farmhouse. The game of cat and mouse was over. It was time to claim what was his.

Sylus’s patience had already worn thin as his men stormed the farmhouse, tearing through every corner, opening cupboards, flipping over furniture, and making a mess of the small space. He stood in the middle of the chaos, his eyes scanning the room with a calculating calm. It grated on his nerves how much noise they were making, and the lack of results only made it worse.

“No one here!” one of the men shouted from another room, frustration clear in his voice.

Sylus clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching at his sides. Minutes passed as his men continued their futile search, and with each moment, his irritation grew sharper. Finally, he raised his hand.

“Stop,” he commanded, his voice cold and clipped. The single word was enough to freeze everyone in place.

The farmhouse fell silent save for the distant sound of the wind outside. Sylus turned his gaze to a small closet in the living room—untouched, unsearched. His instincts prickled, a quiet certainty settling over him. He stepped forward, the air thick with tension as the other men watched him. The closer he got to the closet, the heavier the air felt.

With a steady hand, Sylus gripped the handle and swung the door open.

The sound of two gunshots shattered the silence, deafening and sudden. But the bullets never reached him. His crimson mist flared to life, wrapping around the projectiles and stopping them midair. The bullets hovered for a split second before clattering harmlessly to the floor.

Inside the closet, Clara stood trembling, her shotgun still aimed, her face pale but defiant. She fumbled to reload the weapon, her hands shaking as she tried to shove another shell into the chamber.

Sylus sighed, his crimson mist snaking out and wrapping around the shotgun. With a sharp yank, he pulled it from her hands and held it aloft. Clara froze, her breath coming in ragged gasps as Sylus examined the weapon with unnerving calm. He crouched, picking up the two discarded shells, and smoothly loaded them into the shotgun himself.

“You’ve got some fight in you, I’ll give you that,” he muttered, straightening up and aiming the weapon at her. Clara, now unarmed, still managed to glare at him with pure hatred.

“Get out of my fucking house,” she snarled, attempting to push herself up from the floor. Her body trembled, but her resolve didn’t waver.

Sylus’s expression didn’t change, his finger resting casually near the trigger. “Don’t think you’re in a position to be making demands.” He took a step closer, the barrel of the shotgun now pointed directly at her forehead. “Start talking. I’m not above putting new holes in women who stand in my way.”

Clara scoffed, her lips curling into a sneer even as her body sagged with exhaustion. “I got cancer anyway, bastard. Fucking do it,” she spat. “You think I don’t know all about what you did to that poor girl? Despicable. If anyone needs two new holes, it’s you, asshole.”

Sylus’s expression darkened, her words cutting through him like shards of glass. For a moment, his grip on the shotgun tightened, his crimson eyes narrowing dangerously. But instead of pulling the trigger, he reached down, his hand gripping Clara’s shoulder with bruising force. He yanked her up and tossed her onto the couch like a rag doll.

“Last chance,” he growled, his voice dripping with menace as he aimed the gun at her again. “And here I told my men no weapons. This is fair, though. You tried to kill me first.”

Clara struggled to sit up, clutching her side and breathing heavily. Despite her position, her fiery spirit hadn’t dimmed. She locked eyes with Sylus, her own gaze burning with hatred. “Go to fucking hell where you belong. You ain’t a man. Far from it. More like the devil himself!”

Her voice rang through the room, defiant and unwavering. Sylus grimaced, his teeth clenching as her words struck a nerve. He pressed the barrel of the shotgun against her head, his patience hanging by a thread.

But before he could respond, a voice cut through the tense moment.

“Boss…we found the nursery,” Luke called from down the hall.

Sylus froze, his heart skipping a beat at the words. Slowly, he straightened, his gaze snapping toward the hallway. For a moment, he didn’t move, his mind racing.

The nursery.

Without a word, Sylus turned on his heel, leaving Clara on the couch as he strode toward the hallway. The shotgun dangled at his side, forgotten in the flood of emotions rising within him. His men stepped aside as he passed, their eyes filled with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.

When Sylus entered the small room, his breath caught. The faint scent of baby powder lingered in the air, and soft, pastel colors adorned the walls. A crib sat against the far wall, and though it was empty, it was unmistakable—this room had been prepared for a child.

His child.

The nursery was a modest, humble space, but its purpose was unmistakable. The walls were painted in faded pastels, hints of yellow and green that had begun to peel slightly with age. A small wooden crib rested against one wall, its blankets slightly rumpled as though a tiny occupant had just been tucked away not long ago. The faint scent of baby powder lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of milk and something distinctly newborn.

Sylus’s gaze fell on the trash can tucked into a corner. It overflowed with used diapers and wipes, the evidence of sleepless nights and constant care. Scattered across the floor were tiny onesies in muted colors, some clean and folded, others clearly used and tossed aside in haste. A bottle sat forgotten on a nearby shelf, half-filled with what looked like breast milk.

You had been here. And not just for a moment—it was clear you had settled in, created a safe space for her. Sylus’s chest tightened as he scanned the room. His previous anger faded, replaced by something far heavier. He moved to the crib, his movements deliberate and slow. The mattress was slightly indented, a faint outline of where a newborn had rested.

His daughter. Was alive.

His hand hovered over the blankets, almost afraid to touch them, as if they would vanish under his fingers. What had her cries sounded like, he wondered? Soft and sweet like you? Or shrill and demanding, a force to be reckoned with? His jaw clenched, his breath uneven as his thoughts spiraled.

Had you given birth alone in this room? Without medical help? Without him? Were you hurt? Was she? The questions stormed through his mind, tightening a coil of frustration and fury in his chest. His eyes caught sight of a tiny onesie draped over the edge of the crib, pale pink with faded stripes. He reached for it, holding it delicately between his fingers before bringing it up to his nose.

Just as he thought. The faint, unmistakable scent of a baby clung to the fabric. His baby. He breathed in deeply, his nostrils flaring as he let the scent flood his senses. His hand shook slightly as he folded the onesie and slipped it into his pocket. A memento. A reminder of how close he had come—and how once again, you had slipped through his fingers.

His eyes darkened, and his calm exterior cracked as anger surged back to the forefront. You weren’t here. You had evaded him once more, just like before. His fists clenched, the thought of you out there alone with his newly born daughter sending a fresh wave of fury through him.

Straightening, Sylus turned on his heel and stalked back to the living room. His boots echoed heavily on the floorboards as he entered, and the tension in the air grew thick. Clara, restrained by two of his men, thrashed against their grip, yelling profanities at them.

“Assholes! Let me go!” she barked, her voice hoarse from shouting. Her defiance wavered for a moment as Sylus reentered, his imposing figure filling the room like a shadow.

He walked toward her slowly, the dark gleam in his eyes silencing the room. His steps were deliberate, calculated, and predatory. Clara froze as he crouched in front of her, his face mere inches from hers. His crimson eyes bore into her, and for the first time that night, the fiery woman shivered.

“Tell me where my fiancé and daughter went,” Sylus said, his voice low and venomous. “Or cancer will be the least of your worries.”

Clara stared back at him, her mouth opening and closing like she wanted to retort, but the words caught in her throat. His presence was suffocating, his aura predatory. Her confidence faltered, but then, with a shaky breath, she straightened herself as best she could, meeting his gaze with renewed defiance.

“I’ve dealt with men like you before,” she spat, though her voice lacked its earlier bravado. “You don’t deserve a fucking thing, much less a beautiful little family.”

Sylus’s jaw tightened at her words, his hand twitching at his side. He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over her face as his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Last chance, Clara. Talk,” he growled, his voice like a razor’s edge.

But Clara’s lips curled into a small, bitter smile, despite the beads of sweat forming on her brow. “Go to hell,” she said. “You’ll never find them. Never.”

The room fell deathly silent, and the tension crackled like a live wire. Sylus’s men exchanged nervous glances, waiting for his next move. For a moment, his face was unreadable, his crimson eyes locked on Clara as if weighing her words. Then, slowly, he stood to his full height, towering over her trembling form.

Sylus's jaw tightened again as Clara's defiant words echoed in his ears. How dare she? The audacity to look him in the eye, to challenge him, to stand in the way of the one thing he had longed for since he was a child—a family of his own. The only dream he had ever allowed himself to cherish in the twisted, brutal reality he had grown up in. And this woman, this nobody, thought she had the right to stand between him and what was his?

She wants to talk about deserving? His mind churned with indignation. The memories of sleepless nights, the endless search for you, and the growing knot of anger and longing to hold his daughter swirled together in a fiery storm. What did Clara know about what he had endured, about what he would sacrifice for you both? Nothing. And yet, she dared to judge him. She dared to throw his sins in his face as if hers weren’t just as vile.

A low, humorless chuckle escaped his lips, breaking the silence like a knife slicing through tension. His grin was sharp, predatory, as he leaned closer to Clara. Her defiance faltered for a split second, the shift in her expression subtle but satisfying. He had her attention.

“It’s funny,” he began, his voice calm but laced with venom, “you mention the prospect of deserving anything.” He paused, savoring the way her eyes narrowed, the way she stiffened against his men’s grip. “Haven’t you been stealing your father’s government checks while he rots away in a nursing home? Yet, you’re apparently ‘taking care of him.’”

Clara’s face faltered, her composure slipping like a mask cracking under pressure. Her mouth opened slightly as if to deny it, but no words came.

Sylus’s grin widened, his tone dripping with mockery. “Oh, don’t act so high and mighty, Clara. Don’t sit there on your soapbox and preach to me when your sins are clear as day, etched right onto that smug little face of yours. Didn't you dump your own daughter at her fathers cause you were tired of the financial burden she put on you?”

The color drained from Clara’s cheeks, her breathing quickening as his words struck true. She tried to pull her gaze away from his, but Sylus wasn’t letting her escape that easily. He leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. “You think you’re better than me? That you’ve got the moral high ground because you helped a pregnant woman on the run? Spare me. You’re no saint. You’re a liar, no different than the rest of humanity.”

For a moment, the room was suffocatingly quiet, the weight of his words pressing down like a crushing force. Clara’s lips pressed into a thin line, her trembling hands curling into fists at her sides as she tried to muster another bout of defiance. But the guilt in her eyes was unmistakable, and Sylus knew he had hit his mark.

His grin faded, replaced by a cold, calculating look. “So, Clara,” he said, his voice softer now, but no less dangerous. “Do you want to try again? Or are we going to keep playing this little game until I truly lose my patience?”

Clara's chest heaved with fury, her hands still pinned by his henchmen, but her voice came out sharp and steady. “I never claimed to be perfect,” she snapped, her eyes burning into Sylus. “And I sure as hell have my own sins. But it was me who looked after her and that baby, hiding her from you. You should be thanking me, asshole. If it weren’t for me, she’d probably be dead in a ditch somewhere. And you have the nerve to come into my house and threaten me? Fuck you.”

She paused, her defiance unwavering as her gaze darted to the crib in the other room. Her voice softened slightly, but the venom was still there. “That woman was scared out of her mind, crying every damn night, and I was the one who kept her alive. I gave her food. I gave her a safe place. So yeah, go ahead—hold that gun over my head. But just remember, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even have a daughter to hunt down. Much less a fiancé.”

Her voice broke slightly, but she kept her head high, glaring at him. “So like I said. You don’t deserve her. And you sure as hell don’t deserve that baby.”

Sylus stared at her, his breathing heavy, his crimson eyes narrowing. Her words cut deeper than he cared to admit, the weight of her defiance stirring something dark inside him. For the first time in years, someone had dared to tell him he wasn’t deserving—dared to spit the truth in his face.

Sylus’s jaw tightened further, the muscle flexing as Clara’s words struck him like a whip. Her breathing was ragged, and the fire in her eyes was unyielding despite the clear danger she was in. Her defiance burned bright, and though it grated on his every nerve, he couldn’t entirely dismiss the truth in her words.

She’s right, isn’t she?

He inhaled slowly, steadying himself. Her accusations hung heavy in the air. It was her who had hidden you, fed you, cared for the baby—all while he’d been storming around like a madman, desperate to bring you back. Dead in a ditch somewhere. The words echoed in his mind, and an unfamiliar pang struck his chest. Was that true? Could you have survived all this without Clara? He hated the thought, hated the idea that someone else had protected you better than he had.

But there it was. His mind churned as Clara’s words continued to linger, stoking the embers of his frustration. He wanted to tear her a new one, to tear her arguments apart, to prove that he was the one who should be thanked, not her. He had searched tirelessly, sacrificed sleep, combed every inch of this cursed region to find you.

He had cleaned up every mess you’d made, erased the trail you’d left behind so no one else could harm you. Killed most of the people who had harmed you. He had paid people off, hacked into systems, and even restrained himself from tearing apart everyone who so much as looked like they might know where you were. He was doing all of this for you.

And yet, here Clara stood, telling him he wasn’t worthy of you or his daughter. The audacity of it boiled his blood.

Sylus’s lips pressed into a thin line as he paced slowly in front of Clara, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His mind was a storm of conflicting emotions—rage, frustration, and something deeper, something he didn’t want to acknowledge. Guilt? No. He didn’t allow himself guilt. Not when everything he did was necessary to bring you back to where you belonged.

He stopped abruptly, turning to face Clara again, his crimson eyes burning into hers. "You think I don’t know what she’s been through?" His voice was low, almost a growl, but there was an edge of restraint to it. "You think I don’t care? Every second she’s been out of my sight has been hell. Hell, do you understand me?"

Clara’s glare didn’t waver, though her breathing hitched at the force behind his words. "Oh your the victim here? Then maybe you should ask yourself why she ran in the first place," she said bitterly, her voice quieter but no less cutting.

Sylus stiffened. The words landed like a blow to his gut, but he masked it with a cold smile. "She ran because she doesn’t know what’s best for her," he said sharply, though even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow. "She’s reckless, impulsive, and stubborn. And yet here I am, cleaning up her messes, making sure she’s safe. Because I care. Because she’s mine."

Clara scoffed, shaking her head. "You call that love? You’re delusional. Love isn’t ownership, you sick bastard. It’s trust. And you? You don’t even know what that word means. Probably can't even spell it."

Sylus’s jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth might crack. Her words cut deeper than any weapon ever could. He could feel the simmering rage bubbling beneath the surface, but he forced himself to take a step back, inhaling deeply to keep his composure.

"You’re bold, I’ll give you that," he said, his voice eerily calm now. "But don’t mistake my patience for weakness, Clara. I’ve killed people for saying less." He leaned down, bringing his face closer to hers, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed for her. What I’ve endured just to make sure she and our daughter survive. You don’t get to sit there and tell me I don’t deserve them."

Clara’s lips trembled for a moment, but then she lifted her chin defiantly. "And yet, here you are. Storming in like a tyrant instead of a father. Do you even know what she’s gone through? What it’s like to be afraid of the man who’s supposed to protect you?"

Sylus flinched inwardly at her words but didn’t let it show. Instead, he straightened, his expression hardening into a mask of indifference. "Enough," he said coldly, brushing past her as he gestured to his men. "Search the area again. Look for any clues as to where they’ve gone."

As his men scattered to follow his orders, Sylus turned his back to Clara, though her words continued to echo in his mind. Do you even know what she’s gone through?

He tightened his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wasn’t here to reflect on his actions or question his choices. He was here to bring you back. That was all that mattered.

And yet…her words lingered, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts as he made his way toward the nursery again.

Sylus lingered in the nursery, his gaze sweeping over every detail of the room. The small pile of used diapers in the trash, the onesies scattered across the crib, the faint smell of baby powder that clung to the air—all of it painted a vivid picture of the life you had carved out for yourself and your daughter in his absence. His chest tightened, a mix of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Anger, regret, longing. It was all there, bubbling beneath the surface.

He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw clenching as his thoughts spiraled. I missed it. The words echoed in his mind, heavy with anguish. He had missed her birth. The first cries. The moment she had entered the world. He had missed it all.

What had those first few days been like? Had you been in excruciating pain, left to deal with it all alone? The thought made his stomach churn. You probably hadn’t had medical attention, knowing how determined you were to stay off the radar. Were you okay? Was she okay? His mind raced with questions, each one more painful than the last.

What did she look like? Had you given her a name yet? The ache in his chest deepened. He wanted to know every detail, every moment he had missed, but instead, he was left with this hollow emptiness.

Sylus sighed heavily, forcing himself to focus. His eyes fell on a familiar object tucked beneath a blanket on the floor. He crouched down and pulled it out, his lips curling into a faint smile. Luke’s gun. The one you had stolen during your escape. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. He checked the bullet chamber.

Empty. What had you used the rest of the bullets for?

“So, you still had this with you,” he murmured to himself, his tone a mix of amusement and frustration. “At least you were somewhat armed. But now…” He sighed again, his brows furrowing. Now you’re out there with nothing to protect yourself or the baby. You’ve left yourself vulnerable.

He stood, pocketing the gun as his mind churned with possibilities. If you had left the gun behind, then you hadn’t gone far on foot. Traveling with a newborn, without proper protection, in your condition—it wasn’t feasible. A thought struck him, and his gaze snapped toward the front door.

He strode outside, ignoring the puzzled glances from his men. The dirt driveway stretched out before him, and he crouched low, inspecting the ground. Sure enough, fresh tire tracks were etched into the earth, leading away from the farmhouse. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Ah, so you’re driving now. Clever girl. But that also means…you haven’t gotten far.

Straightening, Sylus turned and re-entered the house, his expression calm and collected despite the storm raging inside him. He found Clara in the living room, still struggling against the grip of his men. He motioned for them to release her.

Clara fell to the floor with a grunt, clutching her chest and glaring up at him. “Assholes,” she spat, her voice hoarse but still full of defiance.

Sylus smirked, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket as he approached her. “I’d like to thank you for taking such great care of my family,” he said smoothly, his tone almost polite. “Truly, you have my gratitude. As a gift, you won’t get any new holes in your skull today.”

Clara scoffed, pushing herself into a sitting position. “Crazy bastard.”

He chuckled softly, his crimson eyes glinting. “Perhaps. But I will, however, be taking this.” He held up the shotgun, the metal gleaming under the dim light. “Thanks for your time.”

Clara glared at him, her jaw tightening. “Go to hell.”

Sylus leaned down slightly, meeting her gaze with an unsettling calm. “I’ve already been there, Clara. But don’t worry—I’ll make sure to send your regards if I ever go back.”

With that, he straightened and gestured for his men to follow him. They filed out of the farmhouse, leaving Clara sitting on the floor, her defiance still flickering but her exhaustion evident. Sylus stepped out into the night, the cool air biting against his skin as he approached the waiting car.

As Sylus exited the farmhouse, the cool night air filled his lungs. His steps were measured, his eyes fixed forward, but his mind was racing. He reached into his pocket, pulling out Luke's missing gun, its weight familiar in his hand. He turned it over once, a faint smirk tugging at his lips before he called out.

“Luke,” Sylus said, his voice sharp enough to cut through the noise of the other men shuffling about.

Luke turned quickly, his bird mask tilted in curiosity. “Yes, boss?”

With a flick of his wrist, Sylus tossed the gun toward him. Luke caught it midair, his eyes widening behind his mask. “No way! You found it!” he exclaimed, holding it up triumphantly.

Sylus’s smirk deepened. “Try not to lose it again to any more pregnant women,” he said dryly, turning away as Luke let out an enthusiastic cheer.

“Thanks, boss!” Luke said, almost bouncing in place as he inspected his beloved weapon. Kieran gave his brother a light shove, muttering something about priorities, but Luke didn’t seem to care. He twirled the gun theatrically, clearly overjoyed to have it back.

Sylus didn’t linger on the scene. He strode toward the car, his expression hardening once more as the reality of the situation set in. Tossing the gun back was a minor indulgence—one moment of levity in a sea of mounting frustration. He climbed into the car, settling into the backseat as the driver awaited his command.

He had managed to keep his cool surprisingly well so far. First with the twins, and with everyone else here in Brunswick. No one had died surprisingly. Perhaps you had more influence on him than he thought.

Still. There was only so much he could take before he snapped.

His eyes drifted back toward the farmhouse, the faint glow of its lights barely visible through the dark trees. Clara’s words still rang in his ears, her defiance leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. But it didn’t matter now. He had the trail. The tire tracks. A direction.

The game was far from over.

“Drive,” Sylus ordered, his voice cold and unyielding. The car hummed to life, rolling forward into the night. As it sped down the dirt road, he allowed himself a brief glance at the horizon. Somewhere out there, you and his daughter were waiting. He would hold you both soon, he could feel it.

And he was getting closer.

Xavier’s apartment was dark, the curtains drawn tightly to block out the sunlight that threatened to pierce through. The air was frigid, his breath visible in the dim light of the television that flickered across the room. Ice shards littered the floor, clinging to his arms and legs like cruel barbs. He lay there, writhing, his body trembling uncontrollably as pain radiated through every fiber of his being.

The shrill sound of his phone ringing cut through the silence, pulling him momentarily from the haze of agony. It buzzed relentlessly on the floor next to him, the screen illuminating missed calls and unread messages.

Missed Calls: Captain Jenna (5), Team Line (12) Messages: Captain Jenna – “Xavier, we’re worried. Please answer your phone.” Team Chat – “Anyone heard from Xavier?” “He’s been ghosting us for weeks.”

The phone buzzed again. Another call. He turned his head slightly, his blurred vision focusing just enough to make out the name on the screen. Captain Jenna.

The ringtone felt like nails in his ears, and with what little strength he had, he reached for the phone, his frostbitten fingers trembling. It slipped from his grasp, clattering back to the icy floor. The call went to voicemail.

Moments later, the voicemail notification played automatically, her voice soft but filled with concern:

"Xavier, everyone on the team is worried sick about you. Please get back to me when you can. I’d hate to forcibly resign you. Let’s work something out, okay? If you need more time, it’s fine. Call me back."

The message ended with a beep, and Xavier let out a strained breath, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. His fingers twitched, trying to reach for the phone again, but his body refused to cooperate. The ice shards seemed to dig deeper, the frost creeping up his arms like vines threatening to claim him.

He heaved, his teeth chattering uncontrollably as he tried to form coherent thoughts. The pain was unbearable, a relentless wave that drowned out everything else.

And then, everything went black.

The phone buzzed one last time, the screen lighting up the room as Xavier’s unconscious form lay sprawled on the floor, his breaths uneven as the frost slowly spread across his floor.

[blackenedsnow]

Hiiiii so if you want to ignore this you can, but I just got a dog, His name is bubba, (yes, TCM ref.), and it got me thinkin, "hey, what would the slasher's reaction be to the reader having a pet that shared the same name as them?" I'd like this maybe with Bubba, Thomas, Jason, Michael, the Sinclairs, and whatever other slasher you wanna add (luv ur work btw :3)

slashers with a reader who has a pet that shares a name with them ; headcanons

WARNING: None

PAIRING: Bubba Sawyer x Reader, Thomas Hewitt x Reader, Jason Voorhees x Reader, Michael Myers x Reader, Lester Sinclair x Reader, Vincent Sinclair x Reader, Bo Sinclair x Reader

NOTE: Thank you for the kind words! :) This is such a cute idea and I loved writing these. Also this was mostly aimed towards cats and dogs because I literally couldn't think of anything for like.. any other variety 😭😭

BUBBA SAWYER

When you introduced your pet as "Bubba," you fully expected Bubba himself to tilt his head like a confused puppy.

The second he realized the two of them had the same name was priceless.

He started pointing at himself, then at your pet, as if to confirm he was hearing things right.

After the initial shock, Bubba became incredibly attached to your pet.

He'd follow Bubba Jr. (LOL) around the house, and you'd catch him feeding stuff to your pet that he shouldn't be when he thought you weren’t looking.

It was strangely sweet how proud he seemed to share a name with your pet, even if it did get a little confusing at times when you called for one of them.

If anything, Bubba grew a bit possessive.

He wanted to be your favorite Bubba, after all, and you could swear he would get jealous if you gave the pet too much attention!

THOMAS HEWITT

Thomas was initially quiet about the whole name-sharing situation.

He didn’t show any particular reaction when you introduced your pet as "Tommy" (or "Thomas"), but you could tell something was on his mind by the way he kept glancing between you and your pet.

At first, he just gave an amused huff and shrugged it off, figuring it was a funny coincidence.

But deep down, he was secretly touched.

Not that he’d admit it, of course.

Over time, though, you’d notice him sneaking affectionate looks to your pet when no one was around.

Thomas actually liked the idea of having a namesake—even if it was a animal—because it made him feel a little more connected to you.

It was something small, but it gave him a sense of belonging, which was rare for him.

JASON VOORHEES

When you told Jason you had a pet named "Jason," he froze for a solid minute, staring at you with that blank hockey mask of his.

He didn’t really know how to process it at first.

On the one hand, it was strange hearing his name on your lips when you weren’t talking to him.

But on the other hand, there was something oddly endearing about it.

Jason grew protective of your pet in his own silent way.

He’d keep a close eye on them, ensuring they were always safe and sound.

Whenever you called for "Jason," he’d appear too—just to make sure you didn’t need him for anything important.

The fact that he shared a name with your pet didn’t bother him too much, especially since you never mixed up the two of them (though there were a few amusing moments when both Jasons turned their heads at the same time).

Ultimately, he found a sense of kinship with your pet, almost like they were a little duo.

Two Jasons, both devoted to you.

MICHAEL MYERS

Michael’s reaction to hearing your pet’s name?

Pure silence.

As usual..

He just stood there, staring at you with that emotionless mask.

You couldn’t tell if he found it funny, annoying, or if he simply didn’t care.

But in classic Michael fashion, he wasn’t about to make a big deal out of it.

Over time, though, you’d start to notice little things—like how Michael would give your pet long, lingering looks whenever you weren’t paying attention, or how he’d mysteriously disappear and reappear at the same time as your pet's walks.

It was as if he was silently competing for your attention.

Not that he’d admit it.

He wasn’t jealous exactly, but Michael didn’t like sharing.

Especially not his name.

That being said, he tolerated your pet because it made you happy..

LESTER SINCLAIR

“Oh, wow! You’ve got a dog named Lester? Ain’t that somethin’!”

Lester burst out laughing when you introduced your pet, finding it genuinely hilarious that your pet had the same name as him.

He didn’t take it seriously at all—if anything, he was proud.

"Now we’re like a little team, huh?"

he joked, ruffling your pet's fur and making fast friends with them.

Lester thought it was funny whenever you called for "Lester" and both of them turned to look at you, and he’d laugh every time.

He didn’t mind sharing the name at all—in fact, he loved it.

Your pet quickly became his partner in crime during his rounds through Ambrose.

He’d always bring treats for them and refer to the two of them as "the Lesters," thinking the whole situation was a blast.

VINCENT SINCLAIR

Vincent was intrigued, to say the least.

He didn’t talk much, but when you introduced your pet as "Vincent," you could see the curiosity in his eyes behind the mask.

He wasn’t used to hearing his name spoken aloud, so it was a little strange at first, but he didn’t dislike it.

He found it almost poetic that your pet shared his name.

Vincent wasn’t one for words, but the quiet moments when he watched you with your pet made him feel a strange warmth in his chest.

Your pet often sat in his art studio while he worked, and over time, Vincent would even carve small figurines resembling your pet.

While it was a bit odd at first, Vincent enjoyed the quiet companionship.

Your pet’s presence wasn’t invasive, and sharing a name felt more like sharing a piece of himself with you.

BO SINCLAIR

Bo wasn’t exactly thrilled when he found out you had a pet named after him.

"Bo?"

he’d ask, raising an eyebrow.

"You named a damn animal after me?"

At first, he acted annoyed, but it didn’t take long for that classic Bo charm to kick in.

"Well, I guess it’s fitting. Both of us handsome devils, huh?"

He’d joke about it, brushing off the initial surprise, but there was always a part of him that felt a little smug about it.

Bo liked the idea of you having a constant reminder of him, even if it was in the form of a pet.

And while he’d never admit it, he found himself getting a little jealous when you called your pet's name, and he didn’t get the attention.

You’d catch him grumbling, muttering under his breath,

"Don’t forget who the real Bo is, sweetheart."

He’d eventually warm up to the pet, though, and you’d see him giving them sneaky pets when he thought you weren’t looking.

[justporo]

Brewing Storms

A storm is brewing - oh yes, a literal one too. Tav's scared to be alone during a thunderstorm. Astarion is reluctant but stays to provide some comfort - and realises it might have been one of the better things to happen to him.

Author's Note: I started this a while ago and then stuff got in the way - like Gale for example (lol) - and now I'm happy to be back to write something soft for Astarion and Tav!

Pairing: Astarion/GN!Tav (You) Warnings: Talk of trauma, very light smut Wordcount: 2,4k

~~~

Astarion and you had fallen into a sort of weird routine with your little late night escapades. Since the party after you saved the Grove and the first night you’ve spent together you had come together time and time again.

First only every couple of days. Always meeting somewhere away from camp and then sneaking back sometime before the others woke up. Although you were surely fair they all knew already anyway. But now you were almost spending every night together. Fortunately for the two of you, being elven meant you were still getting enough rest despite the nightly adventures.

Astarion kept feeding you his cheesy lines – you ate them right up. No one had ever given you this kind of attention. And as much as you knew that it was an act: how could you resist? You had never experienced such flattery nor could anyone you’d shared intimacy with ever compare to Astarion. But that wasn’t even the main thing.

You’d had crushes before, you’d fallen in love before but you were pretty sure it had never been quite like this. Your whole chest sometimes ached when you looked at Astarion. Sometimes when you caught him in a rare moment when he let his perfected mask drop for a second you saw the bottomless sadness and worry in his eyes. And all you wished for was to erase whatever it was that caused that sadness – to keep him safe and always give him something to smile about.

You had quite positively fallen for the vampiric elf. What had been a crush at first had very quickly become an unyielding need in your heart: desperate to be near him, to hear his voice, talk to him, to laugh at his sassy comments, to lay in his arms and to hold him in turn. Out of everything you surely hadn’t wanted or planned to fall in love with everything else going on – but there you were.

You were a hopeless case – even though you were sure it would come back to bite you (and maybe even literally): be it that he lost interest in you way quicker than you would like or that he had ulterior motives and that you were merely a means to an end.

In fact, you were entirely sure that there was more to Astarion. You weren’t all fooled and blinded by your brewing emotions for the vampire. Maybe not really the first time, but as you got more used to sharing a bed with Astarion you were well aware that it seemed like he wasn’t fully there with you.

You could take only guesses at why that was exactly – and you didn’t like any of those.

At several occasions you had tried to bring it up. But he had swatted your concerns away every time, just making a sultry joke or drowning you with kisses until you had forgotten what you had wanted to say. In any case he always pushed you to get back into his arms.

Gladly, you would have offered him an open ear – your heart was already wide open.

But you were sure this wouldn’t last. You were in way over your head and you so desperately wanted to avoid breaking the spell.

And as much as you would have wished for him to open up more, to let you in a bit more and as much as you would have liked to confess the way you felt: you didn’t think you could do it without ruining whatever it was between the two of you.

At least, he seemed to be a bit more present when he was with you of late. The changes seemed subtle enough, but you were convinced that it slowly became different. Maybe it was just that the two of you had gotten used to this dance now, but you could swear his hands lingered longer now on your skin, that his kisses became deeper and more tender, that the way he looked at you became softer sometimes. And that those moments, when he seemed miles away, became fewer.

Tonight, when you had set up camp it had seemed like a storm was brewing.

You had already felt tense when you had noticed: growing up on the streets of Baldur’s Gate as a child with nowhere safe to go had traumatised you for life. Especially when it came to storms: too many nights you’d had to spend outside somewhere while the rain kept pouring down.

But worst had always been the thunder. Every single one like an explosion while a little child sat somewhere cowered trying to stay safe and crying from fear and loneliness. Even when you had gotten older and had always managed to secure a safe spot for sleeping and shelter the fear of thunderstorms had remained.

And thus far you’d gotten lucky that there had been no storms since this whole chaos had started. But the stroke of luck was over now it seemed.

When Astarion had thrown you certain looks after the party had gone to unwind each on their own after eating, you had very rambly and awkwardly suggested to maybe spend the night in your tent this night, because the others surely knew anyway and what if it started pouring and wasn’t it more comfortable anyway?

You just were desperate to not be somewhere outside when the thunderstorm was going to hit – and maybe even not alone.

And Astarion had looked at you suspiciously with a raised eyebrow, surely noticing that something was up. But in the end, he had simply shrugged and followed you to your tent.

So now you lay pressed against each other. Astarion on top of you, his body delightfully weighing you down, both of your shirts already off and his hands kept roaming your body as you gratefully gave in to his open-mouthed kisses. His hand had just dipped below the waistline of your trousers when you could hear the first far away rumbling.

Immediately you tensed a little but forced yourself to try and not be bothered by it. Astarion’s kisses wandered down your throat now.

A second already much louder rumble. You gasped.

And apparently Astarion had noticed that it wasn’t because of his touch – you could almost feel how he had furrowed his brows. But he kept silent and continued to kiss and caress you, leaning on one of his forearms.

When a third roar of thunder made you actually wince and recoil, he pushed up on his arm and looked at you. The other hand though stayed right where it was inside your pants.

“Afraid of a little thunder, love?”, he said and cocked an eyebrow. His tone wasn’t even overly sassy but you still couldn’t help but to feel hurt.

More thunder. This time so loud it felt like it was exactly above you. You recoiled again and felt how panic rose in you. You pushed the vampire - who actually looked hurt by that - off of you. His hand slipping from where it had caressed you.

“Maybe I am afraid of thunder. So?”, you spat back while you sat up and hugged your knees to your naked chest. As much as you wanted the comfort of his arms: panic and whatever feeling it had been that had overcome you when Astarion had looked hurt when you’d pushed him back got the better of you.

Shame mixed with the fear and you could feel your throat close up.

Astarion had knelt back on the balls of his feet watching you with a look in his eyes you couldn’t quite place. He definitely didn’t seem as cocky as a few moments ago though.

You looked away as another thing spiced up the mix of emotions running high: worry, that you had just broke something that couldn’t be repaired.

“I-“, Astarion started and then stopped helplessly.

The vampire was actually worried about you in this moment. Astarion was surprised by the sudden outburst of emotion and he was certainly hurt that you pushed him away. But more than anything: he didn’t know what to do now. Quite obviously you were not in the mood anymore for getting down and dirty.

It occurred to him that he did not want you to be afraid and upset. But then again, he had no idea how to make it so. And on top of that: he was pretty sure you weren’t interested in anything of the sort. Sure, you were absolutely the one person he talked the most to in the party. And yes, you were always making sure he’d gotten enough blood – but that was probably because you had need of him being his fittest for fighting. Also, you did actually seem to care about what had happened to him, wanting to learn more about him – but…

The vampire was confused and helpless. So he opted for the one option he deemed reasonable: leave.

He grabbed his shirt and started pulling it over his head while saying: “Alright, since it seems there won’t be any naughty indulgence tonight, I guess I better get back to my tent and you can try and-“

He was interrupted by you grabbing his wrist firmly.

“Please”, you pleaded, “don’t leave me alone.”

You were desperate: you didn’t want him to leave, you didn’t want to have ruined the delicate thing that had been forming between you.

Astarion let his shirt drop again and looked at you. Your eyes were filled with tears and full of fear. His confusion became even more: “Darling, I’m not… Maybe you should ask the druid to… help you. Maybe he has something herbal to-“ You basically yanked on the vampire’s arm.

“No please, Astarion, I just… want you to stay here with me. Just… hold me? Please?”, you pleaded with him as tears started to stream down your face.

You really didn’t want to be alone for one but also you were desperate to feel his arms around you again – to be sure he would still want to hold you, as much as wanting his comfort.

Astarion’s brows furrowed again but he dropped his shirt again and crawled over to you as you shyly opened up your arms to him to be cradled by the vampire. He slid his arms around you and softly moved you until you were laying there: him on his back with you carefully snuggled up against his chest – skin on skin.

The relief you felt was almost instant. Not only because he had agreed to stay but also feeling his body against yours immediately made some of the tension inside you ease.

Astarion reluctantly started to stroke your back as you buried your face against his chest. It all felt more than just a little awkward and you felt a blush creep onto your cheeks, but you just wrapped your arms around the vampire and tried to calm yourself.

Still tears kept coming and thunder was rolling in quicker now. Then the rain started as well and became a constant drumroll on your tent. The loud rumbles kept going and made you wince from time to time, but it was now considerably better than before.

Astarion grew more confident with just stroking your back. He even carefully placed a kiss on the top of your head at one point, in your all messed up hair. You both eased into this rather unfamiliar form of closeness.

After being stressed about the coming storm all evening, you felt that your body couldn’t retain the tension anymore. You weren’t entirely sure what all this meant for Astarion and you, but you forced yourself to just stay in this moment. Because this already was something you wouldn’t have thought to ever be possible. It was tender and sweet. Something you would have never imagined when this vampire had, upon first meeting him, thrown you on the ground and threatened you with a knife.

You were so desperate to hold onto this. So, you wrapped your arms around him a little tighter and cautiously tangled your legs with his. He let it happen.

And Astarion – Astarion’s mind was racing, utterly confused by the turn the night had taken. It definitely wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy this outcome – to his own surprise. Quite the opposite actually.

When the thunder subsided and the rain tap-tap-tapping on the tent ceiling was what remained of the storm and he felt you quite noticeably relax into his arms even more – his chest started to ache.

He was overthrown by his own sentiment and the trust you put into him; surprised, scared even.

In his thoughts Astarion kept turning around the fact how you had specifically asked him to stay with you although you had so visibly been upset. More upset even than he had ever seen you in any battle. And that you had wanted nothing but to be held in his arms. And he – to his own surprise – had been happy to be there for you, proud even, realising that he really wanted you to be alright.

You hadn’t even talked since he had taken you in his arms. Just felt the connection, your skin warm on his. His hands hesitatingly caressing and trying to comfort you while your tears subsided and your breathing became more even.

And even though it had been you who had pleaded for comfort – Astarion could feel it too. Felt, how the warmth of your body soaked into his undead body and your breath brushed over his naked upper body – now in a steady and calm rhythm again. You were so close, he could even feel the beat of your steadying heartbeat through your conjoined chests.

And when Astarion was sure that you must’ve drifted off into your dreams – because he had held you – he kept staring up at the ceiling of the tent.

The rain had become almost non-existent after what must’ve been hours now.

The vampire’s chest still ached with something he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge yet. But he could feel that it had become something way too big to ignore. Something that would soon be unleashed – for better or for worse. And he was frightened about that.

But not in this moment. This moment he would hold onto. So he wrapped his arms around you a little tighter still, closed his eyes and full on buried his face in your hair while he was so fully aware of the feeling of your body against his.

Then he whispered so silently, even the last of the raindrops would have drowned out the words. So silently, because he was still so unsure, so scared and the words were only meant for him – and maybe sometime for you: “My love, what ever have you done to me?”

[robolvrr]

medical malpractice. ‿⁠✷｡

pharma x human! gn reader.

warnings: medical play. sharp objects. temporary blindness/sensory play.

nsfw under the cut. this is a bit darker but this is pharma we are talking about here. not enough of this rat on my feed.

"are you sure ratchet isn't available?"

the cooling bulbs shine bright in your eyes and you itch the sleeves of your uniform, gaze wavering between the flawlessly polished floors and an elaborate monitor with a screen that easily dwarfed you lengthwise.

the fucker doesn't speak for an uncomfortable five seconds. you are convinced he purposefully does this just to have the pleasure of your wariness wither.

"yes, my dear. he has far more pressing matters than a simple organic check-up. i do apologize if my cycles of experience in this profession is.. lacking for your standards."

his back is all you see when your face twists, mouth slack as you struggle to seek a response.

sarcasm must be a species thing. almost every cybertronian on this ship seems to have a snippy remark.

"it's not that."

you don't know how to describe it. pharma is sardonic and precise. the crew members don't seem to have too negative of an opinion as his performance precedes his mannerisms.

when he first laid optics on you, there was a tiny voice in the back of your head that itched.

he did not share the warmth of his companions. granted, it was not as if you were adored by all mechs — plenty still had their reservations of allowing such an easily harmed creature aboard on a personal journey that they could not even hope to relate to.

however, unlike the other medics, you felt trapped under his leer. vivisected no matter the layers of insulation and nylon hiding flesh that blazed under unrelenting attention.

he never strayed far from your thoughts after that introduction. you can hear his croon at night and see those genuine, icy stares when you close your eyelids to toss and turn to sleep.

he's dangerous.

no one shows to share your beliefs. you don't speak of them out of fear of alienation. he triggers your survival instincts so strongly it starts to make you angry, because he hadn't done anything to warrant the disapproval.

he's a voyeur to your discomfort. sooner or later, you learn his subtle language and realize he's pleased.

you make efforts to avoid him. it's easy, given your skills don't overlap with his duties. you're just an engineer and more than half of the technology they possess is outside your education. you forget about his stalking frame and find members that treat you nice, treat you gentle.

this very situation is nightmarish.

"distracted, little dove?"

a yelp leaves your lips. his helm is eerily close and his smug smile remains firm on his dermas. you're so alarmed you don't notice the velcro round a forearm until he clasps the straps, tight.

the iv bag is clear. you breathe shakily.

"please keep in mind i do have your best interests in consideration."

"... just get on with it, doctor."

he hums, doesn't react to the bite. his digits graze your elbow. when did he yank up your sleeve? goosebumps freckle up your skin and he pinches.

consideration. the gravity of that word sinks in the pit of your gut. too easy to miscontrue.

"i understand your.. unease. alone, far from home, far from your own kind. under the scrutiny of what you cannot predict."

the medical stretcher slowly creaks back. the rusty pop of cogs startled you. a giant light nearly hides his calm demeanor, just the shadow of himself and a halo of sterile white behind him.

the electricity sparkling in your veins runs blood hot. faint beeping climbs in measure — you assume the thumping pattern of your heartbeat is what that is.

suddenly, your mouth is coaxed open.

metal - tool and him - slide across your tongue in a practiced sweep. it clinks against your canines and molars, scraping inner cheek until you feel just shy of pink, sticky sinew shredding.

a swab is after. it isn't rough but far from tender. this is no lollipop ending appointment and you become faintly aware of a chemical stench starting to waft around your vicinity.

"healthy. teeth all accounted for. funny, how these bones work. brainstorm had spoken to me about ah, what is it called for you. cavities. fascinating, your inner workings aren't close in nature and yet it can poison you, just by chance. find that small, plump heart and send it right into failure."

this conversation tinges dreadful again. you make a protesting noise that careens into a groan before he shushes you, sifting through equipment. having him in your mouth has your jaw throb sore.

"yes, yes, i know, keep it quick. while we are on the subject of brainstorm however i want to be frank. he has assisted me in creating a method to better examine your parts. you're just so.. fragile. small. i would hate to hurt you."

".. and what exactly does that entail?", you whisper dubiously, twitching at the thought of anything from brainstorm being near you in a ten mile radius.

he laughs.

"well", you blink and he is still difficult to see with all the lights and proximity, something wet and slimy dropping in both of your eyes. you squirm with a gasp and go to rub out of nature. he stops you.

"it's difficult to explain on your terms. but it's dropped into your eyes. microscopic cameras are effortlessly mixed with the solvent. it'll adapt to the shape. almost like a thin casing. it connects to my screen aaaand.."

you can't see. confusion driving the monitor to grow louder and louder.

"you put fucking cameras in my eyes? wh— what?! i can't fucking see! does ratchet know-"

"ratchet is not here. i suggest you find your bearings before you scare yourself to death, dear."

he sounds unapologetic. you fully drift to panic and think about the crawling sensation around sclera, unsure where your imagination and reality separate.

pharma sounds distant. this very room is almost closing in and your senses heighten in natural hopes to extend your survival.

his voice is charming and thick with something you can't identify. whispers hot in your ear. a cut has been made.

"excellent, little one."

this is torture.

one by one, the pain of an incision you can't even detect when it was sliced sutured with practical movements. unwoven, stitched again. you start to huff.

thumb catches moisture. you hear a rumble and it isn't the ship engines, it's him.

"just what else can the human body do?"

your throat closes up.

"how much could you take, hm? i simply want to know. there is no... allure of a broken body. perhaps in a dream. perhaps in my fantasies."

in and out, you fade. body trembling, hair sweaty on your forehead. he is an issue you cannot solve.

"perhaps, perhaps."

------------------------

"how did the examination go?"

ratchet doesn't pull from his work. the gruffness and bitter edge you have learned to navigate and know his inquiry is made out of concern, not forced.

"i... fine, i think. i can't remember."

ratchet keeps working, though his pace has slowed.

"... mm."

[belokhvostikova]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛 𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | Following Friday’s events, Eddie Munson was on a mission to apologize to you, though everything fell short when your life began to crumble in a matter of hours.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Swearing, yelling, crying, self-deprecating thoughts, violence, experienced anxiety and panic attack, mentions of childhood abuse and neglect, and brief mentions of blood, body shaming, and non consensual touching.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | For the sake of my sanity, I'm going to need all of you to ignore the blatantly unrealistic process of making a book in this story, lol. If there are any necessary warnings that were accidently left out, please feel free to let me know!

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 | One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡

Whatever mantra of the Munson Doctrine Eddie had been feeding himself to believe about the highest of the social hierarchy embedded within Hawkins High was really starting to fall short, specifically when your pretty face started monopolizing every one of his thoughts imaginable. 

As much as he’d like to admit otherwise, Eddie Munson liked staring at your face, and it was really starting to piss him off just how much he really liked doing it. And the situation only became worse when he steadily watched your wonted bewitching smile fade into a disheartened look of dejection, because that following weekend after your impromptu photo shoot with Hellfire, became the worst week of your life.

And Eddie Munson watched it entirely unravel right in front of him.

It never really occurred to Eddie just how much he’d casually gawk at you prior to said photo shoot. I mean, you were the face of the school, of course, you were hard to miss when you practically lit up the halls with your smile. And that’s merely what Eddie had chalked it up to; your popularity involuntarily placed you at the forefront of his attention. It wasn’t the small strands of baby hairs that perfectly framed your face, whether you decided to keep your hair natural, or styled it for the fun of it; it wasn’t your enthralling eyes that seemed to almost squint close because your cheeks became so full of delight with your spellbinding laugh; and it definitely wasn’t your apologetic reassurance that everything was okay to the kid from the drama club who accidentally bumped into you, causing you to drop your books, and you gave Andy McAvoy a stern talking to when he tried to defend your honor with violence against the poor kid. 

No, it was none of that that caught Eddie Munson’s attention to you (he forced himself to believe).

But now, things are different.

He’d actually gotten a chance to talk to you—yes, that cafeteria instance was the first time Eddie Munson had ever actually spoken to you, and he berated you with dehumanizing comments—and he blew it with his rash decision to automate you into a box of prissy cheerleaders that had nothing better to do than gossip with their friends- ah yes, that box, that was formulated by sexist losers who used it to justified their mean actions against innocent teenage girls. Oh, fuck, Eddie cringed to himself at the sudden self-realization. 

He had to fix this. He didn’t even have to confess his feelings—which, he didn’t have *cough* *cough*—he just had to apologize for his mistakes. What he wanted to believe to be patronizing was actually sincere on your part, and you didn’t deserve any of his degrading tirade. And his conscience was letting it be known. Resuming the campaign had been a shit-show that Friday, when all he could focus on was your crying face. It became even worse when he realized that he’d never actually seen you drive—always painfully third-wheeling with Jason Carver and Chrissy Cunningham, or silently pleading to Patrick McKinney to control Andy McAvoy when he felt entitled to nonconsensually feel you up in his convertible when they drove you to school—meaning you were probably left crying alone at night waiting to be picked up, or worse, walking home. And you did it just for him. For his friends. To be included in some stupid fucking yearbook, because he made a big deal out of it in the first place.  

Oh, shit, he was an awful fucking person, Eddie thought.  

So, come Monday morning, he would apologize. He had all weekend to find the right words, rehearse his apology to perfection, and plan when to actually say it to you. 

But Eddie Munson never got to correctly apologize to you on Monday. 

Because aforementioned, Monday was the start of the worst week of your life, and he got scared and simply watched everything happen.

- 

“No running in the halls, young lady.” Mr. Long sternly reminded, as you zoomed past him.

“Sorry, sir.” You weren’t sorry. The second he turned the corner, you picked up the pace and ran to the newspaper room, frantically attempting to shove the slender key into the slot with shaky hands. 

Earlier on Saturday, the Yearbook Committee had worked to finish the final draft of the Hawkins High 1986 Yearbook, and with the team’s effort, you all concluded the first official copy that held the recognition of all staff and students intertwined with a school year’s worth of memorabilia, squished between the glossy green and orange cover that encapsulated Hawkins High. 

And now, you were about to destroy it. 

Sixty minutes. You had sixty minutes. You managed to wake up early that Monday morning, practically running to school, and situating yourself within the newspaper room—sweaty and exhausted—an hour early before the bell rang to commence the school day. In truth, you’d like to say you were a badass, and demolished the yearbook with no regrets, but reality had quite literally sucked, and you were panicking for a solid five minutes before you came to a consensus. 

It had to be destroyed- well, not destroyed, just unbinded. God, you were such a dramatic coward. 

See, that Saturday afternoon with the Yearbook Committee, you had done your part, you really did. You gathered photos, helped have them printed, assisted Nancy Wheeler with the placement of pages, and took over binding the book together when Fred Benson’s scrawny hands cramped into oblivion. You also may have—very discreetly—had Hellfire’s picture printed, created an entirely new page to fit them between the Glee and Math Club, and it was then you realized you didn’t even know half of their names. It had never occurred to you on Friday night that—with the exception of Eddie Munson, Lucas Sinclair, and Mike Wheeler—you never caught the names of the other four members, prompting you to lose precious time after having to locate their stupid names in the student registry for identification—they weren’t stupid, you were just really frustrated at that point.

And now, on this fine Monday morning, you persevered through blistering callouses, contracting muscles, and sore knuckles to unbind and bind back the yearbook with an additional page within the “Hawkins High’s Clubs” recognitional section.

Hellfire’s page.

And it was perfect. 

The pages were still intact with their crisp stiffness of that of a newly unopened book, and you cleaned off any smudges that impaired the quality of work within the creation. You stood back. You couldn’t help the soft giggle that left your lips at the mere sight of Hellfire sticking out like a sore thumb against the formality of the other photos—in true Hellfire fashion. But there it was. Their title, their photo, and their names that gave them the minimal ask to simply be acknowledged in a school that consistently disregarded their beings, and you were happy they finally got it. They deserved it. Even if Friday’s event left you crying alone in your bed feeling awful. It was worth it. Your thumb gently caressed the smooth page of their photo—Eddie’s photo—and reminisced on that night.

Had you actually done something terrible? Was Eddie right to call you out on your actions? You certainly knew you hadn’t caused this entire commotion out of pitiness, though you understood where he may have interpreted it as such. I mean, even though you never did anything, your friends made his life a living hell, villainizing his differences, casting him as a danger to society, affecting his life beyond just a superficial high school social life. It was true torment. 

You understood the facade which Eddie Munson had to put on to protect himself, but what you didn’t understand was the sudden shallowness that appeared when you thought you proved yourself to be more than just a ditzy cheerleader. Why were you even trying to prove yourself to some guy? Eddie Munson was an awful person. Right? He yelled at you, judged you, degraded you, and all for nothing- well, as far as you knew. So yeah, Eddie Munson was an awful person. You may have understood him, but he was still an asshole. You’d done your part, adding Hellfire to the yearbook, and that was that. That was all you needed to do. You no longer had to think about his stupid feelings, his stupid hair—which you totally didn’t want to run your hands through—his stupid brown eyes that made you shutter as they bore into yours, and his stupidly beautiful smile. You also kinda wondered how his hands might feel on your-

“What are you doing here?”

Jesus Christ, how long has Nancy Wheeler been standing there? You didn’t even hear the door open. 

“Uh, um, j-just looking at the, uh, yearbook?” You mumbled. You wished you had better control over your facial expressions, because right now, Nancy Wheeler was eyeing the fuck out of your worried guise. 

“You came to school early just to see the yearbook?” She questioned. 

“W-well, yeah, I mean, isn’t that why you’re here early? …Right?” You prayed.

Nancy blinked. “Yeah, I guess, just had to make sure everything was correct before Fred takes it to make copies.”

“Oh, Fred’s here?” You piqued with interest. 

Fred Benson didn’t actually pique your interest all too much—though, it was quite fascinating seeing how fast his slender fingers would cramp after just a couple minutes of working—but he did give the perfect escape from Nancy Wheeler’s captious glare. 

“Uh, yeah, he’s out front waiting for the book-”

“I’ll hand it to him!” You interjected, watching her face scrunch with confusion. You could only awkwardly laugh, “You know me and Fred,” you zoomed right past her, “just always so, uh… tight.” And you left without further explanation. 

Shoving Mr. Long’s word of chastisement right up his ass, you ran down the empty hall, yearbook held tightly in your tired hands, as you rejected any of Nancy’s calls for you to come back. Reaching the double glass doors, you spotted Fred mindlessly tweaking with his camera in the front seat of his car.

“Fred!” You could visibly make out the bewildered “huh” that fell from his gaping mouth from your sudden appearance. “Fred, here take this and go!” You shoved the yearbook past the small crack of his window. 

“W-wait, didn’t Nancy want to che-”

“No, she sent me to give this to you!” You urged. “And she said go now, or else the copies won’t be done in time!” My god, the entirety of this situation had you lying more than you ever had in your life. 

“But the distributors don’t close until six-”

“Fred, I don’t care!” You whined. “Do you really want to make Nancy upset?!” If your calculations were correct, Nancy Wheeler’s flats were currently speed walking—she was one to follow the rules—past Mrs. Durberry’s science classroom, meaning you had ten more seconds until she appeared. 

“Well, n-no-”

“Then drive! Now, please!” He scrambled to turn his car on, and luckily, the old piece of junk managed to roar alive with a heavy blow of carbon dioxide, and you heaved watching Fred Benson skirt past the incoming wave of students on bikes and cars, leaving tire tracks on the cracked pavements. When he came back, you’d be sure to apologize for demanding him so aggressively.

Nancy Wheeler screamed your name. 

Turning around, she came pummeling towards you with a might of pure irritation. “What the hell was that?! I didn’t even get to check the book!”

You huffed with exhaustion. It was only 8:18 a.m and it had already been a long day. “Nance, come on, I’ve been on the Yearbook Committee for the last three years, don’t you trust me by now?” Admittedly, guilting Nancy probably wasn’t the best option, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

“I don’t care how long you’ve been in the committee, I have the authority to make final calls, not you!” Gee, you really had an act for getting people to yell in your face. Were you actually the problem?

“Look, I understand, but I promise everything was perfect with the yearbook. I mean, come on, you saw the finished product on Saturday when we completed it.” You reasoned. 

Nancy took a deep breath to regulate herself. “This is your only strike.” She pointed a finger at you like a child. “You pull something like this again, and you're off the committee. Understand?”

You swallowed thickly. The trouble you went through just for Eddie Munson- his friends. Just for his friends. “Yes, I understand.” You submitted quietly. “But I promise, the book was fine, everything is going to be perfectly okay.”

Everything was not perfectly okay.

Because unlike your little white lie of being “tight” with Fred Benson, he actually was with Nancy Wheeler, and, boy, did he rat you out when he paged through the printed copies of the yearbook and found the seven believed satanic cultists mischievously smiling right back at him, tainting the committee’s precious work. 

-

It was in the midst of your A.P U.S History class when the staticy call of your name over the intercom interrupted Mr. Whitney’s lecture of the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, and prompted you to the principal’s office at 10:57 a.m. Now, it wasn’t an unusual occurrence for Principal Higgins to often call you down as you were a valued student representative of Hawkins High, though you quickly knew your visitation had nothing in relation to an honor medal or scholarship award. No, it became quite evident that such subject matter was beyond any congratulations to you, because upon entering, you were faced with a choleric Nancy Wheeler, displeased Principal Higgins, and timid Fred Benson. You were fucking screwed, I mean, Principal Higgins quite literally had a yearbook in his hand. Crazy part of it all is that a good third of your being actually believed you may have gotten away with it, but they managed to find out in a matter of two fucking hours. Who were you kidding?

There was only so much nonchalant-ness you could mask, though your previous revelation of being unable to control your facial expressions was really biting you in the ass, and your insistent cracking under pressure was palpable. 

Your wide eyes flashed between everyone as they stared you down. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t even manage to speak. And they didn’t speak. Why wasn’t anyone speaking?

“Aw, you miss me already, Higgy-”

Everyone’s attention snapped at Eddie’s sneering voice as he strutted his grand entrance, though he was quick to flinch back in surprise when he saw everyone looking at him. And you, shit you were here! You were here looking at him. He’d been searching for you all morning just to apologize, and now you were here… with everyone… why was everyone here?

“Now that I have everyone situated,” Principal Higgins cleared his throat, “I’d like to clear up a matter that has been brought to my attention. I’m sure as you all are well aware of, an unauthorized change has been made to our yearbook and I’m looking to get to the bottom of it.” Higgins turned to you, “Ms. Y/L/N,” he spoke with such care, “this is a safe place for honesty. Did Mr. Munson subject you into making these changes?” With a dramatic slam to his desk, the yearbook was turned open to showcase Hellfire’s designated spot on the page.

“What?!” Both you and Eddie questioned in unison. 

“I didn’t “subject” her to shit!” He was quick to rightfully defend. 

“Language!” Principal Higgins was even quicker to yell back. 

The atmosphere was taut, and it felt like their judgmental stares were swallowing you into an endless blackhole of utter disappointment and failure. You couldn’t even muster up the courage to meet their gaze, simply staring at the old rug beneath your sneakers, wishing it’d come alive and consume you already. 

“Ms. Y/L/N, is that true?” Principal Higgins lectured you.

A part of Eddie actually wished you would have lied and accused him of being the aggressor while you were the helpless victim, because that was the usual reality of Eddie Munson: to be denigrated. It would have justified his previous beratement against you from Friday, it would have supported his initial beliefs about you, it would have cleared him of being an asshole, and most of all, it would have changed the way he viewed you, from a genuinely beautiful person inside and out that took a sincere interest in bringing simple recognition to him and his friends to a cold-hearted superficial bitch that chalked up this elaborate plan as a vendetta with your jock friends.

But Eddie Munson knew you weren’t like that.

Which only made it hurt worse when he watched you pain through the sting of your manicured nails stabbing into your palms and your teeth sinking into your tender lip.

“Y-yes, that’s, uh, true, sir.” Your voice was so delicate, Eddie was ready to jump in and just take the blame. “He didn’t make me do anything, it was, uh, all me. I lied, and made him and his friends take the photo. And, well, I, uh, added the page and told Fred to print it.”

You shuddered at the sudden slap of the book, as Principal Higgins closed it with much despondency against you. “And is there valid reasoning as to why?!” Principal Higgins wasn’t one to be known for his placidness and he was quick to make that apparent. “You are the best student at this establishment, you should not be falling under influence of a hooligan like Mr. Munson! How have you fallen so naive all of a sudden?!”

You were really tugging on Eddie’s heart the way your eyes grew round with panic, completely helpless to the grown man scolding you, just as he did last Friday. And while he may have caused it the initial time, he’d be damned to watch it happen to you again.

“Hey, look, you can insult me all you want, but you don’t have to yell at her like she made some dire mistake!” Eddie lambasted Principal Higgins, far more harsh than any regular tone Eddie used when he was regularly being reprimanded. 

Higgins could only scoff in disbelief. “Vandalizing school property isn’t a mistake to you, Mr. Munson?! Well, given your grotesque track record of uncivilized activities, it seems as though I’ve answered my own question!” He sneered back with intended offense.

“Please, ‘vandalizing school property?!’” Eddie mocked. “She fucking put our picture in the yearbook, and for good reason, too. You’re the one at fault here, excluding students from recognition!”

The thudding sound of your heartbeat was completely muting you from the onslaught of shouts that was suffocating you in the tight room. While Nancy Wheeler was beginning to contemplate if telling Principal Higgins was too far, Fred Benson was merely watching with joy that none of the blame was being casted on him, and you, well, your body was racking with stiffness, as it suddenly felt like your airway was tightening every breath out of you. Your hands began shaking by your side, unable to control the instantaneous wave of trepidation, as everything was beginning to blur around you. 

And no one was noticing. 

“I have rightful reasons to exclude your gang of misfits from my yearbook!” Principal Higgins walked from his desk, standing against Eddie with pure spite in his eyes. “You and your posse of cons and aberrations have done nothing but taint the reputation of our school and town, running around like imbeciles who have nothing better to do than waste their lives away! And I will not stand to have you be associated with the work I’ve done to correct this school from delinquents like yourself!”

Chest heaving and nostrils flared, the Eddie Munson from the cafeteria instance was back, though angrier, and he was two seconds from actually gaining an assault charge from hitting Principal Higgins square in the face. But the older man was quick to turn, and eject his dissonant castigate towards you. 

“And you, missy!” Your eyes were blinking posthaste with fret to control the swell of tears that were burning your eyes, at the clashing outburst being directed against you. “How did you even gain the facilities to take such picture?!” 

Your mouth was dry with consternation, unable to formulate words, and simply quivering your mouth open.

And unlucky for you, Fred Benson spoke for you.

“After our yearbook meeting on Friday,” heads snapped at his gravelly voice, “she said she was going to stay after to work, and that she would lock up herself. She must have taken the key, and stolen a camera.”

Higgins scoffed with great disgust as he judged you, before turning to Nancy. “Ms. Wheeler, as president of the Yearbook Committee, had you permitted her to do so?” 

Nancy looked at you with guilt. She hadn’t anticipated the situation to blow up this much, though she spoke honestly to the authoritative eyes of Higgins. “Uh, no, I didn’t.” She meekly answered. 

“And Mr. Munson,” Eddie rolled his eyes, trying to control his frustrations before doing something he wouldn’t be able to take back. “When did Ms. Y/L/N enforce these photos?”

“Why the hell does that even matter?” Eddie gritted with a clenched jaw of tension.

“Mr. Munson, you choose not to answer me, and I will not hesitate to place you as an accomplice, and you certainly cannot afford another detention or suspension if you’re planning on finally ending this school year as a graduate.” In a perfect world, Eddie Munson would have lied for you and lessened whatever punishment you were about to receive, but Hawkins, Indiana was far from perfect, the threat made him budge under the pressure of his potential future and your distraught eyes.

“It was, uh, after her cheer practice. After school.” He sheepishly murmured with regret.

“Ah,” Principal Higgins turned to your shaking stature. “So, not only did you make unauthorized changes to the school yearbook, but you stole school property, used our equipment prohibitively outside of school hours, and actively unsubordinated my authority. I have to say, I am awfully disappointed in the person you have become, Ms. Y/L/N, and I am ashamed to have valued you so highly when you simply choose to go down the path of delinquency.” Everything about Principal Higgins words were humiliating and slammed you into a vicious cycle of believing the worst about yourself. “Finish the rest of your day,” he sighed, “but you’ll be suspended for the rest of the week for your actions.” Your heart sank at his news, and Eddie stood dumbfounded that he contributed to it. 

Your visions grew blurry under the swell of tears, and your breath was becoming sporadic with panic, and everyone just kept fucking staring at you. “N-no, sir, p-please!” You choked, “I-I have scholarships, a-and acceptances that I-I’m still waiting to hear back from, this could ruin that for me, p-please, sir!”

While your pleads were being disregarded, everyone stood stun watching your fate unfold in front of you. Eddie Munson didn’t know what to do. Nobody did. On top of being berated by him from Friday, you were now facing the worst possible consequence for something so trivial, and he watched it happen. Granted, there was quite literally nothing Eddie could do to fix the situation, but seeing you stand there, panicked about your future and trying to conceal your incoming sobs through the ache of heart palpitations, it was fucking excruciating for him to witness. 

“You should have thought about that before you made your choices. Everything is on you.” His words were ringing in your ear like a loop confirming everything you’ve ever hated about yourself. “I’ll be sure to let your father know of the news, and as for your spot on the committee, it is up to Ms. Wheeler to determine where you stand. Now go, everyone back to class.”

Fred Benson was first to leave, giddy to have been cleared from any trouble. Eddie Munson should have left, but he couldn’t stand to leave, simply watching you turn to Nancy Wheeler in a flash. Your round eyes were pleading to her to let you stay, but her previous words of “This is your only strike,” was tormenting you. She sighed, “I’m sorry,” and the shake of her head answered everything before she could verbalize it. 

You were off. 

You stormed out of the room, bumping shoulders with Eddie, though with no malice intent, just simply needing to get out. The second you reached the clearing of the empty hall, your tears were drowning your cheeks, your sobs so unbearably hard your breathing staggered for release. Suddenly, your little cashmere sweater felt like it was sticking to your skin, giving you hot flashes that brought dizziness to your pounding head. The blood battering your ears cleared out any noise, including Eddie’s calls of your name. He reached out to hold your arm, causing you to severely flinch in hysteria, and he appeared devastatingly concerned for your state of being.

“Sorry! Ar-are you okay?” He winced at the loud sob you choked out, as he felt stupid for even asking you that question. “Look, everything, uh, everything’s gonna be fine.” He rushed to reassure. In truth, Eddie Munson was completely talking out of his ass, he didn’t know if everything was going to be fine, your panicking was just causing him to panic, and all he wanted was for you to be okay. “J-just, uh, breathe for me.” He offered. 

“I-I c-can’t! I’m scared, Eddie, help me!” You pleaded with frightened eyes. 

Your beg hit too close to home. Suddenly, Eddie was a little boy curled up in the corner of his trashed living room, as he watched his parents abuse one another with words and fists. He pleaded the same words to his parents, who merely ignored his shaking little body. Such horrific events disfigured Eddie Munson’s belief of healing. No one cared for his emotions, no one cared for his feelings, and no one cared to make sure he was okay. So, yes, Eddie Munson yelled at you Friday night because he was petrified. Petrified to be hurt, just as everyone else had done, because to Eddie Munson, that was his fate. To be hurt and to be forgotten. Maybe that’s why he cared so much about being excluded from the school yearbook. While anyone would have rightfully been upset, being excluded cemented the notion that Eddie Munson was disposable. His father spoke it, the townspeople spoke, his teachers spoke, and his peers spoke it. But you didn’t, and that fucking scared him. It’s why he yelled, it’s why he panicked, and it’s why he’d try anything to help you right now.

“I-I know, sweetheart, just listen to me, please.” He quietly spoke. “I’m not gonna touch you or anything, I just really need you to listen to me.”

You fervently nodded your head, and he sighed with relief, because though minor, it was progress, and progress was incredible.

“I, uh, I want you to focus on my voice, okay?” His wide eyes connected with your red ones. “I wouldn’t lie to you, and I mean it when I say everything will be okay. I-I’ll make sure of it.” 

Could he physically do that? No. But would he try his damn hardest, putting his being through anything to make it happen? Yes. For you.

“Okay, I want you to-”

“What are you doing to her?!”

Eddie’s eyes screwed shut with disappointment. 

Jessica fucking Lewis.

“Get away from her!” She charged past him to get to your hysterical figure. “Did you do something?!”

“No, no, I’m trying to fucking help her.” Eddie implored. “Stop yelling, she’s having a fucking panic attack.” He gritted through his teeth.

“Don’t fucking come near her ever again, you freak!” Eddie watched as you tried to get your words out, but your shrinking throat made it impossible to get your voice out, and he recoiled, watching the fear in your eyes as Jessica held a tight grip in your arms. 

But before he could stop her, Jessica was dragging you into the girls bathroom, and he stood frozen doing everything in his power to not rip out his hair in frustration. 

-

Aside from her fault-finding comments against Eddie, Jessica Lewis had actually been a fairly good friend to you through the years of cheer, connecting with the girls through the pact of lifelong sisterhood, as she insisted. Though such pact also came with unwarranted advice when she felt one of you was “falling out of line” with a pristine, perfect image. That being said, when she found you panicking at the hands of Eddie Munson, she was actually concerned, impetuous, yes, but concerned, nonetheless. She’d sat with you, decisively skipping the rest of Mrs. Otis’ home economics class, to console you, bitching out any innocent girl to leave as they attempted to alleviate themselves, while you sat heaving with the back of your thighs sticking to cold tiles of the bathroom. When you did finally manage to catch your breath and calm your heart rate to a healthy status, Jessica had petted your hair with care, constantly asking what was wrong and what Eddie had done. Through your tremored voice, you hoarsely clarified that “He didn’t do anything,” and “He was just trying to help.” That revelation had actually baffled Jessica Lewis, honestly, some part of her believing you to be lying, but she gave it a rest when you assiduously shook your head in response to her asking what was actually wrong. By then, the bell had rung to signal the start of third period.

And it was during said third period when your situation only worsened completely unbeknownst to you.

While you were in the middle of trying to focus on your quiz—which proved damn near impossible after today’s events—Fred Benson was seemingly trying to get back at you for nearly inducing him into a heart attack after your actions almost cost him his spot on the Newspaper and Yearbook Committee (In reality, Nancy Wheeler had only yelled at him for not previously checking the books).

See, once Fred had informed the rest of the Yearbook Committee of what you had done and how you were being punished, the news had spread like wildfire; nerds, geeks, punks, jocks, everyone knew one version or another. “Perfect Cheerleader Falls Under Satanic Cultist’s Influence and Vandalizes School Facilities,'' small town high school students sure had a talent to dramatize any given situation. You’d only taken a picture, that’s all it was, but the students of Hawkins High had conspired together to formulate you into a freak slut who allegedly got fucked by the Eddie Munson after cheer practice in exchange for putting his club in the yearbook.

As the students of your class hurtled to mitigate the dreaded boredom of the school day with the clashing laughter and stale food of lunch, you sighed in your seat, head pounded and anxiety still churning in your mind and stomach, slowly packing up your belongings before handing over the quiz—quite literally the worst you’ve ever performed on one. Lunch seemed like the worst possible thing to conquer, right now. Despite the horrid grumbling of your stomach, you felt no need to satiate that hunger, as your appetite was long gone for the afternoon. In addition, you’d known Jessica Lewis long enough to know that she had informed all your friends of your panic attack, and if you chose to call her out on it, you knew you would only be met with a “I’m only trying to help,” as if you needed an intervention. She’d done it to Paige Semore when the girl healthy gained a couple pounds over the summer and got ridiculed by Jess.

But when you entered the cafeteria, you quickly wished you were subjected to Jessica Lewis’ harmful “advice”, rather than the reality you got.  

The sound of the heavy double doors announced your arrival, and suddenly all eyes were on you. No, like quite literally, all eyes were on you. No greeting smiles from acquaintances, no shying-away looks from crushing students, no bright wave hello from Chrissy Cunningham from across the cafeteria, in fact, she was heavily avoiding you, seemingly finding the table more interesting as Jason Carver glared at you. Everyone was staring at you as if, without notice, you had become the town pariah. Because you had. Your perturbation had bombarded you like a missile hit, as quiet whispers flooded your senses. Peering around you caught his eyeline. Eddie. His brows had severely been furrowed with much worry, because he knew. He knew how quickly it went around, and he knew just how bad the news got twisted. Now, he was no stranger to the onslaught of destructive rumors, but you weren’t, and with the day you had, his chest was pounding with dread for you.

Chalking it up to merely being in your head, you swallowed the lump in your throat, and with quick steps, you sped to your usual lunch table. But everyone kept staring- your friends were staring. “Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?” You whispered, as they genuinely looked at you with disgust. 

“Why don’t you tell us?” Jason scowled. “Seems like you’re the one who caused all of this, you desperate slut.”

Your mouth dropped incredulously. “What did you just call me?”

“You fucking heard me!” Jason stood from his chair, rejecting Chrissy’s quiet ask to not cause a scene. “It’s exactly what you are.” He laughed.

Eddie Munson’s residual anger was fueling. Hard. He stood from his chair all the way across the room, metal legs scraping the floor with a deafening screech. But his presence only caught the worst attention. “Oh, would you look at that? Your little freak coming to help you?”

Eddie faltered at your watery eyes, begging for everything to just stop. If he spoke, nothing would help you. “What are you talking about?” Your voice stung with pleads to just understand what was happening to you.

“Stop acting like you don’t fucking know!” Andy’s booming voice startled you. “You wanna choose some gross freak to fuck, then fine by us, go right ahead, but don’t think that you’ll be able to with us!” Andy McAvoy was taking it far more personal. He liked you. That was obvious. But hearing the rumors simply led him to believe you chose Eddie Munson over him.

“What?” Your voice cracked in distress. 

Eddie had had enough. 

“She didn’t fucking do anything!” He marched his way over. All the boys of the basketball team stood in preparation for a fight that Eddie Munson was known to love to finish. Finish, not start. “Your bland lives got that fucking boring you all have to go around making shit up to make things interesting?! She didn’t do anything!”

“Aw, defending your precious little fuck toy, isn’t that cu-”

Chrissy Cunningham's shrilling scream startled the entire cafeteria as Jason Carver’s blood stained her powdery skin. You flinched at the bone-crunching punch that busted Jason’s pretty face, and everything felt heavy in your chest. Your hands were beginning to shake beyond your control, as everything was horrifyingly disfiguring in front of you. It was happening again. Before your mind was about to shut off from the assault of today’s events, your instinct had elicited all rash decisions, and you had to leave. All you could comprehend was the diffusing sounds of students instigating the fight before everything fell silent and you trudged down the hall to escape.

Staff were quick to call Eddie’s name before another detrimental hit was casted upon Jason. It was only then, Eddie’s judgment was left unclouded, and he noticed you were gone. “Did she leave?” He hadn’t necessarily asked anyone in particular, moreso questioning himself, but Chrissy Cunningham had ardently answered him with a swift nod of her head and bulging eyes of fear. 

Eddie broke through the doors with force, catching you near the end of the hall. “Y/N!” You didn’t turn, though. Every repeated call of your name fell with no response, and he chased you down, following you into the zephyr of the afternoon weather outside. “Y/N, c’mon, wait!” He’d grabbed your arm.

“What?!”

Eddie staggered at your biting tone. Not once, in the four years he’d known of you—freshman to senior year—had he ever heard your voice so malicious, yet drowning in urgence to make everything stop. Your inconsolable state devastating him helplessly. 

“I-I’m sorry.” He sighed so softly.

“‘Sorry?’” You affronted. “Now you’re sorry?! After everything that’s happened! Why, is it out of fucking pity?!” Internally, Eddie was begging you to stop, because if you kept yelling at him like this, his defense mechanism was going to lash out, especially when he was already angry from everything that’s just happened. “I don’t want some stupid apology, not when every time you appear, my life gets worse! I just want you away!” You cried.

Eddie scoffed in disbelief. Were you actually blaming him for all this? No, you weren’t. But after the day you just had, you were not looking to be comforted by someone who partially hurt you. But Eddie Munson couldn’t understand. His judgment had a habit of being clouded; his cynicism about anything good happening to him had protected him from a lifetime of hurt, and now, unfortunately, your rightfully pent up polemic about him was believing his suspicions to be true. 

“This isn’t my fucking fault, you’re the one who wanted to take our picture in the first place!” He shouted, shielding his vulnerability. 

“Because you made a big deal out of it!” You screamed with frustration. “You yelled at me first, you said mean things to me first- why- why were you so mean to me?!” You blubbered through drowning tears.

“Because- be- ugh,” Eddie pained with vexation. “You fucking terrify me, okay?! You terrify the living shit out of me!” Guarding his tearing eyes from your shattered being, he groaned realizing you weren’t going to understand unless he opened up, but he couldn’t bear to, and maybe that was the best solution to move on, run away. “It’s just fucking hard when, you know, you look like that and you’re fucking you, and I’m just me, and you have a great life-”

“‘Great life?!’” You derided through tears. “You know nothing about my life!” You shoved him. “You know nothing about me!” You shoved him again. Eddie was quick to retrain your wrist in a tight grip, preventing you from touching him again, no matter how hard you tried. “Stop acting like you know everything about me when you know absolutely nothing! I’m not going to stand here, and let you say mean things to me, when you know nothing, do you understand?! I have never done anything to you, and I never will, because unlike you, I’m not some sulking asshole who can’t handle their fucking emotions, and uses their sorry life to lash out at people because they’re too pathetic to deal with their own problems!”

And maybe your rash psycho analysis of Eddie Munson was too much, or not harsh enough, but either way, your critical comments derailed him off the edge of sanity. He aggressively dropped your wrist, and got into your face with a full might of fury. “You are such a miserable bitch!” He shouted, invading your space with intent, causing you to wince and step away from him, but he wasn’t relenting. “For once, you got a fucking taste of what your bullshit friends have been doing to me, and now you can’t fucking handle it?! God, just love playing the fucking victim, don’t you?! Maybe they are right, maybe you are just some fucking desperate slut craving fucking attention?! Is that why you did all this shit in the first place?!”

The way your face flashed with sudden dejection had him biting his tongue. Oh, fuck. He regretted it. He fucking immediately regretted it. 

Eddie began furiously shaking his head in denial to what he just uttered, he couldn’t believe it. “No,” he heaved out. “No, I-I didn’t mean it, I’m s-sorry.” He could only muster a whisper.

You didn’t even have the energy to fight back, merely accepting his words as truth with a silent sob that burned your being. “Yeah,” you shakily sighed with a sniffle of sobs. “I’m sorry, too, Eddie. I would have loved being your friend, and now I just want nothing to do with you.” His heart dropped at your calmness. When he first spoke those words to you, demanding you to stay away from him and his friends, he knew a deep part of him didn’t mean it. Why would he, you were fucking perfect? But you, the stillness and tranquility of your words cemented them to be the final verdict. You were done. “So please,” you wiped your drenched face from tears, “just leave me alone and stay away from me.”

No malice, no anger, no fury.

Just pure defeat.

𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 | This is my first time making a tag list, and I got overwhelmed—in a good way—that I simply tagged anyone who commented. If you were not looking to be tagged, I’m so sincerely sorry, and please let me know to respect your wishes and remove you!

(Big, fat kisses to all of you) @televisionboy @batkin028 @lostdreamingwallflower @cevais @myfavoritesareproblematic @btbabyy @married-to-the-music01 @super-nova-03 @deathnote6666 @cherrytc @sleepy-bunnie @eggo-segual @bambi-horror @aheadfullofsteverogers @sademoloser @averagestudent03 @freakymunson @princess-eddie @imagine-a-world-blog1 @negativity4you

@nope-thanks @allsortsedits @callingmrsbarnes @f0rgggg @hurricane-abigail @sweet-sunflower64 @redlovett @goldstars-to-all @eddiesguitarskills @goslytherin @sashaphantomhive @maxinehufflepuffprincess @emeritusemeritus @angel-upon @middle-of-the-earth @scarletwitchwhore @my-tearsricochet @pixiepaintt @ericasdumbworld @animechick555

@gewrgia-black @hookandchain @roseanddaggerlarry @prestinalove @sebismyhubby @maddsunn

(I’m so sorry, some blogs are not popping up when I try to tag y’all, if it’s an issue on my part, I’ll try my best to fix it as soon as possible)

[harrysgal]

I DIG YOUR CINEMA (7)

harry styles x yn aspiring filmmaker — social media AU

About the smau: yn starts posting videos on youtube and is trying to build a career as a filmmaker. Things are going pretty well for her and she starts getting more attention when she creates content about shows she goes to. She’s also a fan of Harry’s music and some of his fans start getting suspicious when his team starts interacting with her.

Disclaimer: The story it’s set in 2021 and it will follow their relationship through the LOT leg in the US. Since this is nothing but fiction, I will be following some of the real timeline but also adding my own stuff. On top of that, I won’t be basing myself on Harry’s actual posts.

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PART 6 // MASTERLIST

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I DIG YOUR CINEMA (PART 7) — FROM DETROIT TO ST. PAUL

liked by yourinstagram, bestfriend, gemmastyles and 4,105 others 

thesecretfangirl “I have this dream to build my career surrounded by people who see me as a whole person and are actually interested in what I have to offer, so I’m trying my best to make it come true.”

I am beyond excited to announce that this week we’ll be joined by ＠yourinstagram to chat all about her journey to become a filmmaker, the repercussions of her latest youtube video, and the ups and downs of social media! 

If for any reason you still don’t know who I’m talking about, please check her youtube channel and get fascinated by her talent. Then join us tomorrow on Spotify for a new episode of “The Secret Fangirl Life” and fall in love with the incredible woman she is. 

I promise you won’t regret it!

view all 1,009 comments 

user27 omg what??  user19 SHUT UP  user17 the collab i never knew i needed  yourinstagram thank you so much for having me! i had the best time and you’re amazing ❤️ harryfan56 🤔 bestfriend i’m sooooo excited!! 

Sep 19, 2021. •

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liked by annetwist, lookitsnyoh, paulithepsm and 93,015 others 

yourinstagram just got back to the hotel after having the best time with the best people and i just wanna say thank you for allowing me to live this dream :) i dont take one single second for granted and i know wouldnt be here without you guys. so yeah, thanks.

view all 10,461 comments

user1 omg i cant wait to listen to ＠thesecretfangirl tomorrow 💗

↳ yourinstagram omg yes im so nervous about it i even forgot to mention that lol

harryfan3 you deserve every second <3

↳ yourinstagram thats so sweet of you to say thank you <3

bestfriend i miss hanging out with you cant wait to see you

↳ yourinstagram me neither ily i miss you

harryfan24 WAS HARRY WITH YOU?  harryfan48 When are you going to post another video??? user19 yn being equally casual and sexy on my feed 🔥 harryfan9 teach me how to be you pls 

↳ harryfan17 no bc i was thinking the exact same thing. i could’ve never pulled off a pic like this 😂 ↳ harryfan52 I still don’t get what’s the big deal tbh

loveynrry having the best time with the best people means having the best time with harry? 🥺

↳ harryfan13 probably :’) they’re always together ↳ harryfan56 actually they haven’t been seen together in a while. She only keeps being vague about it so people like you think she’s with him. You’re welcome. 

user6 Love to see that you’re having fun!  harryfan70 deuxmoi just posted a picture of harry having dinner with a blond girl so i think we can all laugh at your dumb attempts to mislead people

Sep 19, 2021. •

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liked by harryfan26, harryfan34 and 183 others

harryupdates Harry out for dinner tonight in Detroit (via deuxmoi) 

view all 97 comments

harryfan6 he took off the mask, took off the jacket… What’s coming off next? lol harryfan11 okay ngl i’m confused guys harryfan19 tbh i dont know how i feel about the idea of harry going out for dinner with a girl thats not yn  harryfan35 this means yn wasn’t hanging out with him? 🥺 harryfan21 Unbelievable. So he was obsessing over Yn up until last week and now he’s fully invested in this other girl? C’mon. harryfan58 😂 Let’s wait and see how this “mystery girl” is connected to the industry and watch her get famous just like Yn did  harryfan27 I don’t like deuxmoi blinds about this :(

↳ harryfan29 yeah i dont trust deuxmoi but idk they really made it seem like he was on a date and i honestly don’t get it ↳ harryfan31 not only that but they also hinted that yn and him broke up? :(  ↳ harryfan32 I mean they were never dating in the first place so idk how they could’ve had broken up lol but okay i guess ↳ harryfan38 deuxmoi didn’t say they broke up. she said “Harry and Yn started realizing they weren’t on the same page about the way she’s handling things so they took a step back from each other”.  ↳ harryfan15 there’s absolutely nothing that will make me believe any of this.

Sep 19, 2021. •

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liked by harryfan, user1 and 39 others

ynupdates Hello! 

We created this account because we think ＠yourinstagram deserves to have a place where her achievements are celebrated. So from now on we’ll be posting updates on her career and also sharing information about her projects. 

👉 We will respect Yn’s privacy and keep her face out of any pictures/videos. 

👉 Hate won’t be tolerated and people with disrespectful comments will be blocked. 

🌸 Also, Yn was a guest on ＠thesecretfangirl podcast and the episode is out NOW! We’re working on writing down some parts of the interview, but the entire thing is incredible and worth the listen, so head out to Spotify if you haven’t yet! 

view all 17 comments

harryfan I love this!  user17 😍😍 where is this picture from? I haven’t seen it before! 

↳ ynupdates it’s an old ig post of hers :) 

ynrryfan omg yesssss the interview was so cute :’) the way she talks about harry <3 

↳ user7 what does she say about him? Can’t listen to the whole thing right now 😔 ↳ ynrryfan she mentions they clicked since the moment they met and how much she admires him! 

user9 Yn being the sweetest talking about being on tour while he’s out there with some other girl. Classic man behavior. 

↳ harryfan5 we don’t know who that girl is. Could be a friend, could be work related.  ↳ user9 Either way, I just want my girl to be left alone 🤷‍♀️

Sep 19, 2021. •

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liked by harryfan3, user9 and 103 others

ynupdates Here it is! ＠yourinstagram on ＠thesecretfangirl podcast talking about Harry Styles’ team reaching out to her, working with Molly Hawkins, and being invited to join the LOT! (1/3)

view all 23 comments

harryfan harry watching her videos and then having his team reach out <3 user5 i love how she praises molly and then keeps bringing her up here and then during the interview. it shows how little we know about the people she hangs out with!  user17 omg you’re doing the lords work with this posts I LOVE YOU

Sep 20, 2021. •

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liked by harryfan9, user13 and 91 others

ynupdates ＠yourinstagram on ＠thesecretfangirl podcast talking about the Love on Tour project and Youtube. (2/3)

view all 19 comments

user3 when she said she doesn’t know if she’ll post on youtube again my heart lowkey shattered ngl 😭

↳ iloveyn Right? Like I get what she meant especially when she mentioned she’s trying to step into something bigger and doesn’t want to overwork herself but I miss her content :( ↳ user11 I mean it makes sense… she never wanted to be a youtuber, she wants to be a filmmaker 

harryfan19 so what are we thinking? LOT movie? 🤔

Sep 20, 2021. •

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liked by bestfriend, user1 and 123 others

ynupdates ＠yourinstagram on ＠thesecretfangirl podcast talking about tabloids, rumors, and how she’s trying to protect herself and her career. (3/3)

To listen to the entire thing, head over to spotify. We’ll be posting more parts through the week, but the 43 minutes of interview is definitely worth the listen. 

view all 31 comments

harryfan19 thank you so much for posting this user11 i love how happy she was during the whole thing and yet when it got to this part you could tell things changed and even her voice changed ynrryfan harry hired me bc he believed in my work HAS ME ON THE FLOOR harryfan MY BABY GOT ALL PROTECTIVE OVER MY OTHER BABY  harryfan5 this woman is EVERYTHING

↳ user25 for real tho. ＠harrystyles don’t be a fool n stop messing around CMON

Sep 20, 2021. •

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liked by harryfan23, harryfan37 and 1,245 others

lotflorals Harry posing for a picture tonight #lotdetroit (via fanattheshow)

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harryfan he’s so adorable stoppppp ynrryfan pls ＠yourinstagram i beg you release that footage PLEASE harryfan26 Why is everyone saying he was posing for Yn?

↳ harryfan19 bc we were there and we saw it happening  ↳ harryfan26 Oh, okay. 

Sep 20, 2021. •

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liked by bestfriend, harrystyles, mollyjane_x and 107,574 others 

yourinstagram a few days ago i had the pleasure to sit in front of ＠thesecretfangirl for the most comfortable and easy interview thats ever been done (not that ive been interviewed more than three times, but you get what i mean) (i hope). it was nerve-wracking to take this step and talk about some of those things, but im glad i did so. as someone who loves to tell stories, it hasnt been easy to see other people trying to tell mine so carelessly and disrespectfully. for days, ive been torn between saying something or shutting my mouth. ive been also sad. confused. angry. ive argued. ive cried. ive rolled my eyes. ive asked for advice. ive taken some time to myself to think. and even after all that, i still dont know what the best thing to do would be, but what i know is that i have never — EVER — told a story without consent. ive never talked about a person without making sure i wouldnt twist the facts, or that i wouldnt hurt their feelings by adding my own perspective as a storyteller. and yet the things that have been told about me werent told with my consent. truths and lies were intentionally intertwined without worry about what the consequences could be. and trust was broken in order to make temporary profit over something that was nothing but cheap gossip. so, in the end, i decided i wouldnt correct the narrative, because i dont want THAT to be my story. i want my story to be the one i decide to share about myself. which is why i said yes and sat down for a chat with such a lovely, fun and respectful girl. the episode is available on spotify. i hope you enjoy it (and that i didnt embarrass myself) <3 

view all 807 comments 

user1 you’re so sweet i wish i could give you a hug <3 mollyjane_x You are one of my favorite people, too 🥰 lookitsnyoh ❤️ bestfriend ❤️ harryfan21 you’re so polite and kind when you could just say fuck off to everyone lol  harryfan im forever happy i found your youtube channel  user34 girl why so long i cant read that much without falling asleep lol harryfan68 if you didn’t want people talking about you you shouldn’t have joined the biggest tour in the world :D  harryfan26 release harrys picture please we beg you user45 okay but… do you have a bf or not? 😭 WHY DONT YOU JUST SAY IT

↳ iloveyn3 You didn’t listen to the podcast, did you? Lol go listen and you’ll find out the answer

ynrryfan HARRY LIKED THE POST ynrryfan sorry i got excited but ily <3 annetwist Sweet girl ❤️  user17 your laughter is sooo contagious! Listened to the whole thing with a smile on my face :))))

Sep 21, 2021. •

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liked by lookitsnyoh, bestfriend, annetwist and 103,514 others 

yourinstagram love on tour takes over st paul

view all 651 comments

harryfan LETS GOOOOOOOO harryfan15 the love band :’) THEY ARE ALL FRIENDS I LOVE IT user3 sightseeing post ✔️  bestfriend feel like you should be wearing a matching outfit too

↳ harryfan58 she’s not in the band tho ↳ bestfriend thank you but i didnt ask 😙 ↳ user7 lol you tell them

harryfan23 why isnt harry in the pic :(((((( harryfan31 did harry get you those flowers????

↳ yourinstagram i got them myself for myself <3 ↳ ynrrylover 👀 ↳ ynrryfan not her shutting down the rumors bf they even started lol ↳ harryfan17 why so quick to deny tho? 😭 ↳ harryfan38 trouble in paradise……. 

Sep 22, 2021. •

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— — — — — 

PART 8 — CHICAGO

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Tag list: @gem1712 @metanoiablxxm @namelesssreaderrr @ameerakane20 @cuddlyklaus @violacavs520 @hannah9921 — PLEASE READ: I’ll only add to the next tag list those who interact with this post. I hope you understand, thank you for your excitement.

[yandere-sins]

So... Honkai Star Rail... have you met Dr. Ratio yet? I have literally seen him twice so far and he has my whole being in a vice grip. Man has either put me in direct danger or towered ominously over me and acted completely dismissive the entire time. I am not okay.

I have met him! (However brief that was because I'm not sure if there's more of him when you defeat the boss (and I struggle with the bosses because I don't build support characters, yes >-<)) I saw him and I knew this one is also going into my pathetic yandere shoebox with Argenti, and I wish I could see more of him because I so wanna get into his personality and yandere-fy him lol

All I can say is... since Argenti I am really into pathetic yans and Ratio just fits sooo good in that category.

Don't get me wrong, he probably started out pretty scary! He has that manipulative, confident, cocky attitude that will make everyone turn on you for being rude and conceited when you try to go against what he's preaching. He'll absolutely try to separate you from you friends and coworkers until he's that saint that still allows you to tag along with him. No one will really mind if one day he just doesn't bring you back to work. Keeps you snug and locked up and terrified in his private hideouts, enjoying that he gets to lord over you. He'll be so enarmored with the thought you now need him, you can't say anything against him, Ratio is the one you have to submit to if you want to survive in the paradise he's creating for himself.

The towering over you probably happens a lot (at night as he watches you sleep and trying to understand you) because he wants so desperately to be acknowledged by you, not even caring if it means he has to be creepy or a stalker watching the camera feed of your room. And when you don't do what he wants you to, he tries, he really tries to ignore you, lock you up and leave the whole planet if he must, but his thoughts are always circling back to you, his heart always wondering what you're doing and if you are lonely and thinking of him.

But the thing is, the situation is scary and all, but he's not exactly an example punisher from the beginning.

So yeah, I see him to a 180 after he has aquired a darling, no more pondering about science or math (I don't even know yet what exactly he is into even) but about how to make his darling like him because they really don't. Darling is just sitting their reading their book, throwing in a "mhm" - "yeah" - "sure" while he's talking, and Ratio is getting really desperate over the lack of acknowledgement and the kind of connection he wants with his darling. It's his own fault, considering he completely ignored all the reasoning and pleading you did in the beginning. And when there weren't as many awful punishments, you just grew numb to the fear of his presence.

I can just see him throw a damn fit about his darling ignoring him. Either in their presence or out of their sight, but this man hates hates hates not being in the center of his darling's attention when he demands it and he's being really pathetic about it.

The problem is just that he really expects too much from his darling. He'll be good and feed them and give them books (reluctantly even one that the darling wants and not only the other five he wants them to read so they can talk about his interests) and expect praises and teary eyes and so many thanks that honestly, he'll just be so heartbroken when the darling is "okay, thanks" and goes back to not acknowledging him or his good deeds.

And yes, he has his scary moments where he takes his darlings out on "dates" into situation that frankly would not end well for them without his presence. But he does not understand why they are angry and crying from stress and fear after he took them out and even defended them from dangers.

Ratio has times where he punishes his darling or forces them to do something they don't want to do mercilessly. Where he uses them as needed for experiments or puts them in dangerous situations, knowing it's wrong, but using these moments to put him into a better light with his darling. He might be cunning, but once he realises that really, what is the darling supposed to do except shutting down when they meet deaf ears with every other reaction? Ratio begins to panic and that makes him into such a sweet, pathetic yandere, desperate for his darling.

Anyhow, I'm sure he can be scary temperamental, but I also like to think he's just not entirely made for having the upper hand in a relationship. (Sorry, I had these thoughts for such a long time, hope it was okay to jump on yours! I know they are a little different but your thoughts about him are super valid as well ♥)

[dixons-sunshine]

Punishment Enough | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

*GIF isn't mine.*

Summary: After Beth's death, Daryl took it out on himself. He hunted for the group, but refused to feed himself. One day, you've had enough, and you decided to take matters into your own hands.

Genre: Angst, fluff.

Era: Post Terminus; Pre Alexandria.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of death, blood.

Word count: 3k.

A/n: Alright, here's yet another vamp!Daryl fic to add to the growing number. This was originally supposed to be a 1k word thing, but it got way longer than I had anticipated lol. (ALSO, yes, I know some things in this isn't factual to most vampire things we see online, but I took some creative liberty and wrote it in a way that I liked.) Anyways, I hope you like this!

➳༻❀✿❀༺➳

“This is getting out of hand,” your leader and friend, Rick Grimes, whispered to you as he watched Daryl disappear into the woods for the millionth time since your journey on the road began a mere two weeks ago. “He needs to feed. He's going to die otherwise.”

You sighed as you watched one of your closest friends disappear beyond the treeline. You continued your snail's pace of a trek next to Rick, the heat from the blazing summer sun beating down on you relentlessly. Your stomach grumbled with hunger and you were thirsty beyond belief, but you knew that it couldn't compare to the discomfort the archer was experiencing. You had eaten, even if just a little, a few hours ago, while he hadn't fed since Beth had died, which was at that point already two weeks prior.

You knew that if he kept that up, he would die within the next few dies, maybe even the next few hours. He was punishing himself, and soon, he would pay the price for it.

“Rick? I don't mean to interrupt whatever intelligent discussion you were having with miss Y/n over here, but Rosita and I have managed to locate a river on the map not too far from here. If you send two people down to replenish our water supply, we should be ready to move on with our trek in about thirty minutes.”

Rick stared Eugene down for a few moments. You were sure that he was going to turn down the offer, but to your surprise and great relief, Rick finally conceded.

“We need to rest anyway, so okay. An hour. That's all I'm willing to offer up,” Rick told Eugene. Your leader whistled to capture everyone's attention, and raised his voice to be heard clearly. “We stop for now. Eugene says that there's a river not too far from here. Tara, Glenn, you two go refill our water supply. The rest of you, get as much rest as you can. We move again in an hour.”

Everyone nodded and dispersed, leaving you alone with your benevolent leader. You eyed the spot you had last seen Daryl, all the sounds and sights around you being evaporated from your mind. However, you were startled when Rick snapped his fingers in front of your eyes, recapturing your attention again.

“How about you go after him and see if you can talk to him?” Rick suggested, lightly patting you on the shoulder in encouragement. “If there's anyone he might listen to, it's you.”

“No, he won't listen to me,” you denied, a sullen expression on your face. “If he won't even listen to Carol, what chance do I have of getting through to him?”

Rick pursed his lips, trying to keep the words that wanted to spill from his lips to himself. He couldn't betray his found brother's trust like that. He wouldn't. That was something Daryl had to tell you on his own time, even if it took years to do so. All Rick could do in that moment was gently urge you to go talk to the man.

“Believe me, I have a feeling that you might be able to break through to him. Just go try, please? I don't want him to die just because he blames himself for something that isn't his fault.”

You inhaled sharply, but ultimately agreed. “Okay,” you mumbled, handing your bag over to Rick, but keeping your compound bow and knife handy just in case you needed it. “If I'm not back by the time you guys need to move on—”

“We go on without you,” Rick finished for you, slinging your bag over his shoulder. “I know. Just go check on him. See if you can get him to drink from something.”

You sent your leader a small nod, and turned on your heel to disappear into the woods. You walked in the general direction of where you saw the archer disappear, soon finding yourself surrounded by trees and dirt. You kept your eyes on the ground, lazer focused on the faint tracks of the man you were trying to find.

A chittering sound from above you redirected your attention from the ground to the area of where you heard it. Up in a tree, on a branch low enough to reach if you jumped, you spotted a total of three squirrels, all sitting in a straight line as they went on doing whatever squirrels fancied as entertainment. They were blissfully unaware of your lurking presence, so it made it easy to line up the shot perfectly.

By some stroke of luck, the arrow found it's mark in all three squirrels. Proud and a little giddy at the prospect of food, you walked towards the tree and jumped to get your prey from the branch. Marveling at the kill you made, you almost missed the sound of a twig snapping in the distance. Almost.

On instinct, you dropped the arrow holding the three squirrels and loaded your bow with another arrow, turning around and releasing it in the direction of the sound. The arrow flew towards the walker, but the walker caught it with ease. Calming down and allowing your eyes to adjust, you could see that it was not a walker. Instead, it was the very man you were tracking down.

Daryl Dixon.

“If ya wanna kill me, yer gon' have to do a lot better than an arrow,” Daryl mused, walking towards you to hand the deadly object back to you. “Wha' the hell are ya doin' here?”

“Looking for you,” you stated matter-of-factly, putting your arrow away. You looked up into Daryl's eyes, but instead of finding the usual blue irises that you have grown to love, you found red coloured ones in their place. A clear sign that he was starving. “We're worried about you. Rick thought I might be able to talk some sense into you.”

“Dun' need someone to talk no sense into me,” Daryl grumbled, turning around to stalk away again. “M'fine. Dun' need no damn babysitter. Leave me alone.”

Picking up the dead squirrels from the ground, you took off in a jog behind Daryl to keep up with his speed. Even though he was only walking, his enhanced speed made his pace faster than the average human's, hence why if he wanted to, he could lose you with ease.

“Daryl! Daryl, wait!” you pleaded with him, finally catching up enough to grab his arm. “Daryl—”

“I said, leave me alone, damnit!” Daryl roared, spinning around to look at you. A furious glare painted his features, but instead of being met with fear, he was met with a stubborn glare instead. Well, he could give you points for that, but he wouldn't give in to whatever you wanted from him. “Wha' dun' ya understand? I dun' need yer concern or yer company. M'fine on my own. I've been alone for decades. Dun' need to change tha' now.”

“Daryl, you need to feed,” you explained as calmly as you could, trying to keep your anger in check. It wouldn't do anyone any good if you were to snap at him right at that moment.

“M'fine,” Daryl replied stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

“Really? Because if you were fine, your eyes wouldn't be red right now,” you countered, motioning to his eyes. “Do you wanna die, Daryl? Because if you don't feed, that's exactly what's gonna happen.”

“Dun' need ya to lecture me, woman!” Daryl exclaimed loudly, waving his hand around in anger. “I know my own damn body better than ya do! I've been like this for a long time. I know when I need to feed and when I dun'!”

“Then why the fuck can't you see that you need to feed right now?!” you snapped, pushing Daryl's chest for emphasis. The man barely moved, his inhuman strength countering your attempts to sway him.“I may not be a vampire, and I may not know exactly how being one works, but I do know that you're either going to die, or lose control and hurt one of us. Is that what you want? Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't have to use all of your willpower to refrain from lunging at me and draining all of the blood from my body. Tell me that drinking my blood doesn't sound good to you right now.”

Daryl's silence only confirmed your suspicions. You scoffed and shook your head, taking one of the squirrels off the arrow and extending it towards the stubborn archer.

“Feed. Don't even think about saying no because I swear I'll fucking kill you.”

He knew there was no use of yelling at you anymore. What was the use of getting mad at you for caring about him? If anything, knowing that you did made him feel all funny inside. However, Daryl still shook his head in denial, refusing to take the dead animal from you. “Nah. Y'all need the meat to survive. If I drink the blood, my venom will taint the meat and then y'all can't eat it.”

“Taint the meat?” you questioned in confusion, furrowing your eyebrows. “I've seen you drink from a human before and they didn't turn. How's this any different?”

“Humans are different,” Daryl explained. “M'not gon' explain it to ya because I dun' even fully understand myself, but all I know is we dun' have control over our venom when it comes to animals. We do with humans. Tha's the most basic explanation I have fer ya.”

You nodded in understanding. You scanned your surroundings for a moment before your eyes fell on an empty can, and you had a lightbulb moment. You walked over to pick up the aforementioned object, before crouching down. You picked up one of the squirrels and, very carefully so that you didn't accidentally nick your finger, cut it in multiple places to drain it of its blood, into the can.

You could hear Daryl inhale sharply when the smell of blood flooded his nostrils. His already bloodred eyes darkened, and you could tell that his self-restraint was dwindling by the second. You had to make quick work of your activities, and fast, otherwise Daryl would lunge for the blood. And you didn't know whether or not the blood he went for would be the squirrel's, or yours.

Once the can was practically overflowing with blood, you hastily got up and pushed the object into his hands, some blood trickling over the edge and onto his hands.

“Drink,” you ordered him, leaving no room for argument.

Grumbling to himself, he brought the can up to his lips to slowly take a sip. However, as soon as that first drop of blood fell on his tongue, he drank the rest of it in hurried, messy gulps. Blood trickled down the sides of his mouth, and you had to resist the urge to bring your hands up to wipe the blood away.

In five seconds flat, the entire can was empty. Some colour returned to the archer's cheeks, and his eyes slightly changed from a deep crimson to a dull red. However, even though Daryl handed the can back to you as a way to say he was done, you knew it wasn't nearly enough. He needed way more than that, even if he wouldn't admit it. And, come hell or high water, you would make sure he drank more.

“Thanks,” Daryl mumbled, wiping at the blood and making an even bigger mess on his face. “Ya satisfied now?”

“Not even remotely,” you mused, picking up the three dead squirrels, one of which now had its blood drained, and offered one of them to him. “Here, take it. We need to head back and there isn't time to drain another one for you. Don't worry about one lousy squirrel. We'll survive.”

“But—”

“No buts, Daryl,” you cut him off, forcing the dead critter into his hands. You picked up your knife and sheathed it, before adjusting your bow on your back. You sent Daryl a look and walked off, calling to him over your shoulder. “C'mon. We gotta go.”

Cleverly sensing that there was no room for argument, Daryl followed behind you with a frustrated huff, shaking his head to himself at your stubbornness. However, your stubbornness was one of the many traits that made him feel drawn to you, one of the many things that made you perfect in his eyes. Well, it was perfect when the stubbornness wasn't directed towards him.

Unable to resist the urge any longer due to the taste he got from it earlier, Daryl brought the squirrel up to his mouth. He sunk his fangs into the dead animal and began to drink mouthfuls of the delicious crimson, his deep hunger not going away but being satiated for the time being.

“You need to stop this, Dar,” you began, shaking your head to yourself. “You need to stop punishing yourself. Beth's death isn't your fault. You need to know that. And you need to stop punishing yourself for it. Beth wouldn't want you to starve yourself. You know she wouldn't, so stop doing it, please. Blaming yourself for a death that wasn't even remotely your fault is punishment enough.”

Daryl drained the squirrel of the last of its blood, before withdrawing his mouth from the creature. He stared at you in wonder, walking beside you silently as he pondered over your words. He didn't believe that Beth's death wasn't his fault. He probably never would, but what he did believe was that Beth wouldn't want him to die. The girl voiced in so many different ways that she wanted him to live. And even though he felt terrible about her death, he decided that he would honour her. He would live because she couldn't. He would honour her by doing what she wanted him to do—he would live.

And, once he built up enough courage for it, he would honour her by following her advice and admitting his feelings to you.

The two of you walked from the treeline and back towards where the rest of the group rested. When the two of you made yourselves known, everyone looked up and shared similar looks of relief at the sight of the blood on Daryl's face and the drained squirrel in his hands.

Everyone except Gabriel, who looked at Daryl in disgust and fear, but was wise enough not to say anything. The last time he had voiced his obvious disdain towards the archer because of what he was, he was met with a punch from you and quite the amount of hateful words and glares from the rest of the group. It was clear that nobody would stand for anything but acceptance towards what Daryl was, and he appreciated that.

“Glad to see you're looking better, brother,” Rick voiced to Daryl, getting up to give his found brother a quick hug.

“Thanks,” Daryl thanked him, patting him lightly on the back before withdrawing from the hug. “She wouldn't let me not drink anythin', so ya really should be glad 'bout her. And she found y'all some dinner.”

“Sweet!” Carl voiced excitedly, eliciting a bunch of laughs from most of the adults there. “My dad found us a few rabbits, too.”

Rick took the squirrels from you with a grateful nod. “Seems like we're gonna be here for another hour or so. Let's cook these up, get ourselves regenerated.”

As everyone fell into their own separate conversations and Rick and Carl took it upon themselves to start a small fire, you walked over to a tree before sliding down against it, looking up at Daryl who had followed you there.

“M'surprised ya didn't offer yer blood to me,” Daryl told you, sliding down next to you.

“Why the hell would I do that?” you asked him in genuine confusion, staring into his eyes that were busy turning back to their usual beautiful blues.

“The ladies back at the prison always offered their blood to me when I couldn't feed on animals. Figured ya'd do the same.”

“Yeah, no. I like you and all, but that's not something you're gonna get from me anytime soon, no matter how hot you are,” you laughed, shaking your head.

“Ya think m'hot?” Daryl asked in surprise, eyeing you with a small smile.

“I—shut up. Don't let it go to your head,” you mumbled, hugging your knees to your chest.

Daryl chuckled. “I won't,” he promised, looking over at you with a soft look in his eyes. “Thanks again. Fer the squirrel and the lecture. I know I said I didn't need it, but I did. So, thanks.”

You smiled and brought one of your hands up to rest on Daryl's knee, rubbing your thumb against it softly. “Of course. I'd do anything for you, Daryl.”

Daryl ducked his head in shyness. However, he couldn't help the way he felt about you. In less than an hour, you had managed to track him down, give him a much needed lecture, and made him feed on something. You truly were amazing to him, but he didn't know if you'd ever feel the same about him. The two of you were so vastly different, in personalities and species, so he wouldn't be surprised if his feelings were one-sided.

Unbeknownst to him at the time, however, you did feel the same. And that first night in Alexandria, you showed him exactly how you felt about him.

[webslingingslasher]

I’m on my period and my cramps are kiiiilling me. Like legit so bad I threw up. And ofc I can’t stop thinking about nerdy!peter, and how much better he would make me feel rn:((((

So if you have the time, I would really like to request a blurb of nerdy!peter taking care of reader that has a more intense period lol<3

(ALSO I need to say that I love you so much!! And I literally read everything you write hehe. Thank you for feeding my tasm addiction!! <33)

*cleaning out my inbox.*

this but you're also not trying to make him feel bad so you're trying to hide it but peter keeps noticing you wincing or awkwardly shifting and he knows it was a planned meet up but:

'do you want me to leave?'

'huh?' you sit straighter and ignore a stab in your lower stomach. peter doesn't sound the least bit offended either. 'you seem a little off. if you don't want to hang out today we can do something tomorrow?'

no, you can't lose your only lifeline. 'i want you here, i promise.' peter knows you get a period but you haven't really talked about it and you're not about to start crying to him over cramps and a headache.

'then are you feeling okay?' the back of peter's hand rests on your forehead, the light touch has your shoulders releasing unnoticed tension. 'no. yeah. sorry, yes.'

peter has an amused look, 'care to explain, ma'am?' a pretend microphone is held under your chin. you lean into it, 'tummy hurts.'

your boyfriend acts like he's been shot. 'my girl is hurting on my watch, i've failed.' then looks up at you from your bed, 'what can i do? do you need a snack, or a sprite? what about chocolate, don't girls like that when they're on their period?'

you freeze, 'period?' peter's eyes widen, he might've just messed up big time. sitting up, he does his best to not make it worse. 'i'm so sorry, i thought you were on your period but i should never make that assumption. i'm sorry, i love you and i am ready to repent.'

shifting and tugging at your sweater you look at the ground, you feel a little embarrassed. 'why do you think i'm on my period? have i been mean or something?'

peter coos and shakes his head while tugging you halfway over his lap. 'you're never mean to me, why else would i call you my sweetheart, hm?' peter softly cups your face and pouts. 'i said that because you always have a tummy ache this time of the month. and maybe a little hangry.' another breath, 'you also cry more.'

he knows you better than you thought. 'you picked up on all that?' it's a little warming, he notices everything. peter scoffs at the assumption that you thought he wouldn't. 'it took a couple months. i said something to may one day and she looked at me and said something like 'c'mon, peter. put two and two together and get her some chocolate.' so i brought you m&m's and you cried. so, yeah, i kinda figured it out then.'

you remember it. peter showed up and said he stopped for something at a corner store and saw them by the register and thought you'd like them. the memory sends tears stinging at your eyes. 'it was just so nice. you thought of me and spent money on me.'

peter laughs a little, 'i did.' you nod, as if his answer explained your tears. 'peter?' he lights up, 'yeah?' you give him puppy dog eyes, you're praying for his sympathy. 'i have cramps and they really hurt.'

it's all you needed to say for peter to jump into action, for a moment you regret not saying anything sooner. you've been missing out on cuddles and forehead kisses and unwavering attention. 'my poor baby. what do you need from me?' 

[cherriicou]

Hello🫶🏼 can i get first date with Joshua? (Headcanon)

FIRST DATE W/ JOSHUA ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

a/n | bit short, my mind went blank after a while LOL but i hope you guys enjoy ^^

-

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ // 100% the planner. Will decide where you go, where you eat, and what activities to do and will put SO much effort into making it enjoyable for the both of you.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ // will be a bit mindful and keep a composed demeanor for the first half of the date. but once you set foot into live-band show, he’s making you sing and dance with him. fully letting himself loose, showing the ‘little crazy joshua’ side of him :p

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ // dare i say one of the best listeners. he WANTS you to talk so bad about your hobbies, interests, and just anything you really like. he will give you his full attention, making small notes in his mind so he could bring up it up later to show how much he truly cares about you <3 this also helps him choose plans for your next date!!

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ // this man isn’t rushing anything. he will stay the entire night with you if he could. wants to really enjoy your time, and once if he feels like you’re both comfortable with each other, he would definitely be the first to hold your hand. it would be so casual too; just walking together, seeing something he likes and grabs your hand to pull you with him. but he won’t let go. ever. not until the night is over.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ // compliments!! he, as a gentleman, compliments you as soon as his eyes land on you. he loves your fit, your hair, your little bag. and he isn’t afraid to let out small compliments during the date as well. after hearing your laugh, or hearing your thoughts, he wants you to know how much he is adoring you. his delivery would be so natural, that it just felt so effortless and sweet :>

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ // sweet surprises :0 on his way to your date, he saw a small shop with flowers he had seen on your pinterest feed before. (yes, your pinterests were exchanged prior) so he HAD to buy them for you. watching your face light up to the meaningful gesture, he felt his heart race with excitement, knowing he was off to a good start. might even have a end of date gift for you as well, something casual like a pin of a character you liked.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ // you’re having another date. no questions asked. towards the end of your date, he expresses his enjoyment he had with you and would probably throw him some quirky jokes at you to hear you laugh once more before the night ends. he takes you home in his car, walks you to your door, and even pulls you into a hug. his signature smile plastered onto his face when you say the words

‘i’ll see you again..” , a hint of tease in your voice.

oh, he’s going insane. texts you as soon as he gets home, talking about how great the date was and discusses other things he wants to do with you :3

[localwhiskeyuncle]

In my last post [x] I briefly touched on (book) Hannibal showing repeated kindness to women, children, and animals and I feel like that's worthy of expansion so here's my breakdown on that:

As far as the animals go - we see this as early as like 13? 14? years old when he beheads Paul Momund. He kills Paul, but he takes the time to free all the fish he had hooked on his line.

We see it again when he is in the last stretch of his revenge killings. After killing Kolnas, he knows he is low on time to find Grutas and save Lady Murasaki, but he still takes the time to free all the ortolans in the cages before setting course for the boat.

And, perhaps this is a little disconnected, but it happens again with Mason Verger. Mason is keeping dogs in a cage, starving them just to see what will happen, and in his attempt at murdering him, Hannibal makes him feed the dogs (his own face, but still lmao).

You'd think a man like Hannibal wouldn't react well to children, but there's material to back up how patient he could be with them.

To start, Mischa is a glaring example, and perhaps the driving influence as to why he is so forgiving to children later in life. Even before tragedy struck, he was described as an odd, cold child - but not with Mischa, never with Mischa. He had an instant overwhelming affection and fascination for her and sacrificed everything he had for her up until the very end of her life.

This trend continues - at the orphanage when Robert Lecter comes to pick him up, after he's found by the Soviets, the headmaster warns Robert of his violent streak. Robert expresses shock that Hannibal is a bully, but the headmaster clarifies that Hannibal is not a bully, he is violent only to the bullies.

Then in France, the reason he is booted from the local school is that he attacked a bully picking on a smaller, weaker child.

The last example you see is when he is leaving Florence, well into adulthood, and he is stuck next to a young child on the plane to America. The kid pesters him for the expensive meal he brought from France, and his parents are terrible and entitled and are offended when Hannibal (understandably) doesn't want to share with this random kid he doesn't know. He begrudgingly gives it to him (mostly bc the kid's mom already shoved her fingers in it and he was like uh gross) and retreats to his mind palace to pout pass the time. He falls into a nightmare about his past and comes to with a shout, making a bit of a scene, but the child shows him high levels of empathy and he is struck by it, and able to return it:

"You had a bad dream, huh?" The child is not frightened, nor does he care about the complaints from the forward rows.

"Yes."

"I have bad dreams lots of times too. I'm not laughing at you."

[...] He bent his head to the child and said in a confidential tone, "You're right not to eat this swill [airline food], you know."

At first he only kept his cool because he was trying to lay low and not draw attention to himself, but the child's reaction to his momentary fear was to comfort him and he was almost stunned by that, and instead of becoming further upset, he starts looking for something to like about the kid. That kid would even drive me insane, it's impressive he could not only keep his composure but find kindness for someone that annoys him so deeply (bc we all know how he feels about annoying people; he killed that cello player in Florence simply bc they sucked but were a nepo baby and wouldn't be fired and he was not gonna put up with bad music lol).

And I suppose you could also tie Mason Verger into this category as well; Mason was an unpleasant man, there were plenty of reasons for Hannibal to want to kill him, but I do think that his crimes against children - children Mischa's age - especially disgusted Hannibal. This is never explicitly stated, but he has a special kind of disdain for Mason.

And lastly, because I believe he feels this the strongest, is his fondness for women.

Very early on in his life, his mother was clearly one of his favorite people. The very first room he built in his mind palace was her bedroom. We don't get a ton on his relationship with his parents, but it's clear he preferred his mother to his father. He admired her beauty, her lineage, her grace, her class. And while Mischa falls under the category of child, she is also a woman, and he loved her most of all.

The next woman he shows reverence for is Lady Murasaki and - while that was driven by romantic feelings - he was still incredibly respectful and kind, even when he felt overwhelmingly bitter about her rejection and her friendly relationship with Inspector Popil.

And then there's Clarice. He did drug her a whole lot for a bit there while he poked around in her psyche (very on brand lol), but he also loved how rough around the edges she was, how she was a 'rude' woman (the kind of woman that gets called a bitch and a cunt by insecure men), how expressive she was, how she had "too much nerve for her own good" (as he put it), he described her as "cursed with taste" much like himself, and he deeply valued her opinion and input. He derailed his entire plan for his (their?) future because he was more than willing to sit and genuinely listen to what she had to say instead of sticking steadfast to his own ideals. When Barney is called on to talk about his take on Hannibal's relationship with Clarice, he first hears a (stupid) psychiatrist talk about how Hannibal only responds to Clarice when she's in distress (I'll get into that whole convo in another post because there's a lot to dig into). In response, Barney says: "In the asylum, Dr. Lecter responded to her when she held onto herself, stood there wiping come off her face and did her job. In the letters he calls her a warrior, and points out that she saved that child in the shoot out. He admires and respects her courage and her discipline." Barney didn't really spend all that much time around the two of them and he was still able to grasp the level of admiration and respect he had for Clarice (and know how stupid it was to believe that his sole interest in her was her distress).

Say what you will about Hannibal Lecter, you cannot deny that he had a soft spot for victims/marginalized people. He was deemed a 'monster', but he was honestly kind of gentle at times. Of course, he was also highly dangerous, but that was not always his default mode.

[heavyhitterheaux]

Butterscotch Harlow

First Lady of Private Garden Instagram AU

Liked by jackharlow, urbanwyatt, neelamthadhani, 2forwoyne, taylorrooks, blancahood, and 1,283,052 others

y/ninsta: A little while ago, I surprised smush with a puppy (even though he said no more pets). the two have finally warmed up to each other and all she does is terrorize him lmao

jackharlow: I like how you find my pain humorous smh urbanwyatt: I still can't believe yall literally have fourteen pets now lilnasx: urbanwyatt you mean fifteen, they have druski2funny druski2funny: what the actual fuck do yall be on for me to constantly get dragged like this?!?!? 2forwoyne: yall might as well open up your home and sell tickets because yall live in a damn zoo y/ninsta: all yall can kiss my ass because who is over here every damn week trying to get fed? not too much on my babies. blancahood: you have 3 real babies, pay them some attention y/ninsta: B, I have 5 children. how quickly you forget. jackharlow: who the hell is four and five?!?!? dualipa: jackharlow you and Urban urbanwyatt: NOW WHY AM I ALWAYS IN IT?! y/ninsta: dualipa you a real one for that softtcurse: urbanwyatt because your ass is always doing something smh jackharlow: dualipa and now here you come terrorizing me too smh dualipa: jackharlow I was nice about it but I can be mean. watch that tone. jackharlow: dualipa you better not start with me. I swear yall want me bald by 30. jackandy/naremyparents: I'm convinced that soon y/ninsta will find a way to buy an elephant. mark my words. urbandjack26: jackandy/naremyparents she probably already has one and just keeps it at the actual zoo in Louisville jackharlow: DO NOT GIVE HER ANY IDEAS y/ninsta: 👀👀👀 jackharlow: y/ninsta baby don't you dare y/ninsta: jackharlow BRB

Liked by y/ninsta, druski2funny, claybornharlow, urbanwyatt, maggieharlow, quiiso, jessicakelce, and 1,943,271 others

jackharlow: your shirt says mother so please come and get this puppy. I have not known peace since you bought her 😭

urbanwyatt: jackharlow let's be real for a second. you haven't known peace since you got married to y/ninsta taylorrooks: URBAN! TAKE IT BACK BEFORE SHE SEES IT! 2forwoyne: urbanwyatt not your wanting best friend to kick your ass jackharlow: urbanwyatt you just asking to die tonight aren't you? y/ninsta: I heard I've been summoned and urbanwyatt don't go to sleep tonight urbanwyatt: y/ninsta not my fault you terrorize my best friend! y/ninsta: urbanwyatt is this about me forgetting to make you spaghetti the other day? because right now your ass is acting outta pocket. don't let that mouth of yours get you hair cut off and weed stolen theestallion: Y/N PLEASEEEEEEE blancahood: y/ninsta if you steal it, save me some yungskylark: why when it's taco tuesday, someone in PG acts like they don't have no got damn sense smh shloob_: urbanwyatt my stomach is making whale mating calls. you better fix this shit so she feeds us. urbanwyatt: I SAID WHAT I SAID y/ninsta: urby, you asked for it smh jackharlow: like not too much on my baby now but urb actually claimed me as his best friend for once so I call this day a win y/ninsta: look at my pookie defending me and you were always the first best friend, he just loves me more jackharlow: 🙄🙄🙄

yungskylark: he need to defend my stomach from biting the rest of my insides quiiso: jackharlow IT'S NOT NO WIN WHEN WE'RE HUNGRY, TF? jackharlow: quiiso oh imma eat regardless. idc what happens to yall lmaoooo saweetie: jackharlow just nasty as hell as usual jackharlow: saweetie HAVE YOU SEEN MY WIFE?!?! saweetie: jackharlow for the billionth time, YES! jackharlow: saweetie just making sure lol

Liked by y/ninsta, saweetie, urbanwyatt, theestallion, privategarden, theshaderoom, neelamthadhani, and 3,281,937 others

jackharlow: you see what she does in my time of need? LEAVES ME 😭

But my wife a baddie 😍😍

y/ninsta: jackharlow you are so damn dramatic! I'm only going to be gone for two days! but love you smush. claybornharlow: oh, so the babies have to eat jack's cooking? maggieharlow come save your grandchildren! jackharlow: HEY! THEY'RE FINE! dualipa: I highly doubt that jackharlow: dualipa hop off the nearest cliff y/ninsta: I pumped enough and there's more in the freezer, along with formula and the baby food I made. they're good! jackharlow: umm y/ninsta...... I think I only have enough for a few more hours y/ninsta: WHAT blancahood: oh good lord smh jackharlow: y/ninsta axel is eating like he has never seen food in his entire life maggieharlow: smh jackharlow if you needed me, why didn't you call? jackharlow: maggieharlow I got it handled! claybornharlow: only thing jackharlow has a handle on is.... hmm.... I'm at a loss saweetie: clay, pleaseeeee lmao urbandjack26: chaos in the Harlow household lol neelamthadhani: and jackharlow has the nerve to want more children smh handle those three first! y/ninsta: jackharlow is a good daddy! but his way of doing things concerns me sometimes jackharlow: y/ninsta I know I'm a good daddy. to my triplets and my wife. y/ninsta: jackharlow I'm taking my compliment back smh

Liked by jackharlow, urbanwyatt, saweetie, estgee, champagnepapi, zackbia, taylorrooks, and 1,928,036 others

y/ninsta: pleading for my damn help, and once I get home, this is what I see 🙄🙄

jackharlow: and that was the first decent amount of sleep that I got since you left y/ninsta: jackharlow I see little miss kept guard while you slept. I told you she loves you. jackandy/naremyparents: are yall gonna tell us her name now?!?!? jackharlow: jackandy/naremyparents I want to protect her privacy urbanwyatt: this man has officially lost it lmao saweetie: privacy? she literally pees and shits outside for the world to see jackharlow: not too much on my baby now! she still deserves privacy! claybornharlow: jack, she's a dog jackharlow: claybornharlow and? she's MY dog and what I say goes blancahood: that man don't know how to act now that he has his own pet quiiso: y/ninsta please get your husband lmao y/ninsta: quiiso he's a lost cause. I tried to come close to him while she was next to him and long story short, she is very territorial of him. she likes me, but he's her go to person. like sis, I was here first. show your mom some respect lmao urbanwyatt: not y/n finally having to compete for jack's heart y/ninsta: urbanwyatt he lowkey might divorce me to be able to have all of his attention on her jackharlow: I AM NOT THAT BAD neelamthadhani: jackharlow who lied to you? smh y/ninsta: jackharlow just tell everyone her name! jackharlow: y/ninsta no. that's her business and no one else's. jackandy/naremyparents: she probably doesn't even have one jackharlow: YES SHE DOES! If yall can guess it, I'll tell you saweetie: wait, what did yall end up deciding because it was down to two names urbandjack26: probably named her alcatraz y/ninsta: urbandjack26 over my dead body lmao allthingsy/n: hmm..... Louisville related? y/ninsta: allthingsy/n no for once lol jackandurbupdates: toffee y/ninsta: getting warmer jackandy/naremyparents: caramel? y/ninsta: getting closer! jackharlow: yall get on my nerves jackandurb26: BUTTERSCOTCH! BUTTERSCOTCH HARLOW! jackharlow: 😒😒😒😒😒 jackandurb26: well?!?!? jackharlow: I'm logging out y/ninsta: 😭😭😭😭

[vanderlesbian]

141 dating a civilian

hii!! this is a self indulgent belated bday gift to myself (im 20 now...) but i hope u guys enjoy it!! also feel free to leave requests in my asks bc i am so bad at thinking of prompts but ive been wanting to write so bad LOL

writing this had made me realize that i love writing gaz content........i am obsessed with him.........

gn reader! no warnings :)

masterlist

captain john price

- price loves being around you—you bring a sense of normalcy that relaxes him. when he's home, he enjoys doing domestic things around the home. he offers to do the laundry, he'll make you tea in the mornings, he feeds the dog and cat you two raise together and will go with you on any errands you need to run. when he's with you, he never thinks about work, which makes you happy because you hate to see him overworking himself.

- i feel like you two would meet through laswell. a mutual friend, you and price would meet one another at a pub or something of the sort. immediately, the two of you take an interest in one another, and laswell would catch onto that rather quickly and finds it endearing. when getting to know one another, you mention the fact that you live alone, which gives price the excuse to hand you his number. "in case you need anything", is what he told you, and you could've sworn you saw laswell snickering behind him. regardless, you ended up texting him a few days after that, asking him if he knew how to fix cars.

- loves going on vacations with you!! when price has a decent period of time off, he'll ask you if you want to go somewhere, to which you always answer yes. road trips are his favorite, because driving for long periods of time is something calming for him and he enjoys the fact that it's just the two of you traveling. maybe you'll go camping, or perhaps you'll drive a country over to spend a few days in a different city; whatever it is, you and price always have a nice time. while he gets to travel a lot, he recognizes that you don't have the same opportunity, so he loves to take you places as see your reactions to things. when he's deployed, he's always on the lookout for places to take you later.

- one of your favorite things to do is visit price while he's in the office. you usually bring him a meal, whether it be home made or take out because you know he's going to forget about grabbing himself something to eat. he always thanks you with a kiss, then you linger for a moment to speak to him, giving him time to eat and take a break from his work. while you're visiting price, all of his attention is on you, and if a soldier knocks on his door and asks to speak to him, he'll use his captain voice to tell them to come by later unless it's an emergency.

- price is very proud to call you his partner. although he tries not to bring you up too often at work because of privacy and professional reasons, he likes to mention you casually every now and then, especially with laswell or the other 141 members. he's proud of the work you do, no matter what your career is; he's just likes to brag about his amazing partner. he will do his signature v shaped smile whenever someone says in surprise,"oh, your partner is a/n [occupation]? how cool!"

simon "ghost" riley

- ghost is a listener, not a talker. and boy, does he love listening to you ramble on about your day. he finds it cute; the way you complain how expensive your coffee was that morning, or how you couldn't decide what to wear to simply go pick up a snack from the store. his responses include a lot of "oh really?", "i bet", and some snarky comments when you bring up a coworker that you don't particularly like. ghost is quiet, but his little responses show that he's well invested in your stories.

- just like everything else in his life, ghost keeps his relationship with you very private. it took him quite a while to even tell any of the other 141 members that he was in a relationship, simply because he didn't feel the need to tell them. he also wanted to protect you; not that he didn't trust the other members, but he was scared of your name accidentally being said to the wrong person. you were innocent, and ghost didn't want to ruin that innocence with the dark realities of his job and put you in danger.

- listen; meeting him at a music store. you would definitely be the one to initiate things, so when you saw a tall, handsome man flipping through records beside you, it made you look for an excuse to speak to him. "that's a good album", you would then finally speak up after watching him pull out a vinyl by the doors. ghost would honestly be taken aback; no one ever really strikes up conversation with him in public. "yeah" would be his response, but the dryness of it didn't stop you from continuing the conversation. after you two begin dating, ghost will often bring up how you were insistent on speaking to him, which never fails to bring a shy blush to your cheeks.

- you think it's amusing to have such a "scary" looking boyfriend. he tags along behind you whenever the two of you go out, and you often forget how large and intimidating he looks to others, especially because he always wears dark colored outfits and a face mask out in public. imagine ghost lingering behind you like a lost puppy while you mindlessly look through clothes at a store. when you're at the register, you notice the cashier glancing behind you, forgetting that ghost is looming over you like a bodyguard.

- speaking of others reactions, you love showing ghost off to people. you'll be spending time with friends, family, coworkers—whoever, and you get so excited whenever they ask if you have a boyfriend. you think it's funny to see their eyes widen when you pull up a photo saying "this is simon, he's deployed right now but (blah blah blah)". you had asked ghost for his permission to show photos of him to others while he wasn't around, and at first he was hesitant, but after hearing about the reactions he gives people, he doesn't care anymore. people think "that's their boyfriend?", which makes ghost smile to himself because yes, he's all yours.

kyle "gaz" garrick

- you two have this thing where the moment he opens the door after coming home from a mission, you'll sprint into his arms and he never fails to pick you up off your feet and squeeze you tight. gaz greets you like he hasn't seen you in years, covering your face and neck in kisses and spinning you around in his arms for what feels like forever.

- loves to facetime you when he's away. sometimes you'll be in different timezones, but both of you will be willing to stay up at 3 in the morning jusst to talk to one another. gaz always gives you room tours of whatever place he's staying at while deployed, or he'll call you while he's out shopping to ask what souvenir you'd like best. sometimes the other 141 boys will pop in to say hello, or gaz will shove the camera in their face to ask if they have anything to say to you.

- i feel that gaz would easily become jealous, especially because he can't be with you all the time. while he's away from you, you'll text or call him about an encounter at work or while you were out and about where someone tried hitting on you, earning a snarky remark from gaz. they always make you giggle because you're aware how protective he is of you, and they're often silly remarks like "they're lucky i wasn't there" or "should've told 'em your boyfriend is 6'5 and a wrestler"

- gaz is younger, so i feel that you would be a university student or something of the sort when you first met him. working part time at a local coffee shop at the time, you vividly remember gaz complimenting you the first time you served him. "you're very pretty/handsome, by the way" he said confidently, but quickly walked off before you could thank him. after that, gaz came in as often as he could, learning something new about you each time he came in, and it got to a point where you would simply give him a drink or pastry for free each time he came in. eventually he would ask you out, offering to take you somewhere after your shift, to which you immediately agreed to.

- when gaz visits your place, it's always like a silly little sleepover. the two of you will watch comically bad movies, make homemade pizza, play those couple's card games and he'll listen to you talk about any gossip you have. when gaz is with you, he takes it as his time to just be himself because he's so comfortable in your presence. he doesn't have to worry about being formal with you, and the two of you are equally as silly as you spend time with one another.

john "soap" mactavish

- soap doesn't like to bother you with his work. when he's with you, he'll always be so upbeat and playful, but you've learned to be able to notice when he's particularly stressed or tired. he insists that he's fine, telling you that you don't have to worry about him as he tries to play it off. he's a bit stubborn about it, so sometimes you have to bother him just a bit before he finally gives in and tells you what's up, or simply agrees to laying down and having a rest.

- okay, picture this. you meet soap at a dog park. i think he would have a german shepherd...which is besides the point, but when your dog and his both stop in their tracks to be friendly with one another, both of you feel that it's only natural to make conversation, right? the two of you quickly hit it off, to which you credit mostly to soap for being much more extroverted than you are, and the two of you talk about your dogs for a bit before the conversation focuses on yourselves. smoothly, soap would ask for you to join him on another trip to the dog park sometime, using the excuse that your dogs seemed to like each other.

- soap loves to text you while he's away, and other than gaz, he would be the one to text you the most out of any of the boys. he mostly sends a lot of random pictures of things he says reminds you of him, but will also update you on a bunch of random little things he's doing. "just shit in this french bathroom" "johnny i don't need to know that" "had to tell somebody"

- will leave plenty of his clothes for you to wear while he's gone, and it's practically all you wear during that time. you'll leave the house in an outfit completely made up of your boyfriend's clothes because they're just so comfortable, and it makes you feel less lonely having his scent lingering with you. even when soap is home, you still constantly wear his clothes, and 90% of his wardrobe is practically yours.

- soap would love to visit YOU at work. you forget your chapstick? he's on his way. you text him that you're hungry and forgot to pack a meal? he's bringing you your favorite fast food. although he's busy and can't stop by all the time, soap tries to stop by as often as he can, and all of your coworkers have learned to recognize him. "here comes johnny" one of them will point out, making you quickly whip your head around to look.

[dioslesbianwife]

Lowkey feeling freaky rn can I request the jofoes with a freaky partner ☹️

yes you can lol- hope you enjoy and here are the HCs!

Dio

Dio thrives on power, indulgence, and hedonism so having a partner who's just as daring sends a smirk to his lips.

He loves the push and pull with you, finding your confidence utterly intoxicating. If you tease him back, he's living for it.

Into bloodplay? Because you probably will be after sleeping with Dio. He enjoys testing boundaries, but your eagerness makes it even more exciting.

Compliments your fearlessness constantly- "Finally, someone worthy of me," he whispers against your skin, voice dripping with praise.

Kars

Kars is fascinated by your uninhibited nature. He's never met a human so bold, and it stirs his curiosity as much as his desire.

He's meticulous, calculated- but with a partner who enjoys pushing limits? He can unleash the more primal side of himself without restraint.

He loves when you surprise him; even the Ultimate Lifeform needs a thrill once in a while.

He's got stamina beyond belief and smirks when you insist you can keep up.

Esidisi

Esidisi is passionate, and your adventurous nature feeds right into his desires.

He loves loud expressions of pleasure and will absolutely hype you up. "That's what I like to hear, don't hold back."

He can get creative- using his body heat to tease you and make you explore new sensations.

A true giver, and he revels in your excitement to try wild new things with him.

Wamuu

Wamuu admires strength and courage, so your willingness to dive into intense situations impresses him greatly.

He's thoughtful and attentive, ensuring that every encounter leaves you both satisfied and fulfilled.

Enjoys physical challenges, like lifting or pinning you down, but only if you're just as eager to test your strength against him.

The kind of partner who will respect your wild side but always keeps a protective, loving edge.

Santana

Santana's curiosity about human behaviors extends to your boldness, which fascinates him deeply.

Though he's usually stoic, he gets a mischievous glint in his eyes when he realizes you're as wild as they come.

He enjoys experimenting, and your openness makes him bolder.

Santana doesn't speak much, but his actions are deliberate and intense, matching your energy perfectly.

Kira

Kira appears calm and collected, but your uninhibited nature brings out the darker, possessive side of him.

He loves watching you revel in pleasure but wants to be the only one who gets to see that part of you.

Though at first he prefers things precise and neat, he'll later be more than willing to get messy for you.

The way you push him leaves him flushed but eager for more.

Diavolo

Diavolo is used to unconventionality, so your freakyness is almost expected.

He usually dislikes unpredictability but loves when you're the one to surprise him.

Rough, intense, and unrestrained– he’s more than happy to match your freaky energy.

Whispering promises in your ear, he revels in your confidence to meet him head on.

Doppio

Doppio is both nervous and excited by your boldness. His shy stammering turns into a surprised laugh when you tease him.

"You really want that?" He blushes but secretly loves that you're not shy about what you like.

When he flips into his more assertive side, it’s because you’ve inspired his confidence.

Your freaky energy balances beautifully with his combination innocence and intensity.

Enrico Pucci

Pucci is initially conflicted, your uninhibited personality challenges his focus.

But something about your fearlessness tempts him. You draw out desires he’s long buried.

He finds himself whispering fragments of prayers between heated moments, torn between sin and salvation.

You make him question everything, but he’s hooked on the intensity you share.

Funny Valentine

Valentine is intrigued by your boldness. He respects strength, even in intimacy.

He enjoys crafting elaborate scenarios where you can shine. Roleplay is one of his favorite things to do with you.

Power dynamics are a game to him, and he admires how willing you are to play.

"You're a rare gem," he whispers, voice thick with admiration and desire.

Diego Brando

Your daring attitude excites him to no end. Diego loves competition.

If you tease or challenge him, he grins. "Why don’t we put that to the test, yeah?"

He's wild and unrestrained, matching your energy with fierce enthusiasm. Primal play, lots of teeth and claws are gonna be involved. Marking, biting, scratching, etc.

Diego loves that you’re down for this stuff that you’re never afraid to match his boldness.

Tooru

Tooru is a tease by nature, so your freaky energy keeps him on his toes.

He loves the playful, chaotic dynamic you share and smirks whenever you catch him off guard.

"You're a little wild, huh?" he chuckles, eyes gleaming with interest.

He's experimental and thrives on the spontaneity you bring to every encounter.

[whumperstorm]

Suppressing Fire - Part 4

Content: Vampire whumper, defiant whumpee, mind control, death threats, loneliness, angst

This one is twice as long as the others lol

First/Previous/Next

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the first two years, things remain generally the same. The hostility and abuse intertwined with the mundane of everyday life. For Kane, it's all leading up to something. Something big. And as it approaches, closer and closer, he begins to worry he's not ready. His human isn't ready. She's calmed down a bit compared to when he first got her, but she's still defiant. He still disciplines her with frequency. This is bad.

After hemming and hawing over what to do, he enters the human quarters. Before even feeding, he brings attention to the matter at hand.

"I'm laying my cards on the table. I need something from you."

-----

Keegan has gotten far too comfortable with her imprisonment over the past two years. She knows she has, but there's not much she can do about it. There's a few small opportunities over time where she thinks she might be able to escape, but then she remembers how miserable those two months of recovery with her ribs were, and she lets it go. Too risky. She needs something big.

So she copes. She fights back when she's feeling brave, then nurses the bruises she's given for the trouble. She takes out her anger on the poor abused punching bag and tries not to think about the outside world. Stay in the present. Survive each day and keep your head clear. It'll be worth it.

Still, she can't help but perk up when Kane makes a change to their usual schedule. He needs something and he's not just demanding it? She's curious now.

"Yeah?" She asks.

“There’s this… family reunion next week. Well, not just my family. It’s for all of the important families. Mine’s the most important, of course.” His face lights up with condescending pride for a moment before falling back into nerves. “We’re going, and I need you to behave. What's it going to take?"

That's a lot to take in. A family reunion for a bunch of rich vampires?

On one hand, Keegan is almost excited at the thought, even though she'd only be going as an accessory. She's always wanted to go to a fancy party. On the other hand, she hasn't been out of the house since the doctor visit, and just that short time was terrifying.

"What... exactly would I be doing at this event?"

"Oh, not much. Everyone brings their humans as a sign of status. So this- this is the first time I'll be going." Kane wrings his hands anxiously. "All the others will be under persuasion, obviously. All you'll need to do is follow me around, largely silently, and follow orders if given. It will be very easy."

Honestly, it doesn't sound too bad to Keegan. It'd be the first time a vampire hunter has ever observed vampire high society and (hopefully) lived to tell about it. But, it's clear Kane is anxious as hell about this, and willing to offer her something in return. She's not about to miss this chance. She bites her lip, thinking. 

What does she want? She'd really like her stove back, microwave meals got old a long time ago, and she misses cooking. Or maybe some time outside? She's been breathing stale air for years. But no, there's something else. Something she needs, and this might be her only chance. 

She straightens up, crosses her arms, and looks Kane dead in the eye. "Let me call my sister, and you've got a deal."

"Deal," Kane agrees instantly. "You may make one phone call, supervised, if you behave. That means you will act like a proper human in public. You will not stray. You will obey my orders. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will address me as Master or sir. You will show no signs of defiance or misbehavior. Are we clear?"

Keegan's heart leaps. He's actually agreeing to it? She grimaces at all the ways she has to submit to him, but it's basically meaningless in exchange for that phone call. 

"Yes!" She says immediately. Maybe too excitedly, she doesn't want him getting used to this easy compliance, but she can't help it.

"Good." Kane tries to reign in his own excitement, maintain his dignity. His human behaving herself should be the standard, not something to get out of sorts about.

He has to be serious.

“Just know,” he adds, “that if you defy me publicly, I’ll kill you on the spot. I’ll have to, of course, for my reputation.”

"Of course."

The threat gives Keegan pause, not because she plans on being defiant, but because she's not very good at it. She tends to fuck up even when she doesn't mean to.

‘Just focus on the prize, Keegan.’

"Perfect." This might actually work. Kane might actually be presentable. "Now, your neck. I'm hungry."

---

The week passes in a blur. Kane has the human pick out a nice, classy dress from a catalog- he's never had an eye for women's fashion, and he supposes that at least one advantage of having a human with a mind of her own is she can make that decision for him.

On the night of the reunion, he's an utter nervous wreck. He chooses to drive, not wanting to mess his clothes up running and considering it more comfortable for both himself and the human.

"This has to go perfectly," he mutters, half to himself, half to the human in the passenger seat. "No funny business."

"I got it." Keegan insists for what feels like the millionth time. 

She's got no idea what's making Kane so nervous, he's cagey about anything relating to his family. It’s making her nervous about what's in store. But, it's a reunion. A party. Whatever has got him rattled is probably some sort of petty drama. Keegan shouldn't panic. She'll follow directions, stay out of the way, and hope for the best. And, hey, the dress is nice.

They arrive just slightly early, exactly as planned. As they enter the decadent ballroom, Kane scans for his parents, but neither seems to have arrived yet. There are lots of other vampires here, though he knows many are still to come. He recognizes several members of his family and of other noble families, but no one he's close to. Each vampire has a perfectly hypnotized human beside them, and it only makes him more self-conscious.

Worse, he gets looks and whispers. He tries to fight the blush that he knows is creeping up his face as he looks around for anyone at all who he knows well enough to chat with.

Unfortunately, just as he's contemplating going to speak with his older sister, Eloise, despite her quite low opinion of him, a far less-palatable sibling approaches him first.

“Kane! What a surprise, I wouldn’t have expected to see you here in a million years!” Anton greets with his human in tow. He grins widely from ear to ear, fangs on display.

-----

Keegan can practically smell the old money of this place. Everyone here has an aura of importance and snobbery, only worsened by their predatory, vampiric eyes. All her fellow humans are dressed up like she is, but unlike her, have all been lost to persuasion. They couldn't have chosen their outfit from a catalog like she did. They're dressed up by their masters like dolls. Trophies.

 Objects.

‘Why do they even bother?’ She thinks. ‘We're all just 'food' after all.’

It's awful. Keegan can't watch for long and looks down at her feet, shuffling after her own 'master'. She's so very grateful to have her mind intact, and since they can't feel for themselves, she'll endure their suffering for them. They deserve to be remembered and mourned.

A new voice breaks Keegan out of her thoughts. Kane's older brother, apparently. Keegan's hackles raise immediately when he starts talking. This guy is no good, it's written all over his face. Another very punch-able one, in her opinion. Maybe it runs in the family. Kane though, seems just as uncomfortable as she is and she hopes he'll cut this conversation short.

-----

“Hello, Anton.” Kane says through gritted teeth. “Yes, as you can see, I have a human now. No reason for me not to be here anymore, is there?”

“Yeah, I heard! Only took you a century!” Anton laughs. “I gotta admit, you’ve done well for once in your life, baby brother.” He claps Kane on the back, laughing again.

Kane is not pleased. “Well, no one gives a shit what you think.” 

“Oh, don’t be like that, it was a compliment! You’re so sensitive. I mean it! Wrangling a human when you can’t use persuasion at all, it’s very impressive stuff! In fact, the result might be even better. This one’s been hypnotized so much that she hardly reacts even when uninfluenced.” He waved a hand in front of his own human’s face to no response.

 Anton turns his gaze directly onto Keegan, eyeing her discomfort hungrily. “See, just like that. I like to see the emotion in their eyes. It’s so boring otherwise.” He leans in close enough for Keegan to smell his shitty cologne. “Having a good time, little lady?”

Keegan's hand twitches at her side, just barely keeping still. He is way too close. She leans as far away as she thinks she can get away with, face full of disgust. What the fuck. If this creep is related to Kane, what is the rest of his family like?? She hopes he can see the murderous intent in her eyes, in lieu of being able to act on them. ‘I'm not afraid of you, leech.’ 

She might be a little afraid.

Anton loses a bit of interest at her non-response, but the idea has sparked something as he turns back to Kane. “Maybe I’ll try training my next one without persuasion. I mean, it can’t be that hard if you could do it, right?”

Kane rolls his eyes, nudging his human away from Anton. “Thank you so much for that, Anton. Goodbye.”

“Aw, stop, stop, I’m half-kidding. Seriously, great pick. She smells delicious. I’ve just got to have a little taste. You don’t mind, do you?”

Anton takes a step straight toward Keegan and reaches for her neck. 

Keegan's heart spikes with fear. She does not want this man touching her. Her hand itches for a stake she hasn't touched in years. Anton is clearly the bully type, and in this case she's the toy he's trying to steal from his victim. He could break her like a twig just to get at Kane. Luckily, Kane steps in and keeps him away, grabbing his wrist and continuing the conversation like her life didn't just flash before her eyes.

“I do mind, actually. If your human’s blood is of such lower quality than mine, I’m sure you can find a suitable replacement on your own, since you’re just so capable.”

Anton rips his hand from Kane’s grasp, the smile never leaving his face. “Of course, makes perfect sense that you’re so possessive of your very first human! Oh, I remember those days. Well, good luck, I can’t wait to see what Mother and Father think.” He smirks before sauntering off.

“Can you believe that guy?” Kane grumbles with a huff.

Keegan relaxes significantly when Anton leaves. "He was... something." Keegan says quietly. Oh, she has opinions alright but doesn't dare speak them outloud, even if Kane might actually share them. She glances around the room, seeing other vampires sharing their humans. It makes her feel ill. "Sir, are... others going to feed from me tonight?" Kane didn't let his brother, but it's clear they aren't friends. No one mentioned she was going to be a party snack.

"No. No one I would say yes to would be tactless enough to ask in the first place." It's an easy answer, one he doesn't have to even consider. The idea of Mother or Father asking to feed from his human is laughable.

Keegan sighs in relief. "OK. Thanks." She's sure it's not for her sake, but still. She's glad for it.

-----

After the encounter with Anton, Kane is too intimidated to try approaching his other older siblings who he's even less close with. He eyes the entrance as people come in, sticking anxiously to the wall, when he finally sees someone he knows well. Unfortunately.

Bellamy comes waltzing in, a human at his side, arm linked with his- and like Kane's own, obviously unpersuaded. “What is he doing here?” he mutters to himself, alarmed.

The entrance garners more gossipy whispers than his own, and that's when he realizes this could be good. “Wait. Wait, this is great, actually. He could take the heat off me.”

That is, until Bellamy locks eyes with him for the first time in decades, and Kane realizes he's screwed. He tries to take off, beckoning his human to follow behind him, but Bellamy catches up easily.

“Kane, my dear, it has simply been too long!” His voice is sing-songy and light.

“Fuck off, I can’t be seen with you! Why are you even here?” Kane hisses.

The woman at Bellamy's side looks to be in her thirties, and perfectly content to be here, despite full awareness of the situation. She waves at Keegan with a warm smile.

Keegan is happy to hide at the edges of the party. Avoiding any more conversation would make the night easier to get through. But of course it doesn't last long, when a vampire and his lucid human make a beeline towards them.

The human lady waves at her. Keegan stares dumbfounded for a moment before sending a small one back. She has so many questions. God does it feel good to look into another human's eyes. She looks kind. Too kind to be in this hellhole.

Bellamy looks genuinely hurt by Kane’s words, his eyebrows knotting together briefly before he regains his composure. “Oh, politics. Some people are hard to get a hold of, and this made for a fantastic opportunity. Though I was unaware you’d number among them tonight! Shall we meet in private, darling? We absolutely must catch up.”

Kane taps his foot, agitated. “Fine, just get away from me before people start thinking we’re together.”

The man winks. “Follow me in five.”

He and the woman disappear down one of the connecting hallways.

Having no one else to gossip to, Kane turns to Keegan. “That guy? He had his entire life handed to him on a golden platter. Cast away everything by refusing to take a human when he came of age. No one who’s anyone would be caught dead associating with him anymore. He was the eldest son in the most important family next to mine and now he’s an even bigger laughing stock than me! Ugh, of course he won’t even use persuasion on the human that he now apparently has. Has to fucking flaunt it. Can’t believe he’s showing his face here.”

Keegan can't tell if he's actually expecting an answer from her. She opens and closes her mouth a few times before settling on, "She didn't seem like she needed it, sir." What's so special about this vampire that his human is perfectly content by his side? Keegan envies her.

"Well, lucky fucking him." Kane responds.

-----

After a short while has passed, Kane follows down the same path the other pair had taken minutes ago. He weaves through corridors before they arrive at the storage room he and Bellamy would always hide out in when they were boys, boxes piled high around the two waiting for them.

As soon as they enter, Bellamy moves toward Kane with arms outstretched, obviously going in for a hug. Kane holds out a hand to stop him. “Cut that shit out. Why am I here?”

“Well, it’s been so long!” Bellamy exclaims. “It’s been, what, eighty-five years? Do you have a telephone, my dear? Marvelous things, humans do simply come up with the most amazing inventions. We should exchange numbers, keep in better touch!”

“Did you somehow forget what happened the last time we spoke?” Kane eyes the woman. “Why do you have a human? Finally come to your senses?”

“Oh of course, where are my manners?” He turned to Keegan. “My name is Bellamy Verta,” He gives a little bow, “and this beautiful young lady is Caroline.” He gestures to his companion with an extravagant flourish.

“It’s nice to meet you both.” she says.

“And who might you be, young lady?” Bellamy asks Keegan.

In stark contrast to the last vampire they spoke to, this ‘Bellamy’ almost immediately puts Keegan at ease. First of all, he calls his human by her name, Caroline. Keegan has never heard her name come out of Kane's mouth. Second, he's speaking directly to her. Not at her, or ignoring her completely.

 "Keegan." She responds. Then with a quick glance at Kane, reluctantly adds, "...Sir."

"It's lovely to meet you, Keegan." Bellamy reaches out and shakes her hand, his grip soft and warm in mannerism, even if his hands themselves are a bit cold. "I do hope you're not finding this party completely dreadful."

Bellamy turns back to Kane. “As for your question, Caroline and I have a mutually beneficial relationship. She is no prisoner of mine, and is free to come and go as she pleases. She was kind enough to accompany me to this event, given the stringent requirements for entry. Thank you once again for this, darling.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” Caroline smiles.

Caroline is free? She's free, and she chose to be here. Surrounded by murderous vampires and their dead-eyed humans. Suddenly, Keegan decides she hates her. She's been forced into this hell against her will and here's another woman having a perfectly good time with the first vampire Keegan has ever seen that doesn't want to use persuasion. Why does she get to have it easy? She can't quite mask her disbelieving glare.

Well, maybe Bellamy could help? If... if this reunion goes smoothly at least. He and Kane have history, though they clearly didn't part on good terms. She wants to speak to him more but Kane is right there. His threat hangs over her head. Don't speak unless spoken to. So she stands there silently simmering in frustration.

It's obvious Keegan wants to speak. “Do whatever you want, there’s no one here I need to impress," Kane instructs.

“Perhaps you and Caroline can have a chat?" Bellamy suggests. "Dear Kane and I do have so much to catch up on, some of which are rather private matters.” He motions Kane to follow him to the other side of the room.

“Whatever.” Kane gives an exasperated sigh and walks along with him.

Caroline looks after Kane wryly. "Oh, he seems charming," she says, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

"Very." Keegan mutters.

She doesn't want to be a complete dick to this stranger, but she has to ask. As soon as the two vampires are conversing, she hisses, "How can you stand it? Being around all... This. Being around him. He's one of them!" Sure he's polite, but he's still a vampire. What if it's all for show?

Caroline smiles at her, pity in her eyes. "Bellamy is the kindest person I've ever met, human or vampire. In fact, in my experience, humans have been the more dreadful bunch." She gestures back toward the ballroom. "Most vampires aren't like this, you know. The stuck-up noble types. They're just regular people. Most haven't even interacted with a human in their lives, let alone hurt one."

That somehow makes Keegan feel worse. She really got the short end of the stick, then. ‘Don't fucking pity me when you won the vampire lottery’ She thinks sourly.

"I don't care!" She growls. "They're predators. They've ruined my life." She turns and kicks a nearby box hard enough that her foot stings. "Why do you get to be free?" She whispers.

The smile disappears. "I'm sorry, hun. But... Kane ruined your life. Bellamy wouldn't hurt a fly. Literally. When there's a bug in the house, I've gotta be the one to take care of it 'cause he's afraid of creepy-crawlies. Vampires aren't a monolith as much as humans aren't. Bellamy saved my life." Though sometimes, she finds herself falling into the trap of thinking of all of humanity as unsalvageable.

"I'm sorry things have turned out so horribly for you. I hope it gets better," she says sincerely.

Keegan wants to shout, to scream. Maybe this would be easier if she was chained up in a basement somewhere, so freedom wouldn't be standing just out of reach and mocking her. But Caroline is being so patient and kind. She has nothing to do with Keegan's suffering.

She deflates. "I'm sorry. I just- Seeing you here, happy..." she gestures vaguely. "It's a lot." Her lip wobbles. "You're the first human I've spoken to in over two years." The first person really, other than Kane.

"You're the first human I've spoken to in over a decade," Caroline admits. She steps forward, her heart aching for Keegan. "You look like you could use a hug. You want one?"

Keegan starts to cry. "...Please." She hasn't felt a kind touch in just as long. Only pain and harsh manhandling. "I wanna go home..." she mumbles, barely audible. It's pathetic, but she's so lonely, and Caroline is someone who will actually listen.

Caroline wraps her up in a warm embrace. "I'm sorry," she says softly. "I know everything's awful right now. Just hang in there. You never know where life will take you. Take it one day at a time."

Keegan cries into Caroline's shoulder, tightly gripping the fabric of her shirt. It feels good to be held. She doesn't want it to end.

"I'm t-trying." She sobs. "Thank you."

Caroline keeps holding her, as long as she needs, gently rubbing her back. She figures Keegan needs this.

-----

“I can’t believe, after everything you’ve been through, that you would just… subjugate someone like this! Look at her, she has bruises on her arm!” Bellamy gestures pointedly at Keegan. "It's awful!"

Caroline lets go of Keegan, turning to watch the argument. She places herself protectively between Keegan and Kane.

“She wouldn't have bruises if she fucking behaved!” Kane retorts. “I don’t know why you suddenly insist on acting like I’m lesser than the rest of my family when you were always the one to tell me I wasn’t. I’m a De Sang, this is what we do.”

“I didn’t mean–” Bellamy pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, “Why is it that the thing you want to live up to is their cruelty?”

“It’s not cruelty, it’s the way the world works! You’re the one who’s a freak.” Kane spits. “You just don’t want me to be happy! Now that I have a human, I can finally get the respect I deserve!”

Bellamy scoffs. “Oh, is that it? Are you happy now, Kane? I can see that sucking up to those pricks has made you so much less of a bitter, miserable person. You’re just the absolute picture of happiness!”

“I need. A minute.” Kane takes a deep breath and glares at Keegan. “Stay. Here.” He storms out of the storage room, slamming the door behind him.

Keegan holds her breath when Kane turns to her with fury in his eyes and flinches when he slams the door.

“I apologize.” Bellamy says, “That got out of hand. I do hope I’ve caused no undue trouble for you, Keegan.”

"It's ok. He, uh, only hurts me when he's mad at me specifically." She says, subconsciously rubbing the bruises Bellamy pointed out. "Which is often, unfortunately. You two used to be friends?" She can't imagine someone as polite as Bellamy wanting to be around Kane.

Bellamy looks to her apologetically, like he's embarrassed of ever having been Kane's friend. "When we were boys. I haven't spoken to him in eighty-five years. He's always been prone to bouts of anger, but not so explosive as he is now. Or perhaps, he simply never had the opportunity."

Keegan sighs. "He just didn't have a human to kick around yet. Thank you for at least trying to talk him out. I've never met a vampire like you before." She feels a bit guilty for calling him a 'predator' just moments ago, but hopefully he was too preoccupied to have heard it.

"I'm sorry my kind has left such a horrible impression on you," Bellamy says sadly.

Caroline nudges him. "Bel, isn't there anything we can...?"

Bellamy shakes his head. "I'm afraid not." Attempting to steal a human from this event would go poorly for all involved, he's sure.

Keegan wants to cry again. "If you could- I know it's a long shot and probably isn't worth it- but if you could keep trying?" God this is pathetic. "Keep trying to convince him?"

"Of course, dear. Of course I can," Bellamy promises.

It's not hard to anticipate Kane’s return, his stomping audible from a mile away.

“My mother’s here. We’re going back out.” he announces, grabbing Keegan’s bruised forearm.

“Kane, wait." Bellamy's voice is firm. He chooses his words carefully in an attempt to appeal to Kane's values. "Please. I know things got out of hand tonight, but none of that is Keegan's fault. She's only a human. Surely, violence against someone so much weaker than yourself is beneath you. You're better than this."

Kane hesitates. "W-whatever. We're going," he says, but his grip on Keegan relaxes just a bit.

Bellamy looks over to Keegan. “It truly was lovely to meet you, dear. I do wish you the best.”

'Just a human- so much weaker'. There's that awful talking-down-to again, but it works at least a little. She and her arm are grateful to Bellamy for trying.

"Likewise. You too Caroline." Keegan responds. Kane is pulling her back out before she can say much else, but she mouths a sincere "Thank you" as they turn the corner.

Caroline waves at her, sadness in her eyes. 

-----

Kane leads her back out to the main room. In the few minutes they’ve been gone, the room has filled out with occupants. Kane lets go of Keegan, trusting her to follow him on her own. He walks up to an older vampire woman, dressed to the nines. “Hello, Mother!” Kane says, a huge smile plastered on his face. 

“Oh! Kane, Anton was just telling me you were here!” Kane’s mother exclaims. 

“I have a human!” he boasts, gesturing to Keegan. 

“That’s very nice.” She nods, not even glancing at Keegan. “Finally catching up! Say, your one hundredth is soon, isn’t it? Maybe we could do something for it!” 

“It was two years ago, actually!” Kane’s smile falters for a fraction of a second before returning to its chipper state. 

“Oh, well, there’s always two hundred!” she says breezily. 

“Yeah!” Kane agrees, glancing around a bit. “U-um, do you know when Father…?” 

Kane’s mother smiles. “He was right behind me, should be here any second. Listen, I really would like to stay and chat, but there are so many people I need to speak with tonight.” 

His smile really does fall then. “Oh, but I thought-” 

She puts a hand near his shoulder, making the motion of a comforting gesture without actually touching him.  “You’re doing good. Keep it up.” 

Kane beams. “I will!” he nearly shouts as his mother walks away. “That went amazing! That went so well!” Kane enthuses as soon as she's out of earshot.

Did it? That was hard for Keegan to watch. If this is how they treat him, no wonder Kane doesn't talk about his family. She's glad to be ignored by Kane's mother, she wishes he'd stop showing her off like a trophy and drawing attention to her. ‘I'm not an object.’ She reminds herself once again.

Suddenly, all chit-chat dissipates as a new vampire enters.

He doesn’t look much different than any other vampire, aside from obviously being the oldest. He appears in his seventies, though he is likely hundreds, if not over a thousand years in age. But… there is something wrong about him, something any aware human will be able to feel. An energy permeates the room, a deep, human instinct screaming RUN, YOU ARE IN DANGER, YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW. This man, above all, is a predator made to hunt things like Keegan.

The human beside him looks dead, far beyond the entranced looks of everyone else. There is zero spark of life behind his eyes, yet he continues standing and breathing, moving along with the vampire like a puppet, clearly somehow alive.

Kane puts a hand to the center of Keegan's back and begins leading her in a beeline directly for the man.

"Father!” Kane calls, all excitement and nerves.

-----

If Death has a physical form, Keegan is sure she has just found it. This is Kane's father. This monster. The blood drains from her face and her entire body trembles. She's been scared before, sure. She grew up in a toxic, violent household and now kills vampires for a living. Fear has kept her alive. But she's only felt true, primal terror of this kind twice in her life. Once, when her mother's throat was torn out in front of her, and now here. At this moment, despite all logic, Keegan is sure with every bone in her body that she is not going to survive the night.

Kane pushes her forward as if to the gallows.

Kane’s father glances briefly at Keegan before turning his eyes on Kane.

The man sighs, shooting Kane a glare. “What is it?” His voice is deep and cold.

“I-I got a human…” he claims timidly, his confidence draining at the icy reception.

Kane’s father does not ignore Keegan as his wife had. Instead, he turned his gaze directly onto her, piercing red eyes almost digging under Keegan's skin. The man brings a hand to Keegan's chin and tilts her head to the side to expose her feeding scars, his skin devoid of warmth.

“Sloppy work,” he comments.

The only reason Keegan does not rip her head away from him is because she knows it would only bring about her demise that much faster. She doesn't blink, staring straight into his eyes. She feels like a child curled up in bed, watching the closet door through the darkness of the room. The moment she blinks the monster will get her. Her skin burns under his touch despite the cold of his hand. ‘Please, I don't want to die. Not like this.’

Kane rushes to defend himself. “I wasn’t, um, that good at feeding at first, but I figured it out! For the past year and a half, I’ve-” 

Kane’s father puts a hand up to stop him, and Kane’s mouth snaps shut instantly. His other hand is still on the underside of Keegan's chin, so close to her throat. “It can’t be helped. Passable.” The man finally lets go of her, and walks away without another word. 

Kane’s eyes are wide. “Passable…” he repeats to himself in awe, clutching his hands to his chest. 

The rest of the night goes without incident, Kane seeming in high spirits. Anton does give Keegan a few glances as it goes on, but at one point he shrugs, as if to say ‘not worth it’. Kane attempts small-talk with a few other people throughout the night, who all largely disregard him. He spends a lot of time wallflowering by himself. Occasionally he starts chatting with Keegan, then realizes he shouldn't be doing that and stops, embarrassed. After a few hours, people start to leave. Kane only exits once his parents do. As they get back in the car, he grins at Keegan. "That went fantastically. You can make your phone call as soon as we get home. Well done."

Keegan doesn't match Kane's good mood. She takes a while to recover from the interaction with his father. She's shaky, and doesn't want him out of her line of sight. He seems fully uninterested in them which helps, but being trapped in the same building with such a threat is rough on her nerves. She stubbornly holds on to her poker face, keeping all her fear in her clenched fists.

Eventually she's able to relax, especially when Kane dares to talk to her a bit. At least he isn't a threat to her at the moment. It's all worth it in the end too, as he keeps his end of the deal. She lived through the night and she's going to get to speak to her sister for the first time in years! It's so exciting, and also a whole new kind of terrifying after so long without contact.

-----

When they return home, Kane removes his tie. "Go on," he says, nodding at the rotary phone sitting on a small table in the corner of the living room. "You've earned it."

He sits on the couch and picks up a book from the mug table.

‘I shouldn't have to earn it.’ Keegan thinks. She can't find it in herself to be mad though. Not right now.

“Ok!” She practically runs to the phone and begins to dial. She feels sick to her stomach with nerves. She doesn't even know what she's going to say. 'I love you. I'm alive. Are you safe??' Those are at the top of the list. But truly she just wants to hear Lohitha’s voice. It's been so, so long.

The phone rings for a while. Each one builds dread in Keegan's stomach. But it is quite early in the morning. It'll just take a minute for her to answer. Right? Keegan bites her lip. ‘C'mon, pick up. please.’

Finally, the line connects and Keegan hears shuffling of fabric and a quiet yawn. "Lohitha?!" She cries desperately. "It's me, Keegan!"

There's a beat of silence. Then a deep, male voice answers. "Who?"

Keegan's heart stops. "Wh- I'm... I'm Keegan Khatri. I'm looking for Lohitha Khatri? Who are y-"

The man interrupts her, tired irritation in his voice. "You got the wrong number." CLICK

The line goes dead. Keegan gasps. No. no no no. She knows that was the right number. She's had it memorized since the moment they moved to that address. But... It's an apartment. She didn't even THINK about that. Lohi wouldn't be living there alone, of course she'd move. Keegan was so caught up in speaking to her she wasted her chance like an idiot! Her eyes flood with tears and she slowly turns towards Kane. He said one phone call. One.

Kane can quietly hear the other line with his supernatural hearing, even from halfway across the room.

He looks up from his book. "I'm no conman, human. I'm a man of my word. One successful phone call." He looks back down and flips the page.

Of course. Kane's at least practical. She lets out a sigh of relief. Keegan is so anxious that she isn't thinking straight.

“Thank you…”

She's not sure how to contact Lohitha now. She could be anywhere. But there's one person who would possibly know. Her hunting partner.

She dials. Only two rings this time before an answer.

"Vivian speaking."

Keegan sighs in relief and smiles. "Hey, partner."

"Keegan??"

"Yeah Vee, it's me. I'm alive. Surprise?"

"What?? The fuck? Where have you been? We thought you were-"

"I was taken. Still am, but... he let me call."

"Oh my God. Ok. Where are you? I will get a group together and come after you I swear-"

"No- Vivian no." Keegan glances at Kane. "That's not- I'm ok. Mostly. I'm not calling for a rescue," ‘as much as I wish I could.’ "I need to know. Lohitha, is she OK? Tell me she's ok."

"Oh- yes! Keegan she's fine! She's been living with me. She's just fine."

Just like that, a massive weight is lifted off Keegan's shoulders. She finally knows. After all this time. Her little sister is safe. Tears of relief pour down her face. "-Thank you, Vee. Thank you so much." She cries. "Please, can you go get her? I need to talk to her. Please."

"Oh… I’m… Keegan she's not home right now. I'm so sorry-"

"What??" No. No. This can't be happening. She was so close!

"She's on a school trip. She won't be home for a few days! Is there any possible way you can call again?"

"No, this.... this is my only one." Keegan says in defeat. After all that... She can't even hear her sister's voice. Her heart is shattering. "Just... Tell her I love her? And I'm so, so sorry. I'm trying to come back to her."

"Of course. I swear I will. She loves you too. She misses you so much."

Keegan sobs. She can't take this anymore. "T-thank you. Please... please k-keep her safe."

"I won't let anything happen to her. You have my word." Quietly Vivian adds, "is there no way you can tell me where-"

"No. He's listening. I just needed... closure." It sounds so final. But she hopes the wording will appease Kane. 

-----

Kane does not like the sound of ‘I'm trying to come back to her.’ If his human escaped, he would be the laughing-stock of the century. No one's human ever escapes. No one else's human has the capacity to even want to.

This is why he doesn't allow phone calls. It puts the wrong ideas in his human's head, makes her think she serves a purpose outside being his. The human on the other line keeps trying to plan a rescue, too. This is not good.

"None of this 'trying to go back' business," he reminds her, not looking up from his book.

Hot anger rushes through Keegan. She whips around, face still streaked with tears. "Excuse me for trying to comfort my kid sister who has lost the only family she has left!" She spits, then immediately flinches from her mistake. Fuck, she didn't mean to talk back, this is the worst time-

Kane gives her a deadpan look. "You're lucky I'm in a very good mood, human. Final warning. Behave." He waves for her to continue her call.

She's on thin ice here. She's definitely lucky. She turns back towards the wall with the phone.

"It's not an option, Vivian. But I'm surviving."

"I cannot sit back knowing you're trapped there." Vivian insists. Keegan can tell she's trying to get her to slip her a hint. But Keegan was never the clever one. There's nothing she can say that would not end badly for her or any humans that tried to rescue her. No hidden clue she can pass on.

"You're an incredible friend, Vivian." Keegan says instead. "The best partner. And I love you too. Tell the squad I say hey. Kick my dad in the balls if he tries coming around. Sober or not."

"Keegan you are not about to end this call. I will kill you myself-"

She has to end it. Vivian will never let it go and Keegan can't handle much more. "Lohitha has always wanted a dog, by the way. Goodbye Vivian."

"Don't you fucking dare-"

Click. Keegan places the phone back on the wall, hanging up. She stares unmoving in the silence that follows.

-----

Kane is honestly torn. He does feel for the human: he knows what it's like to be separated from the love of his family. He honestly considers giving her a second chance to call her sister.

But no, he has to stay firm. He is a person, the human is not. It's very clear that if the human talks to her sister, she's just going to be that more determined to get back to her. And he still remembers the horrible pain of boiling water from two years ago. A clean break is best.

"You can go back to your room now," he suggests in the awkward silence.

His human doesn't speak, doesn't look at him. She just shuffles back to her room, staring at her feet. Kane, quite honestly, forgets about the human's troubles soon after she leaves the room. He heads upstairs to his own room, giddy with excitement about the relatively-positive reception from his parents.

The moment the door is shut behind her, Keegan slides down the wall and cries. She doesn't care if Kane hears. She doesn't care about much at all anymore. Her heart has just split in two.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sorry :(

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